The chateau de la rage

Front matter

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Part 1 . Prologue. Part I

THE JAGUAR HUNT.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Alviella Family 43

II. The Beautiful Lakhmi 51

III. Dominique 58

IV. The Oath 67

V. The Jealous Master 77

VI. The Taya 86

VII. The Human Feast 98

Part II. A Husband’s Vengeance

I. A Daughter to Marry 103

II. A Fortune Hunter 112

III. The Quarrel 120

IV. The Insult 136

V. The Marquis’ Secret 147

VI. A Singular Bargain 153

VII. The Spy 169

PAGE CHAPTER

VIIL The Dual i8i

IX. The House at Neuilly 195

X. Love Fever 209

XL Clotilde’s Test 230

XII. The Departure 240

XIII. Where Durouget Becomes Impene-

trable 252

XV. The Pursuit 269

XVI. A Slap in the Face 282

XVII. Two Turtle Doves 293

XVIII. A Representation for the Benefit

OF THE Poor 305

XIX. The Third Accomplice 314

XX. The Anonymous Letters 326

XXL Hypnotism 342

XXII. Demonio 352

XXIII. After the Vengeance . . 391

XXIV. Living to Kill 378

XXV. Conclusion 388

THE CHATEAU DE LA RAGE

Prologue

THE MYSTERIOUS CHATEAU.

Within a stone’s throw of La Frilliere, almost on the highest point of a verdant hill in Touraine, well named the garden of France, stands, near the Amboise road, a small chateau which had for many years all its gates and doors carefully barred against intruders.

Far from having any resemblance to the legendary manor of which the aspect alone conveys the idea of mystery and gloom, this chateau, though bearing every evidence of neglect and decay, still maintained its native and inviting beauty, very attractive to the eyes of the traveler.

What impressed strangers most, was the elevated position of this lonely dwelling, but if, instead of keeping to the high road, they had followed the winding avenue leading up to this mysterious habi- 7 tation, and on arriving at the old rusty gate had gazed curiously within, a very cursory glance would have enabled the observer to decide that no human being had passed the threshold for some considerable time.

In 187 — at the season when all the world is journeying towards watering places or the seaside, I followed the general example, and chance conducting me to the avenue leading to the little old chateau. I bravely asceaded it, for the temperature rendered the effort rather painful, and in a few minutes found myself at the top.

A secret presentiment told me that I was on the threshold of a mystery. It was the month of August and the day was oppressively warm, but completely sheltered by the trees lining the avenue, I luxuriated in the freshness of their shade, while pursuing my investigations.

My surprise increased at every step. A thousand wild ideas crossed my brain. Trying to take a practical view of things, my first thought was to return to La Frilliere in order to question one of the inhabitants, but the situation of the chateau led me^to believe that the extremity of the park, opposite to the spot where I now stood, ought to border the high road.

I therefore decided to continue my fatiguing ascent, and in about twenty minutes time found that I had not been mistaken and that I was only a few steps from the road leading to Vouvray, whose small white houses I could plainly distinguish through the foliage. There I stopped, for two reasons; the first, the most imperative, to recover breath; the second, the most attractive, to examine a worm-eaten door which I had just discovered. I advanced toward it.

The lock, red with rust, possessed a very respectable bolt, strongly wedged into the stone. I instinctively leaned against this stone with my full weight. One of the screws became loosened under my pressure, dropped out, and rolled on the ground at my feet. Without pausing to reflect, I took my knife and by its aid soon found means for the others to follow the example of the first. The lock itself fell with the last screw. I hesitated a moment, then, curiosity getting the better of my scruples, and strong in the knowledge that I was there simply as a discoverer, I pushed the door with my full strength. It slowly yielded. The rust on its hinges and the long grass inside prevented it opening easily, but I redoubled my efforts, resolved to persevere in my investigations to the end.

lO THE MYSTERIOUS CHATEAU

A great disappointment met me on my entrance. I had counted on being able to gain a complete view of the castle at a glance, and instead, found myself in a narrow pathway bordered by thickly planted trees, which limited my view to a few yards. I pushed my way through a dense thicket as quickly as the interlacing branches permitted. An English garden, which must at one time have been very beautiful was soon disclosed to view, but which, like the grounds I had just forced my way through, lay completely neglected. No trace of path or turf was visible. A thick growth of weeds covered the entire space, and at the far end could be discerned the turrets of the chateau.

