[Illustration: Had she taken sides with either of them, with a single
movement, the victory would have been decided in that one’s favor.
_Frontispiece_]




                        THE CRYSTAL STOPPER

                        by Maurice LeBlanc




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER

     I.    THE ARRESTS

    II.    EIGHT FROM NINE LEAVES ONE

   III.    THE HOME LIFE OF ALEXIS DAUBRECO

    IV.    THE CHIEF OF THE ENEMIES

     V.    THE TWENTY-SEVEN

    VI.    THE DEATH-SENTENCE

   VII.    THE PROFILE OF NAPOLEON

  VIII.    THE LOVERS’ TOWER

    IX.    IN THE DARK

     X.    EXTRA-DRY?

    XI.    THE CROSS OF LORRAINE

   XII.    THE SCAFFOLD

  XIII.    THE LAST BATTLE




ILLUSTRATIONS


  Had she taken sides with either of them, with a single movement,
      the victory would have been decided in that one’s favor.
      _Frontispiece_

  Lupin took his servant by the shoulders and shook him: “It said
      ‘de’ Beaumont? Are you sure?”      40

  “Here, I’ve brought you the indomitable chief of our enemies.
      Have you a feeding bottle?”      78

  “Be quiet!... Be quiet!” she cried, clutching him fiercely. “You
      mustn’t say that.”      84

  Lupin sprang to his feet. He was prepared for every upshot except
      this.      118

  “What we have to do is to stop the mischief and to-night, you
      understand, to-night the thing will be done.”      138

  The sight which she beheld struck her with stupefaction.      214

  Daubrecq ran up to Prasville out of breath and caught hold of him
      with his two enormous hands.      278




CHAPTER I.

THE ARRESTS


The two boats fastened to the little pier that jutted out from the
garden lay rocking in its shadow. Here and there lighted windows
showed through the thick mist on the margins of the lake. The
Enghien Casino opposite blazed with light, though it was late in
the season, the end of September. A few stars appeared through the
clouds. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the water.

Arsène Lupin left the summer-house where he was smoking a cigar
and, bending forward at the end of the pier:

“Growler?” he asked. “Masher?... Are you there?”

A man rose from each of the boats, and one of them answered:

“Yes, governor.”

“Get ready. I hear the car coming with Gilbert and Vaucheray.”

He crossed the garden, walked round a house in process of
construction, the scaffolding of which loomed overhead, and
cautiously opened the door on the Avenue de Ceinture. He was not
mistaken: a bright light flashed round the bend and a large, open
motor-car drew up, whence sprang two men in great-coats, with the
collars turned up, and caps.

It was Gilbert and Vaucheray: Gilbert, a young fellow of twenty or
twenty-two, with an attractive cast of features and a supple and
sinewy frame; Vaucheray, older, shorter, with grizzled hair and a
pale, sickly face.

“Well,” asked Lupin, “did you see him, the deputy?”

“Yes, governor,” said Gilbert, “we saw him take the 7.40 tram for
Paris, as we knew he would.”

“Then we are free to act?”

“Absolutely. The Villa Marie-Thérèse is ours to do as we please
with.”

The chauffeur had kept his seat. Lupin gave him his orders:

“Don’t wait here. It might attract attention. Be back at half-past
nine exactly, in time to load the car unless the whole business
falls through.”

“Why should it fall through?” observed Gilbert.

The motor drove away; and Lupin, taking the road to the lake with
his two companions, replied:

“Why? Because I didn’t prepare the plan; and, when I don’t do a
thing myself, I am only half-confident.”

“Nonsense, governor! I’ve been working with you for three years
now.... I’m beginning to know the ropes!”

“Yes, my lad, you’re beginning,” said Lupin, “and that’s just
why I’m afraid of blunders.... Here, get in with me.... And you,
Vaucheray, take the other boat.... That’s it.... And now push off,
boys . . . and make as little noise as you can.”

Growler and Masher, the two oarsmen, made straight for the opposite
bank, a little to the left of the casino.

They met a boat containing a couple locked in each other’s arms,
floating at random, and another in which a number of people were
singing at the top of their voices. And that was all.

Lupin shifted closer to his companion and said, under his breath:

“Tell me, Gilbert, did you think of this job, or was it Vaucheray’s
idea?”

“Upon my word, I couldn’t tell you: we’ve both of us been discussing
it for weeks.”

“The thing is, I don’t trust Vaucheray: he’s a low ruffian when
one gets to know him.... I can’t make out why I don’t get rid of
him....”

“Oh, governor!”

“Yes, yes, I mean what I say: he’s a dangerous fellow, to say
nothing of the fact that he has some rather serious peccadilloes on
his conscience.”

He sat silent for a moment and continued:

“So you’re quite sure that you saw Daubrecq the deputy?”

“Saw him with my own eyes, governor.”

“And you know that he has an appointment in Paris?”

“He’s going to the theatre.”

“Very well; but his servants have remained behind at the Enghien
villa....”

“The cook has been sent away. As for the valet, Léonard, who is
Daubrecq’s confidential man, he’ll wait for his master in Paris.
They can’t get back from town before one o’clock in the morning.
But....”

“But what?”

“We must reckon with a possible freak of fancy on Daubrecq’s part,
a change of mind, an unexpected return, and so arrange to have
everything finished and done with in an hour.”

“And when did you get these details?”

“This morning. Vaucheray and I at once thought that it was a
favourable moment. I selected the garden of the unfinished house
which we have just left as the best place to start from; for the
house is not watched at night. I sent for two mates to row the
boats; and I telephoned to you. That’s the whole story.”

“Have you the keys?”

“The keys of the front-door.”

“Is that the villa which I see from here, standing in its own
grounds?”

“Yes, the Villa Marie-Thérèse; and as the two others, with the
gardens touching it on either side, have been unoccupied since this
day week, we shall be able to remove what we please at our leisure;
and I swear to you, governor, it’s well worth while.”

“The job’s much too simple,” mumbled Lupin. “No charm about it!”

They landed in a little creek whence rose a few stone steps, under
cover of a mouldering roof. Lupin reflected that shipping the
furniture would be easy work. But, suddenly, he said:

“There are people at the villa. Look . . . a light.”

“It’s a gas-jet, governor. The light’s not moving.”

The Growler stayed by the boats, with instructions to keep watch,
while the Masher, the other rower, went to the gate on the Avenue
de Ceinture, and Lupin and his two companions crept in the shadow
to the foot of the steps.

Gilbert went up first. Groping in the dark, he inserted first the
big door-key and then the latch-key. Both turned easily in their
locks, the door opened and the three men walked in.

A gas-jet was flaring in the hall.

“You see, governor....” said Gilbert.

“Yes, yes,” said Lupin, in a low voice, “but it seems to me that the
light which I saw shining did not come from here....”

“Where did it come from then?”

“I can’t say.... Is this the drawing-room?”

“No,” replied Gilbert, who was not afraid to speak pretty loudly,
“no. By way of precaution, he keeps everything on the first floor,
in his bedroom and in the two rooms on either side of it.”

“And where is the staircase?”

“On the right, behind the curtain.”

Lupin moved to the curtain and was drawing the hanging aside when,
suddenly, at four steps on the left, a door opened and a head
appeared, a pallid man’s head, with terrified eyes.

“Help! Murder!” shouted the man.

And he rushed back into the room.

“It’s Léonard, the valet!” cried Gilbert.

“If he makes a fuss, I’ll out him,” growled Vaucheray.

“You’ll jolly well do nothing of the sort, do you hear, Vaucheray?”
said Lupin, peremptorily. And he darted off in pursuit of the
servant. He first went through a dining-room, where he saw a lamp
still lit, with plates and a bottle around it, and he found Léonard
at the further end of a pantry, making vain efforts to open the
window:

“Don’t move, sportie! No kid! Ah, the brute!”

He had thrown himself flat on the floor, on seeing Léonard raise
his arm at him. Three shots were fired in the dusk of the pantry;
and then the valet came tumbling to the ground, seized by the legs
by Lupin, who snatched his weapon from him and gripped him by the
throat:

“Get out, you dirty brute!” he growled. “He very nearly did for
me.... Here, Vaucheray, secure this gentleman!”

He threw the light of his pocket-lantern on the servant’s face and
chuckled:

“He’s not a pretty gentleman either.... You can’t have a very clear
conscience, Léonard; besides, to play flunkey to Daubrecq the
deputy...! Have you finished, Vaucheray? I don’t want to hang about
here for ever!”

“There’s no danger, governor,” said Gilbert.

“Oh, really?... So you think that shots can’t be heard?...”

“Quite impossible.”

“No matter, we must look sharp. Vaucheray, take the lamp and let’s
go upstairs.”

He took Gilbert by the arm and, as he dragged him to the first
floor:

“You ass,” he said, “is that the way you make inquiries? Wasn’t I
right to have my doubts?”

“Look here, governor, I couldn’t know that he would change his mind
and come back to dinner.”

“One’s got to know everything when one has the honour of breaking
into people’s houses. You numskull! I’ll remember you and
Vaucheray . . . a nice pair of gossoons!...”

The sight of the furniture on the first floor pacified Lupin and he
started on his inventory with the satisfied air of a collector who
has looked in to treat himself to a few works of art:

“By Jingo! There’s not much of it, but what there is is pucka!
There’s nothing the matter with this representative of the people
in the question of taste. Four Aubusson chairs.... A bureau signed
‘Percier-Fontaine,’ for a wager.... Two inlays by Gouttières.... A
genuine Fragonard and a sham Nattier which any American millionaire
will swallow for the asking: in short, a fortune.... And there are
curmudgeons who pretend that there’s nothing but faked stuff left.
Dash it all, why don’t they do as I do? They should look about!”

Gilbert and Vaucheray, following Lupin’s orders and instructions,
at once proceeded methodically to remove the bulkier pieces. The
first boat was filled in half an hour; and it was decided that the
Growler and the Masher should go on ahead and begin to load the
motor-car.

Lupin went to see them start. On returning to the house, it struck
him, as he passed through the hall, that he heard a voice in the
pantry. He went there and found Léonard lying flat on his stomach,
quite alone, with his hands tied behind his back:

“So it’s you growling, my confidential flunkey? Don’t get excited:
it’s almost finished. Only, if you make too much noise, you’ll
oblige us to take severer measures.... Do you like pears? We might
give you one, you know: a choke-pear!...”

As he went upstairs, he again heard the same sound and, stopping to
listen, he caught these words, uttered in a hoarse, groaning voice,
which came, beyond a doubt, from the pantry:

“Help!... Murder!... Help!... I shall be killed!... Inform the
commissary!”

“The fellow’s clean off his chump!” muttered Lupin. “By Jove!... To
disturb the police at nine o’clock in the evening: there’s a notion
for you!”

He set to work again. It took longer than he expected, for they
discovered in the cupboards all sorts of valuable knick-knacks
which it would have been very wrong to disdain and, on the other
hand, Vaucheray and Gilbert were going about their investigations
with signs of laboured concentration that nonplussed him.

At long last, he lost his patience:

“That will do!” he said. “We’re not going to spoil the whole job
and keep the motor waiting for the sake of the few odd bits that
remain. I’m taking the boat.”

They were now by the waterside and Lupin went down the steps.
Gilbert held him back:

“I say, governor, we want one more look round five minutes, no
longer.”

“But what for, dash it all?”

“Well, it’s like this: we were told of an old reliquary, something
stunning....”

“Well?”

“We can’t lay our hands on it. And I was thinking.... There’s a
cupboard with a big lock to it in the pantry.... You see, we can’t
very well....”

He was already on his way to the villa. Vaucheray ran back too.

“I’ll give you ten minutes, not a second longer!” cried Lupin. “In
ten minutes, I’m off.”

But the ten minutes passed and he was still waiting.

He looked at his watch:

“A quarter-past nine,” he said to himself. “This is madness.”

And he also remembered that Gilbert and Vaucheray had behaved
rather queerly throughout the removal of the things, keeping
close together and apparently watching each other. What could be
happening?

Lupin mechanically returned to the house, urged by a feeling of
anxiety which he was unable to explain; and, at the same time,
he listened to a dull sound which rose in the distance, from the
direction of Enghien, and which seemed to be coming nearer....
People strolling about, no doubt....

He gave a sharp whistle and then went to the main gate, to take
a glance down the avenue. But, suddenly, as he was opening the
gate, a shot rang out, followed by a yell of pain. He returned at
a run, went round the house, leapt up the steps and rushed to the
dining-room:

“Blast it all, what are you doing there, you two?”

Gilbert and Vaucheray, locked in a furious embrace, were rolling on
the floor, uttering cries of rage. Their clothes were dripping with
blood. Lupin flew at them to separate them. But already Gilbert had
got his adversary down and was wrenching out of his hand something
which Lupin had no time to see. And Vaucheray, who was losing blood
through a wound in the shoulder, fainted.

“Who hurt him? You, Gilbert?” asked Lupin, furiously.

“No, Léonard.”

“Léonard? Why, he was tied up!”

“He undid his fastenings and got hold of his revolver.”

“The scoundrel! Where is he?”

Lupin took the lamp and went into the pantry.

The man-servant was lying on his back, with his arms outstretched, a
dagger stuck in his throat and a livid face. A red stream trickled
from his mouth.

“Ah,” gasped Lupin, after examining him, “he’s dead!”

“Do you think so?... Do you think so?” stammered Gilbert, in a
trembling voice.

“He’s dead, I tell you.”

“It was Vaucheray . . . it was Vaucheray who did it....”

Pale with anger, Lupin caught hold of him:

“It was Vaucheray, was it?... And you too, you blackguard, since
you were there and didn’t stop him! Blood! Blood! You know I won’t
have it.... Well, it’s a bad lookout for you, my fine fellows....
You’ll have to pay the damage! And you won’t get off cheaply
either.... Mind the guillotine!” And, shaking him violently, “What
was it? Why did he kill him?”

“He wanted to go through his pockets and take the key of the
cupboard from him. When he stooped over him, he saw that the man
unloosed his arms. He got frightened . . . and he stabbed him....”

“But the revolver-shot?”

“It was Léonard . . . he had his revolver in his hand . . . he just
had strength to take aim before he died....”

“And the key of the cupboard?”

“Vaucheray took it....”

“Did he open it?”

“And did he find what he was after?”

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to take the thing from him. What sort of thing was
it? The reliquary? No, it was too small for that.... Then what was
it? Answer me, will you?...”

Lupin gathered from Gilbert’s silence and the determined expression
on his face that he would not obtain a reply. With a threatening
gesture, “I’ll make you talk, my man. Sure as my name’s Lupin, you
shall come out with it. But, for the moment, we must see about
decamping. Here, help me. We must get Vaucheray into the boat....”

They had returned to the dining-room and Gilbert was bending over
the wounded man, when Lupin stopped him:

“Listen.”

They exchanged one look of alarm.... Some one was speaking in
the pantry . . . a very low, strange, very distant voice....
Nevertheless, as they at once made certain, there was no one in the
room, no one except the dead man, whose dark outline lay stretched
upon the floor.

And the voice spake anew, by turns shrill, stifled, bleating,
stammering, yelling, fearsome. It uttered indistinct words, broken
syllables.

Lupin felt the top of his head covering with perspiration. What was
this incoherent voice, mysterious as a voice from beyond the grave?

He had knelt down by the man-servant’s side. The voice was silent
and then began again:

“Give us a better light,” he said to Gilbert.

He was trembling a little, shaken with a nervous dread which he was
unable to master, for there was no doubt possible: when Gilbert
had removed the shade from the lamp, Lupin realized that the voice
issued from the corpse itself, without a movement of the lifeless
mass, without a quiver of the bleeding mouth.

“Governor, I’ve got the shivers,” stammered Gilbert.

Again the same voice, the same snuffling whisper.

Suddenly, Lupin burst out laughing, seized the corpse and pulled it
aside:

“Exactly!” he said, catching sight of an object made of polished
metal. “Exactly! That’s it!... Well, upon my word, it took me long
enough!”

On the spot on the floor which he had uncovered lay the receiver of
a telephone, the cord of which ran up to the apparatus fixed on the
wall, at the usual height.

Lupin put the receiver to his ear. The noise began again at once,
but it was a mixed noise, made up of different calls, exclamations,
confused cries, the noise produced by a number of persons
questioning one another at the same time.

“Are you there?... He won’t answer. It’s awful.... They must have
killed him. What is it?... Keep up your courage. There’s help on
the way . . . police . . . soldiers....”

“Dash it!” said Lupin, dropping the receiver.

The truth appeared to him in a terrifying vision. Quite at the
beginning, while the things upstairs were being moved, Léonard,
whose bonds were not securely fastened, had contrived to
scramble to his feet, to unhook the receiver, probably with his
teeth, to drop it and to appeal for assistance to the Enghien
telephone-exchange.

And those were the words which Lupin had overheard, after the first
boat started:

“Help!... Murder!... I shall be killed!”

And this was the reply of the exchange. The police were hurrying to
the spot. And Lupin remembered the sounds which he had heard from
the garden, four or five minutes earlier, at most:

“The police! Take to your heels!” he shouted, darting across the
dining room.

“What about Vaucheray?” asked Gilbert.

“Sorry, can’t be helped!”

But Vaucheray, waking from his torpor, entreated him as he passed:

“Governor, you wouldn’t leave me like this!”

Lupin stopped, in spite of the danger, and was lifting the wounded
man, with Gilbert’s assistance, when a loud din arose outside:

“Too late!” he said.

At that moment, blows shook the hall-door at the back of the house.
He ran to the front steps: a number of men had already turned the
corner of the house at a rush. He might have managed to keep ahead
of them, with Gilbert, and reach the waterside. But what chance was
there of embarking and escaping under the enemy’s fire?

He locked and bolted the door.

“We are surrounded . . . and done for,” spluttered Gilbert.

“Hold your tongue,” said Lupin.

“But they’ve seen us, governor. There, they’re knocking.”

“Hold your tongue,” Lupin repeated. “Not a word. Not a movement.”

