The vision continued to haunt me, and when I went to bed, I could not sleep. At last, although I could not explain why, the vision of the fleeting figure and the Larsan-Darsac idea merged strangely in my troubled brain. So powerful was the idea that I said to myself: ‘I shall have no peace until I satisfy myself that Darzac is not Larsan, and this I will do at the very earliest opportunity.’
Yes, but how? By pulling his beard? If I am wrong he will take me for a lunatic, or he will guess my motive, and that will not do much towards helping him to forget his sorrows. To be suspected of being Larsan would be the last bitter drop in his cup.
Suddenly I flung back the bedclothes, sat up in bed, and exclaimed: ‘Australia!’
I had just remembered an incident which I mentioned at the beginning of this story. You will recall that when M. Darzac met with the accident in his laboratory, I went with him to the surgery. While he was being attended to, with his coat off, his shirtsleeve was rolled up above the elbow, and I noticed, on the inside of his right arm, near the elbow, a birthmark shaped just like the map of Australia. While the chemist was attending to Darzac’s injuries, I amused myself by mentally plotting the places where the principal towns were situated, Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, and so on. Below the big mark there was another smaller one, which might have been taken to represent Tasmania.
Afterwards, whenever I happened to think of the accident, the surgery and the birthmark, I somehow always thought of Australia too, and there was the idea again on that sleepless night!
As I sat up in bed, congratulating myself on having found a means of proving Darzac’s identity – though how to go about it I had not as yet decided – a faint noise caught my ear. I listened and heard it again. It seemed as if the stairs were creaking under a cautious tread.
With beating heart, I went to the door and put my ear to the keyhole. At first, there was silence, and then the stairs creaked again. Evidently there was someone coming up or down the staircase, and that someone was anxious not to be discovered. I thought of the shadow I had seen in the courtyard. Whose shadow could that be and what was it doing on the stairs? Was it coming up or going down?
Silence again. I hastily slipped on some clothing and, armed with my revolver, managed noiselessly to open my door. Holding my breath, I advanced cautiously as far as the banister and waited. I have mentioned how dilapidated the New Castle was. The moonbeams shone obliquely through the tall windows on each landing and formed squares of pale light here and there in the opaque darkness of the great staircase. The broken balustrade, the crumbling stairs, the cracked walls with their torn pieces of tapestry, all impressed me as they never had in the daytime. They provided a fitting backdrop for a ghostly apparition. I was really frightened. Surely a ghost could walk about an old castle without making the stairs creak! But they were not creaking now.
Suddenly, as I leaned over the banister, I saw the shadow again. It was so brilliantly lit that, far from being a shadow, it had become quite substantial. The moon shone full upon it, and I recognised Robert Darzac.
He was on the ground floor and was crossing the hall. As he did so, he looked in my direction, as if he felt himself observed. I immediately drew back. When I looked again, I caught sight of him walking down a corridor that led to another staircase at the other end of the building. What was the meaning of this? What was Robert Darzac doing in the New Castle at night? Why did he take such pains not to be seen? A thousand suspicions flashed through my brain, or, rather, I was assailed by all the evil thoughts that had haunted me earlier in the evening, and, on Darzac’s trail, I dashed off to discover Australia.
I reached the corridor just as he was leaving it and was beginning a cautious ascent of the worm-eaten stairs. Hiding in the hall, I saw him stop on the first landing and open a door. Then I saw no more. He had probably gone into a room. I followed him and knocked three times on the door. My heart was beating as if it would burst. That whole part of the castle was deserted and uninhabited. What was Robert Darzac doing in one of those rooms?
I waited a couple of minutes, which seemed like an age to me. Since no one answered, and the door was not opened, I knocked again and waited. At last, the door opened, and Robert Darzac asked in a perfectly natural voice:
‘Is that you, Sainclair? What do you want?’
‘I want to know,’ I answered, thrusting my hand into my pocket and grasping my revolver. I was so frightened that my voice trembled, ‘I want to know what you are doing here at this time of night?’