I carefully examined the surroundings; no traces of steps could be discovered, no index that any human being had penetrated to this place for many years. A group of weeping willows attracted my attention. I directed my steps towards it ; the ground was damper here than where I had been exploring. An adder glided from under the moss at my approach. Sinister omen.

I put aside the hanging branches and beheld a large square tomb-stone. I advanced and read, deeply engraved in the center, these two words:

Clotilde—Sanchez.

II Underneath was a death’s head

Not a date, not one word of adieu or of regret was on this tomb, not even the three sacramental letters R. J. P., which generally adorn the most humble of crosses.

Who then had been buried there Who reposed in this gloomy grave on which the sun was never to shine Who were these two, lying together there, for whom no better sepulchre had been found than a corner of this enclosed park, where even nature seemed to redouble her efforts to bury for ever their very memory under its bright adornment, like the Cyprus on the tomb of Willis.

Neither Clotilde nor Sanchez were ordinary names. There was an aristocratic flavor in these two names which added to the interest they had already awakened within me.

I had discovered the retreat of the sphynx, and could place my finger on the enigma without finding the word, with my eyes fixed on the fifteen letters composing the two names — Clotilde, Sanchez — I invoked each of them as if they could arise and answer me.

At last I made an effort and in the hope that the interior of the chateau might lead to some further information, I turned my steps in its direction.

Feeling for the steps leading to the entrance under the thick carpet of moss, leaves, and branches which covered them, I at last succeeded in arriving at the door.

All was still within.

I left this door as I had left the principal entrance on the avenue, and going to the side of the house, came to the windows on the ground floor through which I could have examined at ease the interior of the room, if the windows had not been furnished with solid shutters covered, in their turn, by a heavy growth of ivy.

Removing the smaller branches of the gigantic parasite, I examined the shutters carefully, the existence of which greatly added to my curiosity, and I was not long in discovering one carelessly closed, and only held in its place by a thin branch of a tree leaning against it.

I removed this obstacle, opened the shutter and admitted the daylight into the interior. I saw across the dust-stained panes, a room furnished with sombre colored hangings. This was all I could distinguish at first, but I had gone too far to stop. Dipping my handkerchief in a small pool of water which the hot August sun had not altogether dried up, I rubbed it against the window and could not resist a cry of dismay, for the glass, around which the putty, rendered dry and useless by the wear of time, gave way under my pressure and fell on the floor in a thousand pieces. To pass my hand through the opening, turn the fastener, which yielded more readily than I expected, to open the window and jump into the room, was the work of an instant.

I found myself in a bedroom; everything was in perfect order; on the walls hung weapons and some pictures, a soft thick carpet covered the floor, the whole surroundings conveying the impression of a rigid severity keeping in check a spirit of luxury and good taste.

Such was the first impression conveyed to my mind. Evidently this had been a man’s room, a few books still adorned an etagere.

Suddenly I felt a slight breeze pass across my face.

It was a soft fresh current of air, a perfumed kiss from the breeze without.

Looking around to see where this breeze came from, I remarked a closed window in which one of the panes had been broken.

The hole made in the glass must have been caused by a blow from some hard substance, and the blow could not have been given from the outside, as some of the glass still laid on the carpet.

To one of the sharp points of the jagged breakage hung a small piece of skin, which having removed I examined with great care. It was the finger of a glove once white, but now blackened by time, upon which were embroidered some small cabalistic signs in black and red.

The finger of the glove was small, and must at one time have fitted a woman’s hand.

