THE ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH ROULETABILLE: The Mystery of the Yellow Room & The Secret of the Night. Гастон Леру

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which he was being agitated.

      “He has done well not to come in here to-day!” he hissed.

      “Who is that man?” asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette.

      “The Green Man,” growled the innkeeper. “Don’t you know him? Then all the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.—Well, he is Monsieur Stangerson’s forest-keeper.”

      “You don’t appear to like him very much?” asked the reporter, pouring his omelette into the frying-pan.

      “Nobody likes him, monsieur. He’s an upstart who must once have had a fortune of his own; and he forgives nobody because, in order to live, he has been compelled to become a servant. A keeper is as much a servant as any other, isn’t he? Upon my word, one would say that he is the master of the Glandier, and that all the land and woods belong to him. He’ll not let a poor creature eat a morsel of bread on the grass his grass!”

      “Does he often come here?”

      “Too often. But I’ve made him understand that his face doesn’t please me, and, for a month past, he hasn’t been here. The Donjon Inn has never existed for him!—he hasn’t had time!—been too much engaged in paying court to the landlady of the Three Lilies at Saint-Michel. A bad fellow!—There isn’t an honest man who can bear him. Why, the concierges of the chateau would turn their eyes away from a picture of him!”

      “The concierges of the chateau are honest people, then?”

      “Yes, they are, as true as my name’s Mathieu, monsieur. I believe them to be honest.”

      “Yet they’ve been arrested?”

      “What does that prove?—But I don’t want to mix myself up in other people’s affairs.”

      “And what do you think of the murder?”

      “Of the murder of poor Mademoiselle Stangerson?—A good girl much loved everywhere in the country. That’s what I think of it—and many things besides; but that’s nobody’s business.”

      “Not even mine?” insisted Rouletabille.

      The innkeeper looked at him sideways and said gruffly:

      “Not even yours.”

      The omelette ready, we sat down at table and were silently eating, when the door was pushed open and an old woman, dressed in rags, leaning on a stick, her head doddering, her white hair hanging loosely over her wrinkled forehead, appeared on the threshold.

      “Ah!—there you are, Mother Angenoux!—It’s long since we saw you last,” said our host.

      “I have been very ill, very nearly dying,” said the old woman. “If ever you should have any scraps for the Bete du Bon Dieu—?”

      And she entered, followed by a cat, larger than any I had ever believed could exist. The beast looked at us and gave so hopeless a miau that I shuddered. I had never heard so lugubrious a cry.

      As if drawn by the cat’s cry a man followed the old woman in. It was the Green Man. He saluted by raising his hand to his cap and seated himself at a table near to ours.

      “A glass of cider, Daddy Mathieu,” he said.

      As the Green Man entered, Daddy Mathieu had started violently; but visibly mastering himself he said:

      “I’ve no more cider; I served the last bottles to these gentlemen.”

      “Then give me a glass of white wine,” said the Green Man, without showing the least surprise.

      “I’ve no more white wine—no more anything,” said Daddy Mathieu, surlily.

      “How is Madame Mathieu?”

      “Quite well, thank you.”

      So the young Woman with the large, tender eyes, whom we had just seen, was the wife of this repugnant and brutal rustic, whose jealousy seemed to emphasise his physical ugliness.

      Slamming the door behind him, the innkeeper left the room. Mother Angenoux was still standing, leaning on her stick, the cat at her feet.

      “You’ve been ill, Mother Angenoux?—Is that why we have not seen you for the last week?” asked the Green Man.

      “Yes, Monsieur keeper. I have been able to get up but three times, to go to pray to Sainte-Genevieve, our good patroness, and the rest of the time I have been lying on my bed. There was no one to care for me but the Bete du bon Dieu!”

      “Did she not leave you?”

      “Neither by day nor by night.”

      “Are you sure of that?”

      “As I am of Paradise.”

      “Then how was it, Madame Angenoux, that all through the night of the murder nothing but the cry of the Bete du bon Dieu was heard?”

      Mother Angenoux planted herself in front of the forest-keeper and struck the floor with her stick.

      “I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “But shall I tell you something? There are no two cats in the world that cry like that. Well, on the night of the murder I also heard the cry of the Bete du bon Dieu outside; and yet she was on my knees, and did not mew once, I swear. I crossed myself when I heard that, as if I had heard the devil.”

      I looked at the keeper when he put the last question, and I am much mistaken if I did not detect an evil smile on his lips. At that moment, the noise of loud quarrelling reached us. We even thought we heard a dull sound of blows, as if some one was being beaten. The Green Man quickly rose and hurried to the door by the side of the fireplace; but it was opened by the landlord who appeared, and said to the keeper:

      “Don’t alarm yourself, Monsieur—it is my wife; she has the toothache.” And he laughed. “Here, Mother Angenoux, here are some scraps for your cat.”

      He held out a packet to the old woman, who took it eagerly and went out by the door, closely followed by her cat.

      “Then you won’t serve me?” asked the Green Man.

      Daddy Mathieu’s face was placid and no longer retained its expression of hatred.

      “I’ve nothing for you—nothing for you. Take yourself off.”

      The Green Man quietly refilled his pipe, lit it, bowed to us, and went out. No sooner was he over the threshold than Daddy Mathieu slammed the door after him and, turning towards us, with eyes bloodshot, and frothing at the mouth, he hissed to us, shaking his clenched fist at the door he had just shut on the man he evidently hated:

      “I don’t know who you are who tell me ‘We shall have to eat red meat—now’; but if it will interest you to know it—that man is the murderer!”

      With which words Daddy Mathieu immediately left us. Rouletabille returned towards СКАЧАТЬ