He himself remained unperturbed, with an utterly calm face and
the pensive attitude of one who has all the time that he needs
to examine a delicate situation from every point of view. He had
reached one of those minutes which he called the “superior moments
of existence,” those which alone give a value and a price to life.
On such occasions, however threatening the danger, he always began
by counting to himself, slowly--“One.... Two.... Three.... Four....
Five.... Six”--until the beating of his heart became normal and
regular. Then and not till then, he reflected, but with what
intensity, with what perspicacity, with what a profound intuition
of possibilities! All the factors of the problem were present in
his mind. He foresaw everything. He admitted everything. And he
took his resolution in all logic and in all certainty.

After thirty or forty seconds, while the men outside were banging
at the doors and picking the locks, he said to his companion:

“Follow me.”

Returning to the dining-room, he softly opened the sash and drew
the Venetian blinds of a window in the side-wall. People were
coming and going, rendering flight out of the question.

Thereupon he began to shout with all his might, in a breathless
voice:

“This way!... Help!... I’ve got them!... This way!”

He pointed his revolver and fired two shots into the tree-tops.
Then he went back to Vaucheray, bent over him and smeared his
face and hands with the wounded man’s blood. Lastly, turning upon
Gilbert, he took him violently by the shoulders and threw him to
the floor.

“What do you want, governor? There’s a nice thing to do!”

“Let me do as I please,” said Lupin, laying an imperative stress on
every syllable. “I’ll answer for everything.... I’ll answer for the
two of you.... Let me do as I like with you.... I’ll get you both
out of prison.... But I can only do that if I’m free.”

Excited cries rose through the open window.

“This way!” he shouted. “I’ve got them! Help!”

And, quietly, in a whisper:

“Just think for a moment.... Have you anything to say to me?...
Something that can be of use to us?”

Gilbert was too much taken aback to understand Lupin’s plan and he
struggled furiously. Vaucheray showed more intelligence; moreover,
he had given up all hope of escape, because of his wound; and he
snarled:

“Let the governor have his way, you ass!... As long as he gets off,
isn’t that the great thing?”

Suddenly, Lupin remembered the article which Gilbert had put in his
pocket, after capturing it from Vaucheray. He now tried to take it
in his turn.

“No, not that! Not if I know it!” growled Gilbert, managing to
release himself.

Lupin floored him once more. But two men suddenly appeared at the
window; and Gilbert yielded and, handing the thing to Lupin, who
pocketed it without looking at it, whispered:

“Here you are, governor.... I’ll explain. You can be sure that....”

He did not have time to finish.... Two policemen and others after
them and soldiers who entered through every door and window came to
Lupin’s assistance.

Gilbert was at once seized and firmly bound. Lupin withdrew:

“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said. “The beggar’s given me a lot of
trouble. I wounded the other; but this one....”

The commissary of police asked him, hurriedly:

“Have you seen the man-servant? Have they killed him?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“You don’t know?...”

“Why, I came with you from Enghien, on hearing of the murder! Only,
while you were going round the left of the house, I went round the
right. There was a window open. I climbed up just as these two
ruffians were about to jump down. I fired at this one,” pointing to
Vaucheray, “and seized hold of his pal.”

How could he have been suspected? He was covered with blood. He
had handed over the valet’s murderers. Half a score of people had
witnessed the end of the heroic combat which he had delivered.
Besides, the uproar was too great for any one to take the trouble
to argue or to waste time in entertaining doubts. In the height
of the first confusion, the people of the neighbourhood invaded
the villa. One and all lost their heads. They ran to every side,
upstairs, downstairs, to the very cellar. They asked one another
questions, yelled and shouted; and no one dreamt of checking
Lupin’s statements, which sounded so plausible.

However, the discovery of the body in the pantry restored the
commissary to a sense of his responsibility. He issued orders,
had the house cleared and placed policemen at the gate to prevent
any one from passing in or out. Then, without further delay,
he examined the spot and began his inquiry. Vaucheray gave his
name; Gilbert refused to give his, on the plea that he would only
speak in the presence of a lawyer. But, when he was accused of
the murder, he informed against Vaucheray, who defended himself
by denouncing the other; and the two of them vociferated at the
same time, with the evident wish to monopolize the commissary’s
attention. When the commissary turned to Lupin, to request his
evidence, he perceived that the stranger was no longer there.

Without the least suspicion, he said to one of the policemen:

“Go and tell that gentleman that I should like to ask him a few
questions.”

They looked about for the gentleman. Some one had seen him standing
on the steps, lighting a cigarette. The next news was that he had
given cigarettes to a group of soldiers and strolled toward the
lake, saying that they were to call him if he was wanted.

They called him. No one replied.

But a soldier came running up. The gentleman had just got into
a boat and was rowing away for all he was worth. The commissary
looked at Gilbert and realized that he had been tricked:

“Stop him!” he shouted. “Fire on him! He’s an accomplice!...”

He himself rushed out, followed by two policemen, while the others
remained with the prisoners. On reaching the bank, he saw the
gentleman, a hundred yards away, taking off his hat to him in the
dusk.

One of the policemen discharged his revolver, without thinking.

The wind carried the sound of words across the water. The gentleman
was singing as he rowed:

      “Go, little bark,
      Float in the dark....”

But the commissary saw a skiff fastened to the landing-stage of
the adjoining property. He scrambled over the hedge separating the
two gardens and, after ordering the soldiers to watch the banks of
the lake and to seize the fugitive if he tried to put ashore, the
commissary and two of his men pulled off in pursuit of Lupin.

It was not a difficult matter, for they were able to follow his
movements by the intermittent light of the moon and to see that he
was trying to cross the lakes while bearing toward the right--that
is to say, toward the village of Saint-Gratien. Moreover, the
commissary soon perceived that, with the aid of his men and thanks
perhaps to the comparative lightness of his craft, he was rapidly
gaining on the other. In ten minutes he had decreased the interval
between them by one half.

“That’s it!” he cried. “We shan’t even need the soldiers to
keep him from landing. I very much want to make the fellow’s
acquaintance. He’s a cool hand and no mistake!”

The funny thing was that the distance was now diminishing at an
abnormal rate, as though the fugitive had lost heart at realizing
the futility of the struggle. The policemen redoubled their
efforts. The boat shot across the water with the swiftness of a
swallow. Another hundred yards at most and they would reach the man.

“Halt!” cried the commissary.

The enemy, whose huddled shape they could make out in the boat,
no longer moved. The sculls drifted with the stream. And this
absence of all motion had something alarming about it. A ruffian of
that stamp might easily lie in wait for his aggressors, sell his
life dearly and even shoot them dead before they had a chance of
attacking him.

“Surrender!” shouted the commissary.

The sky, at that moment, was dark. The three men lay flat at
the bottom of their skiff, for they thought they perceived a
threatening gesture.

The boat, carried by its own impetus, was approaching the other.

The commissary growled:

“We won’t let ourselves be sniped. Let’s fire at him. Are you
ready?” And he roared, once more, “Surrender . . . if not...!”

No reply.

The enemy did not budge.

“Surrender!... Hands up!... You refuse?... So much the worse for
you.... I’m counting.... One.... Two....”

The policemen did not wait for the word of command. They fired and,
at once, bending over their oars, gave the boat so powerful an
impulse that it reached the goal in a few strokes.

The commissary watched, revolver in hand, ready for the least
movement. He raised his arm:

“If you stir, I’ll blow out your brains!”

But the enemy did not stir for a moment; and, when the boat was
bumped and the two men, letting go their oars, prepared for the
formidable assault, the commissary understood the reason of this
passive attitude: there was no one in the boat. The enemy had
escaped by swimming, leaving in the hands of the victor a certain
number of the stolen articles, which, heaped up and surmounted
by a jacket and a bowler hat, might be taken, at a pinch, in the
semi-darkness, vaguely to represent the figure of a man.

They struck matches and examined the enemy’s cast clothes. There
were no initials in the hat. The jacket contained neither papers
nor pocketbook. Nevertheless, they made a discovery which was
destined to give the case no little celebrity and which had a
terrible influence on the fate of Gilbert and Vaucheray: in one
of the pockets was a visiting-card which the fugitive had left
behind . . . the card of Arsène Lupin.

At almost the same moment, while the police, towing the captured
skiff behind them, continued their empty search and while the
soldiers stood drawn up on the bank, straining their eyes to try
and follow the fortunes of the naval combat, the aforesaid Arsène
Lupin was quietly landing at the very spot which he had left two
hours earlier.

He was there met by his two other accomplices, the Growler and the
Masher, flung them a few sentences by way of explanation, jumped
into the motor-car, among Daubrecq the deputy’s armchairs and other
valuables, wrapped himself in his furs and drove, by deserted
roads, to his repository at Neuilly, where he left the chauffeur. A
taxicab brought him back to Paris and put him down by the church of
Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, not far from which, in the Rue Matignon,
he had a flat, on the entresol-floor, of which none of his gang,
excepting Gilbert, knew, a flat with a private entrance. He was
glad to take off his clothes and rub himself down; for, in spite of
his strong constitution, he felt chilled to the bone. On retiring
to bed, he emptied the contents of his pockets, as usual, on the
mantel-piece. It was not till then that he noticed, near his
pocketbook and his keys, the object which Gilbert had put into his
hand at the last moment.

And he was very much surprised. It was a decanter-stopper, a
little crystal stopper, like those used for the bottles in a
liqueur-stand. And this crystal stopper had nothing particular
about it. The most that Lupin observed was that the knob, with its
many facets, was gilded right down to the indent. But, to tell
the truth, this detail did not seem to him of a nature to attract
special notice.

“And it was this bit of glass to which Gilbert and Vaucheray
attached such stubborn importance!” he said to himself. “It was for
this that they killed the valet, fought each other, wasted their
time, risked prison . . . trial . . . the scaffold!...”

Too tired to linger further upon this matter, exciting though it
appeared to him, he replaced the stopper on the chimney-piece and
got into bed.

He had bad dreams. Gilbert and Vaucheray were kneeling on the
flags of their cells, wildly stretching out their hands to him and
yelling with fright:

“Help!... Help!” they cried.

But, notwithstanding all his efforts, he was unable to move. He
himself was fastened by invisible bonds. And, trembling, obsessed
by a monstrous vision, he watched the dismal preparations, the
cutting of the condemned men’s hair and shirt-collars, the squalid
tragedy.

“By Jove!” he said, when he woke after a series of nightmares.
“There’s a lot of bad omens! Fortunately, we don’t err on the side
of superstition. Otherwise...!” And he added, “For that matter,
we have a talisman which, to judge by Gilbert and Vaucheray’s
behaviour, should be enough, with Lupin’s help, to frustrate bad
luck and secure the triumph of the good cause. Let’s have a look at
that crystal stopper!”

He sprang out of bed to take the thing and examine it more closely.
An exclamation escaped him. The crystal stopper had disappeared....




CHAPTER II.

EIGHT FROM NINE LEAVES ONE


Notwithstanding my friendly relations with Lupin and the many
flattering proofs of his confidence which he has given me, there is
one thing which I have never been quite able to fathom, and that is
the organization of his gang.

The existence of the gang is an undoubted fact. Certain adventures
can be explained only by countless acts of devotion, invincible
efforts of energy and powerful cases of complicity, representing so
many forces which all obey one mighty will. But how is this will
exerted? Through what intermediaries, through what subordinates?
That is what I do not know. Lupin keeps his secret; and the secrets
which Lupin chooses to keep are, so to speak, impenetrable.

The only supposition which I can allow myself to make is that
this gang, which, in my opinion, is very limited in numbers and
therefore all the more formidable, is completed and extended
indefinitely by the addition of independent units, provisional
associates, picked up in every class of society and in every
country of the world, who are the executive agents of an authority
with which, in many cases, they are not even acquainted. The
companions, the initiates, the faithful adherents--men who play the
leading parts under the direct command of Lupin--move to and fro
between these secondary agents and the master.

Gilbert and Vaucheray evidently belonged to the main gang. And that
is why the law showed itself so implacable in their regard. For the
first time, it held accomplices of Lupin in its clutches--declared,
undisputed accomplices--and those accomplices had committed a
murder. If the murder was premeditated, if the accusation of
deliberate homicide could be supported by substantial proofs,
it meant the scaffold. Now there was, at the very least, one
self-evident proof, the cry for assistance which Léonard had sent
over the telephone a few minutes before his death:

“Help!... Murder!... I shall be killed!...”

The desperate appeal had been heard by two men, the operator on
duty and one of his fellow-clerks, who swore to it positively. And
it was in consequence of this appeal that the commissary of police,
who was at once informed, had proceeded to the Villa Marie-Thérèse,
escorted by his men and a number of soldiers off duty.

Lupin had a very clear notion of the danger from the first. The
fierce struggle in which he had engaged against society was
entering upon a new and terrible phase. His luck was turning.
It was no longer a matter of attacking others, but of defending
himself and saving the heads of his two companions.

A little memorandum, which I have copied from one of the note-books
in which he often jots down a summary of the situations that
perplex him, will show us the workings of his brain:

    “One definite fact, to begin with, is that Gilbert and Vaucheray
    humbugged me. The Enghien expedition, undertaken ostensibly with
    the object of robbing the Villa Marie-Thérèse, had a secret
    purpose. This purpose obsessed their minds throughout the
    operations; and what they were looking for, under the furniture
    and in the cupboards, was one thing and one thing alone: the
    crystal stopper. Therefore, if I want to see clear ahead, I must
    first of all know what this means. It is certain that, for some
    hidden reason, that mysterious piece of glass possesses an
    incalculable value in their eyes. And not only in theirs, for,
    last night, some one was bold enough and clever enough to enter
    my flat and steal the object in question from me.”

This theft of which he was the victim puzzled Lupin curiously.

Two problems, both equally difficult of solution, presented
themselves to his mind. First, who was the mysterious visitor?
Gilbert, who enjoyed his entire confidence and acted as his private
secretary, was the only one who knew of the retreat in the Rue
Matignon. Now Gilbert was in prison. Was Lupin to suppose that
Gilbert had betrayed him and put the police on his tracks? In
that case, why were they content with taking the crystal stopper,
instead of arresting him, Lupin?

But there was something much stranger still. Admitting that they
had been able to force the doors of his flat--and this he was
compelled to admit, though there was no mark to show it--how had
they succeeded in entering the bedroom? He turned the key and
pushed the bolt as he did every evening, in accordance with a habit
from which he never departed. And, nevertheless--the fact was
undeniable--the crystal stopper had disappeared without the lock or
the bolt having been touched. And, although Lupin flattered himself
that he had sharp ears, even when asleep, not a sound had waked him!

He took no great pains to probe the mystery. He knew those problems
too well to hope that this one could be solved other than in the
course of events. But, feeling very much put out and exceedingly
uneasy, he then and there locked up his entresol flat in the Rue
Matignon and swore that he would never set foot in it again.

And he applied himself forthwith to the question of corresponding
with Vaucheray or Gilbert.

Here a fresh disappointment awaited him. It was so clearly
understood, both at the Santé Prison and at the Law Courts,
that all communication between Lupin and the prisoners must be
absolutely prevented, that a multitude of minute precautions were
ordered by the prefect of police and minutely observed by the
lowest subordinates. Tried policemen, always the same men, watched
Gilbert and Vaucheray, day and night, and never let them out of
their sight.

Lupin, at this time, had not yet promoted himself to the
crowning honour of his career, the post of chief of the
detective-service,[A] and, consequently, was not able to take steps
at the Law Courts to insure the execution of his plans. After a
fortnight of fruitless endeavours, he was obliged to bow.

He did so with a raging heart and a growing sense of anxiety.

“The difficult part of a business,” he often says, “is not the
finish, but the start.”

Where was he to start in the present circumstances? What road was
he to follow?

His thoughts recurred to Daubrecq the deputy, the original owner
of the crystal stopper, who probably knew its importance. On the
other hand, how was Gilbert aware of the doings and mode of life of
Daubrecq the deputy? What means had he employed to keep him under
observation? Who had told him of the place where Daubrecq spent the
evening of that day? These were all interesting questions to solve.

Daubrecq had moved to his winter quarters in Paris immediately
after the burglary at the Villa Marie-Thérèse and was now living in
his own house, on the left-hand side of the little Square Lamartine
that opens out at the end of the Avenue Victor-Hugo.

First disguising himself as an old gentleman of private means,
strolling about, cane in hand, Lupin spent his time in the
neighbourhood, on the benches of the square and the avenue. He
made a discovery on the first day. Two men, dressed as workmen,
but behaving in a manner that left no doubt as to their aims, were
watching the deputy’s house. When Daubrecq went out, they set off
in pursuit of him; and they were immediately behind him when he
came home again. At night, as soon as the lights were out, they
went away.

Lupin shadowed them in his turn. They were detective-officers.

“Hullo, hullo!” he said to himself. “This is hardly what I
expected. So the Daubrecq bird is under suspicion?”

But, on the fourth day, at nightfall, the two men were joined by
six others, who conversed with them in the darkest part of the
Square Lamartine. And, among these new arrivals, Lupin was vastly
astonished to recognize, by his figure and bearing, the famous
Prasville, the erstwhile barrister, sportsman and explorer, now
favourite at the Élysée, who, for some mysterious reason, had been
pitchforked into the headquarters of police as secretary-general,
with the reversion of the prefecture.

And, suddenly, Lupin remembered: two years ago, Prasville and
Daubrecq the deputy had had a personal encounter on the Place du
Palais-Bourbon. The incident made a great stir at the time. No one
knew the cause of it. Prasville had sent his seconds to Daubrecq on
the same day; but Daubrecq refused to fight.

A little while later, Prasville was appointed secretary-general.

“Very odd, very odd,” said Lupin, who remained plunged in thought,
while continuing to observe Prasville’s movements.

At seven o’clock Prasville’s group of men moved away a few yards,
in the direction of the Avenue Henri-Martin. The door of a small
garden on the right of the house opened and Daubrecq appeared. The
two detectives followed close behind him and, when he took the
Rue-Taitbout train, jumped on after him.

Prasville at once walked across the square and rang the bell. The
garden-gate was between the house and the porter’s lodge. The
portress came and opened it. There was a brief conversation, after
which Prasville and his companions were admitted.

“A domiciliary visit,” said Lupin. “Secret and illegal. By the
strict rules of politeness, I ought to be invited. My presence is
indispensable.”