Decidedly, everything was very strange in this deserte*d place.

Continuing my researches, I perceived a candlestick on a small buhl table. This was a valuable discovery for me.

Determined to search the chateau thoroughly and not being desirous of continuing my struggles with the closed shutters, I drew from my pocket the box of wax matches which I always carried with me, and soon succeeded in lighting the candle.

Holding the light up, I advanced towards an alcove in which was stationed a four post bed; in the curtain I discovered a place where a rent had been made.

This was between the two posts of the bed, a little higher than the head.

I held the light nearer and was horrified to discover that the tear had been made by a bullet fired from below and glancing upwards, consequently, it must have come from a weapon held by someone lying on the bed.

The ball had lodged itself deeply in the stone, but by scraping with my knife and enlarging the cavity, I succeeded in removing it. The bullet was stained with blood; it must have then passed through some human body before lodging there, and considering the position of the projectile with regard to the bed, this part of the human body must have been the head.

In fact, on a closer examination I found on the roughened edges of the hole made by the ball, some short black hair, then guiding the light all around the spot I remarked several stains on the wall with which the curtains also were smeared.

These sinister details left no doubt on my mind. Some man had blown out his brains on this bed.

I had seen enough. I opened a door which led into a spacious hall, conducting me to a large room luxuriously furnished and which I concluded must be the salon of the chateau.

The principal piece of furniture in this room was an Erard grand piano in a case of carved ebony.

I opened it ; but not for the world would I have touched the keys. Yet there was nothing strange about the instrument, but it seemed to me that at the slightest touch it would give forth a sound of grief, a lamentable cry of a disastrous past. I respected the silence which surrounded it.

I went back to the hall and began to ascend the staircase.

At the second floor the candle was no longer of any use to me. Several attics, evidently intended for the use of servants, opened off this landing. From these rose the turrets. The first was only a store-room for fruits, without furniture or ornament of any kind. The second consisted of a very small bedroom, with a work-room adjoining it.

This part, separated from the main portion of the dwelling, offered a great contrast to the other parts of the chateau. The bedstead was of iron and almost shabby in its simplicity. An array of hunting weapons occupied the mantel-shelf; in the place generally occupied by the mirror, numerous pipes were hung up separately, or ranged in racks fastened to the wall, revealed the manly and rustic taste of the last occupant of the room. Some hunting sketches from the timid hare to the fierce tiger of the jungles completed the decorations.

I did not waste much time in this turret; this was not what I was looking for. What I was burning to discover was the bed-chamber of Clotilde, her private sanctuary.

I came upon it on the first landing, a door, which I had failed to notice on coming up stairs, led to it.

What a difference between it and the one I had just gained entrance to! It was as gay and bright as the other was sombre and gloomy. The hangings were of light silk of an eastern design, harmonizing exquisitely with the rest of the furniture, and each detail revealed the woman of fashion, beautiful and refined, as the corolla of a flower betrays its perfume.

The bed and its surroundings represented the tragic side.

No trace of suicide existed here, however, but simply that of death; a white sheet completely covering the bed.

The bolster without pillows, occupied the upper part. At the foot a yellow wax candle had burnt out in the large brass candlestick holding it.

The furniture had been removed to the other part of the room, leaving a large space free around the bed.

I picked up a hammer and some nails which had been left forgotten on the carpet. They were heavy, and such as are used for nailing up coffins.

I left the room hastily, a prey to an emotion which may be easily conceived.

It was time to take my departure.

I closed the shutter I had opened, and crossing the park, soon found myself at the little worm-eaten door, though not without throwing a last backward glance at the tumulous stone with its inscription rendered all the more eloquent by its laconism.

I replaced the lock as well as I could and went on my way.

A few moments later and I was walking on the road to Vouvray.

A little boy of ten or twelve years of age, was playing at a farm door.

