The Air Pirate
south, before I came to three or four stone huts fronting a plateau with
an enclosure full of goats. I explained my predicament to a swarthy
woman who sat knitting at a door, and she gave me directions. She also
said, in mingled French and Italian, for the frontier was not five
miles away, that there would be a small empty villa to be let a mile
onwards--at least, she believed so.
"Can you tell me the name of the owner, madame?" I asked.
"But, no, m'sieu. It is a new gentleman. He has bought the villa and the
larger one, which is close to it but higher up the hill. He is a scholar
of some sort, and lives quite alone, so he cannot want the smaller house
on the road. It was, moreover, always let in the time of the last owner,
M. Visguis, of Nice."
I thanked the good dame, refused a cup of goats' milk, gave her a
five-franc piece and started on my way again rejoicing. My luck was in.
This mountain châlet would be just the thing, and I made up my mind to
interview the recluse on my way home.
The sun sank, and night came up with a rush out of the Mediterranean.
Everything was dead still. There are no birds in these solitudes, and
the hum of day insects was over. Although the moon rose almost at once
and gave sufficient light to steer by, the place was eerie. Immense
rocks threw ashen shadows. The stone pines stood like silent sentinels,
and the huge coronet of jewels--topaz against black velvet--that was
Monte Carlo seemed a hundred miles away.
Following my directions, I came at length to the garden wall of a
fairly large villa, painted all along the sides, with gigantic and
melancholy trees, and the moonlight shed a ghostly radiance upon it.
This, I knew, was the house in occupation. The one that might be let was
lower down the slope and on the other side of the road--to my right. I
could just see the roof of it as I peered over the parapet.
Pushing open a wooden gate, I went up the garden path towards the Villa
Turquoise--that I had discovered was its name. Tree frogs were croaking
round the house, but as it was winter, there were no friendly fireflies;
once or twice the fans of a palm clicked with a dry, rustling noise.
It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a
moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and
turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded
my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of
Cape gooseberries.
And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt
at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet
Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then
I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano.
I stopped dead still.
Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as
masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument.
I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.
I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light
in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon
a grand piano.
But in that moment, though subconsciously, I _knew_.
I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful
fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and
looked inside, it began.
Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade
of Chopin....
Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.
The musician was Mr. Vargus.
He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a
small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I
had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one
finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm,
powerful hands rose and fell.
There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful,
fantastic music.
I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference
whatever to my own feelings.
The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in
line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a
lady in a dress of black velvet.
At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened
quietly. He heard nothing.
An awful and august figure entered.
It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.
He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of
purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an
ancient Japanese sword--a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His
hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line.
The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer
in a high light.
He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.
The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he
whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.
They remained, staring into each other's eyes for several seconds.
I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate's face. Inch by inch
something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in
a crumpled heap upon the carpet.
The Japanese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony
glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning
it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above
his head.
As it gleamed I shut my eyes....
When I looked again, sick with the sickness of death itself, the figure
in the yellow robe had raised both arms above its head. The sleeves had
slipped away and the coils of muscle stood out upon the brown flesh.
Danjuro's lips were parted. He seemed to be speaking rapidly to
something above him. His whole face was irradiated with joy, and the
sword in his right hand shone like a tall flame.
He remained there for some little time. Then he lowered his arms, and
taking a square of purple silk from his breast, he cleansed the sword,
and I knew what he was going to do.
He placed the jewelled hilt upon the carpet and adjusted the point at
his waist, steadying the blade with his left hand. Then, with a loud
cry, as if of exaltation, he fell heavily forward....
He had gone to his own place in the way appointed to the Heroes of Old
Japan.
THE END
PRINTED AT
THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS
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PATERNOSTER HOUSE,
PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON, E.C.
_July, 1919_.
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