Without the least hesitation he went up to the house, the door of
which had not been closed, and, passing in front of the portress,
who was casting her eyes outside, he asked, in the hurried tones of
a person who is late for an appointment:

“Have the gentlemen come?”

“Yes, you will find them in the study.”

His plan was quite simple: if any one met him, he would pretend to
be a tradesman. But there was no need for this subterfuge. He was
able, after crossing an empty hall, to enter a dining-room which
also had no one in it, but which, through the panes of a glass
partition that separated the dining-room from the study, afforded
him a view of Prasville and his five companions.

Prasville opened all the drawers with the aid of false keys. Next,
he examined all the papers, while his companions took down the
books from the shelves, shook the pages of each separately and felt
inside the bindings.

“Of course, it’s a paper they’re looking for,” said Lupin.
“Bank-notes, perhaps....”

Prasville exclaimed:

“What rot! We shan’t find a thing!”

Yet he obviously did not abandon all hope of discovering what he
wanted, for he suddenly seized the four bottles in a liqueur-stand,
took out the four stoppers and inspected them.

“Hullo!” thought Lupin. “Now he’s going for decanter-stoppers! Then
it’s not a question of a paper? Well, I give it up.”

Prasville next lifted and examined different objects; and he asked:

“How often have you been here?”

“Six times last winter,” was the reply.

“And you have searched the house thoroughly?”

“Every one of the rooms, for days at a time, while he was visiting
his constituency.”

“Still . . . still....” And he added, “Has he no servant at present?”

“No, he is looking for one. He has his meals out and the portress
keeps the house as best she can. The woman is devoted to us....”

Prasville persisted in his investigations for nearly an hour and a
half, shifting and fingering all the knick-knacks, but taking care
to put everything back exactly where he found it. At nine o’clock,
however, the two detectives who had followed Daubrecq burst into
the study:

“He’s coming back!”

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“Have we time?”

“Oh, dear, yes!”

Prasville and the men from the police-office withdrew, without
undue haste, after taking a last glance round the room to make sure
that there was nothing to betray their visit.

The position was becoming critical for Lupin. He ran the risk of
knocking up against Daubrecq, if he went away, or of not being
able to get out, if he remained. But, on ascertaining that the
dining-room windows afforded a direct means of exit to the square,
he resolved to stay. Besides, the opportunity of obtaining a close
view of Daubrecq was too good to refuse; and, as Daubrecq had
been out to dinner, there was not much chance of his entering the
dining-room.

Lupin, therefore, waited, holding himself ready to hide behind a
velvet curtain that could be drawn across the glazed partition in
case of need.

He heard the sound of doors opening and shutting. Some one walked
into the study and switched on the light. He recognized Daubrecq.

The deputy was a stout, thickset, bull-necked man, very nearly
bald, with a fringe of gray whiskers round his chin and wearing a
pair of black eye-glasses under his spectacles, for his eyes were
weak and strained. Lupin noticed the powerful features, the square
chin, the prominent cheek-bones. The hands were brawny and covered
with hair, the legs bowed; and he walked with a stoop, bearing
first on one hip and then on the other, which gave him something
of the gait of a gorilla. But the face was topped by an enormous,
lined forehead, indented with hollows and dotted with bumps.

There was something bestial, something savage, something repulsive
about the man’s whole personality. Lupin remembered that, in the
Chamber of Deputies, Daubrecq was nicknamed “The Wild Man of the
Woods” and that he was so labelled not only because he stood aloof
and hardly ever mixed with his fellow-members, but also because of
his appearance, his behaviour, his peculiar gait and his remarkable
muscular development.

He sat down to his desk, took a meerschaum pipe from his pocket,
selected a packet of caporal among several packets of tobacco which
lay drying in a bowl, tore open the wrapper, filled his pipe and
lit it. Then he began to write letters.

Presently he ceased his work and sat thinking, with his attention
fixed on a spot on his desk.

He lifted a little stamp-box and examined it. Next, he verified
the position of different articles which Prasville had touched and
replaced; and he searched them with his eyes, felt them with his
hands, bending over them as though certain signs, known to himself
alone, were able to tell him what he wished to know.

Lastly, he grasped the knob on an electric bell-push and rang. The
portress appeared a minute later.

He asked:

“They’ve been, haven’t they?”

And, when the woman hesitated about replying, he insisted:

“Come, come, Clémence, did you open this stamp-box?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I fastened the lid down with a little strip of gummed paper.
The strip has been broken.”

“But I assure you, . . .” the woman began.

“Why tell lies,” he said, “considering that I myself instructed you
to lend yourself to those visits?”

“The fact is....”

“The fact is that you want to keep on good terms with both
sides.... Very well!” He handed her a fifty-franc note and
repeated, “Have they been?”

“Yes.”

“The same men as in the spring?”

“Yes, all five of them . . . with another one, who ordered them
about.”

“A tall, dark man?”

“Yes.”

Lupin saw Daubrecq’s mouth hardening; and Daubrecq continued:

“Is that all?”

“There was one more, who came after they did and joined them . . .
and then, just now, two more, the pair who usually keep watch
outside the house.”

“Did they remain in the study?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they went away when I came back? A few minutes before,
perhaps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do.”

The woman left the room. Daubrecq returned to his letter-writing.
Then, stretching out his arm, he made some marks on a white
writing-tablet, at the end of his desk, and rested it against the
desk, as though he wished to keep it in sight. The marks were
figures; and Lupin was able to read the following subtraction-sum:

    “9 − 8 = 1”

And Daubrecq, speaking between his teeth, thoughtfully uttered the
syllables:

“Eight from nine leaves one.... There’s not a doubt about that,”
he added, aloud. He wrote one more letter, a very short one, and
addressed the envelope with an inscription which Lupin was able to
decipher when the letter was placed beside the writing-tablet:

  “To Monsieur Prasville,
  Secretary-general of the Prefecture of Police.”

Then he rang the bell again:

“Clémence,” he said, to the portress, “did you go to school as a
child?”

“Yes, sir, of course I did.”

“And were you taught arithmetic?”

“Why, sir....”

“Well, you’re not very good at subtraction.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you don’t know that nine minus eight equals one. And
that, you see, is a fact of the highest importance. Life becomes
impossible if you are ignorant of that fundamental truth.”

He rose, as he spoke, and walked round the room, with his hands
behind his back, swaying upon his hips. He did so once more. Then,
stopping at the dining-room, he opened the door:

“For that matter, there’s another way of putting the problem. Take
eight from nine; and one remains. And the one who remains is here,
eh? Correct! And monsieur supplies us with a striking proof, does
he not?”

He patted the velvet curtain in which Lupin had hurriedly wrapped
himself:

“Upon my word, sir, you must be stifling under this! Not to say
that I might have amused myself by sticking a dagger through the
curtain. Remember Hamlet’s madness and Polonius’ death: ‘How now! A
rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!’ Come along, Mr. Polonius, come out
of your hole.”

It was one of those positions to which Lupin was not accustomed and
which he loathed. To catch others in a trap and pull their leg was
all very well; but it was a very different thing to have people
teasing him and roaring with laughter at his expense. Yet what
could he answer back?

“You look a little pale, Mr. Polonius.... Hullo! Why, it’s the
respectable old gentleman who has been hanging about the square for
some days! So you belong to the police too, Mr. Polonius? There,
there, pull yourself together, I sha’n’t hurt you!... But you see,
Clémence, how right my calculation was. You told me that nine spies
had been to the house. I counted a troop of eight, as I came along,
eight of them in the distance, down the avenue. Take eight from
nine and one remains: the one who evidently remained behind to see
what he could see. _Ecce homo!_”

“Well? And then?” said Lupin, who felt a mad craving to fly at the
fellow and reduce him to silence.

“And then? Nothing at all, my good man.... What more do you want?
The farce is over. I will only ask you to take this little note to
Master Prasville, your employer. Clémence, please show Mr. Polonius
out. And, if ever he calls again, fling open the doors wide to
him. Pray look upon this as your home, Mr. Polonius. Your servant,
sir!...”

Lupin hesitated. He would have liked to talk big and to come out
with a farewell phrase, a parting speech, like an actor making
a showy exit from the stage, and at least to disappear with the
honours of war. But his defeat was so pitiable that he could think
of nothing better than to bang his hat on his head and stamp his
feet as he followed the portress down the hall. It was a poor
revenge.

“You rascally beggar!” he shouted, once he was outside the door,
shaking his fist at Daubrecq’s windows. “Wretch, scum of the earth,
deputy, you shall pay for this!... Oh, he allows himself...! Oh, he
has the cheek to...! Well, I swear to you, my fine fellow, that,
one of these days....”

He was foaming with rage, all the more as, in his innermost heart,
he recognized the strength of his new enemy and could not deny the
masterly fashion in which he had managed this business. Daubrecq’s
coolness, the assurance with which he hoaxed the police-officials,
the contempt with which he lent himself to their visits at his
house and, above all, his wonderful self-possession, his easy
bearing and the impertinence of his conduct in the presence of
the ninth person who was spying on him: all this denoted a man of
character, a strong man, with a well-balanced mind, lucid, bold,
sure of himself and of the cards in his hand.

But what were those cards? What game was he playing? Who held the
stakes? And how did the players stand on either side? Lupin could
not tell. Knowing nothing, he flung himself headlong into the thick
of the fray, between adversaries desperately involved, though he
himself was in total ignorance of their positions, their weapons,
their resources and their secret plans. For, when all was said, he
could not admit that the object of all those efforts was to obtain
possession of a crystal stopper!

One thing alone pleased him: Daubrecq had not penetrated his
disguise. Daubrecq believed him to be in the employ of the police.
Neither Daubrecq nor the police, therefore, suspected the intrusion
of a third thief in the business. This was his one and only trump,
a trump that gave him a liberty of action to which he attached the
greatest importance.

Without further delay, he opened the letter which Daubrecq had
handed him for the secretary-general of police. It contained these
few lines:

    “Within reach of your hand, my dear Prasville, within reach of
    your hand! You touched it! A little more and the trick was
    done.... But you’re too big a fool. And to think that they
    couldn’t hit upon any one better than you to make me bite the
    dust. Poor old France! Good-bye, Prasville. But, if I catch you
    in the act, it will be a bad lookout for you: my maxim is to
    shoot at sight.

  “DAUBRECQ”

“‘Within reach of your hand,’” repeated Lupin, after reading the
note. “And to think that the rogue may be writing the truth! The
most elementary hiding-places are the safest. We must look into
this, all the same. And, also, we must find out why Daubrecq is
the object of such strict supervision and obtain a few particulars
about the fellow generally.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The information supplied to Lupin by a private inquiry-office
consisted of the following details:

    “ALEXIS DAUBRECQ, deputy of the Bouches-du-Rhône for the past
    two years; sits among the independent members. Political
    opinions not very clearly defined, but electoral position
    exceedingly strong, because of the enormous sums which he
    spends in nursing his constituency. No private income.
    Nevertheless, has a house in Paris, a villa at Enghien and
    another at Nice and loses heavily at play, though no one
    knows where the money comes from. Has great influence and
    obtains all he wants without making up to ministers or,
    apparently, having either friends or connections in political
    circles.”

“That’s a trade docket,” said Lupin to himself. “What I want is
a domestic docket, a police docket, which will tell me about the
gentleman’s private life and enable me to work more easily in this
darkness and to know if I’m not getting myself into a tangle by
bothering about the Daubrecq bird. And time’s getting short, hang
it!”

One of the residences which Lupin occupied at that period and
which he used oftener than any of the others was in the Rue
Chateaubriand, near the Arc de l’Étoile. He was known there by the
name of Michel Beaumont. He had a snug flat here and was looked
after by a man-servant, Achille, who was utterly devoted to his
interests and whose chief duty was to receive and repeat the
telephone-messages addressed to Lupin by his followers.

Lupin, on returning home, learnt, with great astonishment, that a
woman had been waiting to see him for over an hour:

“What! Why, no one ever comes to see me here! Is she young?”

“No.... I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so!”

“She’s wearing a lace shawl over her head, instead of a hat, and
you can’t see her face.... She’s more like a clerk . . . or a woman
employed in a shop. She’s not well-dressed....”

“Whom did she ask for?”

“M. Michel Beaumont,” replied the servant.

“Queer. And why has she called?”

“All she said was that it was about the Enghien business.... So I
thought that....”

“What! The Enghien business! Then she knows that I am mixed up in
that business.... She knows that, by applying here....”

“I could not get anything out of her, but I thought, all the same,
that I had better let her in.”

“Quite right. Where is she?”

“In the drawing-room. I’ve put on the lights.”

Lupin walked briskly across the hall and opened the door of the
drawing-room:

“What are you talking about?” he said, to his man. “There’s no one
here.”

“No one here?” said Achille, running up.

And the room, in fact, was empty.

“Well, on my word, this takes the cake!” cried the servant. “It
wasn’t twenty minutes ago that I came and had a look, to make sure.
She was sitting over there. And there’s nothing wrong with my
eyesight, you know.”

“Look here, look here,” said Lupin, irritably. “Where were you
while the woman was waiting?”

“In the hall, governor! I never left the hall for a second! I
should have seen her go out, blow it!”

“Still, she’s not here now....”

“So I see,” moaned the man, quite flabbergasted.

“She must have got tired of waiting and gone away. But, dash it
all, I should like to know how she got out!”

“How she got out?” said Lupin. “It doesn’t take a wizard to tell
that.”

“What do you mean?”

“She got out through the window. Look, it’s still ajar. We are on
the ground-floor.... The street is almost always deserted, in the
evenings. There’s no doubt about it.”

He had looked around him and satisfied himself that nothing had
been taken away or moved. The room, for that matter, contained
no knick-knack of any value, no important paper that might have
explained the woman’s visit, followed by her sudden disappearance.
And yet why that inexplicable flight?

“Has any one telephoned?” he asked.

“No.”

“Any letters?”

“Yes, one letter by the last post.”

“Where is it?”

“I put it on your mantel-piece, governor, as usual.”

Lupin’s bedroom was next to the drawing-room, but Lupin had
permanently bolted the door between the two. He, therefore, had to
go through the hall again.

Lupin switched on the electric light and, the next moment, said:

“I don’t see it....”

“Yes.... I put it next to the flower-bowl.”

“There’s nothing here at all.”

“You must be looking in the wrong place, governor.”

But Achille moved the bowl, lifted the clock, bent down to the
grate, in vain: the letter was not there.

“Oh blast it, blast it!” he muttered. “She’s done it . . . she’s
taken it.... And then, when she had the letter, she cleared out....
Oh, the slut!...”

Lupin said:

“You’re mad! There’s no way through between the two rooms.”

“Then who did take it, governor?”

They were both of them silent. Lupin strove to control his anger
and collect his ideas. He asked:

“Did you look at the envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Anything particular about it?”

“Yes, it looked as if it had been written in a hurry, or scribbled,
rather.”

“How was the address worded?... Do you remember?” asked Lupin, in a
voice strained with anxiety.

“Yes, I remembered it, because it struck me as funny....”

“But speak, will you? Speak!”

“It said, ‘_Monsieur de Beaumont, Michel_.’”

[Illustration: Lupin took his servant by the shoulders and shook
him: “It said ‘de’ Beaumont? Are you sure?”]

Lupin took his servant by the shoulders and shook him:

“It said ‘de’ Beaumont? Are you sure? And ‘Michel’ after ‘Beaumont’?”

“Quite certain.”

“Ah!” muttered Lupin, with a choking throat. “It was a letter from
Gilbert!”

He stood motionless, a little pale, with drawn features. There was
no doubt about it: the letter was from Gilbert. It was the form of
address which, by Lupin’s orders, Gilbert had used for years in
corresponding with him. Gilbert had at last--after long waiting and
by dint of endless artifices--found a means of getting a letter
posted from his prison and had hastily written to him. And now the
letter was intercepted! What did it say? What instructions had
the unhappy prisoner given? What help was he praying for? What
stratagem did he suggest?

Lupin looked round the room, which, contrary to the drawing-room,
contained important papers. But none of the locks had been forced;
and he was compelled to admit that the woman had no other object
than to get hold of Gilbert’s letter.

Constraining himself to keep his temper, he asked:

“Did the letter come while the woman was here?”

“At the same time. The porter rang at the same moment.”

“Could she see the envelope?”

“Yes.”

The conclusion was evident. It remained to discover how the visitor
had been able to effect her theft. By slipping from one window to
the other, outside the flat? Impossible: Lupin found the window of
his room shut. By opening the communicating door? Impossible: Lupin
found it locked and barred with its two inner bolts.

Nevertheless, a person cannot pass through a wall by a mere
operation of will. To go in or out of a room requires a passage;
and, as the act was accomplished in the space of a few minutes, it
was necessary, in the circumstances, that the passage should be
previously in existence, that it should already have been contrived
in the wall and, of course, known to the woman. This hypothesis
simplified the search by concentrating it upon the door; for the
wall was quite bare, without a cupboard, chimney-piece or hangings
of any kind, and unable to conceal the least outlet.

Lupin went back to the drawing-room and prepared to make a study
of the door. But he at once gave a start. He perceived, at the
first glance, that the left lower panel of the six small panels
contained within the cross-bars of the door no longer occupied its
normal position and that the light did not fall straight upon it.
On leaning forward, he saw two little tin tacks sticking out on
either side and holding the panel in place, similar to a wooden
board behind a picture-frame. He had only to shift these. The panel
at once came out.

Achille gave a cry of amazement. But Lupin objected:

“Well? And what then? We are no better off than before. Here is an
empty oblong, eight or nine inches wide by sixteen inches high.
You’re not going to pretend that a woman can slip through an
opening which would not admit the thinnest child of ten years old!”

“No, but she can have put her arm through and drawn the bolts.”

“The bottom bolt, yes,” said Lupin. “But the top bolt, no: the
distance is far too great. Try for yourself and see.”

Achille tried and had to give up the attempt.

Lupin did not reply. He stood thinking for a long time. Then,
suddenly, he said:

“Give me my hat . . . my coat....”

He hurried off, urged by an imperative idea. And, the moment he
reached the street, he sprang into a taxi:

“Rue Matignon, quick!...”