Faithful to the promise I had made myself to question the first person I met after leaving the chateau I called to the child. He raised his clear bright eyes to mine and came up quickly,

“What is it. Sir,” he asked.

“You belong to this neighborhood?”

“Yes, Sir, I have never left it.”

“Whose chateau is that?” I demanded, pointing upwards to the spot from which I had just descended.

At this question the boy’s cheeks paled.

“That chateau?” he repeated, designating in his turn the topmost ridge of the mountain.

“Yes, do you know anything about it?”

“Yes, Sir, I do.”

“Very well, then, speak.”

The boy came close up to me and lowering his voice, whispered:

“It is the house of the Mad Dog!” said he.

This name startled me. I had never listened to a more sinister denomination.

“What did you say?” I asked, thinking I could not have heard aright.

“The house of the Mad Dog,” he repeated.

“I understand now.”

“And do you know how the place got this name?” I pursued after a short silence.

“To whom does it belong?”

“I do not know. All I do know is that it has been shut up for a long time past, and that no one would dare to go there.”

“Do they believe that the place is haunted, then? Has any one seen the ghost?”

“No but just as good as if they did, for at midnight you can hear howls coming from the chateau.”

“The ghost.?”

“Yes, the ghost, the mad dog. Gomez’s dog.” “Is that the name of the ghost.?”

“Yes sir.”

I had heard enough.

PART IL

THE KEY, THE LETTER AND THE HAND.

My friend Dupuys, with whom I was passing a few days, a most agreeable companion, good sportsman and a successful lawyer, occupied a bright pleasant house on the road to Ambroise, behind which stretched a large garden, the lawn serving as an admirable playground for his two sons, Auguste and Edward.

When I arrived at the lower hall, which served both as dining and ante-room, and was exclusively reserved for the better class of my friend’s clients, all the family were already seated at table; I was welcomed with a shout gayly addressed to me by Dupuys and the others.

“Late as usual, dawdler,” said the former.

“You must excuse us,” said his wife with a gracious smile. “My husband would not allow us to wait any longer than a quarter of an hour and dinner had to be served.”

“He was quite right and you also, madame,” I 21 replied. “I am going to take this place between Edward and his brother. I promise to make up for lost time, for I am simply starving.”

“Where have you been.^” asked Dupuys.

“Ah! that is a long story! I must tell you all about it.”

“I began to think you had lost your way.”

“No, but I am fond of exploring. Ah! so you have ghosts in this part of the country

“I know now what you have got to tell me. You have been to Vouvray.^*”

“Exactly.”

“And they told you about Gomez’s dog.^”

“Yes, but that was not all. I saw the chateau!”

“That is not a difficult matter, perched up on that height it is hardly possible not to see it.”

“I am not alluding to the exterior.”

“What do you mean.^”

“Why the interior of course!” — watching for the effect which I intended to produce.

It was even greater than I expected.

“The interior.^” exclaimed Dupuys, “you have seen the interior of the Chateau de la Rage? what induced you to do such a thing?”

I then favored him with a detailed account of my excursion. From time to time Dupuys interrupted me with such exclamatiop.s as;

“Just so! Yes, it must be so.

“You are acquainted with the place?” I asked.

“Yes”, he replied.

“Very well, it is your turn now. I have described the place, now you can relate the scenes which took place there.”

“You are fortunate in preferring your request to-day,for yesterday I could not have satisfied your very natural curiosity.”

“What was the objection?”

“I was bound by an oath, but to-day I am free, look, read.”

And he held a black-edged letter out to me.

I opened it and read:

“You are requested to attend the funeral rites of Fernande Isabella Marie de Burgos, Marchioness de Alviella, who died at her residence, rue de rUniversite. The funeral will take place at twelve o’clock precisely at the church of St. Thomas d’Aquin.

“From M. Foucault, notary af!d executor of the deceased.”

“What a singular way of announcing a death,” I said, after reading it.

“Is it not?”

“But,” I added, “what connection is there s

between this announcement and the Chateau de la Rage?’’

