Chapter XII: The Drained Glass

As the Homicidal Professor finished his narrative, he turned to the Nervous Physician.

“And so, you see, sir, your friend Glyncamp had something else on his mind when you understood him to say that the Gargoyle was the murderer of Prince Maranotti,” he said.

“His language was a little disjunctive at the time,” murmured the Nervous Physician, thoughtfully. “But I can’t quite understand why a man who possesses the characteristics of the Gargoyle should stop at anything, yet everybody now seems disposed to make a hero of him.”

The Gargoyle laughed mirthlessly as he reached for a decanter and poured more wine into his glass.

“You do everybody an injustice, Doctor,” he replied. “Heroes are made of nobler clay than that which Nature found available when she fashioned me. Heroes are capable of inspiring affection in the hearts of friends, but in the heart of man or woman the Gargoyle has no place.”

The one-eyed Duckhunter, clearing his throat, laid his hands on the table and looked at them meditatively. The Hypochondriacal Painter sighed and stroked his beard.

“You are wrong, sir,” said Westfall, composedly. “With one exception, perhaps, I think I may safely say that all of us are now your friends.”

“By the exception, our host means me,” the Nervous Physician explained. “Having been more or less interested in the late Mr. Glyncamp’s intentions concerning this young lady, I must confess that I do not find quite to my liking this Twentieth Century adaptation of the old story of ‘The Beauty and the Beast.’”

The Gargoyle, twirling his glass of wine with nervous fingers, laughed softly.

“It was a pretty story,” said the Duckhunter, thoughtfully. “But, since the Princess in that tale found the face of a noble gentleman behind the face of the monster, why is it not possible that our Princess has made a similar discovery in the case of the hero of her romance?”

“If the old poets are to be believed, satyrs have been loved by some of the fairest nymphs,” observed the Hypochondriacal Painter, solemnly.

The Decapitated Man rose abruptly, then, throwing on the table the napkin which had been lying on his knee, he walked to where the Gargoyle sat and held out his hand. The Gargoyle looked up sharply, hesitated, then, rising, he grasped the extended hand and bowed.

The Decapitated Man turned to the Aeronaut.

“Madame--” he begun.

“Stop!” exclaimed the Gargoyle, sharply. “Though you mean kindly, let us not draw aside the veil that hides the face of Truth.”

“I will spare you that trouble, then,” said the Princess, as she raised and threw back the veil that had concealed her features.

She was very pale, but her lips and eyes were smiling, as she added:

“Gentleman, I am prepared to receive your congratulations.”

“Paula!” exclaimed the Fugitive Bridegroom. “Are you mad? Do you not know that----”

“I know many things that I had not even suspected before I came to the Barge of Haunted Lives,” the Princess interrupted.

The Gargoyle dropped the hand of the Decapitated Man, and the Duckhunter, who sat beside him, saw that he was trembling. But in the ugly, perpetually smiling face there was no change. It was in a slightly shaking voice that he asked:

“Madame, am I to understand that--that you have so overcome your dislike for me that you are willing to acknowledge me as your--your husband?”

“Yes,” the Princess answered, quietly. “Like the Princess in the old tale to which the Nervous Physician has referred, the Princess Maranotti has found her fairy Prince at last.”

The Gargoyle shook his head, then, seating himself abstractedly, he toyed with his glass.

“Unfortunately for me, Princess, I came too late into the world to profit by the fairy powers that could transform a monster into a man who might be capable of winning and retaining Beauty’s love,” he said. “As I have told you, Glyncamp once asked me to tell him what was the dominant purpose in my life, and I replied ‘When I have seen the most beautiful man, the most beautiful woman, and the most wonderful gem that the earth now holds, I shall die content.’ Thanks to the mission on which the mind-reader sent me, I have seen these. Therefore, I should be content. But, Princess, I once cherished the wish that I might be your spirit lover--that, as I lurked beside the paths along which you walked, I might hear your voice--that, keeping vigil under your window while you were sleeping, I might know no harm was threatening you. And, if it is permitted spirits to return to the earth, your spirit lover I will always be. But your husband I can never be. There is here one who should have a greater claim on your affections than the unsightly Gargoyle. It is not he whose idle fancies caused him to desert you after he had led you to the altar, but he who braved so many cruel, unknown enemies in his grim attempt to get the Rajiid diamonds and lay them at your feet. It is to the long life and eternal happiness of Lord and Lady Galonfield that I drink.”

As the guests looked at him with wondering, fascinated eyes, the Gargoyle rose and slowly raised his glass, then, with a quick movement, he drained it of its contents.

“Gentleman,” said the Gargoyle, calmly, “some of our stories have been long, and the dawn is breaking. By its light I shall be the first to leave the Barge of Haunted Lives.”

He turned slowly, and began to walk toward the arched doorway. He moved steadily enough at first, but, after going four or five paces, he was seen to totter.

The guests rose hastily, and Westfall started toward the halting man. He was too late. Before the hand of his host could grasp his arm, the Gargoyle fell to the floor.

A few moments later the Princess was kneeling at his side. The eyes of the dying man grew brighter.

As Galonfield raised the Gargoyle’s head and shoulders, the Princess pressed her lips to the brow that never had felt the touch of human lips before.

The Gargoyle took her hands.

“Good-night, my Princess,” he murmured, weakly. “If, in your dreams, you seek my wandering spirit, you will find it waiting to receive you in--in the Valley of the Garden.”

And it was in the Valley of the Garden that, a year and a half later, a man and a woman stood beside a marble shaft on which was inscribed the name of Leon Grenault.

Lord Galonfield, looking toward the northern end of the lake, asked, quietly:

“And yonder lies the Valley of the Perfect Man?”

“Yonder is the Valley of the Perfect Man,” his wife answered, softly. “But the Perfect Man lies here.”

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies and archaic forms have been retained as printed.

The following changes have been made:

On page 025: adenture _to_ adventure
On page 037: enthusisatic _to_ enthusiastic
On page 067: he _to_ be
On page 101: visèd _to_ viséd
On page 135: decending _to_ descending
On page 164: gaurds _to_ guards
On page 166: bethrothed _to_ betrothed
On page 228: Gargoylle _to_ Gargoyle
On page 250: Glanagassett _to_ Glenagassett
On page 313: Bassellanto _to_ Basselanto

On page 177: the third and fourth lines in the following paragraph in