As soon as they came to the house where he had been robbed of the
crystal stopper, he jumped out of the cab, opened his private
entrance, went upstairs, ran to the drawing-room, turned on the
light and crouched at the foot of the door leading to his bedroom.

He had guessed right. One of the little panels was loosened in the
same manner.

And, just as in his other flat in the Rue Chateaubriand, the
opening was large enough to admit a man’s arm and shoulder, but not
to allow him to draw the upper bolt.

“Hang!” he shouted, unable any longer to master the rage that had
been seething within him for the last two hours. “Blast! Shall I
never have finished with this confounded business?”

In fact, an incredible ill-luck seemed to dog his footsteps,
compelling him to grope about at random, without permitting him
to use the elements of success which his own persistency or the
very force of things placed within his grasp. Gilbert gave him
the crystal stopper. Gilbert sent him a letter. And both had
disappeared at that very moment.

And it was not, as he had until then believed, a series of
fortuitous and independent circumstances. No, it was manifestly
the effect of an adverse will pursuing a definite object with
prodigious ability and incredible boldness, attacking him, Lupin,
in the recesses of his safest retreats and baffling him with blows
so severe and so unexpected that he did not even know against whom
he had to defend himself. Never, in the course of his adventures,
had he encountered such obstacles as now.

And, little by little, deep down within himself, there grew a
haunting dread of the future. A date loomed before his eyes, the
terrible date which he unconsciously assigned to the law to perform
its work of vengeance, the date upon which, in the light of a wan
April morning, two men would mount the scaffold, two men who had
stood by him, two comrades whom he had been unable to save from
paying the awful penalty....


[A] See 813, by Maurice Leblanc, translated by Alexander Teixeira
de Mattos.




CHAPTER III.

THE HOME LIFE OF ALEXIS DAUBRECQ


When Daubrecq the deputy came in from lunch on the day after the
police had searched his house he was stopped by Clémence, his
portress, who told him that she had found a cook who could be
thoroughly relied on.

The cook arrived a few minutes later and produced first-rate
characters, signed by people with whom it was easy to take up her
references. She was a very active woman, although of a certain age,
and agreed to do the work of the house by herself, without the
help of a man-servant, this being a condition upon which Daubrecq
insisted.

Her last place was with a member of the Chamber of Deputies, Comte
Saulevat, to whom Daubrecq at once telephoned. The count’s steward
gave her a perfect character, and she was engaged.

As soon as she had fetched her trunk, she set to work and cleaned
and scrubbed until it was time to cook the dinner.

Daubrecq dined and went out.

At eleven o’clock, after the portress had gone to bed, the cook
cautiously opened the garden-gate. A man came up.

“Is that you?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s I, Lupin.”

She took him to her bedroom on the third floor, overlooking the
garden, and at once burst into lamentations:

“More of your tricks and nothing but tricks! Why can’t you leave me
alone, instead of sending me to do your dirty work?”

“How can I help it, you dear old Victoire?[B] When I want a person
of respectable appearance and incorruptible morals, I think of you.
You ought to be flattered.”

“That’s all you care about me!” she cried. “You run me into danger
once more; and you think it’s funny!”

“What are you risking?”

“How do you mean, what am I risking? All my characters are false.”

“Characters are always false.”

“And suppose M. Daubrecq finds out? Suppose he makes inquiries?”

“He has made inquiries.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“He has telephoned to the steward of Comte Saulevat, in whose
service you say that you have had the honour of being.”

“There, you see, I’m done for!”

“The count’s steward could not say enough in your praise.”

“He does not know me.”

“But I know him. I got him his situation with Comte Saulevat. So
you understand....”

Victoire seemed to calm down a little:

“Well,” she said, “God’s will be done . . . or rather yours. And
what do you expect me to do in all this?”

“First, to put me up. You were my wet-nurse once. You can very well
give me half your room now. I’ll sleep in the armchair.”

“And next?”

“Next? To supply me with such food as I want.”

“And next?”

“Next? To undertake, with me and under my direction, a regular
series of searches with a view....”

“To what?”

“To discovering the precious object of which I spoke to you.”

“What’s that?”

“A crystal stopper.”

“A crystal stopper.... Saints above! A nice business! And, if we
don’t find your confounded stopper, what then?”

Lupin took her gently by the arm and, in a serious voice:

“If we don’t find it, Gilbert, young Gilbert whom you know and
love, will stand every chance of losing his head; and so will
Vaucheray.”

“Vaucheray I don’t mind . . . a dirty rascal like him! But
Gilbert....”

“Have you seen the papers this evening? Things are looking worse
than ever. Vaucheray, as might be expected, accuses Gilbert
of stabbing the valet; and it so happens that the knife which
Vaucheray used belonged to Gilbert. That came out this morning.
Whereupon Gilbert, who is intelligent in his way, but easily
frightened, blithered and launched forth into stories and lies
which will end in his undoing. That’s how the matter stands. Will
you help me?”

       *       *       *       *       *

The deputy came home at midnight.

Thenceforth, for several days, Lupin moulded his existence upon
Daubrecq’s, beginning his investigations the moment the deputy
left the house. He pursued them methodically, dividing each room
into sections which he did not abandon until he had been through
the tiniest nooks and corners and, so to speak, exhausted every
possible device.

Victoire searched also. And nothing was forgotten. Table-legs,
chair-rungs, floor-boards, mouldings, mirror- and picture-frames,
clocks, plinths, curtain-borders, telephone-holders and electric
fittings: everything that an ingenious imagination could have
selected as a hiding-place was overhauled.

And they also watched the deputy’s least actions, his most
unconscious movements, the expression of his face, the books which
he read and the letters which he wrote.

It was easy enough. He seemed to live his life in the light of day.
No door was ever shut. He received no visits. And his existence
worked with mechanical regularity. He went to the Chamber in the
afternoon, to the club in the evening.

“Still,” said Lupin, “there must be something that’s not orthodox
behind all this.”

“There’s nothing of the sort,” moaned Victoire. “You’re wasting
your time and we shall be bowled out.”

The presence of the detectives and their habit of walking up and
down outside the windows drove her mad. She refused to admit that
they were there for any other purpose than to trap her, Victoire.
And, each time that she went shopping, she was quite surprised that
one of those men did not lay his hand upon her shoulder.

One day she returned all upset. Her basket of provisions was
shaking on her arm.

“What’s the matter, my dear Victoire?” said Lupin. “You’re looking
green.”

“Green? I dare say I do. So would you look green....”

She had to sit down and it was only after making repeated efforts
that she succeeded in stuttering:

“A man . . . a man spoke to me . . . at the fruiterer’s.”

“By jingo! Did he want you to run away with him?”

“No, he gave me a letter....”

“Then what are you complaining about? It was a love-letter, of
course!”

“No. ‘It’s for your governor,’ said he. ‘My governor?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for the gentleman who’s staying in your room.’”

“What’s that?”

This time, Lupin had started:

“Give it here,” he said, snatching the letter from her. The
envelope bore no address. But there was another, inside it, on
which he read:

  “_Monsieur Arsène Lupin_,
  “_℅ Victoire._”

“The devil!” he said. “This is a bit thick!” He tore open the
second envelope. It contained a sheet of paper with the following
words, written in large capitals:

    “Everything you are doing is useless and dangerous.... Give
    it up.”

Victoire uttered one moan and fainted. As for Lupin, he felt
himself blush up to his eyes, as though he had been grossly
insulted. He experienced all the humiliation which a duellist would
undergo if he heard the most secret advice which he had received
from his seconds repeated aloud by a mocking adversary.

However, he held his tongue. Victoire went back to her work. As for
him, he remained in his room all day, thinking.

That night he did not sleep.

And he kept saying to himself:

“What is the good of thinking? I am up against one of those
problems which are not solved by any amount of thought. It is
certain that I am not alone in the matter and that, between
Daubrecq and the police, there is, in addition to the third thief
that I am, a fourth thief who is working on his own account, who
knows me and who reads my game clearly. But who is this fourth
thief? And am I mistaken, by any chance? And . . . oh, rot!...
Let’s get to sleep!...”

But he could not sleep; and a good part of the night went in this
way.

At four o’clock in the morning he seemed to hear a noise in the
house. He jumped up quickly and, from the top of the staircase, saw
Daubrecq go down the first flight and turn toward the garden.

A minute later, after opening the gate, the deputy returned with a
man whose head was buried in an enormous fur collar and showed him
into his study.

Lupin had taken his precautions in view of any such contingency. As
the windows of the study and those of his bedroom, both of which
were at the back of the house, overlooked the garden, he fastened a
rope-ladder to his balcony, unrolled it softly and let himself down
by it until it was level with the top of the study windows.

These windows were closed by shutters; but, as they were bowed,
there remained a semi-circular space at the top; and Lupin, though
he could not hear, was able to see all that went on inside.

He then realized that the person whom he had taken for a man was
a woman: a woman who was still young, though her dark hair was
mingled with gray; a tall woman, elegantly but quite unobtrusively
dressed, whose handsome features bore the expression of weariness
and melancholy which long suffering gives.

“Where the deuce have I seen her before?” Lupin asked himself. “For
I certainly know that face, that look, that expression.”

She stood leaning against the table, listening impassively to
Daubrecq, who was also standing and who was talking very excitedly.
He had his back turned to Lupin; but Lupin, leaning forward, caught
sight of a glass in which the deputy’s image was reflected. And he
was startled to see the strange look in his eyes, the air of fierce
and brutal desire with which Daubrecq was staring at his visitor.

It seemed to embarrass her too, for she sat down with lowered lids.
Then Daubrecq leant over her and it appeared as though he were
ready to fling his long arms, with their huge hands, around her.
And, suddenly, Lupin perceived great tears rolling down the woman’s
sad face.

Whether or not it was the sight of those tears that made Daubrecq
lose his head, with a brusque movement he clutched the woman and
drew her to him. She repelled him, with a violence full of hatred.
And, after a brief struggle, during which Lupin caught a glimpse
of the man’s bestial and contorted features, the two of them stood
face to face, railing at each other like mortal enemies.

Then they stopped. Daubrecq sat down. There was mischief in his
face, and sarcasm as well. And he began to talk again, with sharp
taps on the table, as though he were dictating terms.

She no longer stirred. She sat haughtily in her chair and towered
over him, absent-minded, with roaming eyes. Lupin, captivated
by that powerful and sorrowful countenance, continued to watch
her; and he was vainly seeking to remember of what or of whom she
reminded him, when he noticed that she had turned her head slightly
and that she was imperceptibly moving her arm.

And her arm strayed farther and farther and her hand crept along
the table and Lupin saw that, at the end of the table, there stood
a water-bottle with a gold-topped stopper. The hand reached the
water-bottle, felt it, rose gently and seized the stopper. A quick
movement of the head, a glance, and the stopper was put back in its
place. Obviously, it was not what the woman hoped to find.

“Dash it!” said Lupin. “She’s after the crystal stopper too! The
matter is becoming more complicated daily; there’s no doubt about
it.”

But, on renewing his observation of the visitor, he was astounded
to note the sudden and unexpected expression of her countenance,
a terrible, implacable, ferocious expression. And he saw that her
hand was continuing its stealthy progress round the table and that,
with an uninterrupted and crafty sliding movement, it was pushing
back books and, slowly and surely, approaching a dagger whose blade
gleamed among the scattered papers.

It gripped the handle.

Daubrecq went on talking. Behind his back, the hand rose steadily,
little by little; and Lupin saw the woman’s desperate and furious
eyes fixed upon the spot in the neck where she intended to plant
the knife:

“You’re doing a very silly thing, fair lady,” thought Lupin.

And he already began to turn over in his mind the best means of
escaping and of taking Victoire with him.

She hesitated, however, with uplifted arm. But it was only a
momentary weakness. She clenched her teeth. Her whole face,
contracted with hatred, became yet further convulsed. And she made
the dread movement.

At the same instant Daubrecq crouched and, springing from his seat,
turned and seized the woman’s frail wrist in mid-air.

Oddly enough, he addressed no reproach to her, as though the deed
which she had attempted surprised him no more than any ordinary,
very natural and simple act. He shrugged his shoulders, like a
man accustomed to that sort of danger, and strode up and down in
silence.

She had dropped the weapon and was now crying, holding her head
between her hands, with sobs that shook her whole frame.

He next came up to her and said a few words, once more tapping the
table as he spoke.

She made a sign in the negative and, when he insisted, she, in her
turn, stamped her foot on the floor and exclaimed, loud enough for
Lupin to hear:

“Never!... Never!...”

Thereupon, without another word, Daubrecq fetched the fur cloak
which she had brought with her and hung it over the woman’s
shoulders, while she shrouded her face in a lace wrap.

And he showed her out.

Two minutes later, the garden-gate was locked again. “Pity I can’t
run after that strange person,” thought Lupin, “and have a chat
with her about the Daubrecq bird. Seems to me that we two could do
a good stroke of business together.”

In any case, there was one point to be cleared up: Daubrecq the
deputy, whose life was so orderly, so apparently respectable, was
in the habit of receiving visits at night, when his house was no
longer watched by the police.

He sent Victoire to arrange with two members of his gang to keep
watch for several days. And he himself remained awake next night.

As on the previous morning, he heard a noise at four o’clock. As on
the previous morning, the deputy let some one in.

Lupin ran down his ladder and, when he came to the free space above
the shutters, saw a man crawling at Daubrecq’s feet, flinging
his arms round Daubrecq’s knees in frenzied despair and weeping,
weeping convulsively.

Daubrecq, laughing, pushed him away repeatedly, but the man clung
to him. He behaved almost like one out of his mind and, at last, in
a genuine fit of madness, half rose to his feet, took the deputy
by the throat and flung him back in a chair. Daubrecq struggled,
powerless at first, while his veins swelled in his temples. But
soon, with a strength far beyond the ordinary, he regained the
mastery and deprived his adversary of all power of movement. Then,
holding him with one hand, with the other he gave him two great
smacks in the face.

The man got up, slowly. He was livid and could hardly stand
on his legs. He waited for a moment, as though to recover his
self-possession. Then, with a terrifying calmness, he drew a
revolver from his pocket and levelled it at Daubrecq.

Daubrecq did not flinch. He even smiled, with a defiant air and
without displaying more excitement than if he had been aimed at
with a toy pistol.

The man stood for perhaps fifteen or twenty seconds, facing his
enemy, with outstretched arm. Then, with the same deliberate
slowness, revealing a self-control which was all the more
impressive because it followed upon a fit of extreme excitement,
he put up his revolver and, from another pocket, produced his
note-case.

Daubrecq took a step forward.

The man opened the pocketbook. A sheaf of bank-notes appeared in
sight.

Daubrecq seized and counted them. They were thousand-franc notes,
and there were thirty of them.

The man looked on, without a movement of revolt, without a
protest. He obviously understood the futility of words. Daubrecq
was one of those who do not relent. Why should his visitor waste
time in beseeching him or even in revenging himself upon him by
uttering vain threats and insults? He had no hope of striking that
unassailable enemy. Even Daubrecq’s death would not deliver him
from Daubrecq.

He took his hat and went away.

At eleven o’clock in the morning Victoire, on returning from her
shopping, handed Lupin a note from his accomplices.

He opened it and read:

    “The man who came to see Daubrecq last night is Langeroux the
    deputy, leader of the independent left. A poor man, with a
    large family.”

“Come,” said Lupin, “Daubrecq is nothing more nor less than a
blackmailer; but, by Jupiter, he has jolly effective ways of going
to work!”

Events tended to confirm Lupin’s supposition. Three days later he
saw another visitor hand Daubrecq an important sum of money. And,
two days after that, one came and left a pearl necklace behind him.

The first was called Dachaumont, a senator and ex-cabinet-minister.
The second was the Marquis d’Albufex, a Bonapartist deputy,
formerly chief political agent in France of Prince Napoleon.

The scene, in each of these cases, was very similar to Langeroux
the deputy’s interview, a violent tragic scene, ending in
Daubrecq’s victory.

“And so on and so forth,” thought Lupin, when he received these
particulars. “I have been present at four visits. I shall know no
more if there are ten, or twenty, or thirty.... It is enough for
me to learn the names of the visitors from my friends on sentry-go
outside. Shall I go and call on them?... What for? They have no
reason to confide in me.... On the other hand, am I to stay on
here, delayed by investigations which lead to nothing and which
Victoire can continue just as well without me?”

He was very much perplexed. The news of the inquiry into the
case of Gilbert and Vaucheray was becoming worse and worse, the
days were slipping by, and not an hour passed without his asking
himself, in anguish, whether all his efforts--granting that he
succeeded--would not end in farcical results, absolutely foreign to
the aim which he was pursuing.

For, after all, supposing that he did fathom Daubrecq’s underhand
dealings, would that give him the means of rescuing Gilbert and
Vaucheray?

That day an incident occurred which put an end to his indecision.
After lunch Victoire heard snatches of a conversation which
Daubrecq held with some one on the telephone. Lupin gathered, from
what Victoire reported, that the deputy had an appointment with a
lady for half-past eight and that he was going to take her to a
theatre:

“I shall get a pit-tier box, like the one we had six weeks ago,”
Daubrecq had said. And he added, with a laugh, “I hope that I shall
not have the burglars in during that time.”

There was not a doubt in Lupin’s mind. Daubrecq was about to spend
his evening in the same manner in which he had spent the evening
six weeks ago, while they were breaking into his villa at Enghien.
To know the person whom he was to meet and perhaps thus to discover
how Gilbert and Vaucheray had learnt that Daubrecq would be away
from eight o’clock in the evening until one o’clock in the morning:
these were matters of the utmost importance.

Lupin left the house in the afternoon, with Victoire’s assistance.
He knew through her that Daubrecq was coming home for dinner
earlier than usual.

He went to his flat in the Rue Chateaubriand, telephoned for three
of his friends, dressed and made himself up in his favourite
character of a Russian prince, with fair hair and moustache and
short-cut whiskers.

The accomplices arrived in a motor-car.

At that moment, Achille, his man, brought him a telegram, addressed
to M. Michel Beaumont, Rue Chateaubriand, which ran:

    “Do not come to theatre this evening. Danger of your intervention
    spoiling everything.”

