Chapter 1

In Which We Begin not to Understand

It is not without a certain emotion that I begin to recount here the
extraordinary adventures of Joseph Rouletabille. Down to the present
time he had so firmly opposed my doing it that I had come to despair of
ever publishing the most curious of police stories of the past fifteen
years. I had even imagined that the public would never know the whole
truth of the prodigious case known as that of “The Yellow Room,” out
of which grew so many mysterious, cruel, and sensational dramas, with
which my friend was so closely mixed up, if, à propos of a recent
nomination of the illustrious Stangerson to the grade of grand-cross
of the Legion of Honour, an evening journal—in an article, miserable
for its ignorance, or audacious for its perfidy—had not resuscitated a
terrible adventure of which Joseph Rouletabille had told me he wished
to be for ever forgotten.

“The Yellow Room!” Who now remembers this affair which caused so much
ink to flow fifteen years ago? Events are so quickly forgotten in
Paris. Has not the very name of the Nayves trial and the tragic history
of the death of little Menaldo passed out of mind? And yet the public
attention was so deeply interested in the details of the trial that
the occurrence of a ministerial crisis was completely unnoticed at the
time. Now “The Yellow Room” trial, which preceded that of the Nayves
by some years, made far more noise. The entire world hung for months
over this obscure problem—the most obscure, it seems to me, that has
ever challenged the perspicacity of our police or taxed the conscience
of our judges. The solution of the problem baffled everybody who tried
to find it. It was like a dramatic rebus with which old Europe and
new America alike became fascinated. That is, in truth—I am permitted
to say, because there cannot be any author’s vanity in all this,
since I do nothing more than transcribe facts on which an exceptional
documentation enables me to throw a new light—that is because, in
truth, I do not know that, in the domain of reality or imagination, one
can discover or recall to mind anything comparable, in its mystery,
with the natural mystery of “The Yellow Room.”

That which nobody could find out, Joseph Rouletabille, aged eighteen,
then a reporter engaged on a leading journal, succeeded in discovering.
But when, at the Assize Court, he brought in the key to the whole
case, he did not tell the whole truth. He only allowed so much of it
to appear as sufficed to ensure the acquittal of an innocent man. The
reasons which he had for his reticence no longer exist. Better still,
the time has come for my friend to speak out fully. You are going to
know all; and, without further preamble, I am going to place before
your eyes the problem of “The Yellow Room” as it was placed before the
eyes of the entire world on the day following the enactment of the
drama at the Château du Glandier.

On the 25th of October, 1892, the following note appeared in the latest
edition of the “Temps”:—

“A frightful crime has been committed at the Glandier, on the border
of the forest of Sainte-Geneviève, above Epinay-sur-Orge, at the house
of Professor Stangerson. On that night, while the master was working
in his laboratory, an attempt was made to assassinate Mademoiselle
Stangerson, who was sleeping in a chamber adjoining this laboratory.
The doctors do not answer for the life of Mdlle. Stangerson.”

The impression made on Paris by this news may be easily imagined.
Already, at that time, the learned world was deeply interested in the
labours of Professor Stangerson and his daughter. These labours—the
first that were attempted in radiography—served to open the way
for Monsieur and Madame Curie to the discovery of radium. It was
expected the Professor would shortly read to the Academy of Sciences
a sensational paper on his new theory,—the Dissociation of Matter,—a
theory destined to overthrow from its base the whole of official
science, which based itself on the principle of the Conservation of
Energy.

On the following day, the newspapers were full of the tragedy. The
“Matin,” among others, published the following article, entitled: “A
Supernatural Crime”:—

“These are the only details,” wrote the anonymous writer in the
“Matin”—“we have been able to obtain concerning the crime of the
Château du Glandier. The state of despair in which Professor Stangerson
is plunged, and the impossibility of getting any information from the
lips of the victim, have rendered our investigations and those of
justice so difficult that, at present, we cannot form the least idea
of what has passed in ‘The Yellow Room’ in which Mdlle. Stangerson, in
her night-dress, was found lying on the floor in the agonies of death.
We have, at least, been able to interview Daddy Jacques—as he is called
in the country—an old servant in the Stangerson family. Daddy Jacques
entered ‘The Yellow Room’ at the same time as the Professor. This
chamber adjoins the laboratory. Laboratory and Yellow Room are in a
pavilion at the end of the park, about three hundred metres (a thousand
feet) from the château.

