Now its noise flowed out to engulf us. Down the dark passage I saw the great arch of the hall. Laughter was mingled with the hum of people; quick speech, breathlessness, and the clinking of glasses. It was subdued, but that only heightened its fierce tensity. A voice would break out, to be instantly repressed. Across it the orchestra rolled music in thick, sickly-sweet waves. We were inside, now; inside tall arches of black marble, with mirrors cunningly arranged so that the parade of arches seemed to extend itself endlessly. I had again that illusion of an undersea twilight, as at the waxworks. But now the dusk swam with goblins. Black masks, green masks, scarlet masks; figures split weirdly by the mirrors. Figures arm in arm, moving, black broadcloth and rustling gowns; or figures seated in corners, multiplied by the mirrors, with cigarette-ends palely glowing.
I glanced at Marie Augustin, whose arm was hooked in mine. She was spectral also. In a mirror near me there appeared a disembodied arm. It tilted a swathed bottle, and somebody laughed. There were alcoves where low round tables with glass tops were lighted from within; these lights shone upon the pale colours of wine in glasses, with bubbles rising; and they shone on the lower faces, smiling or intent, of the people who sat motionless there....
Leaning against one pillar was a white-mask. The figure had its hand in its inside pocket. Another white-mask went slipping along the aisles. By the mirror-trick, it seemed to move miles among the arches. The pound and thunder of the orchestra was almost over our heads now ... and the orchestra, peering goblin-like from behind palms, all wore white masks.. ..
I felt Marie Augustin pressing my arm tightly. Her nervousness steadied me as we walked slowly across the hall., but I seemed to feel the white-masks staring from behind. What would it be like to be shot in the back, with a silencer on the pistol? Under this noise, not even the faint plop could be heard. They could fire, and you could be carried out, quietly and unobserved, as a drunk, after you had fallen.
I tried to move slowly. My heart was pounding heavily, and the brandy I had taken seemed now only to muddle my head. Would a bullet in the back be clean and almost painless, or would it stab like a hot iron ? Would —.
The noise was diminishing. I could smell flowers now, above the heat and perfume, from the passage at the other end. We moved out into the lounge. I stared straight across at the faces of two white-masked apaches who still sat in the alcove, eyes on the door. In the scarlet-and-black flicker of light from the bronze satyrs there, the white-masks rose. ...
I gripped the butt of my pistol in my pocket. They sauntered forward. They peered at us and went on. .. .
Down the lounge towards the foyer, a slow progress. It was not real; it could not be real! The palms of my hands were clammy, and once my companion's step faltered. If they found her assisting me! Knock-knock; it was our footsteps, or my heart, or both.. . .
'Your key, monsieur?' said a low voice at my elbow. 'Monsieur is leaving?'
I was prepared for it, but, even so, that ominous 'Monsieur is leaving?' seemed to be delivered with a delighted leer. 'Monsieur will not leave,' it seemed to say: 'Monsieur, instead, will remain indefinitely.' I held out my key to a white-mask.
'Ah,' it said, 'Monsieur Darzac! Thank you. monsieur!5 Then white-mask shrank back as Marie Augustin lifted her own slightly; he recognized her, and hurried across to open the door. A last glimpse of the marble pillars in the foyer, of the heavy blue decorations, of white-mask grinning; then the hum of the orchestra died and we were out. .. .
For a moment I felt weak. I put my head against the bricks of the wall, feeling the coldness of the passage blow deliciously under my cloak.
'Good child !' whispered Marie Augustin.
I could not see her in the dark, but I could feel her body pressing against my side. Triumph went singing and bounding along my veins. We had Galant now! Oh, we had him! . .. 'Where to?’ I heard her murmur.
'The waxworks. We must look for that knife. Then I'll phone Bencolin. He's waiting at the Palais de Justice ... I suppose we must go round to the front to get into the waxworks ?'
'No. I have a key for the passage door. It's the only one, though. The rest of the people must go out the other way.'
She was leading me up towards the back door to the museum. I felt sweat running down from under my arms, and my wound pounded anew; it was beginning to bleed once more. But the triumph of escaping gave pleasure even to that. It was an honourable scar. I said:
'Wait, I'll strike a match.'
The match flame sputtered up. Suddenly Marie Augustin's fingers dug into my arm. ...
'O my God !' she whispered, 'what's that?' 'What?'
She was pointing to the door which led into the back of the museum. It stood ajar.
We stood there staring at it until the flame crumpled up and went out. Open. You could see the gleam of the catch, and the stuffy air blew out into our faces. Some intuition told me that we were not yet through with horrors for this night. The door even swung and creaked a little, suggestively. It was here that the murderer had stood last night when he launched himself at Claudine Martel. I wondered whether we mould see a green light suddenly spring up there, and, silhouetted against it, a head and shoulders. . ..
'Do you suppose,' she whispered, 'there's somebody — ?'
'We can see.' I put one arm around her, drew the revolver, and pushed the door open with my feet. Then I went through into darkness.
'We'll have to get the lights on,' she was insisting in a tense voice. 'Let me lead you. I know every step of the way in the dark. Up to the main grotto. . .. Watch the steps, now.'
She did not even grope as we went through the door, through the cubbyhole, and out on the landing. In thick darkness I felt the edge of the satyr's robe brush my wrist and I started as at the touch of a reptile. Our footfalls scraped on the gritty stone; the damp and musty air had an almost strangling quality. I stumbled on the stair. If there were anybody else about, that person must certainly have heard us.
How she picked her way along in the dark I do not know. I had lost all sense of direction after climbing the stairs and heading towards the grotto. But you could feel the presence of all the wax figures, indefinably sinister, as you could smell their clothes and hair. I remembered old Augustin's words, touching my ears as though somebody had just murmured there, 'If any of them ever moved, I should go mad. . ..'
Marie Augustin let go my arm. There were a clink of metal and a rasp of a switch thrown into place. Green twilight illuminated the main grotto, where we stood now. She was smiling at me, very white.
'Come on,' she muttered. 'You wanted to go down to the Gallery of Horrors and look for the knife. ... '
Again we traversed the grotto. It was just as it had looked the night before, when I found the body in the satyr's arms. Our footsteps scraped and echoed in the enclosed staircase. No matter how cautiously you approached, the figure of the satyr alv’ays seemed to appear as with a spring at you. It was in place again, the green lamp burning behind it in the corner. I shuddered when I remembered its robe brushing my hand. . . .
The Gallery of Horrors. I could see coloured coats, and wax faces peering out, in a dimness which was even more eerie than the dark. We were close to the Marat tableau now; yet for some reason I hated to look at it. Dread kept my eyes fixed on the floor. Something seemed to whisper, with little words which were as the tapping of hammers on my ear drums, that I should see a ghastly thing. ... I raised my eyes slowly. No. It was the same. There was the iron railing in front of it. There was Marat, naked above the waist, lying backwards, his glass eyes glaring at me upside down. There was the serving-woman in the red cap, shouting to the soldiers at the door, and seizing the wrist of pale Charlotte, the murderess. I saw the dim, pale September sunlight drooping through the window. . .. No! Something was wrong. Something was missing. .. .