The Double Life

Гастон Леру

Gaston Leroux

The Double Life

HISTORICAL PREFACE

I WAS passing through the waiting-room of the Morning Journal on a certain evening last year when my attention was drawn to a man seated in a corner. He was dressed in black and his appearance was that of the deepest dejection. In fact upon his face I read the most melancholy despair.

He was not weeping, his eyes were dry and almost expressionless and received the impression of exterior objects like motionless ice. He had placed upon his knees a small oaken chest, ornamented with ironwork. His hands were crossed over this object and hung down, accentuating his dejected appearance.

An attendant told me that he had been awaiting my arrival there three long hours without a movement, without so much as a sigh. I went towards him, and announcing myself, I invited him to enter my office. I showed him a seat, but instead of taking it he came straight to my writing-desk and placed the little oaken chest on it. “Sir, this chest belongs to you,” said he, and his voice seemed far away and indistinct. “My friend, M. Théophraste Longuet, commissioned me to bring it to you. Take it, sir, and believe me, your servant.” As he spoke the man bowed and made a motion toward the door. I stopped him, however, and said: “Why, do not go, I cannot receive this box without a knowledge of its contents.” He replied: “Sir, I do not know what it contains, it is locked and its key is lost. You might have to break it open to find out the contents.” I replied: “Then at least I would like to know to whom I am indebted for bringing it to me.”

“My friend, M. Théophraste Longuet, called me Adolphe,” replied the man, in a voice so melancholy that it seemed to grow more faint and indistinct with each syllable.

“Well, if M. Longuet had brought me the chest himself, he would most certainly have told me what it contains; I expect that M. Longuet, himself.”

“I also, sir,” said the man, “but M. Théophraste Longuet is dead, and I am his sole executor.”

By this time he had edged his way to the door, and having said these words, he opened the door and departed. I was taken back by this sudden move and stood staring at the door, then at the chest. Collecting myself I hastily followed the man, but could find no trace of him… he had disappeared.

Opening the chest I found it contained a bundle of papers, which at first I regarded with indifference, but which I presently began to examine with greater interest. The deeper I penetrated the more mysterious they appeared to be and the more unexpected were the adventures revealed. In fact, so strange did they seem that I at first could not believe my intelligence, and if the proof had not been in front of me I never would have been convinced of their reality.

It was some time before I could bring myself to realize my position regarding these papers. M. ThГ©ophraste Longuet had made me heir to this chest and to the mysteries lying therein. In fact, the secrets of his life.

These papers were written in the form of memoirs and were voluminous. They related with the minutest detail, all the incidents of an exceptionally dramatic existence. M. ThГ©ophraste Longuet had by the discovery of a document two centuries old acquired the proof that Louis Dominique Cartouche, the most cunning criminal in the annals of French crime, and he, ThГ©ophraste, were one and the same person. This was indeed a most startling discovery and valuable, for it also put me on the track of the treasures of the famous Cartouche.

He had frequently confided in me facts about his peculiar life, but an untimely death, certain terrible events related in these documents, had prevented him from telling me all. We had been great friends. I had written for a journal he had called his “favorite organ.” He had chosen me as his companion and confidant from among many other journalists, not because of any superiority of intellect, but rather, as he used to say, “because a reliable l