“‘It was half-past twelve at night,’ this honest old man told us, ‘and
I was in the laboratory, where Monsieur Stangerson was still working,
when the thing happened. I had been cleaning and putting instruments in
order all the evening and was waiting for Monsieur Stangerson to go to
bed. Mademoiselle Stangerson had worked with her father up to midnight;
when the twelve strokes of midnight had sounded by the cuckoo-clock
in the laboratory, she rose, kissed Monsieur Stangerson and bade him
good-night. To me she said “bon soir, Daddy Jacques” as she passed
into “The Yellow Room.” We heard her lock the door and shoot the bolt,
so that I could not help laughing, and said to Monsieur: “There’s
Mademoiselle double-locking herself in,—she must be afraid of the
‘Bête du bon Dieu!’” Monsieur did not even hear me, he was so deeply
absorbed in what he was doing. Just then we heard the distant miawing
of a cat. “Is that going to keep us awake all night?” I said to myself;
for I must tell you, Monsieur, that, to the end of October, I live in
an attic of the pavilion over The Yellow Room, so that Mademoiselle
should not be left alone through the night in the lonely park. It was
the fancy of Mademoiselle to spend the fine weather in the pavilion; no
doubt, she found it more cheerful than the château and, for the four
years it had been built, she had never failed to take up her lodging
there in the spring. With the return of winter, Mademoiselle returns to
the château, for there is no fireplace in The Yellow Room.

“‘We were staying in the pavilion, then—Monsieur Stangerson and me. We
made no noise. He was seated at his desk. As for me, I was sitting on a
chair, having finished my work and, looking at him, I said to myself:
“What a man!—what intelligence!—what knowledge!” I attach importance
to the fact that we made no noise; for, because of that, the assassin
certainly thought that we had left the place. And, suddenly, while
the cuckoo was sounding the half after midnight, a desperate clamour
broke out in The Yellow Room. It was the voice of Mademoiselle, crying
“Murder!—murder!—help!” Immediately afterwards revolver shots rang out
and there was a great noise of tables and furniture being thrown to
the ground, as if in the course of a struggle, and again the voice of
Mademoiselle calling, “Murder!—help!—Papa!—Papa!—”

“‘You may be sure that we quickly sprang up and that Monsieur
Stangerson and I threw ourselves upon the door. But alas! it was
locked, fast locked, on the inside, by the care of Mademoiselle, as I
have told you, with key and bolt. We tried to force it open, but it
remained firm. Monsieur Stangerson was like a madman, and truly, it
was enough to make him one, for we heard Mademoiselle still calling
“Help!—help!” Monsieur Stangerson showered terrible blows on the door,
and wept with rage and sobbed with despair and helplessness.

“‘It was then that I had an inspiration. “The assassin must have
entered by the window!” I cried;—“I will go to the window!” and I
rushed from the pavilion and ran like one out of his mind.

“‘The inspiration was that the window of The Yellow Room looks out in
such a way that the park wall, which abuts on the pavilion, prevented
my at once reaching the window. To get up to it one has first to go
out of the park. I ran towards the gate and, on my way, met Bernier
and his wife, the gate-keepers, who had been attracted by the pistol
reports and by our cries. In a few words I told them what had happened,
and directed the concierge to join Monsieur Stangerson with all speed,
while his wife came with me to open the park gate. Five minutes later
she and I were before the window of The Yellow Room.

“‘The moon was shining brightly and I saw clearly that no one had
touched the window. Not only were the bars that protect it intact, but
the blinds inside of them were drawn, as I had myself drawn them early
in the evening, as I did every day, though Mademoiselle, knowing that
I was tired from the heavy work I had been doing, had begged me not to
trouble myself, but leave her to do it; and they were just as I had
left them, fastened with an iron catch on the inside. The assassin,
therefore, could not have passed either in or out that way; but neither
could I get in.

“‘It was unfortunate,—enough to turn one’s brain! The door of the room
locked on the inside and the blinds on the only window also fastened on
the inside; and Mademoiselle still calling for help!—No! she had ceased
to call. She was dead, perhaps. But I still heard her father, in the
pavilion, trying to break down the door.

“‘With the concierge I hurried back to the pavilion. The door, in spite
of the furious attempts of Monsieur Stangerson and Bernier to burst it
open, was still holding firm; but at length, it gave way before our
united efforts,—and then what a sight met our eyes! I should tell you
that, behind us, the concierge held the laboratory lamp—a powerful
lamp, that lit the whole chamber.

“‘I must also tell you, monsieur, that The Yellow Room is a very small
room. Mademoiselle had furnished it with a fairly large iron bedstead,
a small table, a night-commode, a dressing-table, and two chairs. By
the light of the big lamp we saw all at a glance. Mademoiselle, in
her night-dress, was lying on the floor in the midst of the greatest
disorder. Tables and chairs had been overthrown, showing that there
had been a violent struggle. Mademoiselle had certainly been dragged
from her bed. She was covered with blood and had terrible marks of
finger-nails on her throat,—the flesh of her neck having been almost
torn by the nails. From a wound on the right temple a stream of blood
had run down and made a little pool on the floor. When Monsieur
Stangerson saw his daughter in that state, he threw himself on his
knees beside her, uttering a cry of despair. He ascertained that she
still breathed. As to us, we searched for the wretch who had tried to
kill our mistress, and I swear to you, monsieur, that, if we had found
him, it would have gone hard with him!