There was a flower-vase on the chimney-piece beside him. Lupin took
it and smashed it to pieces.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he snarled. “They are playing with me as I
usually play with others. Same behaviour. Same tricks. Only there’s
this difference....”

What difference? He hardly knew. The truth was that he too was
baffled and disconcerted to the inmost recesses of his being and
that he was continuing to act only from obstinacy, from a sense of
duty, so to speak, and without putting his ordinary good humour and
high spirits into the work.

“Come along,” he said to his accomplices.

By his instructions, the chauffeur set them down near the Square
Lamartine, but kept the motor going. Lupin foresaw that Daubrecq,
in order to escape the detectives watching the house, would jump
into the first taxi; and he did not intend to be outdistanced.

He had not allowed for Daubrecq’s cleverness.

At half-past seven both leaves of the garden-gate were flung open,
a bright light flashed and a motor-cycle darted across the road,
skirted the square, turned in front of the motor-car and shot away
toward the Bois at a speed so great that they would have been mad
to go in pursuit of it.

“Good-bye, Daisy!” said Lupin, trying to jest, but really overcome
with rage.

He eyed his accomplices in the hope that one of them would venture
to give a mocking smile. How pleased he would have been to vent his
nerves on them!

“Let’s go home,” he said to his companions.

He gave them some dinner; then he smoked a cigar and they set off
again in the car and went the round of the theatres, beginning
with those which were giving light operas and musical comedies,
for which he presumed that Daubrecq and his lady would have a
preference. He took a stall, inspected the lower-tier boxes and
went away again.

He next drove to the more serious theatres: the Renaissance, the
Gymnase.

At last, at ten o’clock in the evening, he saw a pit-tier box at
the Vaudeville almost entirely protected from inspection by its two
screens; and, on tipping the boxkeeper, was told that it contained
a short, stout, elderly gentleman and a lady who was wearing a
thick lace veil.

The next box was free. He took it, went back to his friends to give
them their instructions and sat down near the couple.

During the entr’acte, when the lights went up, he perceived
Daubrecq’s profile. The lady remained at the back of the box,
invisible. The two were speaking in a low voice; and, when the
curtain rose again, they went on speaking, but in such a way that
Lupin could not distinguish a word.

Ten minutes passed. Some one tapped at their door. It was one of
the men from the box-office.

“Are you M. le Député Daubrecq, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Daubrecq, in a voice of surprise. “But how do you know
my name?”

“There’s a gentleman asking for you on the telephone. He told me to
go to Box 22.”

“But who is it?”

“M. le Marquis d’Albufex.”

“Eh?”

“What am I to say, sir?”

“I’m coming.... I’m coming....”

Daubrecq rose hurriedly from his seat and followed the clerk to the
box-office.

He was not yet out of sight when Lupin sprang from his box, worked
the lock of the next door and sat down beside the lady.

She gave a stifled cry.

“Hush!” he said. “I have to speak to you. It is most important.”

“Ah!” she said, between her teeth. “Arsène Lupin!” He was
dumbfounded. For a moment he sat quiet, open-mouthed. The woman
knew him! And not only did she know him, but she had recognized
him through his disguise! Accustomed though he was to the most
extraordinary and unusual events, this disconcerted him.

He did not even dream of protesting and stammered:

“So you know?... So you know?...”

He snatched at the lady’s veil and pulled it aside before she had
time to defend herself:

“What!” he muttered, with increased amazement. “Is it possible?”

It was the woman whom he had seen at Daubrecq’s a few days earlier,
the woman who had raised her dagger against Daubrecq and who had
intended to stab him with all the strength of her hatred.

It was her turn to be taken aback:

“What! Have you seen me before?...”

“Yes, the other night, at his house.... I saw what you tried to
do....”

She made a movement to escape. He held her back and, speaking with
great eagerness:

“I must know who you are,” he said. “That was why I had Daubrecq
telephoned for.”

She looked aghast:

“Do you mean to say it was not the Marquis d’Albufex?”

“No, it was one of my assistants.”

“Then Daubrecq will come back?...”

“Yes, but we have time.... Listen to me.... We must meet again....
He is your enemy.... I will save you from him....”

“Why should you? What is your object?”

“Do not distrust me . . . it is quite certain that our interests
are identical.... Where can I see you? To-morrow, surely? At what
time? And where?”

“Well....”

She looked at him with obvious hesitation, not knowing what to do,
on the point of speaking and yet full of uneasiness and doubt.

He pressed her:

“Oh, I entreat you . . . answer me just one word . . . and at
once.... It would be a pity for him to find me here.... I entreat
you....”

She answered sharply:

“My name doesn’t matter.... We will see each other first and you
shall explain to me.... Yes, we will meet.... Listen, to-morrow, at
three o’clock, at the corner of the Boulevard....”

At that exact moment, the door of the box opened, so to speak, with
a bang, and Daubrecq appeared.

“Rats!” Lupin mumbled, under his breath, furious at being caught
before obtaining what he wanted.

Daubrecq gave a chuckle:

“So that’s it.... I thought something was up.... Ah, the
telephone-trick: a little out of date, sir! I had not gone half-way
when I turned back.”

He pushed Lupin to the front of the box and, sitting down beside
the lady, said:

“And, now my lord, who are we? A servant at the police-office,
probably? There’s a professional look about that mug of yours.”

He stared hard at Lupin, who did not move a muscle, and tried to
put a name to the face, but failed to recognize the man whom he had
called Polonius.

Lupin, without taking his eyes from Daubrecq either, reflected.
He would not for anything in the world have thrown up the game at
that point or neglected this favourable opportunity of coming to an
understanding with his mortal enemy.

The woman sat in her corner, motionless, and watched them both.

Lupin said:

“Let us go outside, sir. That will make our interview easier.”

“No, my lord, here,” grinned the deputy. “It will take place here,
presently, during the entr’acte. Then we shall not be disturbing
anybody.”

“But....”

“Save your breath, my man; you sha’n’t budge.”

And he took Lupin by the coat-collar, with the obvious intention of
not letting go of him before the interval.

A rash move! Was it likely that Lupin would consent to remain in
such an attitude, especially before a woman, a woman to whom he had
offered his alliance, a woman--and he now thought of it for the
first time--who was distinctly good-looking and whose grave beauty
attracted him. His whole pride as a man rose at the thought.

However, he said nothing. He accepted the heavy weight of the
hand on his shoulder and even sat bent in two, as though beaten,
powerless, almost frightened.

“Eh, clever!” said the deputy, scoffingly. “We don’t seem to be
swaggering quite so much.”

The stage was full of actors who were arguing and making a noise.

Daubrecq had loosened his grasp slightly and Lupin felt that the
moment had come. With the edge of his hand, he gave him a violent
blow in the hollow of the arm, as he might have done with a hatchet.

The pain took Daubrecq off his guard. Lupin now released himself
entirely and sprang at the other to clutch him by the throat. But
Daubrecq had at once put himself on the defensive and stepped back
and their four hands seized one another.

They gripped with superhuman energy, the whole force of the two
adversaries concentrating in those hands. Daubrecq’s were of
monstrous size; and Lupin, caught in that iron vise, felt as though
he were fighting not with a man, but with some terrible beast, a
huge gorilla.

They held each other against the door, bending low, like a pair of
wrestlers groping and trying to lay hold of each other. Their bones
creaked. Whichever gave way first was bound to be caught by the
throat and strangled. And all this happened amid a sudden silence,
for the actors on the stage were now listening to one of their
number, who was speaking in a low voice.

The woman stood back flat against the partition, looking at them
in terror. Had she taken sides with either of them, with a single
movement, the victory would at once have been decided in that one’s
favour. But which of them should she assist? What could Lupin
represent in her eyes? A friend? An enemy?

She briskly made for the front of the box, forced back the screen
and, leaning forward, seemed to give a signal. Then she returned
and tried to slip to the door.

Lupin, as though wishing to help her, said:

“Why don’t you move the chair?”

He was speaking of a heavy chair which had fallen down between him
and Daubrecq and across which they were struggling.

The woman stooped and pulled away the chair. That was what Lupin
was waiting for. Once rid of the obstacle, he caught Daubrecq a
smart kick on the shin with the tip of his patent-leather boot.
The result was the same as with the blow which he had given him on
the arm. The pain caused a second’s apprehension and distraction,
of which he at once took advantage to beat down Daubrecq’s
outstretched hands and to dig his ten fingers into his adversary’s
throat and neck.

Daubrecq struggled. Daubrecq tried to pull away the hands that were
throttling him; but he was beginning to choke and felt his strength
decreasing.

“Aha, you old monkey!” growled Lupin, forcing him to the floor.
“Why don’t you shout for help? How frightened you must be of a
scandal!”

At the sound of the fall there came a knocking at the partition, on
the other side.

“Knock away, knock away,” said Lupin, under his breath. “The play
is on the stage. This is my business and, until I’ve mastered this
gorilla....”

It did not take him long. The deputy was choking. Lupin stunned him
with a blow on the jaw; and all that remained for him to do was to
take the woman away and make his escape with her before the alarm
was given.

But, when he turned round, he saw that the woman was gone.

She could not be far. Darting from the box, he set off at a run,
regardless of the programme-sellers and check-takers.

On reaching the entrance-lobby, he saw her through an open door,
crossing the pavement of the Chaussée d’Antin.

She was stepping into a motor-car when he came up with her.

The door closed behind her.

He seized the handle and tried to pull at it.

But a man jumped up inside and sent his fist flying into Lupin’s
face, with less skill but no less force than Lupin had sent his
into Daubrecq’s face.

Stunned though he was by the blow, he nevertheless had ample time
to recognize the man, in a sudden, startled vision, and also to
recognize, under his chauffeur’s disguise, the man who was driving
the car. It was the Growler and the Masher, the two men in charge
of the boats on the Enghien night, two friends of Gilbert and
Vaucheray: in short, two of Lupin’s own accomplices.

       *       *       *       *       *

When he reached his rooms in the Rue Chateaubriand, Lupin, after
washing the blood from his face, sat for over an hour in a chair,
as though overwhelmed. For the first time in his life he was
experiencing the pain of treachery. For the first time his comrades
in the fight were turning against their chief.

Mechanically, to divert his thoughts, he turned to his correspondence
and tore the wrapper from an evening paper. Among the late news he
found the following paragraphs:

  “THE VILLA MARIE-THERESE CASE”

    “The real identity of Vaucheray, one of the alleged murderers
    of Léonard the valet, has at last been ascertained. He is a
    miscreant of the worst type, a hardened criminal who has
    already twice been sentenced for murder, in default, under
    another name.

    “No doubt, the police will end by also discovering the
    real name of his accomplice, Gilbert. In any event, the
    examining-magistrate is determined to commit the prisoners
    for trial as soon as possible.

    “The public will have no reason to complain of the delays
    of the law.”

In between other newspapers and prospectuses lay a letter.

Lupin jumped when he saw it. It was addressed:

  “_Monsieur de Beaumont, Michel._”

“Oh,” he gasped, “a letter from Gilbert!”

It contained these few words:

    “Help, governor!... I am frightened. I am frightened....”

Once again, Lupin spent a night alternating between sleeplessness
and nightmares. Once again, he was tormented by atrocious and
terrifying visions.


[B] See _The Hollow Needle_ by Maurice Leblanc, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, and later volumes of the Lupin series.




CHAPTER IV.

THE CHIEF OF THE ENEMIES


“Poor boy!” murmured Lupin, when his eyes fell on Gilbert’s letter
next morning. “How he must feel it!”

On the very first day when he saw him, he had taken a liking to
that well-set-up youngster, so careless, gay and fond of life.
Gilbert was devoted to him, would have accepted death at a sign
from his master. And Lupin also loved his frankness, his good
humour, his simplicity, his bright, open face.

“Gilbert,” he often used to say, “you are an honest man. Do you
know, if I were you, I should chuck the business and become an
honest man for good.”

“After you, governor,” Gilbert would reply, with a laugh.

“Won’t you, though?”

“No, governor. An honest man is a chap who works and grinds. It’s a
taste which I may have had as a nipper; but they’ve made me lose it
since.”

“Who’s they?”

Gilbert was silent. He was always silent when questioned about his
early life; and all that Lupin knew was that he had been an orphan
since childhood and that he had lived all over the place, changing
his name and taking up the queerest jobs. The whole thing was a
mystery which no one had been able to fathom; and it did not look
as though the police would make much of it either.

Nor, on the other hand, did it look as though the police would
consider that mystery a reason for delaying proceedings. They would
send Vaucheray’s accomplice for trial--under his name of Gilbert or
any other name--and visit him with the same inevitable punishment.

“Poor boy!” repeated Lupin. “They’re persecuting him like this
only because of me. They are afraid of his escaping and they
are in a hurry to finish the business: the verdict first and
then . . . the execution.... Oh, the butchers!... A lad of twenty,
who has committed no murder, who is not even an accomplice in the
murder....”

Alas, Lupin well knew that this was a thing impossible to prove and
that he must concentrate his efforts upon another point. But upon
which? Was he to abandon the trail of the crystal stopper?

He could not make up his mind to that. His one and only diversion
from the search was to go to Enghien, where the Growler and the
Masher lived, and make sure that nothing had been seen of them
since the murder at the Villa Marie-Thérèse. Apart from this, he
applied himself to the question of Daubrecq and nothing else.

He refused even to trouble his head about the problems set before
him: the treachery of the Growler and the Masher; their connection
with the gray-haired lady; the spying of which he himself was the
object.

“Steady, Lupin,” he said. “One only argues falsely in a fever.
So hold your tongue. No inferences, above all things! Nothing is
more foolish than to infer one fact from another before finding
a certain starting-point. That’s where you get up a tree. Listen
to your instinct. Act according to your instinct. And as you are
persuaded, outside all argument, outside all logic, one might say,
that this business turns upon that confounded stopper, go for it
boldly. Have at Daubrecq and his bit of crystal!”

Lupin did not wait to arrive at these conclusions before settling
his actions accordingly. At the moment when he was stating them
in his mind, three days after the scene at the Vaudeville, he was
sitting, dressed like a retired tradesman, in an old overcoat, with
a muffler round his neck, on a bench in the Avenue Victor-Hugo,
at some distance from the Square Lamartine. Victoire had his
instructions to pass by that bench at the same hour every morning.

“Yes,” he repeated to himself, “the crystal stopper: everything
turns on that.... Once I get hold of it....”

Victoire arrived, with her shopping-basket on her arm. He at once
noticed her extraordinary agitation and pallor:

“What’s the matter?” asked Lupin, walking beside his old nurse.

She went into a big grocer’s, which was crowded with people, and,
turning to him:

“Here,” she said, in a voice torn with excitement. “Here’s what
you’ve been hunting for.”

And, taking something from her basket, she gave it to him.

Lupin stood astounded: in his hand lay the crystal stopper.

“Can it be true? Can it be true?” he muttered, as though the ease
of the solution had thrown him off his balance.

But the fact remained, visible and palpable. He recognized by its
shape, by its size, by the worn gilding of its facets, recognized
beyond any possible doubt the crystal stopper which he had seen
before. He even remarked a tiny, hardly noticeable little scratch
on the stem which he remembered perfectly.

However, while the thing presented all the same characteristics,
it possessed no other that seemed out of the way. It was a crystal
stopper, that was all. There was no really special mark to
distinguish it from other stoppers. There was no sign upon it, no
stamp; and, being cut from a single piece, it contained no foreign
object.

“What then?”

And Lupin received a quick insight into the depth of his mistake.
What good could the possession of that crystal stopper do him so
long as he was ignorant of its value? That bit of glass had no
existence in itself; it counted only through the meaning that
attached to it. Before taking it, the thing was to be certain. And
how could he tell that, in taking it, in robbing Daubrecq of it, he
was not committing an act of folly?

It was a question which was impossible of solution, but which
forced itself upon him with singular directness.

“No blunders!” he said to himself, as he pocketed the stopper. “In
this confounded business, blunders are fatal.”

He had not taken his eyes off Victoire. Accompanied by a shopman,
she went from counter to counter, among the throng of customers.
She next stood for some little while at the pay-desk and passed in
front of Lupin.

He whispered her instructions:

“Meet me behind the Lycée Janson.”

She joined him in an unfrequented street:

“And suppose I’m followed?” she said.

“No,” he declared. “I looked carefully. Listen to me. Where did you
find the stopper?”

“In the drawer of the table by his bed.”

“But we had felt there already.”

“Yes; and I did so again this morning. I expect he put it there
last night.”

“And I expect he’ll want to take it from there again,” said Lupin.

“Very likely.”

“And suppose he finds it gone?”

Victoire looked frightened.

“Answer me,” said Lupin. “If he finds it gone, he’ll accuse you of
taking it, won’t he?”

“Certainly.”

“Then go and put it back, as fast as you can.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she moaned. “I hope he won’t have had time to
find out. Give it to me, quick.”

“Here you are,” said Lupin.

He felt in the pocket of his overcoat.

“Well?” said Victoire, holding out her hand.

“Well,” he said, after a moment, “it’s gone.”

“What!”

“Yes, upon my word, it’s gone . . . somebody’s taken it from me.”

He burst into a peal of laughter, a laughter which, this time, was
free from all bitterness.

Victoire flew out at him:

“Laugh away!... Putting me in such a predicament!...”

“How can I help laughing? You must confess that it’s funny. It’s
no longer a tragedy that we’re acting, but a fairy-tale, as much a
fairy-tale as _Puss in Boots_ or _Jack and the Beanstalk_. I must
write it when I get a few weeks to myself: _The Magic Stopper; or,
The Mishaps of Poor Arsène._”

“Well . . . who has taken it from you?”

“What are you talking about?... It has flown away . . . vanished
from my pocket: hey presto, begone!”

He gave the old servant a gentle push and, in a more serious tone:

“Go home, Victoire, and don’t upset yourself. Of course, some one
saw you give me the stopper and took advantage of the crowd in the
shop to pick my pocket of it. That only shows that we are watched
more closely than I thought and by adversaries of the first rank.
But, once more, be easy. Honest men always come by their own....
Have you anything else to tell me?”

“Yes. Some one came yesterday evening, while M. Daubrecq was out. I
saw lights reflected upon the trees in the garden.”