He quietly struck a match and replied:
‘You can see for yourself. I was just going to bed.’
He lit a candle which stood on a chair, for there was not even a table in that ruined room. The only other furniture was a plain iron bedstead, which must have been carried up during the day.
‘I thought you were to sleep on the first floor of La Louve, where Madame Darzac and the Professor are?’
‘The place is too small. I might have been in Madame Darzac’s way,’ he said bitterly. ‘I asked Bernier to put up a bed for me here. Besides, I don’t care where I go to bed, I can’t sleep.’
There was silence for a moment. I felt thoroughly ashamed of my absurd ideas and finally remorse overpowered me, and I confessed everything: my infamous suspicions, how I had thought, on seeing him, creeping so mysteriously about the New Castle, that he was Larsan, and how I had started out to find ‘Australia’. I made no bones about telling him that for a while I had pinned all my hopes on ‘Australia’.
He listened to me with the most sorrowful face imaginable, and, rolling up his sleeve, he placed his bare arm so that the light of the candle shone full upon it, and he showed me the birthmark. I did not want to look at it, but he insisted on my touching it, and I was obliged to admit that it was quite natural, and that you could easily have picked out the towns of Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, and that just underneath there was another little mark representing Tasmania.
‘You can rub it if you like,’ he said in his listless voice. ‘It won’t come off.’
With tears in my eyes, I begged his pardon, but he would not forgive me until I had pulled at his beard, which did not come off in my hand.
Only then would he let me go to bed, which I finally did. I was indeed a fool!
CHAPTER XVII
Old Bob’s terrible adventure
When I awoke, my first thought was of Larsan. I really did not know whether he was dead or alive. Was he not as badly wounded as we had supposed? What am I saying? Was he ‘less dead’ than we thought? Had he been able to get out of the sack that Darzac threw down the crevasse at Castillon? After all, it was quite possible, bearing in mind Larsan’s powers, especially after Walter’s statement that he found the empty sack on a rocky ledge about three yards down. Darzac certainly knew nothing of this ledge when he threw, or thought he threw, Larsan’s remains into the abyss.
My second thought was for Rouletabille. What was he doing? Why had he gone away? His presence at the castle had never been so necessary. If he delayed his return, the day would surely not go by without some tragic incident between the Rances and the Darzacs.
Just then, Bernier knocked at my door and handed me a note from my friend, which a little urchin had given Old Jacques at the gate. In it Rouletabille wrote: ‘I return this morning. Hurry out, there’s a good fellow, and get me some of those delicious shellfish from just beyond Point Garibaldi for my breakfast. Don’t waste a minute. Thanks. Rouletabille.’
The note gave me food for reflection, for I knew very well that it was precisely when Rouletabille seemed to have his mind bent on trifles, that he was busiest with really serious things.
I dressed hastily and, armed with an old knife lent me by Bernier, set out to satisfy my friend’s fancy. Just as I was leaving by the northern gate – it was then about seven o’clock – I met Mrs Rance and told her about Rouletabille’s odd little note. My hostess, still uneasy about Old Bob’s prolonged absence, came with me. As we walked along, she told me
that her uncle occasionally went off on mysterious trips. She had hoped that everything would be explained by his timely return, but now that he had failed to put in an appearance, she had begun to be haunted by the idea that, by some dreadful mishap, Old Bob had fallen victim to the Darzacs’ vengeance. Muttering some threat against the Lady in Black, she told me that her patience would last only until noon. Then she dropped the subject.
We set to work to get Rouletabille’s shellfish. Mrs Rance was barefooted, so was I. The fact is that Mrs Rance’s feet, which I then saw for the first time, were the daintiest pink shells in the world, and I was so busy watching them that Rouletabille might have gone without his breakfast if the lady had not shown such zeal. She paddled in the salt water, and slipped her knife under the shells with a quick grace which was altogether bewitching. Suddenly, we both stood up and listened intently. We heard shouts from near the caves. People were standing at the mouth of the Romeo and Juliet cave, beckoning to us.
