A week later on, I was in ambush behind the door of my former bedroom—the yellow one—with my eye to the keyhole.

Oh! it was not easy, or it did not appear so. Never had the left wing of Fonval been so jealously closed, even in the days when the monks had been cloistered there.

How had I got in there? In the simplest manner possible.

The Yellow Room is reached by the central hall—where every one could walk if he liked—by a series of three rooms. The hall joins on to the drawing-room, then comes the billiard-room, which opens into the boudoir, and finally this boudoir opens, on the right, into the Yellow Room, which lies back towards the park.

Now, on this day, before profiting by an increased freedom, I tried, one by one, in the lock, keys which I had stolen from other doors here and there. I had no confidence. Suddenly the lock yielded. I opened the door, and I saw in the half light made by the closed shutters, the whole suite of rooms.

I recognized as I went from threshold to threshold the special odor of each—each a little more musty than in the old days—the sort of odors that the Past would exhale, if one could travel in its dust.

I followed on the tips of my toes a track on which many boots had left their mud—now dry. A mouse ran over the drawing-room carpet. On the billiard-table, the ivory balls—red and white—formed an isosceles triangle. Mentally I calculated the stroke, the amount of screw I should put on, and the place where I should hit the second ball, then I found myself in the boudoir itself. The clock, which had stopped, pointed to twelve. I felt myself very receptive. But, hardly had I had the leisure to see the shut door of the Yellow Room, than a sound brought me back hurriedly into the hall.

It was no jesting matter. Lerne worked in the gray buildings, but he knew that I was in the chÂteau, and on such occasions, it was his custom to come in suddenly to watch me. It seemed to me prudent to put off the enterprise.

An hour’s liberty was indispensable to me, so I evolved the following stratagem:

The next day I went in my car to Grey-l’Abbaye, and I there bought several articles of toilet, and hid them in a bush in the forest, not far from the Park.

On the day after that, after lunch, Emma heard me say:

“I am going to Grey this afternoon. I am going to get some articles I need. If I cannot get them there, I shall push on to Nanthel. Have you any commissions to give me?”

Fortunately, they had none, otherwise everything would have come to grief.

By this means I could go out for a quarter-of-an-hour, and bring in my purchases from the bush, as if I had gone to make them in the village.

Now, one might reckon on the journey from Fonval to Grey and back taking about an hour-and-a-quarter, so I had an hour at my disposal.

I go out, leave my car in the thicket not far from the hiding-place in the bushes, then come into the garden again over the wall. The ivy on one side, and the trellis on the other, made it easier. Keeping close to the castle wall, I reached the hall.

And now, I am in the drawing-room, with the door carefully shut behind me. In case I might need to make a dash, however, I thought it prudent not to turn the key, and now I am spying, with my eye to the lock of the yellow chamber.

The keyhole was a large one. It made a sort of loop-hole through which a keen air was blowing—and what do I see?The room was dark and cut into layers by the shutters. A slanting ray seemed to be supporting the window with its column, and the motes of dust were dancing about in it as the worlds dance about in space.

On the carpet the laths of the shutters projected their lines. Here was a den! A gypsy lair! Here and there, clothes on the ground. A plate with scraps, and near it a piece of filth. One would have said it was a hermit’s haunt.

Ah! and what was that which moved on the bed? There he is, the recluse! It’s a man! He was lying face downwards amongst the disorder of the bolster and the quilt, with his head leaning on his arms. He had on only a nightshirt and trousers. His beard was of several weeks’ growth, and, like his hair, which was rather short, was almost of a whitish-yellow.

Ever since that cry the other night, my head had been full of whimsies. No, I had never seen that puffy, dirty face—that podgy body.

His eyes seemed kindly enough—stupid, but good and endearing. Um! What a curious indifference in his face! He must be a lazy chap, though.

The prisoner was snoozing, badly, it seemed. The flies were annoying him. He drives them away with a sudden clumsy gesture of his hand. His indolent eye follows their flight between his snoozes, and sometimes, seized with a fit of anger, and making his lips smack together with a sudden movement of his head, he tries to snap up the insects that irritate him so as they pass by.