“It belonged to the Marchioness d'Alviella.”

“But her name is not Clotilde,” I observed, laying my finger on the Christian names enumerated in the letter.

“It was her daughter-in-law who bore that name.”

“And Sanchez?”

“Was Clotilde's husband.” •

“Then he was the son of the marchioness?”

“Precisely.”

As he said this, Dupuys got up, opened a drawer, and returned with three objects which he laid on the table; a key, a letter and something more voluminous wrapped up in an old paper for which I held out my hand.

“Presently,” said my host, stopping me. “Let us proceed in order. In the first place, look at this, it is the key of the chateau.”

“How did it cdhie into your hands?”

“I sold the property to Madame d’ Alviella thirteen years ago, but wait, read this, before I say anything more.”

He took a letter from the table and handed it to me. It was addressed to Dupuys and signed by

Monsieur Foucault, the executor of the Marchioness, who had written to his brother lawyer as follows:

My dear Dupuys: —

“It is now almost ten years since the Marchioness d’Alviella, my honored client, placed in your hands the key of the gate of the property, sold by you to her three years before through my agency, at the same time begging you to await her orders either to demolish or wall in the chateau.

“On leaving Touraine, where the melancholy event which you know of demanded her presence, the marchioness had resolved to have the chateau pulled down and to construct in its place a simple Mausoleum, which hidden among the trees of the hill, would help to bury in oblivion the scene of the tragedy, while still consecrating the memory of the unhappy victims. This project was worthy both of a mother and a Christian.

“Madame hoped that time would mitigate her sorrow and give her strength to accomplish her object and you would have been entrusted to see that her directions were attended to, but instead of abating, the settled grief of the marchioness seemed to become more poignant from day to day.

“Now that the doctors have given up all hope.

and my client feels that her end is near, she has revealed the horrible history of what occurred in Touraine. I need not tell you that this revelation was made to me under the seal of secrecy.

^Fearing to revive people’s memory, the marchioness has modified her first plans and has begged me to write requesting you to see the following directions put into execution, but only after her death.

“Then as soon as you are made acquainted with the death of the Marchioness d’Alviella, you will have the chateau completely walled in.

“Not doubting but that you will agree to accept this charge, I send you, in the name of the marchioness the sum of eighteen thousand francs, which you will dispose of in carrying out her instructions, retaining the balance for payment of your own services.

“Accept, my dear Dupuys, etc.”

“Why have you not put Madame d’Alviella’s orders into execution I asked Dupuys, when I had finished the perusal of the letter.

“Because,” he replied, “although it is more than six months since I received the letter the Marchioness died only three days ago.”

“Of course; I had forgotten the other letter.”

‘‘Tomorrow I shall give the necessary orders, resumed Dupuys, “You can boast of being the only one who has ever visited the chateau since the marchioness came here accompanied by Gomez, and shut it up with her own hands and left me the key.”

“But how, having possession of this key, were you never tempted to visit the chateau

“The Marchioness, when she handed it to me, made me promise not to do so. And now, you can open this parcel,” added Dupuys, pointing to the third object which he had left on the table.

I did not wait to be told a second time. Judge of my surprise when on removing the wrapper, I saw that it contained a wooden hand with a white glove, a woman’s hand, evidently, for a gold bracelet still encircled the wrist, and the glove was stamped with the same cabalistic signs which I had noticed on the torn finger I had found in Sanchez’s room.

This hand was most artistically made and moulded after nature.

“What is the meaning of this”.*^ I asked of Dupuys.

“A terrible souvenir.”

“Well.?”

“Ah! my dear fellow, this lamentable story is as strange as it is pitiful. Listen, and I will tell you the whole story, as far as I know.”

And Dupuys told me as follows.

Part III. The Two Travelers

About ten years ago, eight days before the visit of Madame d'Alvilla, a carriage stopped at the door of this house one night in autumn.