Prompted by the same presentiment, we hurried up the beach and soon learned that a couple of fishermen, hearing moans issuing from the cave, had entered it and found a poor creature who had evidently fallen in and been lying there unconscious for hours.
We were not mistaken. It was Old Bob at the bottom of the hole. When he was dragged out into the daylight, he was a pitiable sight with his black frock coat all torn and soiled. Mrs Rance wept hysterically, especially when it was found that Old Bob had dislocated his collarbone and sprained his ankle, and was so pale that he looked as if he were about to die.
Happily, things were not so bad as they seemed. He was soon lying in his bed in the Square Tower. But, strange to say, he stubbornly refused to take off his coat until the doctor came. Mrs Rance, who was terribly anxious, insisted on remaining at his bedside, but when the doctors arrived, Old Bob dismissed his niece and made her leave the tower. He even had the door locked behind her.
This last precaution surprised us greatly. We were in the courtyard of Charles the Bold, M. and Madame Darzac, Rance and I, and Bernier (who was eyeing me strangely) waiting for news. On leaving the tower, Mrs Rance came up to us and said:
‘Let’s just hope it isn’t anything serious, since he has such a strong constitution. I made him confess what he’s been up to. He tried to steal Prince Galitch’s skull. We shall have great fun with him about that when he’s well again.’
The tower door opened, and Walter, the old gentleman’s faithful servant, came out. He was pale and anxious.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ he exclaimed, ‘he’s covered in blood! He doesn’t want anyone to know. We must save him!’
Mrs Rance ran back to the tower. The rest of us dared not move. She soon reappeared.
‘It’s dreadful!’ she said. ‘His chest is all cut!’ I offered her my arm for support, for, strangely enough, Rance had left us and was sauntering up and down the rampart, whistling. I tried to comfort Mrs Rance and felt sorry for her, but M. and Madame Darzac did not.
Rouletabille reached the castle about an hour later. I was watching for him from the top of the western rampart, and as soon as I saw him coming, I hastened to meet him. Before I had a chance to put in a word, he asked me if I had had a good catch, but there was no mistaking the real meaning of his searching look. I, however, wanted to show that I was just as smart as him, and remarked casually:
‘Yes, excellent! I fished out Old Bob!’
He started. I shrugged my shoulders, for I thought he was acting, and said:
‘Oh, come now, you knew perfectly well what you were sending us after!’
He stared at me in astonishment.
‘My dear Sainclair, you evidently don’t realise what you are saying, or you would save me the trouble of answering such a charge.’
‘What charge?’ I inquired.
‘Leaving Old Bob at the bottom of the Romeo and Juliet cave, knowing him to be dying.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘don’t worry. Old Bob isn’t likely to die. He’s sprained his ankle and put his shoulder out of joint. There’s nothing very serious about that, and he hasn’t been up to any harm. He says he wanted to steal Prince Galitch’s skull.’
‘What a quaint idea!’ sneered Rouletabille. Leaning towards me and looking me straight in the eye, he said: ‘Do you believe that yarn? And is that all? No other wounds?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I answered, ‘there’s another, but the doctors say it isn’t of any consequence. He’s got a scratch across his chest.’
‘His chest!’ exclaimed Rouletabille, nervously clutching my hand. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I can’t. We haven’t seen it. Old Bob is strangely modest. He wouldn’t take his coat off in front of us, and the coat hid the wound so well that we shouldn’t have known about it if Walter hadn’t come and told us, for he was so upset at the quantity of blood.’
As soon as we reached the castle, we met Mrs Rance, who appeared to be looking for us.
‘My uncle won’t let me stay with him!’ she exclaimed, looking at Rouletabille with a look of anxiety that I had never before seen on her face. ‘I can’t understand it.’