The madman! There is a madman in my uncle’s house!! Who could he be? My eyelids touched the keyhole. My eye became frozen. The other one, taking its turn of duty, is rather short-sighted. I saw very badly. My line of sight was rather narrow. Good God! I have hit the door and made a noise. The madman has jumped up! How small he is! Hallo! here he is coming towards me! Suppose I were to open the door? Ah! Now he is throwing himself on the floor and sniffing and growling. Poor fellow! It is a sad sight.

He had guessed nothing. Crouching in the track of the sunray, and all striped with the shadow of the shutters, I could more easily examine him.

His hands and face were spotted with little rosy stains, like old scratches. One would have said that he had been fighting.

Ah! but this is graver. A long purple scar goes under his hair, from one temple to the other, round the back of his head. It is very likely the scar of a wound.

The poor fellow has been ill-treated. Lerne has made him undergo some horrible treatment, or he is wreaking some vengeance on him. Oh! the brute!

Immediately an association of ideas worked in my brain. I remembered the Indian profile of my uncle, the unusual locks of Emma,—those of the madman which are so yellow, and the green fleece of the rat. Can Lerne be trying to graft hairy scalps on bald scalps? Can that be the enterprise?—and immediately I see that my idea is absurd. Nothing corroborates it, and then (this is a clinching argument) the madman has not been scalped, as in that case his scar would have described a complete circle. Why should he not have gone mad simply through a fall on the back of his head? At any rate, he is not a dangerous lunatic. He is harmless. He has rather a nice expression. His eyes now shine with a sort of intelligence. I am sure if I questioned him gently he would answer. Suppose I tried.

Only a bolt closed the door on my side. I drew it deliberately, but before I got into the Yellow Room, the recluse dashed forward, head downwards—passed between my legs, knocked me down, and then escaped, with those dog’s yelps which the other night had made me take him for a practical joker.

I was disconcerted by his agility. How could he make a fool of me that way? And what a strange idea, that of running between my legs!In spite of the suddenness of the adventure, just as quickly as he made me fall, I got on my legs again, dazed and astonished. Here is a lunatic let loose—a madman who will ruin me! “Oh! Nicolas, my boy, you are done for, done for! There is not the shadow of a doubt about it. Would it not be better to take French leave than chase the fugitive? What good can it do now? Ah! But Emma and the secret! Oh, damn it all! Let’s try and catch him!” and I am after the Unknown.

I hope he won’t go near the gray buildings. No, thank goodness, he is taking the opposite direction! None the less, anybody can see us.

The Deserter goes gamboling along in high spirits, and plunges in the wood. Thank heaven, the creature is no longer barking, and that is always something. Is that somebody? No, it is a statue. I must gain on him as soon as possible. If he only takes the wrong turn, we shall be spotted, and it is all up with me. How cheerful he seems, the brute! Curse him! If he goes on in this line, we shall be round the Park, and the chase will pass under the front of the gray buildings—under the very windows of Lerne.

A blessing on the trees which still hide us. Quick.... That drawing-room door which I have left open! Quick! Quick....

But the fellow did not know he was being chased. He did not look behind him. His bare feet were hurting him and keeping him back. I am gaining on him....

He has stopped and is sniffing the breeze; now he is off again; but I have got nearer. He has jumped into the bushes on the left, towards the cliff—so do I. I am only ten yards off, now. He dashes through the brambles without heeding their thorns. I follow in his wake. The branches are lashing at him, and the thorns are hurting him. He is moaning. Well, why does not he thrust them aside? He could easily avoid their clutches. The cliffs are not far away. Now we are making straight for them. On my honor! My quarry seems to know perfectly well where it is going. I see his back now and again. I must track him by the crackling of the branches.

At last I see his narrow head again, against the rocky path. Silently I glide up. Another second, and I shall be upon him, but an unexpected action of his makes me pause at the edge of the clear space which encircles me, and of which the cliff forms one side.

He is on his knees, scratching furiously at the soil. The task tortures his nails, so that he whines as he did a moment ago amongst the thorns of the hawthorn and the bramble.