“The portress’ bedroom?”

“The portress was up.”

“Then it was some of those detective-fellows; they are still
hunting. I’ll see you later, Victoire. You must let me in again.”

“What! You want to....”

“What do I risk? Your room is on the third floor. Daubrecq suspects
nothing.”

“But the others!”

“The others? If it was to their interest to play me a trick, they’d
have tried before now. I’m in their way, that’s all. They’re not
afraid of me. So till later, Victoire, at five o’clock exactly.”

One further surprise awaited Lupin. In the evening his old nurse
told him that, having opened the drawer of the bedside table from
curiosity, she had found the crystal stopper there again.

Lupin was no longer to be excited by these miraculous incidents. He
simply said to himself:

“So it’s been brought back. And the person who brought it back and
who enters this house by some unexplained means considered, as I
did, that the stopper ought not to disappear. And yet Daubrecq,
who knows that he is being spied upon to his very bedroom, has
once more left the stopper in a drawer, as though he attached no
importance to it at all! Now what is one to make of that?”

Though Lupin did not make anything of it, nevertheless he could
not escape certain arguments, certain associations of ideas that
gave him the same vague foretaste of light which one receives on
approaching the outlet of a tunnel.

“It is inevitable, as the case stands,” he thought, “that there
must soon be an encounter between myself and the others. From that
moment I shall be master of the situation.”

Five days passed, during which Lupin did not glean the slightest
particular. On the sixth day Daubrecq received a visit, in the
small hours, from a gentleman, Laybach the deputy, who, like his
colleagues, dragged himself at his feet in despair and, when all
was done, handed him twenty thousand francs.

Two more days; and then, one night, posted on the landing of the
second floor, Lupin heard the creaking of a door, the front-door,
as he perceived, which led from the hall into the garden. In the
darkness he distinguished, or rather divined, the presence of two
persons, who climbed the stairs and stopped on the first floor,
outside Daubrecq’s bedroom.

What were they doing there? It was not possible to enter the room,
because Daubrecq bolted his door every night. Then what were they
hoping?

Manifestly, a handiwork of some kind was being performed, as Lupin
discovered from the dull sounds of rubbing against the door. Then
words, uttered almost beneath a whisper, reached him:

“Is it all right?”

“Yes, quite, but, all the same, we’d better put it off till
to-morrow, because....”

Lupin did not hear the end of the sentence. The men were already
groping their way downstairs. The hall-door was closed, very
gently, and then the gate.

“It’s curious, say what one likes,” thought Lupin. “Here is a house
in which Daubrecq carefully conceals his rascalities and is on
his guard, not without good reason, against spies; and everybody
walks in and out as in a booth at a fair. Victoire lets me in,
the portress admits the emissaries of the police: that’s well and
good; but who is playing false in these people’s favour? Are we to
suppose that they are acting alone? But what fearlessness! And how
well they know their way about!”

In the afternoon, during Daubrecq’s absence, he examined the
door of the first-floor bedroom. And, at the first glance, he
understood: one of the lower panels had been skilfully cut out and
was only held in place by invisible tacks. The people, therefore,
who had done this work were the same who had acted at his two
places, in the Rue Matignon and the Rue Chateaubriand.

He also found that the work dated back to an earlier period and
that, as in his case, the opening had been prepared beforehand, in
anticipation of favourable circumstances or of some immediate need.

The day did not seem long to Lupin. Knowledge was at hand. Not only
would he discover the manner in which his adversaries employed
those little openings, which were apparently unemployable, since
they did not allow a person to reach the upper bolts, but he would
learn who the ingenious and energetic adversaries were with whom he
repeatedly and inevitably found himself confronted.

One incident annoyed him. In the evening Daubrecq, who had
complained of feeling tired at dinner, came home at ten o’clock
and, contrary to his usual custom, pushed the bolts of the
hall-door. In that case, how would the others be able to carry
out their plan and go to Daubrecq’s room? Lupin waited for an
hour after Daubrecq put out his light. Then he went down to the
deputy’s study, opened one of the windows ajar and returned to the
third floor and fixed his rope-ladder so that, in case of need, he
could reach the study without passing though the house. Lastly, he
resumed his post on the second-floor landing.

He did not have to wait long. An hour earlier than on the previous
night some one tried to open the hall-door. When the attempt
failed, a few minutes of absolute silence followed. And Lupin
was beginning to think that the men had abandoned the idea, when
he gave a sudden start. Some one had passed, without the least
sound to interrupt the silence. He would not have known it, so
utterly were the thing’s steps deadened by the stair-carpet, if the
baluster-rail, which he himself held in his hand, had not shaken
slightly. Some one was coming upstairs.

And, as the ascent continued, Lupin became aware of the uncanny
feeling that he heard nothing more than before. He knew, because of
the rail, that a thing was coming and he could count the number of
steps climbed by noting each vibration of the rail; but no other
indication gave him that dim sensation of presence which we feel in
distinguishing movements which we do not see, in perceiving sounds
which we do not hear. And yet a blacker darkness ought to have
taken shape within the darkness and something ought, at least, to
modify the quality of the silence. No, he might well have believed
that there was no one there.

And Lupin, in spite of himself and against the evidence of his
reason, ended by believing it, for the rail no longer moved and he
thought that he might have been the sport of an illusion.

And this lasted a long time. He hesitated, not knowing what to do,
not knowing what to suppose. But an odd circumstance impressed him.
A clock struck two. He recognized the chime of Daubrecq’s clock.
And the chime was that of a clock from which one is not separated
by the obstacle of a door.

Lupin slipped down the stairs and went to the door. It was closed,
but there was a space on the left, at the bottom, a space left by
the removal of the little panel.

He listened. Daubrecq, at that moment, turned in his bed; and his
breathing was resumed, evenly and a little stertorously. And Lupin
plainly heard the sound of rumpling garments. Beyond a doubt, the
thing was there, fumbling and feeling through the clothes which
Daubrecq had laid beside his bed.

“Now,” thought Lupin, “we shall learn something. But how the deuce
did the beggar get in? Has he managed to draw the bolts and open
the door? But, if so, why did he make the mistake of shutting it
again?”

Not for a second--a curious anomaly in a man like Lupin, an anomaly
to be explained only by the uncanny feeling which the whole
adventure produced in him--not for a second did he suspect the very
simple truth which was about to be revealed to him. Continuing his
way down, he crouched on one of the bottom steps of the staircase,
thus placing himself between the door of the bedroom and the
hall-door, on the road which Daubrecq’s enemy must inevitably take
in order to join his accomplices.

He questioned the darkness with an unspeakable anguish. He was on
the point of unmasking that enemy of Daubrecq’s, who was also his
own adversary. He would thwart his plans. And the booty captured
from Daubrecq he would capture in his turn, while Daubrecq slept
and while the accomplices lurking behind the hall-door or outside
the garden-gate vainly awaited their leader’s return.

And that return took place. Lupin knew it by the renewed vibration
of the balusters. And, once more, with every sense strained and
every nerve on edge, he strove to discern the mysterious thing
that was coming toward him. He suddenly realized it when only a
few yards away. He himself, hidden in a still darker recess, could
not be seen. And what he saw--in the very vaguest manner--was
approaching stair by stair, with infinite precautions, holding on
to each separate baluster.

“Whom the devil have I to do with?” said Lupin to himself, while
his heart thumped inside his chest.

The catastrophe was hastened. A careless movement on Lupin’s part
was observed by the stranger, who stopped short. Lupin was afraid
lest the other should turn back and take to flight. He sprang at
the adversary and was stupefied at encountering nothing but space
and knocking against the stair-rail without seizing the form which
he saw. But he at once rushed forward, crossed the best part of the
hall and caught up his antagonist just as he was reaching the door
opening on the garden.

There was a cry of fright, answered by other cries on the further
side of the door.

“Oh, hang it, what’s this?” muttered Lupin, whose arms had closed,
in the dark, round a little, tiny, trembling, whimpering thing.

Suddenly understanding, he stood for a moment motionless and
dismayed, at a loss what to do with his conquered prey. But the
others were shouting and stamping outside the door. Thereupon,
dreading lest Daubrecq should wake up, he slipped the little thing
under his jacket, against his chest, stopped the crying with his
handkerchief rolled into a ball and hurried up the three flights of
stairs.

[Illustration: “Here, I’ve brought you the indomitable chief of our
enemies. Have you a feeding bottle?”]

“Here,” he said to Victoire, who woke with a start. “I’ve brought
you the indomitable chief of our enemies, the Hercules of the gang.
Have you a feeding-bottle about you?”

He put down in the easy-chair a child of six or seven years of age,
the tiniest little fellow in a gray jersey and a knitted woollen
cap, whose pale and exquisitely pretty features were streaked with
the tears that streamed from the terrified eyes.

“Where did you pick that up?” asked Victoire, aghast.

“At the foot of the stairs, as it was coming out of Daubrecq’s
bedroom,” replied Lupin, feeling the jersey in the hope that the
child had brought a booty of some kind from that room.

Victoire was stirred to pity:

“Poor little dear! Look, he’s trying not to cry!... Oh, saints
above, his hands are like ice! Don’t be afraid, sonnie, we sha’n’t
hurt you: the gentleman’s all right.”

“Yes,” said Lupin, “the gentleman’s quite all right, but there’s
another very wicked gentleman who’ll wake up if they go on making
such a rumpus outside the hall-door. Do you hear them, Victoire?”

“Who is it?”

“The satellites of our young Hercules, the indomitable leader’s
gang.”

“Well...?” stammered Victoire, utterly unnerved.

“Well, as I don’t want to be caught in the trap, I shall start by
clearing out. Are you coming, Hercules?”

He rolled the child in a blanket, so that only its head remained
outside, gagged its mouth as gently as possible and made Victoire
fasten it to his shoulders:

“See, Hercules? We’re having a game. You never thought you’d find
gentlemen to play pick-a-back with you at three o’clock in the
morning! Come, whoosh, let’s fly away! You don’t get giddy, I hope?”

He stepped across the window-ledge and set foot on one of the rungs
of the ladder. He was in the garden in a minute.

He had never ceased hearing and now heard more plainly still the
blows that were being struck upon the front-door. He was astounded
that Daubrecq was not awakened by so violent a din:

“If I don’t put a stop to this, they’ll spoil everything,” he said
to himself.

He stood in an angle of the house, invisible in the darkness, and
measured the distance between himself and the gate. The gate was
open. To his right, he saw the steps, on the top of which the
people were flinging themselves about; to his left, the building
occupied by the portress.

The woman had come out of her lodge and was standing near the
people, entreating them:

“Oh, do be quiet, do be quiet! He’ll come!”

“Capital!” said Lupin. “The good woman is an accomplice of these as
well. By Jingo, what a pluralist!”

He rushed across to her and, taking her by the scruff of the neck,
hissed:

“Go and tell them I’ve got the child.... They can come and fetch it
at my place, Rue Chateaubriand.”

A little way off, in the avenue, stood a taxi which Lupin presumed
to be engaged by the gang. Speaking authoritatively, as though he
were one of the accomplices, he stepped into the cab and told the
man to drive him home.

“Well,” he said to the child, “that wasn’t much of a shake-up, was
it?... What do you say to going to bye-bye on the gentleman’s bed?”

As his servant, Achille, was asleep, Lupin made the little chap
comfortable and stroked his hair for him. The child seemed numbed.
His poor face was as though petrified into a stiff expression made
up, at one and the same time, of fear and the wish not to show
fear, of the longing to scream and a pitiful effort not to scream.

“Cry, my pet, cry,” said Lupin. “It’ll do you good to cry.”

The child did not cry, but the voice was so gentle and so kind that
he relaxed his tense muscles; and, now that his eyes were calmer
and his mouth less contorted, Lupin, who was examining him closely,
found something that he recognized, an undoubted resemblance.

This again confirmed certain facts which he suspected and which he
had for some time been linking in his mind. Indeed, unless he was
mistaken, the position was becoming very different and he would
soon assume the direction of events. After that....

A ring at the bell followed, at once, by two others, sharp ones.

“Hullo!” said Lupin to the child. “Here’s mummy come to fetch you.
Don’t move.”

He ran and opened the door.

A woman entered, wildly:

“My son!” she screamed. “My son! Where is he?”

“In my room,” said Lupin.

Without asking more, thus proving that she knew the way, she rushed
to the bedroom.

“As I thought,” muttered Lupin. “The youngish woman with the gray
hair: Daubrecq’s friend and enemy.”

He walked to the window and looked through the curtains. Two men
were striding up and down the opposite pavement: the Growler and
the Masher.

“And they’re not even hiding themselves,” he said to himself.
“That’s a good sign. They consider that they can’t do without me
any longer and that they’ve got to obey the governor. There remains
the pretty lady with the gray hair. That will be more difficult.
It’s you and I now, mummy.”

He found the mother and the boy clasped in each other’s arms; and
the mother, in a great state of alarm, her eyes moist with tears,
was saying:

“You’re not hurt? You’re sure? Oh, how frightened you must have
been, my poor little Jacques!”

“A fine little fellow,” said Lupin.

She did not reply. She was feeling the child’s jersey, as Lupin had
done, no doubt to see if he had succeeded in his nocturnal mission;
and she questioned him in a whisper.

“No, mummy,” said the child. “No, really.”

She kissed him fondly and petted him, until, in a little while,
the child, worn out with fatigue and excitement, fell asleep. She
remained leaning over him for a long time. She herself seemed very
much worn out and in need of rest.

Lupin did not disturb her contemplation. He looked at her
anxiously, with an attention which she did not perceive, and he
noticed the wider rings round her eyes and the deeper marks of
wrinkles. Yet he considered her handsomer than he had thought, with
that touching beauty which habitual suffering gives to certain
faces that are more human, more sensitive than others.

She wore so sad an expression that, in a burst of instinctive
sympathy, he went up to her and said: “I do not know what your
plans are, but, whatever they may be, you stand in need of help.
You cannot succeed alone.”

“I am not alone.”

“The two men outside? I know them. They’re no good. I beseech you,
make use of me. You remember the other evening, at the theatre, in
the private box? You were on the point of speaking. Do not hesitate
to-day.”

She turned her eyes on him, looked at him long and fixedly and, as
though unable to escape that opposing will, she said:

“What do you know exactly? What do you know about me?”

“There are many things that I do not know. I do not know your name.
But I know....”

She interrupted him with a gesture; and, resolutely, in her turn,
dominating the man who was compelling her to speak:

“It doesn’t matter,” she exclaimed. “What you know, after all,
is not much and is of no importance. But what are your plans?
You offer me your help: with what view? For what work? You have
flung yourself headlong into this business; I have been unable to
undertake anything without meeting you on my path: you must be
contemplating some aim.... What aim?”

“What aim? Upon my word, it seems to me that my conduct....”

“No, no,” she said, emphatically, “no phrases! What you and I want
is certainties; and, to achieve them, absolute frankness. I will
set you the example. M. Daubrecq possesses a thing of unparalleled
value, not in itself, but for what it represents. That thing you
know. You have twice held it in your hands. I have twice taken
it from you. Well, I am entitled to believe that, when you tried
to obtain possession of it, you meant to use the power which you
attribute to it and to use it to your own advantage....”

“What makes you say that?”

“Yes, you meant to use it to forward your schemes, in the interest
of your own affairs, in accordance with your habits as a....”

“As a burglar and a swindler,” said Lupin, completing the sentence
for her.

She did not protest. He tried to read her secret thoughts in the
depths of her eyes. What did she want with him? What was she afraid
of? If she mistrusted him, had he not also reasons to mistrust
that woman who had twice taken the crystal stopper from him to
restore it to Daubrecq? Mortal enemy of Daubrecq’s though she were,
up to what point did she remain subject to that man’s will? By
surrendering himself to her, did he not risk surrendering himself
to Daubrecq? And yet he had never looked upon graver eyes nor a
more honest face.

Without further hesitation, he stated:

“My object is simple enough. It is the release of my friends
Gilbert and Vaucheray.”

“Is that true? Is that true?” she exclaimed, quivering all over and
questioning him with an anxious glance.

“If you knew me....”

“I do know you.... I know who you are. For months, I have taken
part in your life, without your suspecting it . . . and yet, for
certain reasons, I still doubt....”

He said, in a more decisive tone:

“You do not know me. If you knew me, you would know that there can
be no peace for me before my two companions have escaped the awful
fate that awaits them.”

She rushed at him, took him by the shoulders and positively
distraught, said:

“What? What did you say? The awful fate?... Then you believe . . .
you believe....”

“I really believe,” said Lupin, who felt how greatly this threat
upset her, “I really believe that, if I am not in time, Gilbert and
Vaucheray are done for.”

[Illustration: “Be quiet!... Be quiet!” she cried, clutching him
fiercely. “You mustn’t say that.”]

“Be quiet!... Be quiet!” she cried, clutching him fiercely. “Be
quiet!... You mustn’t say that.... There is no reason.... It’s just
you who suppose....”

“It’s not only I, it’s Gilbert as well....”

“What? Gilbert? How do you know?”

“From himself?”

“From him?”

“Yes, from Gilbert, who has no hope left but in me; from Gilbert,
who knows that only one man in the world can save him and who, a
few days ago, sent me a despairing appeal from prison. Here is his
letter.”

She snatched the paper greedily and read in stammering accents:

    “Help, governor!... I am frightened!... I am frightened!...”

She dropped the letter. Her hands fluttered in space. It was as
though her staring eyes beheld the sinister vision which had
already so often terrified Lupin. She gave a scream of horror,
tried to rise and fainted.




CHAPTER V.

THE TWENTY-SEVEN


The child was sleeping peacefully on the bed. The mother did not
move from the sofa on which Lupin had laid her; but her easier
breathing and the blood which was now returning to her face
announced her impending recovery from her swoon.

He observed that she wore a wedding-ring. Seeing a locket hanging
from her bodice, he stooped and, turning it, found a miniature
photograph representing a man of about forty and a lad--a stripling
rather--in a schoolboy’s uniform. He studied the fresh, young face
set in curly hair:

“It’s as I thought,” he said. “Ah, poor woman!”