‘Madame,’ replied the young reporter, with his most ceremonious bow, ‘nothing is incomprehensible if you just take a little trouble to try and understand.’ And he congratulated her on having found her dear uncle just when she thought she had lost him.
Mrs Rance, who caught Rouletabille’s meaning, was about to reply when we were joined by Prince Galitch, who had heard about the accident and came for news of his friend Old Bob. Mrs Rance reassured him as to the consequences of her eccentric uncle’s expedition and begged the Prince to forgive the old gentleman for his excessive fondness for old skulls. The Prince smiled with charming politeness when she told him of her uncle’s attempt to rob him.
‘You will find your skull,’ she said, ‘at the bottom of the cave, where it fell along with him. He told me so. You can set your mind at ease about your collection.’
The Prince, who seemed very interested, asked for further details, and she told him that her uncle had confessed to having left the castle through the old well that communicated with the sea. As she spoke, I remembered Rouletabille’s experiment with the pail of water and the iron bars over the well. What colossal lies Old Bob had been telling! They must strike everyone else, I thought, in the same light, excepting those, of course, who knew the truth. Mrs Rance added that Tullio had been waiting at the end of the passage that led to the well, and had taken the old gentleman over to the shore in his boat and set him down near the Romeo and Juliet cave.
‘What a roundabout way,’ I couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘when all he had to do was to go through the gate!’
Mrs Rance looked at me reproachfully, and I immediately regretted having so openly taken sides against her.
‘Well, this grows more and more puzzling,’ said the Prince. ‘Yesterday morning, Tullio came to bid me farewell. He said he was leaving the country, and I know for certain that he caught the train for Venice, his old home, at five o’clock the same evening. How could he have taken your uncle out in his boat the next night? To begin with, he wasn’t there, and, moreover, he had sold his boat, so he told me, and didn’t intend ever coming back.’
There was a pause, and Galitch continued:
‘Anyway, what does that matter, so long as your uncle makes a swift recovery; and another thing,’ he added, with his most engaging smile, ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me find a humble stone which is missing from the cave. It is about ten inches long, and sharpened at one end so as to be used as a chisel. In fact, it is the oldest chisel in the world. I am particularly anxious not to lose it; perhaps you might find out from your uncle what has become of it.’
With a rather pleasing hauteur, Mrs Rance promised the Prince that she would do everything in her power to see that such a precious tool was not lost. The Prince bowed and left us. When we turned to go back, we found Arthur Rance facing us. He must have overheard the entire conversation, and looked as if he were ponderi
ng it all. He was holding the head of his crow-beaked cane to his lips. He was whistling as usual and staring at his wife with irritating persistence.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘I know perfectly well what you are thinking and, let me tell you, I’m not at all surprised.’ Turning to Rouletabille, she exclaimed in exasperation: ‘In any case, you’ll never be able to explain how he could possibly be in the cupboard if he wasn’t even in the Square Tower!’
‘Madame,’ said Rouletabille, looking fixedly at Mrs Rance as if trying to hypnotise her, ‘patience and courage! With God’s help, I shall be able to answer your question before the night is out.’
CHAPTER XVIII
Noon, King of Terrors
A little later in the day, I was alone with Mrs Rance in the main hall of La Louve. She was restless and uneasy. I did my best to comfort and reassure her, but her pinched eyes and feverish lips showed how troubled she was.
‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.
I asked her what she was afraid of, and she replied with a question:
‘Aren’t you afraid, too?’
This silenced me, for I began to be aware of my own disquiet.
‘Don’t you feel that something is happening?’ she continued.
‘Where?’
‘Where?’ she repeated impatiently. ‘All around us. Oh, I’m all alone, all alone, and I’m so frightened.’
Then she walked towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ I inquired.
‘I am going to find someone,’ she replied. ‘I can’t stay all alone like this.’
‘Who are you going to find?’ I demanded.
‘Prince Galitch.’
‘Your Fedor Fedorovitch!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why do you want him? I’m here, aren’t I?’