The earth flies from behind him up to me; his rigid hands working with force and rapid motion. He digs away, groaning with pain, then, ever and anon, plunges his nose into the hole as deeply as he can, snorts, shaking his head, and resumes his task.

The scar is now fully visible to me, it is like a livid crown. Oh! I do not mind his madness. Now’s the time. Jump on him, and carry him off!

I come out of the thicket stealthily. Hallo! somebody has already been digging here! A heap of earth, which has become gray, shows that my yellow-haired gentleman is only resuming some old bit of work. Well! Well!

I bend my legs and get ready to jump.

The man then utters a grunt of pleasure, and what do I see in the hole he has made—an old shoe that he has just unearthed! Ah! poor humanity!

I jumped. I have got him, the rascal. Good Lord! he turns round and thrusts me away, but I shall not leave go. It is queer how awkward he is with his hands.

Ah! would you bite, you devil!

I grasp him hard enough to break his bones. He has never done any wrestling, that is clear, but I have not got the better of him yet. Ah! I have made a wrong step! it is the hole....

I am walking on the old boot. Horror! There is something in it—something which is fastening it to the ground. I am beginning to pant. “Nothing fits a foot like a shoe.”

I must have done with this. The moments are golden.

Each clasping the other, my adversary and I are face to face, in front of the rock, gasping—equally matched.... Ah! an idea. I opened my eyes terribly wide, as if it were a matter of subduing a child, or a beast. I put on the dominating look of a master, whereupon, the other let go of his hold, quite tamed, and repentant—and if he is not licking my hands in token of obedience!

Ah, well! Come along.

I drag him away. The shoe is an elastic one, and stands up with its toe in the air. It has not that lamentable look of worn-out shoes that have been thrown away on the road, but it is more repulsive. What fixes it on the ground is deep in the soil. One can only see the end of a bit of knitting. Can it be a sock?

Trot along, my friend!

My companion remains docile, thanks to my masterful glances, and we run as hard as we can.

Good Heavens! What will have happened in the castle during this expedition?

Nothing whatever had happened, as a matter of fact.

But, as we got into the hall, I heard Emma and Barbe talking on the floor above. They were beginning to come down the stairs, when the drawing-room door shutting, as we went in, ended my alarms—only to give me new ones.

How, now that the poor lunatic was back in his room, how was I to get out without being observed by one or other of the women?

Stealthily creeping back on tiptoe to the drawing-room, I listened, with my ear to the panel, to distinguish in which direction the two intruders were moving, but suddenly I recoiled into the middle of the room, demented, looking for shelter of some kind, such as a screen, and gasping like a drowning man....

A key was rattling in the lock. Was it my key, left in the door, and stolen during my absence? Not at all. Here is my key, in my waistcoat pocket! I put it there, when I first came in.

Well, then, what could it be?

The verdigrised handle slowly turned. They were coming in. Who? The Germans? Lerne?

Emma! Well, she could only see an empty room. One of the great damask curtains stirred, perhaps, but she did not remark it.

Barbe stood behind her. The girl was saying softly: “Stay in there and watch the garden. Do what you did the other day: that was all right. As soon as the old man comes out of the Laboratory, warn me by coughing.”

“It is not he who worries me,” replied Barbe, obviously afraid. “He is quite easy in his mind at this moment, I assure you. We shall not see him before night, but as for that Nicolas, that is another pair of shoes. He is coming on!”

So the gray buildings were called the Laboratory, and it was for using that word that the Professor had silenced the servant with a slap. I was beginning to know more.

Emma went on in an irritated tone:

“I tell you again, there is no danger. It is not the first time, is it?”

“Ah! but that Nicolas was not there.”

“Come, do what I tell you.”

Not quite resigned, Barbe went off to keep watch. Emma remained for a few instants listening.

Beautiful! Oh, she was beautiful! Like the very demon of unlawful love, and yet she was but an outline against the shining rectangle of the door—a motionless shadow, but a shadow as supple as a movement. For Emma in repose, always seemed as if she had paused in the middle of a dance, and was even continuing it through some strange spell, so completely did the sight of her make a harmony—that harmony of the wanton bayaderes, whose only miming is love-making, and who cannot move in their undulating, quivering motions, without shaking their locks, nor make the least little gesture without a suggestion of voluptuousness.