Awakened by the sound of the bells on the harness of the horses, I opened the window of my room and saw a man descend from the carriage, who, on perceiving me, called out,

“Whoever you may be I implore you to open!”

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“That is of no consequence, we will pay handsomely for your hospitality, open! a woman's life is at stake! in the name of Heaven open quickly!”

These last words decided me.

“Ah! thank you,” said the stranger, “let me beg of you to hasten.”

My wife had already risen and was dressing quickly, for she could not deny herself the pleasure of rendering service to one in need, and a few moments afterward, aided by the driver, we 29 placed on a mattress which we quickly arranged for her in this very room, a young woman seriously wounded, if one could judge from the quantity of blood which flowed from her side.

Her costume was singular, being composed of a long black velvet dress, with a border of different colored silks, all studded with cabalistic signs embroidered in gold.

Now that the wounded stranger was installed, I had time to examine the people whom I had just received. The young woman was marvelously beautiful. She had not fainted and seemed to bear her sufferings with great courage, for a strange smile lingered on her lips. The man, who appeared to be about thirty or thirty-five years of age, had regular features, a refined voice and a look of unmistakable distinction.

“How do you feel.^^” he asked his companion.

“I am thirsty. Can I have something to drink.?”

I poured a little cordial which my wife had brought down in a glass and gave it to her.

The poor sufferer drank greedily.

“Are you better.?” demanded her companion.

“I feel almost well now.”

“Yet you speak with an effort. Raise your head and I will arrange another pillow for you. The blood might choke you.”

“No, not the blood, but joy!”

This strange answer upset all my conjectures. For some minutes I had been trying to decide what kind of conduct I ought to adopt. Evidently a crime had been committed. The care lavished on the victim by her companion banished all suspicions regarding him from my mind. I frankly asked the question.

“Who gave you this frightful wound, madame.^”

She looked at me for some seconds without replying and then in a steady voice replied,

“Myself.”

Then, as if in denial of this strange affirmation, she added,

“Send for a doctor. ... I do not want to die yet.”

I gave the driver directions to go for Doctor Caron, and he set off at full speed.

“Is the doctor you have sent for clever demanded the wounded woman.

“Very clever, madame.”

“If he can help to keep me alive three months longer, I will pay him as much a minute as he would gain in a year.”

This phrase proved to me that she must be the possessor of an immense fortune. Another thing surprised me. I could not define the connection existing between the two travelers. The man did not treat the sufferer either as sister, lover or friend. His appearance proved to me that he was at least, her equal. He took a lively interest in all that was happening. I even saw traces of emotion on his features, which he could not altogether disguise; but this emotion did not seem to proceed from actual affection. While my wife was assisting the stranger to partake of a second drink, he drew me aside.

“One word, if you please.^ Tell me, sir, is there a lawyer in this place

“I am one.”

“What! You are.^ . . A lawyer. I will

require your services to-night.”

“My time is at your disposal.”

“We will speak, then, later on. Allow me, in the meantime, to ask you one question, and promise that you will answer me frankly.”

“I promise.”

“Were you not thinking of informing the authorities of what is taking place here ?”

“I was thinking of it, I confess, for I place no faith in this pretended attempt at suicide.”

“Well! I implore you in the name of my companion, to do nothing. I will be frank with you. She did not wound herself, but her would-be murderer only did an act of justice. I give you my word of honor. Any enquiry would only detain us in this neighborhood. You can remain silent without compromising yourself in any way.”

I reflected a few minutes, the stranger's air of sincerity decided me. “Well?” he said, “if the doctor consents to remain silent, so will I. We will reward your silence handsomely, not that it is of such very great importance to us, but because different conduct on your part would detain us here, and my companion is anxious to sail from Marseilles in eight days.”

“In her present condition?”

“It is her wish, and she is accustomed to having her wishes carried into effect.”

“I promise you again, that if Monsieur Caron, the doctor, consents to remain silent, I shall do so likewise, but I do not want any reward.”