“‘But how to explain that he was not there, that he had already
escaped? It passes all imagination!—Nobody under the bed, nobody behind
the furniture!—All that we discovered were traces, blood-stained marks
of a man’s large hand on the walls and on the door; a big handkerchief
red with blood, without any initials, an old cap, and many fresh
footmarks of a man on the floor,—footmarks of a man with large feet
whose boot-soles had left a sort of sooty impression. How had this man
got away? How had he vanished? Don’t forget, monsieur, that there is
no chimney in The Yellow Room. He could not have escaped by the door,
which is narrow, and on the threshold of which the concierge stood with
the lamp, while her husband and I searched for him in every corner of
the little room, where it is impossible for anyone to hide himself. The
door, which had been forced open against the wall, could not conceal
anything behind it, as we assured ourselves. By the window, still in
every way secured, no flight had been possible. What then?—I began to
believe in the Devil.

“‘But we discovered my revolver on the floor!—Yes, _my_ revolver! Oh!
that brought me back to the reality! The Devil would not have needed to
steal my revolver to kill Mademoiselle. The man who had been there had
first gone up to my attic and taken my revolver from the drawer where
I kept it. We then ascertained, by counting the cartridges, that the
assassin had fired two shots. Ah! it was fortunate for me that Monsieur
Stangerson was in the laboratory when the affair took place and had
seen with his own eyes that I was there with him; for otherwise,
with this business of my revolver, I don’t know where we should have
been,—_I_ should now be under lock and bar. Justice wants no more to
send a man to the scaffold!’”

The editor of the “Matin” added to this interview the following lines:—

“We have, without interrupting him, allowed Daddy Jacques to recount
to us roughly all he knows about the crime of The Yellow Room. We have
reproduced it in his own words, only sparing the reader the continual
lamentations with which he garnished his narrative. It is quite
understood, Daddy Jacques, quite understood, that you are very fond of
your masters; and you want them to know it, and never cease repeating
it—especially since the discovery of your revolver. It is your right,
and we see no harm in it. We should have liked to put some further
questions to Daddy Jacques—Jacques—Louis Moustier—but the inquiry of
the examining magistrate, which is being carried on at the château,
makes it impossible for us to gain admission at the Glandier; and, as
to the oak wood, it is guarded by a wide circle of policemen, who are
jealously watching all traces that can lead to the pavilion, and that
may perhaps lead to the discovery of the assassin.

“We have also wished to question the concierges, but they are
invisible. Finally, we have waited in a roadside inn, not far from the
gate of the château, for the departure of Monsieur de Marquet, the
magistrate of Corbeil. At half-past five we saw him and his clerk and,
before he was able to enter his carriage, had an opportunity to ask him
the following question:—

“‘Can you, Monsieur de Marquet, give us any information as to this
affair, without inconvenience to the course of your inquiry?’

“‘It is impossible for us to do it,’ replied Monsieur de Marquet.
‘I can only say that it is the strangest affair I have ever known.
The more we think we know something, the further we are from knowing
anything!’

“We asked Monsieur de Marquet to be good enough to explain his last
words; and this is what he said,—the importance of which no one will
fail to recognise:—

“‘If nothing is added to the material facts so far established, I
fear that the mystery which surrounds the abominable crime of which
Mademoiselle Stangerson has been the victim will never be brought
to light; but it is to be hoped, for the sake of our human reason,
that the examination of the walls, and of the ceiling of The Yellow
Room—an examination which I shall to-morrow intrust to the builder who
constructed the pavilion four years ago—will afford us the proof that
may not discourage us. For the problem is this: we know by what way the
assassin gained admission,—he entered by the door and hid himself under
the bed, awaiting Mademoiselle Stangerson. But how did he leave? How
did he escape? If no trap, no secret door, no hiding-place, no opening
of any sort is found; if the examination of the walls—even to the
demolition of the pavilion—does not reveal any passage practicable—not
only for a human being, but for any being whatsoever—if the ceiling
shows no crack, if the floor hides no underground passage, one must
really believe in the Devil, as Daddy Jacques says!’”

And the anonymous writer in the “Matin” added in this article—which I
have selected as the most interesting of all those that were published
on the subject of this affair—that the examining magistrate appeared to
place a peculiar significance to the last sentence: “One must really
believe in the Devil, as Jacques says.”

The article concluded with these lines: “We wanted to know what Daddy
Jacques meant by the cry of the Bête du Bon Dieu. The landlord of the
Donjon Inn explained to us that it is the particularly sinister cry
which is uttered sometimes at night by the cat of an old woman,—Mother
Angenoux, as she is called in the country. Mother Angenoux is a sort of
saint, who lives in a hut in the heart of the forest, not far from the
grotto of Sainte-Geneviève.

“The Yellow Room, the Bête du Bon Dieu, Mother Angenoux, the Devil,
Sainte-Geneviève, Daddy Jacques,—here is a well entangled crime which
the stroke of a pickaxe in the wall may disentangle for us to-morrow.
Let us at least hope that, for the sake of our human reason, as the
examining magistrate says. Meanwhile, it is expected that Mademoiselle
Stangerson—who has not ceased to be delirious and only pronounces one
word distinctly, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’—will not live through the night.”

In conclusion, and at a late hour, the same journal announced that the
Chief of the Sûreté had telegraphed to the famous detective, Frédéric
Larsan, who had been sent to London for an affair of stolen securities,
to return immediately to Paris.