Life was boiling in my veins! My senses whirled. It was like a tide of passion rising from out the depths of the ages.

Emma! In the madman’s room! Heavens! With that brute! The wretched girl! I could have killed her.

You will say that I did not know anything, that my suspicions were groundless.

Ah, then, you do not know that impulsive gait, that sly and hungry look of women who are going stealthily to a sweetheart.

It maddened me. The pretty girl, as she hastened to this ignoble scene, brushed the curtain with the swish of her skirt. I stood before her barring the path.

She gave a gasp of terror. I thought she was going to faint. Barbe showed her great round eyes, and fled in panic. Then, like a fool, I gave the reason for my exploit.

“Why are you going to that madman’s room?” My words sounded artificial, broken.

“Tell me—Why? In God’s name, tell me?”

I had flung myself upon her, and twisted her wrists. She gave a humble moan of complaint, and swayed in my grasp.

I squeezed the soft, firm flesh of her arms, as if I were throttling two doves, and bending over her agonized eyes, I said:

“Well, tell me why?”

She looked me up and down in defiance, and then said:

“Well, what about it? You know perfectly well that Macbeth was my lover. Lerne gave you to understand that in my presence on the day of your arrival.”

“Is that Macbeth—that madman?”

Emma did not reply, but her astonishment informed me that I had made another mistake in showing my ignorance.

“Have I not the right to love him?” she went on. “Do you think you are going to prevent me?”

I shook her arms as if they were bell-ropes.

“Do you still love him?”

“More than ever—do you understand?”

“But he is a brute beast.”

“There are madmen who think they are gods. He sometimes imagines he is a dog. His lunacy is, perhaps, therefore less grave, and after all....”

She smiled mysteriously. One would have said that she wanted to drive me wild.

Then followed a scene I dare not describe.

Well, Barbe made an untimely, but fortunate entrance, coughing as loudly as she could.

“Here is Monsieur coming.” Emma dashed from my arms. Lerne was terrorizing her once more. “Off with you! Make haste,” she said. “If he knew, you would be done for, and I, too, most likely. Oh, do go! Go, my little duck! Lerne sticks at nothing.”

I felt she was speaking the truth, for her dear cold hands were shivering in mine, and her mouth was stuttering with terror.

Still under the excitement of an imbecile happiness, which increased my strength and agility tenfold, I climbed the trellis, hand over fist, and jumped down on the other side of the wall.

I found my car in its garage of greenery. I piled in my parcels as fast as I could. I was ridiculously happy. Emma should be mine, and what a mistress she would make!—a woman who had not recoiled before the duty of bringing to a friend, now become a repulsive thing, the consolation of her visits.

But now it was I who was favored, I was sure of that. How could that Macbeth love her? Nonsense! She had lied to me merely to rouse my passions. She merely had pity on him.

But now, when I came to think of it, how had madness come upon the Scot, and why was Lerne keeping it secret? My uncle maintained that Macbeth had gone away. Then why did he keep poor Nell in prison? I understood her sorrow at the window, and her rancor against the Professor. Some drama had taken place in her prison, in which Lerne, Emma and Macbeth were the personages—a drama which was the result of some grievous fault, indeed, no doubt; but what was the drama? I should soon find out. A woman has no secrets from her lover, and that is what I was going to be.

My joy generally manifests itself in the form of a song. If I remember rightly, I hummed the air of a Spanish dance as I went along, and I only interrupted it suddenly because the remembrance of the old shoe, now full of sinister meaning intruded on my reflections, as the Red Death rises menacing in the midst of a ball.

Instantly my cheerfulness drooped. The sun went down in the depth of my thoughts. All things became dark, suspicious and threatening. There was a great revulsion within me, the most dreadful guesses appeared certainties and even the image of Emma faded away.

A prey to the terrors of the unknown, I re-entered that dungeon-castle and that garden-tomb, where the beautiful Demon awaited me, standing between a madman and a corpse.