Mme. Darzac, after her sobs had ceased, murmured:
“We are delivered!”
Rouletabille had fallen upon his knees at her side and, as she uttered the words, he said entreatingly: “Mother, dearest, in order that we may be sure of that—quite sure—you must tell me all that happened—everything that you saw.”
Then she told us the story. She looked at the closed door; she looked with what seemed to be new horror at the overturned furniture and the blood-spattered walls and floor and she narrated the details of the frightful scene through which she had passed in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, and I was obliged to bring my ear close to her to hear at all. In short, halting phrases, she told us that as soon as M. Darzac had entered his room, he had drawn the bolt and had walked straight to the little table which was placed in the center of the room. The Lady in Black was standing a little nearer the left, ready to pass into her own sleeping room. The apartment was lighted only by a wax candle placed on the night commode, at the left, near Mathilde’s door. And this is what happened:
The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a loud crash, like that of a piece of furniture falling to the ground, which made both M. and Mme. Darzac quickly raise their heads while their hearts were struck at the same moment by the same thrill of terror. The crash came from the little panel. And then all was silent. The pair looked at each other without daring to utter a word, perhaps without being able to do so. Darzac made a movement toward the panel which was situated at the back of the room on the right hand side. He was nailed to the spot where he stood by a second crash, louder than the first, and this time it seemed to Mathilde that she could see the panel move. The Lady in Black asked herself whether she were the victim of a hallucination, or if she had really seen the panel move. But Darzac had seen the same thing, for he made a hasty step in that direction. But at that very moment, the panel swung open before them. Pushed by an invisible hand it turned on its hinges. The Lady in Black tried to cry out, but her tongue clove to the roots of her mouth. But she made a gesture of terror and bewilderment which threw the wax candle to the ground at the very moment when a shadowy form issued from the panel. Uttering a cry of rage, Robert Darzac rushed upon the figure.
“And that shadow—that shadow had a face that you could see?” interrupted Rouletabille. “Mamma, why did you not see the face? You have killed the shadow, but how do we know that it was Larsan, if you did not see his face? Perhaps you have not even killed Larsan’s shadow.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, almost listlessly. “He is dead.” And then for a moment, she said no more.
And I looked at Rouletabille, asking myself: Who could have been killed if it were not Larsan? If Mathilde had not seen his face, she had certainly heard his voice. She shuddered yet at the recollection—she heard it yet. And Bernier, too, had heard the voice and recognized it—that terrible voice of Larsan’s—the voice of Ballmeyer, who in that fearful conflict in the middle of the night, had promised death to Robert Darzac. “This blow will end your life!” while Darzac could only groan in the tones of a dying man, “Mathilde! Mathilde!” Ah, how he had cried to her!—how he had called with the rattle in his throat, as he lay already vanquished and in the shadow of death! And she—she had only to throw her own shadow, swooning with terror, into the midst of those two other shadows, while the man she loved called upon her for the aid she could not give and which could not come from elsewhere. And then, suddenly, there had come the pistol shot and she had uttered that terrible shriek—as though she had been wounded, herself. “Who was dead? Who was living? Who was speaking? Whose voice would she hear?”
And then it was Robert who spoke.
Rouletabille took the Lady in Black into his arms once more, lifted her up and carried her tenderly to the door of her own room. And there, he said to her: “Mamma, you must leave me now. I have work to do—for you, for M. Darzac and for myself.”