Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux (thriller books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Gaston Leroux
Book online «The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux (thriller books to read TXT) 📖». Author Gaston Leroux
“Very well,” he said; “I will submit to it; but I am innocent.”
With that splendid ability which has made his fame, Maitre Robert took advantage of the incident, and tried to show that it brought out in noble relief his client’s character; for only heroic natures could remain silent for moral reasons in face of such a danger. The eminent advocate however, only succeeded in assuring those who were already assured of Darzac’s innocence. At the adjournment Rouletabille had not yet arrived. Every time a door opened, all eyes there turned towards it and back to the manager of the “Epoque,” who sat impassive in his place. When he once was feeling in his pocket a loud murmur of expectation followed. The letter!
It is not, however, my intention to report in detail the course of the trial. My readers are sufficiently acquainted with the mysteries surrounding the Glandier case to enable me to go on to the really dramatic denouement of this ever-memorable day.
When the trial was resumed, Maitre Henri Robert questioned Daddy Mathieu as to his complicity in the death of the keeper. His wife was also brought in and was confronted by her husband. She burst into tears and confessed that she had been the keeper’s mistress, and that her husband had suspected it. She again, however, affirmed that he had had nothing to do with the murder of her lover. Maitre Henri Robert thereupon asked the court to hear Frederic Larsan on this point.
“In a short conversation which I have had with Frederic Larsan, during the adjournment,” declared the advocate, “he has made me understand that the death of the keeper may have been brought about otherwise than by the hand of Mathieu. It will be interesting to hear Frederic Larsan’s theory.”
Frederic Larsan was brought in. His explanation was quite clear.
“I see no necessity,” he said, “for bringing Mathieu in this. I have told Monsieur de Marquet that the man’s threats had biassed the examining magistrate against him. To me the attempt to murder Mademoiselle and the death of the keeper are the work of one and the same person. Mademoiselle Stangerson’s murderer, flying through the court, was fired on; it was thought he was struck, perhaps killed. As a matter of fact, he only stumbled at the moment of his disappearance behind the corner of the right wing of the chateau. There he encountered the keeper who, no doubt, tried to seize him. The murderer had in his hand the knife with which he had stabbed Mademoiselle Stangerson and with this he killed the keeper.”
This very simple explanation appeared at once plausible and satisfying. A murmur of approbation was heard.
“And the murderer? What became of him?” asked the President.
“He was evidently hidden in an obscure corner at the end of the court. After the people had left the court carrying with them the body of the keeper, the murderer quietly made his escape.”
The words had scarcely left Larsan’s mouth when from the back of the court came a youthful voice:
“I agree with Frederic Larsan as to the death of the keeper; but I do not agree with him as to the way the murderer escaped!”
Everybody turned round, astonished. The clerks of the court sprang towards the speaker, calling out silence, and the President angrily ordered the intruder to be immediately expelled. The same clear voice, however, was again heard:
“It is I, Monsieur President—Joseph Rouletabille!”
CHAPTER XXVII. In Which Joseph Rouletabille Appears in All His Glory
The excitement was extreme. Cries from fainting women were to be heard amid the extraordinary bustle and stir. The “majesty of the law” was utterly forgotten. The President tried in vain to make himself heard. Rouletabille made his way forward with difficulty, but by dint of much elbowing reached his manager and greeted him cordially. The letter was passed to him and pocketing it he turned to the witness-box. He was dressed exactly as on the day he left me even to the ulster over his arm. Turning to the President, he said:
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur President, but I have only just arrived from America. The steamer was late. My name is Joseph Rouletabille!”
The silence which followed his stepping into the witness-box was broken by laughter when his words were heard. Everybody seemed relieved and glad to find him there, as if in the expectation of hearing the truth at last.
But the President was extremely incensed:
“So, you are Joseph Rouletabille,” he replied; “well, young man, I’ll teach you what comes of making a farce of justice. By virtue of my discretionary power, I hold you at the court’s disposition.”
“I ask nothing better, Monsieur President. I have come here for that purpose. I humbly beg the court’s pardon for the disturbance of which I have been the innocent cause. I beg you to believe that nobody has a greater respect for the court than I have. I came in as I could.” He smiled.
“Take him away!” ordered the President.
Maitre Henri Robert intervened. He began by apologising for the young man, who, he said, was moved only by the best intentions. He made the President understand that the evidence of a witness who had slept at the Glandier during the whole of that eventful week could not be omitted, and the present witness, moreover, had come to name the real murderer.
“Are you going to tell us who the murderer was?” asked the President, somewhat convinced though still sceptical.
“I have come for that purpose, Monsieur President!” replied Rouletabille.
An attempt at applause was silenced by the usher.
“Joseph Rouletabille,” said Maitre Henri Robert, “has not been regularly subpoenaed as a witness, but I hope, Monsieur President, you will examine him in virtue of your discretionary powers.”
“Very well!” said the President, “we will question him. But we must proceed in order.”
The Advocate-General rose:
“It would, perhaps, be better,” he said, “if the young man were to tell us now whom he suspects.”
The President nodded ironically:
“If the Advocate-General attaches importance to the deposition of Monsieur Joseph Rouletabille, I see no reason why this witness should not give us the name of the murderer.”
A pin drop could have been heard. Rouletabille stood silent looking sympathetically at Darzac, who, for the first time since the opening of the trial, showed himself agitated.
“Well,” cried the President, “we wait for the name of the murderer.” Rouletabille, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, drew his watch and, looking at it, said:
“Monsieur President, I cannot name the murderer before half-past six
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