The hand which he took between his grew warmer by degrees. The eyes
opened, then closed again. She murmured:

“Jacques....”

“Do not distress yourself . . . it’s all right he’s asleep.”

She recovered consciousness entirely. But, as she did not speak,
Lupin put questions to her, to make her feel a gradual need of
unbosoming herself. And he said, pointing to the locket:

“The schoolboy is Gilbert, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And Gilbert is your son?”

She gave a shiver and whispered:

“Yes, Gilbert is my son, my eldest son.”

So she was the mother of Gilbert, of Gilbert the prisoner at the
Santé, relentlessly pursued by the authorities and now awaiting his
trial for murder!

Lupin continued:

“And the other portrait?”

“My husband.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes, he died three years ago.”

She was now sitting up. Life quivered in her veins once more,
together with the horror of living and the horror of all the
ghastly things that threatened her. Lupin went on to ask:

“What was your husband’s name?”

She hesitated a moment and answered:

“Mergy.”

He exclaimed:

“Victorien Mergy the deputy?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. Lupin remembered the incident and the stir
which it had caused. Three years ago, Mergy the deputy had blown
out his brains in the lobby of the Chamber, without leaving a word
of explanation behind him; and no one had ever discovered the
slightest reason for that suicide.

“Do you know the reason?” asked Lupin, completing his thought aloud.

“Yes, I know it.”

“Gilbert, perhaps?”

“No, Gilbert had disappeared for some years, turned out of doors
and cursed by my husband. It was a very great sorrow, but there was
another motive.”

“What was that?” asked Lupin.

But it was not necessary for Lupin to put further questions. Madame
Mergy could keep silent no longer and, slowly at first, with all
the anguish of that past which had to be called up, she told her
story:

“Twenty-five years ago, when my name was Clarisse Darcel and my
parents living, I knew three young men at Nice. Their names will
at once give you an insight into the present tragedy: they were
Alexis Daubrecq, Victorien Mergy and Louis Prasville. The three
were old acquaintances, had gone to college in the same year and
served in the same regiment. Prasville, at that time, was in love
with a singer at the opera-house at Nice. The two others, Mergy and
Daubrecq, were in love with me. I shall be brief as regards all
this and, for the rest, as regards the whole story, for the facts
tell their own tale. I fell in love with Victorien Mergy from the
first. Perhaps I was wrong not to declare myself at once. But true
love is always timid, hesitating and shy; and I did not announce my
choice until I felt quite certain and quite free. Unfortunately,
that period of waiting, so delightful for those who cherish a
secret passion, had permitted Daubrecq to hope. His anger was
something horrible.”

Clarisse Mergy stopped for a few seconds and resumed, in a stifled
voice:

“I shall never forget it.... The three of us were in the
drawing-room. Oh, I can hear even now the terrible words of threat
and hatred which he uttered! Victorien was absolutely astounded.
He had never seen his friend like this, with that repugnant face,
that bestial expression: yes, the expression of a wild beast....
Daubrecq ground his teeth. He stamped his feet. His bloodshot
eyes--he did not wear spectacles in those days--rolled in their
sockets; and he kept on saying, ‘I shall be revenged.... I shall be
revenged.... Oh, you don’t know what I am capable of!... I shall
wait ten years, twenty years, if necessary.... But it will come
like a thunderbolt.... Ah, you don’t know!... To be revenged....
To do harm . . . for harm’s sake... what joy! I was born to do
harm.... And you will both beseech my mercy on your knees, on your
knees, yes, on your knees....’ At that moment, my father entered
the room; and, with his assistance and the footman’s, Victorien
Mergy flung the loathsome creature out of doors. Six weeks later, I
married Victorien.”

“And Daubrecq?” asked Lupin, interrupting her. “Did he not try....”

“No, but on our wedding-day, Louis Prasville, who acted as my
husband’s best man in defiance of Daubrecq’s opposition, went home
to find the girl he loved, the opera-singer, dead, strangled....”

“What!” said Lupin, with a start. “Had Daubrecq....”

“It was known that Daubrecq had been persecuting her with his
attentions for some days; but nothing more was known. It was
impossible to discover who had gone in or out during Prasville’s
absence. There was not a trace found of any kind: nothing,
absolutely nothing.”

“But Prasville....”

“There was no doubt of the truth in Prasville’s mind or ours.
Daubrecq had tried to run away with the girl, perhaps tried to
force her, to hustle her and, in the course of the struggle,
maddened, losing his head, caught her by the throat and killed
her, perhaps without knowing what he was doing. But there was no
evidence of all this; and Daubrecq was not even molested.”

“And what became of him next?”

“For some years we heard nothing of him. We knew only that he had
lost all his money gambling and that he was travelling in America.
And, in spite of myself, I forgot his anger and his threats and
was only too ready to believe that he had ceased to love me and no
longer harboured his schemes of revenge. Besides, I was so happy
that I did not care to think of anything but my happiness, my love,
my husband’s political career, the health of my son Antoine.”

“Antoine?”

“Yes, Antoine is Gilbert’s real name. The unhappy boy has at least
succeeded in concealing his identity.”

Lupin asked, with some hesitation:

“At what period did . . . Gilbert . . . begin?”

“I cannot tell you exactly. Gilbert--I prefer to call him that and
not to pronounce his real name--Gilbert, as a child, was what he is
to-day: lovable, liked by everybody, charming, but lazy and unruly.
When he was fifteen, we put him to a boarding-school in one of the
suburbs, with the deliberate object of not having him too much at
home. After two years’ time he was expelled from school and sent
back to us.”

“Why?”

“Because of his conduct. The masters had discovered that he used to
slip out at night and also that he would disappear for weeks at a
time, while pretending to be at home with us.”

“What used he to do?”

“Amuse himself backing horses, spending his time in cafés and
public dancing-rooms.”

“Then he had money?”

“Yes.”

“Who gave it him?”

“His evil genius, the man who, secretly, unknown to his parents,
enticed him away from school, the man who led him astray, who
corrupted him, who took him from us, who taught him to lie, to
waste his substance and to steal.”

“Daubrecq?”

“Daubrecq.”

Clarisse Mergy put her hands together to hide the blushes on her
forehead. She continued, in her tired voice:

“Daubrecq had taken his revenge. On the day after my husband turned
our unhappy child out of the house, Daubrecq sent us a most cynical
letter in which he revealed the odious part which he had played
and the machinations by which he had succeeded in depraving our
son. And he went on to say, ‘The reformatory, one of these days....
Later on, the assize-court.... And then, let us hope and trust, the
scaffold!’”

Lupin exclaimed:

“What! Did Daubrecq plot the present business?”

“No, no, that is only an accident. The hateful prophecy was
just a wish which he expressed. But oh, how it terrified me! I
was ailing at the time; my other son, my little Jacques, had
just been born. And every day we heard of some fresh misdeed of
Gilbert’s--forgeries, swindles--so much so that we spread the
news, in our immediate surroundings, of his departure for abroad,
followed by his death. Life was a misery; and it became still more
so when the political storm burst in which my husband was to meet
his death.”

“What do you mean?”

“A word will be enough: my husband’s name was on the list of the
Twenty-seven.”

“Ah!”

The veil was suddenly lifted from Lupin’s eyes and he saw, as in a
flash of lightning, a whole legion of things which, until then, had
been hidden in the darkness.

Clarisse Mergy continued, in a firmer voice:

“Yes, his name was on it, but by mistake, by a piece of incredible
ill-luck of which he was the victim. It is true that Victorien
Mergy was a member of the committee appointed to consider the
question of the Two-Seas Canal. It is true that he voted with the
members who were in favour of the company’s scheme. He was even
paid--yes, I tell you so plainly and I will mention the sum--he
was paid fifteen thousand francs. But he was paid on behalf of
another, of one of his political friends, a man in whom he had
absolute confidence and of whom he was the blind, unconscious tool.
He thought he was showing his friend a kindness; and it proved his
own undoing. It was not until the day after the suicide of the
chairman of the company and the disappearance of the secretary,
the day on which the affair of the canal was published in the
papers, with its whole series of swindles and abominations, that my
husband knew that a number of his fellow-members had been bribed
and learnt that the mysterious list, of which people suddenly began
to speak, mentioned his name with theirs and with the names of
other deputies, leaders of parties and influential politicians. Oh,
what awful days those were! Would the list be published? Would his
name come out? The torture of it! You remember the mad excitement
in the Chamber, the atmosphere of terror and denunciation that
prevailed. Who owned the list? Nobody could say. It was known to
be in existence and that was all. Two names were sacrificed to
public odium. Two men were swept away by the storm. And it remained
unknown where the denunciation came from and in whose hands the
incriminating documents were.”

“Daubrecq,” suggested Lupin.

“No, no!” cried Madame Mergy. “Daubrecq was nothing at that time:
he had not yet appeared upon the scene. No, don’t you remember,
the truth came out suddenly through the very man who was keeping
it back: Germineaux, the ex-minister of justice, a cousin of the
chairman of the Canal Company. As he lay dying of consumption,
he wrote from his sick-bed to the prefect of police, bequeathing
him that list of names, which, he said, would be found, after his
death, in an iron chest in the corner of his room. The house was
surrounded by police and the prefect took up his quarters by the
sick man’s bedside. Germineaux died. The chest was opened and found
to be empty.”

“Daubrecq, this time,” Lupin declared.

“Yes, Daubrecq,” said Madame Mergy, whose excitement was
momentarily increasing. “Alexis Daubrecq, who, for six months,
disguised beyond recognition, had acted as Germineaux’s secretary.
It does not matter how he discovered that Germineaux was the
possessor of the paper in question. The fact remains that he broke
open the chest on the night before the death. So much was proved at
the inquiry; and Daubrecq’s identity was established.”

“But he was not arrested?”

“What would have been the use? They knew well enough that he must
have deposited the list in a place of safety. His arrest would have
involved a scandal, the reopening of the whole case....”

“So....”

“So they made terms.”

Lupin laughed:

“That’s funny, making terms with Daubrecq!”

“Yes, very funny,” said Madame Mergy, bitterly. “During this time
he acted and without delay, shamelessly, making straight for the
goal. A week after the theft, he went to the Chamber of Deputies,
asked for my husband and bluntly demanded thirty thousand francs of
him, to be paid within twenty-four hours. If not, he threatened him
with exposure and disgrace. My husband knew the man he was dealing
with, knew him to be implacable and filled with relentless hatred.
He lost his head and shot himself.”

“How absurd!” Lupin could not help saying. “How absurd! Daubrecq
possesses a list of twenty-seven names. To give up any one of those
names he is obliged, if he would have his accusation believed, to
publish the list itself--that is to say, to part with the document,
or at least a photograph of it. Well, in so doing, he creates a
scandal, it is true, but he deprives himself, at the same time, of
all further means of levying blackmail.”

“Yes and no,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Through Daubrecq himself. The villain came to see me and cynically
told me of his interview with my husband and the words that had
passed between them. Well, there is more than that list, more
than that famous bit of paper on which the secretary put down the
names and the amounts paid and to which, you will remember, the
chairman of the company, before dying, affixed his signature in
letters of blood. There is more than that. There are certain less
positive proofs, which the people interested do not know of: the
correspondence between the chairman and the secretary, between the
chairman and his counsel, and so on. Of course, the list scribbled
on the bit of paper is the only evidence that counts; it is the
one incontestable proof which it would be no good copying or even
photographing, for its genuineness can be tested most absolutely.
But, all the same, the other proofs are dangerous. They have
already been enough to do away with two deputies. And Daubrecq is
marvelously clever at turning this fact to account. He selects his
victim, frightens him out of his senses, points out to him the
inevitable scandal; and the victim pays the required sum. Or else
he kills himself, as my husband did. Do you understand now?”

“Yes,” said Lupin.

And, in the silence that followed, he drew a mental picture of
Daubrecq’s life. He saw him the owner of that list, using his
power, gradually emerging from the shadow, lavishly squandering the
money which he extorted from his victims, securing his election as
a district-councillor and deputy, holding sway by dint of threats
and terror, unpunished, invulnerable, unattackable, feared by the
government, which would rather submit to his orders than declare
war upon him, respected by the judicial authorities: so powerful,
in a word, that Prasville had been appointed secretary-general of
police, over the heads of all who had prior claims, for the sole
reason that he hated Daubrecq with a personal hatred.

“And you saw him again?” he asked.

“I saw him again. I had to. My husband was dead, but his honour
remained untouched. Nobody suspected the truth. In order at least
to defend the name which he left me, I accepted my first interview
with Daubrecq.”

“Your first, yes, for there have been others.”

“Many others,” she said, in a strained voice, “yes, many
others . . . at the theatre . . . or in the evening, at
Enghien . . . or else in Paris, at night . . . for I was ashamed to
meet that man and I did not want people to know it.... But it was
necessary.... A duty more imperative than any other commanded it:
the duty of avenging my husband....”

She bent over Lupin and, eagerly:

“Yes, revenge has been the motive of my conduct and the sole
preoccupation of my life. To avenge my husband, to avenge my ruined
son, to avenge myself for all the harm that he has done me: I had
no other dream, no other object in life. That is what I wanted: to
see that man crushed, reduced to poverty, to tears--as though he
still knew how to cry!--sobbing in the throes of despair....”

“You wanted his death,” said Lupin, remembering the scene between
them in Daubrecq’s study.

“No, not his death. I have often thought of it, I have even raised
my arm to strike him, but what would have been the good? He must
have taken his precautions. The paper would remain. And then there
is no revenge in killing a man.... My hatred went further than
that.... It demanded his ruin, his downfall; and, to achieve that,
there was but one way: to cut his claws. Daubrecq, deprived of
the document that gives him his immense power, ceases to exist.
It means immediate bankruptcy and disaster . . . under the most
wretched conditions. That is what I have sought.”

“But Daubrecq must have been aware of your intentions?”

“Certainly. And, I assure you, those were strange meetings of ours:
I watching him closely, trying to guess his secret behind his
actions and his words, and he . . . he....”

“And he,” said Lupin, finishing Clarisse’s thought, “lying in wait
for the prey which he desires . . . for the woman whom he has never
ceased to love . . . whom he loves . . . and whom he covets with
all his might and with all his furious passion....”

She lowered her head and said, simply:

“Yes.”

A strange duel indeed was that which brought face to face those
two beings separated by so many implacable things! How unbridled
must Daubrecq’s passion be for him to risk that perpetual threat of
death and to introduce to the privacy of his house this woman whose
life he had shattered! But also how absolutely safe he must feel
himself!

“And your search ended . . . how?” asked Lupin.

“My search,” she replied, “long remained without fruit. You know
the methods of investigation which you have followed and which the
police have followed on their side. Well, I myself employed them,
years before either of you did, and in vain. I was beginning to
despair. Then, one day, when I had gone to see Daubrecq in his
villa at Enghien, I picked up under his writing-table a letter
which he had begun to write, crumpled up and thrown into the
waste-paper-basket. It consisted of a few lines in bad English;
and I was able to read this: ‘Empty the crystal within, so as to
leave a void which it is impossible to suspect.’ Perhaps I should
not have attached to this sentence all the importance which it
deserved, if Daubrecq, who was out in the garden, had not come
running in and begun to turn out the waste-paper-basket, with an
eagerness which was very significant. He gave me a suspicious look:
‘There was a letter there,’ he said. I pretended not to understand.
He did not insist, but his agitation did not escape me; and I
continued my quest in this direction. A month later, I discovered,
among the ashes in the drawing-room fireplace, the torn half of an
English invoice. I gathered that a Stourbridge glass-blower, of the
name of John Howard, had supplied Daubrecq with a crystal bottle
made after a model. The word ‘crystal’ struck me at once. I went to
Stourbridge, got round the foreman of the glass-works and learnt
that the stopper of this bottle had been hollowed out inside, in
accordance with the instruction in the order, so as to leave a
cavity, the existence of which would escape observation.”

Lupin nodded his head:

“The thing tallies beyond a doubt. Nevertheless, it did not seem to
me, that, even under the gilt layer.... And then the hiding-place
would be very tiny!”

“Tiny, but large enough,” she said. “On my return from England,
I went to the police-office to see Prasville, whose friendship
for me had remained unchanged. I did not hesitate to tell him,
first, the reasons which had driven my husband to suicide and,
secondly, the object of revenge which I was pursuing. When I
informed him of my discoveries, he jumped for joy; and I felt
that his hatred for Daubrecq was as strong as ever. I learnt
from him that the list was written on a slip of exceedingly thin
foreign-post-paper, which, when rolled up into a sort of pellet,
would easily fit into an exceedingly limited space. Neither he nor
I had the least hesitation. We knew the hiding-place. We agreed to
act independently of each other, while continuing to correspond
in secret. I put him in touch with Clémence, the portress in the
Square Lamartine, who was entirely devoted to me....”

“But less so to Prasville,” said Lupin, “for I can prove that she
betrays him.”

“Now perhaps, but not at the start; and the police searches were
numerous. It was at that time, ten months ago, that Gilbert came
into my life again. A mother never loses her love for her son,
whatever he may do, whatever he may have done. And then Gilbert has
such a way with him . . . well, you know him. He cried, kissed my
little Jacques, his brother and I forgave him.”

She stopped and, weary-voiced, with her eyes fixed on the floor,
continued:

“Would to Heaven that I had not forgiven him! Ah, if that hour
could but return, how readily I should find the horrible courage
to turn him away! My poor child . . . it was I who ruined him!...”
And, pensively, “I should have had that or any sort of courage, if
he had been as I pictured him to myself and as he himself told me
that he had long been: bearing the marks of vice and dissipation,
coarse, deteriorated.... But, though he was utterly changed in
appearance, so much so that I could hardly recognize him, there
was, from the point of view of--how shall I put it?--from the moral
point of view, an undoubted improvement. You had helped him, lifted
him; and, though his mode of life was hateful to me, nevertheless
he retained a certain self-respect . . . a sort of underlying
decency that showed itself on the surface once more.... He was gay,
careless, happy.... And he used to talk of you with such affection!”

She picked her words, betraying her embarrassment, not daring, in
Lupin’s presence, to condemn the line of life which Gilbert had
selected and yet unable to speak in favour of it.

“What happened next?” asked Lupin.

“I saw him very often. He would come to me by stealth, or else I
went to him and we would go for walks in the country. In this way,
I was gradually induced to tell him our story, of his father’s
suicide and the object which I was pursuing. He at once took fire.
He too wanted to avenge his father and, by stealing the crystal
stopper, to avenge himself on Daubrecq for the harm which he had
done him. His first idea--from which, I am bound to tell you, he
never swerved--was to arrange with you.”

“Well, then,” cried Lupin, “he ought to have....!”

“Yes, I know . . . and I was of the same opinion. Unfortunately, my
poor Gilbert--you know how weak he is!--was under the influence of
one of his comrades.”

“Vaucheray?”

“Yes, Vaucheray, a saturnine spirit, full of bitterness and envy,
an ambitious, unscrupulous, gloomy, crafty man, who had acquired a
great empire over my son. Gilbert made the mistake of confiding in
him and asking his advice. That was the origin of all the mischief.
Vaucheray convinced him and convinced me as well that it would be
better if we acted by ourselves. He studied the business, took
the lead and finally organized the Enghien expedition and, under
your direction, the burglary at the Villa Marie-Thérèse, which
Prasville and his detectives had been unable to search thoroughly,
because of the active watch maintained by Léonard the valet. It was
a mad scheme. We ought either to have trusted in your experience
entirely, or else to have left you out altogether, taking the risk
of fatal mistakes and dangerous hesitations. But we could not help
ourselves. Vaucheray ruled us. I agreed to meet Daubrecq at the
theatre. During this time the thing took place. When I came home,
at twelve o’clock at night, I heard the terrible result: Léonard
murdered, my son arrested. I at once received an intuition of the
future. Daubrecq’s appalling prophecy was being realized: it meant
trial and sentence. And this through my fault, through the fault of
me, the mother, who had driven my son toward the abyss from which
nothing could extricate him now.”

Clarisse wrung her hands and shivered from head to foot. What
suffering can compare with that of a mother trembling for the head
of her son? Stirred with pity, Lupin said:

“We shall save him. Of that there is not the shadow of a doubt.
But, it is necessary that I should know all the details. Finish
your story, please. How did you know, on the same night, what had
happened at Enghien?”

She mastered herself and, with a face wrung with fevered anguish,
replied:

“Through two of your accomplices, or rather two accomplices of
Vaucheray, to whom they were wholly devoted and who had chosen them
to row the boats.”

“The two men outside: the Growler and the Masher?”

“Yes. On your return from the villa, when you landed after being
pursued on the lake by the commissary of police, you said a few
words to them, by way of explanation, as you went to your car. Mad
with fright, they rushed to my place, where they had been before,
and told me the hideous news. Gilbert was in prison! Oh, what
an awful night! What was I to do? Look for you? Certainly; and
implore your assistance. But where was I to find you?... It was
then that the two whom you call the Growler and the Masher, driven
into a corner by circumstances, decided to tell me of the part
played by Vaucheray, his ambitions, his plan, which had long been
ripening....”

“To get rid of me, I suppose?” said Lupin, with a grin.

“Yes. As Gilbert possessed your complete confidence, Vaucheray
watched him and, in this way, got to know all the places which you
live at. A few days more and, owning the crystal stopper, holding
the list of the Twenty-seven, inheriting all Daubrecq’s power, he
would have delivered you to the police, without compromising a
single member of your gang, which he looked upon as thenceforth his.”

“The ass!” muttered Lupin. “A muddler like that!” And he added, “So
the panels of the doors....”

“Were cut out by his instructions, in anticipation of the contest
on which he was embarking against you and against Daubrecq, at
whose house he did the same thing. He had under his orders a
sort of acrobat, an extraordinarily thin dwarf, who was able to
wriggle through those apertures and who thus detected all your
correspondence and all your secrets. That is what his two friends
revealed to me. I at once conceived the idea of saving my elder son
by making use of his brother, my little Jacques, who is himself
so slight and so intelligent, so plucky, as you have seen. We set
out that night. Acting on the information of my companions, I went
to Gilbert’s rooms and found the keys of your flat in the Rue
Matignon, where it appeared that you were to sleep. Unfortunately,
I changed my mind on the way and thought much less of asking for
your help than of recovering the crystal stopper, which, if it had
been discovered at Enghien, must obviously be at your flat. I was
right in my calculations. In a few minutes, my little Jacques,
who had slipped into your bedroom, brought it to me. I went away
quivering with hope. Mistress in my turn of the talisman, keeping
it to myself, without telling Prasville, I had absolute power over
Daubrecq. I could make him do all that I wanted; he would become
the slave of my will and, instructed by me, would take every step
in Gilbert’s favour and obtain that he should be given the means of
escape or else that he should not be sentenced. It meant my boy’s
safety.”

“Well?”

Clarisse rose from her seat, with a passionate movement of her
whole being, leant over Lupin and said, in a hollow voice:

“There was nothing in that piece of crystal, nothing, do you
understand? No paper, no hiding-place! The whole expedition to
Enghien was futile! The murder of Léonard was useless! The arrest
of my son was useless! All my efforts were useless!”

“But why? Why?”

“Why? Because what you stole from Daubrecq was not the stopper made
by his instructions, but the stopper which was sent to John Howard,
the Stourbridge glassworker, to serve as a model.”

If Lupin had not been in the presence of so deep a grief, he could
not have refrained from one of those satirical outbursts with which
the mischievous tricks of fate are wont to inspire him. As it was,
he muttered between his teeth:

“How stupid! And still more stupid as Daubrecq had been given the
warning.”

“No,” she said. “I went to Enghien on the same day. In all that
business Daubrecq saw and sees nothing but an ordinary burglary, an
annexation of his treasures. The fact that you took part in it put
him off the scent.”

“Still, the disappearance of the stopper....”

“To begin with, the thing can have had but a secondary importance
for him, as it is only the model.”

“How do you know?”

“There is a scratch at the bottom of the stem; and I have made
inquiries in England since.”

“Very well; but why did the key of the cupboard from which it was
stolen never leave the man-servant’s possession? And why, in the
second place, was it found afterward in the drawer of a table in
Daubrecq’s house in Paris?”

“Of course, Daubrecq takes care of it and clings to it in the way
in which one clings to the model of any valuable thing. And that is
why I replaced the stopper in the cupboard before its absence was
noticed. And that also is why, on the second occasion, I made my
little Jacques take the stopper from your overcoat-pocket and told
the portress to put it back in the drawer.”

“Then he suspects nothing?”

“Nothing. He knows that the list is being looked for, but he does
not know that Prasville and I are aware of the thing in which he
hides it.”

Lupin had risen from his seat and was walking up and down the room,
thinking. Then he stood still beside Clarisse and asked:

“When all is said, since the Enghien incident, you have not
advanced a single step?”

“Not one. I have acted from day to day, led by those two men or
leading them, without any definite plan.”

“Or, at least,” he said, “without any other plan than that of
getting the list of the Twenty-seven from Daubrecq.”

“Yes, but how? Besides, your tactics made things more difficult for
me. It did not take us long to recognize your old servant Victoire
in Daubrecq’s new cook and to discover, from what the portress told
us, that Victoire was putting you up in her room; and I was afraid
of your schemes.”

“It was you, was it not, who wrote to me to retire from the
contest?”

“Yes.”

“You also asked me not to go to the theatre on the Vaudeville
night?”

“Yes, the portress caught Victoire listening to Daubrecq’s
conversation with me on the telephone; and the Masher, who was
watching the house, saw you go out. I suspected, therefore, that
you would follow Daubrecq that evening.”

“And the woman who came here, late one afternoon....”

“Was myself. I felt disheartened and wanted to see you.”

“And you intercepted Gilbert’s letter?”

“Yes, I recognized his writing on the envelope.”

“But your little Jacques was not with you?”

“No, he was outside, in a motor-car, with the Masher, who lifted
him up to me through the drawing-room window; and he slipped into
your bedroom through the opening in the panel.”

“What was in the letter?”

“As ill-luck would have it, reproaches. Gilbert accused you of
forsaking him, of taking over the business on your own account. In
short, it confirmed me in my distrust; and I ran away.”

Lupin shrugged his shoulders with irritation:

“What a shocking waste of time! And what a fatality that we were
not able to come to an understanding earlier! You and I have been
playing at hide-and-seek, laying absurd traps for each other, while
the days were passing, precious days beyond repair.”

“You see, you see,” she said, shivering, “you too are afraid of the
future!”

“No, I am not afraid,” cried Lupin. “But I am thinking of all the
useful work that we could have done by this time, if we had united
our efforts. I am thinking of all the mistakes and all the acts of
imprudence which we should have been saved, if we had been working
together. I am thinking that your attempt to-night to search the
clothes which Daubrecq was wearing was as vain as the others and
that, at this moment, thanks to our foolish duel, thanks to the din
which we raised in his house, Daubrecq is warned and will be more
on his guard than ever.”

Clarisse Mergy shook her head:

“No, no, I don’t think that; the noise will not have roused him,
for we postponed the attempt for twenty-four hours so that the
portress might put a narcotic in his wine.” And she added, slowly,
“And then, you see, nothing can make Daubrecq be more on his guard
than he is already. His life is nothing but one mass of precautions
against danger. He leaves nothing to chance.... Besides, has he not
all the trumps in his hand?”

Lupin went up to her and asked:

“What do you mean to convey? According to you, is there nothing to
hope for on that side? Is there not a single means of attaining our
end?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “there is one, one only....”

He noticed her pallor before she had time to hide her face between
her hands again. And again a feverish shiver shook her frame.

He seemed to understand the reason of her dismay; and, bending
toward her, touched by her grief:

“Please,” he said, “please answer me openly and frankly. It’s for
Gilbert’s sake, is it not? Though the police, fortunately, have not
been able to solve the riddle of his past, though the real name of
Vaucheray’s accomplice has not leaked out, there is one man, at
least, who knows it: isn’t that so? Daubrecq has recognized your
son Antoine, through the alias of Gilbert, has he not?”

“Yes, yes....”

“And he promises to save him, doesn’t he? He offers you his
freedom, his release, his escape, his life: that was what he
offered you, was it not, on the night in his study, when you tried
to stab him?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . that was it....”

“And he makes one condition, does he not? An abominable condition,
such as would suggest itself to a wretch like that? I am right, am
I not?”

Clarisse did not reply. She seemed exhausted by her protracted
struggle with a man who was gaining ground daily and against whom
it was impossible for her to fight. Lupin saw in her the prey
conquered in advance, delivered to the victor’s whim. Clarisse
Mergy, the loving wife of that Mergy whom Daubrecq had really
murdered, the terrified mother of that Gilbert whom Daubrecq had
led astray, Clarisse Mergy, to save her son from the scaffold,
must, come what may and however ignominious the position, yield
to Daubrecq’s wishes. She would be the mistress, the wife, the
obedient slave of Daubrecq, of that monster with the appearance and
the ways of a wild beast, that unspeakable person of whom Lupin
could not think without revulsion and disgust.

Sitting down beside her, gently, with gestures of pity, he made her
lift her head and, with his eyes on hers, said:

“Listen to me. I swear that I will save your son: I swear it....
Your son shall not die, do you understand?... There is not a power
on earth that can allow your son’s head to be touched as long as I
am alive.”

“I believe you.... I trust your word.”

“Do. It is the word of a man who does not know defeat. I shall
succeed. Only, I entreat you to make me an irrevocable promise.”

“What is that?”

“You must not see Daubrecq again.”

“I swear it.”

“You must put from your mind any idea, any fear, however obscure,
of an understanding between yourself and him . . . of any sort of
bargain....”

“I swear it.”

She looked at him with an expression of absolute security and
reliance; and he, under her gaze, felt the joy of devotion and an
ardent longing to restore that woman’s happiness, or, at least, to
give her the peace and oblivion that heal the worst wounds:

“Come,” he said, in a cheerful tone, rising from his chair, “all
will yet be well. We have two months, three months before us.
It is more than I need . . . on condition, of course, that I
am unhampered in my movements. And, for that, you will have to
withdraw from the contest, you know.”

“How do you mean?”

“Yes, you must disappear for a time; go and live in the country.
Have you no pity for your little Jacques? This sort of thing would
end by shattering the poor little man’s nerves.... And he has
certainly earned his rest, haven’t you, Hercules?”

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day Clarisse Mergy, who was nearly breaking down under the
strain of events and who herself needed repose, lest she should
fall seriously ill, went, with her son, to board with a friend who
had a house on the skirt of the Forest of Saint-Germain. She felt
very weak, her brain was haunted by visions and her nerves were
upset by troubles which the least excitement aggravated. She lived
there for some days in a state of physical and mental inertia,
thinking of nothing and forbidden to see the papers.

One afternoon, while Lupin, changing his tactics, was working out
a scheme for kidnapping and confining Daubrecq; while the Growler
and the Masher, whom he had promised to forgive if he succeeded,
were watching the enemy’s movements; while the newspapers were
announcing the forthcoming trial for murder of Arsène Lupin’s two
accomplices, one afternoon, at four o’clock, the telephone-bell
rang suddenly in the flat in the Rue Chateaubriand.

Lupin took down the receiver:

“Hullo!”

A woman’s voice, a breathless voice, said:

“M. Michel Beaumont?”

“You are speaking to him, madame. To whom have I the honour....”

“Quick, monsieur, come at once; Madame Mergy has taken poison.”

Lupin did not wait to hear details. He rushed out, sprang into his
motor-car and drove to Saint-Germain.

Clarisse’s friend was waiting for him at the door of the bedroom.

“Dead?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, “she did not take sufficient. The doctor has
just gone. He says she will get over it.”

“And why did she make the attempt?”

“Her son Jacques has disappeared.”

“Carried off?”

“Yes, he was playing just inside the forest. A motor-car was seen
pulling up. Then there were screams. Clarisse tried to run, but her
strength failed and she fell to the ground, moaning, ‘It’s he . . .
it’s that man . . . all is lost!’ She looked like a madwoman.”

“Suddenly, she put a little bottle to her lips and swallowed the
contents.”

“What happened next?”

“My husband and I carried her to her room. She was in great pain.”

“How did you know my address, my name?”

“From herself, while the doctor was attending to her. Then I
telephoned to you.”

“Has any one else been told?”

“No, nobody. I know that Clarisse has had terrible things to
bear . . . and that she prefers not to be talked about.”

“Can I see her?”

“She is asleep just now. And the doctor has forbidden all
excitement.”

“Is the doctor anxious about her?”

“He is afraid of a fit of fever, any nervous strain, an attack of
some kind which might cause her to make a fresh attempt on her
life. And that would be....”

“What is needed to avoid it?”

“A week or a fortnight of absolute quiet, which is impossible as
long as her little Jacques....”

Lupin interrupted her:

“You think that, if she got her son back....”

“Oh, certainly, there would be nothing more to fear!”

“You’re sure? You’re sure?... Yes, of course you are!... Well, when
Madame Mergy wakes, tell her from me that I will bring her back her
son this evening, before midnight. This evening, before midnight:
it’s a solemn promise.”

With these words, Lupin hurried out of the house and, stepping into
his car, shouted to the driver:

“Go to Paris, Square Lamartine, Daubrecq the deputy’s!”




CHAPTER VI.

THE DEATH-SENTENCE


Lupin’s motor-car was not only an office, a writing-room furnished
with books, stationery, pens and ink, but also a regular actor’s
dressing-room, containing a complete make-up box, a trunk filled
with every variety of wearing-apparel, another crammed with
“properties”--umbrellas, walking-sticks, scarves, eye-glasses and
so on--in short, a complete set of paraphernalia which enabled him
to alter his appearance from top to toe in the course of a drive.

The man who rang at Daubrecq the deputy’s gate, at six o-clock that
evening, was a stout, elderly gentleman, in a black frock-coat, a
bowler hat, spectacles and whiskers.

The portress took him to the front-door of the house and rang the
bell. Victoire appeared.

Lupin asked:

“Can M. Daubrecq see Dr. Vernes?”

“M. Daubrecq is in his bedroom; and it is rather late....”

“Give him my card, please.”

He wrote the words, “From Mme. Mergy,” in the margin and added:

“There, he is sure to see me.”

“But . . .” Victoire began.

“Oh, drop your buts, old dear, do as I say, and don’t make such a
fuss about it!”

She was utterly taken aback and stammered:

“You! . . . is it you?”

“No, it’s Louis XIV.!” And, pushing her into a corner of the hall,
“Listen.... The moment I’m done with him, go up to your room, put
your things together anyhow and clear out.”

“What!”

“Do as I tell you. You’ll find my car waiting down the avenue.
Come, stir your stumps! Announce me. I’ll wait in the study.”

“But it’s dark in there.”

“Turn on the light.”

She switched on the electric light and left Lupin alone.

“It’s here,” he reflected, as he took a seat, “it’s here that
the crystal stopper lives.... Unless Daubrecq always keeps it by
him.... But no, when people have a good hiding-place, they make use
of it. And this is a capital one; for none of us . . . so far....”

Concentrating all his attention, he examined the objects in the
room; and he remembered the note which Daubrecq wrote to Prasville:

    “Within reach of your hand, my dear Prasville!... You touched
    it! A little more and the trick was done....”

Nothing seemed to have moved since that day. The same things were
lying about on the desk: books, account-books, a bottle of ink, a
stamp-box, pipes, tobacco, things that had been searched and probed
over and over again.

“The bounder!” thought Lupin. “He’s organized his business jolly
cleverly. It’s all dove-tailed like a well-made play.”

In his heart of hearts, though he knew exactly what he had come
to do and how he meant to act, Lupin was thoroughly aware of the
danger and uncertainty attending his visit to so powerful an
adversary. It was quite within the bounds of possibility that
Daubrecq, armed as he was, would remain master of the field and
that the conversation would take an absolutely different turn from
that which Lupin anticipated.

And this prospect angered him somewhat.

He drew himself up, as he heard a sound of footsteps approaching.

Daubrecq entered.

He entered without a word, made a sign to Lupin, who had risen
from his chair, to resume his seat and himself sat down at the
writing-desk. Glancing at the card which he held in his hand:

“Dr. Vernes?”

“Yes, monsieur le député, Dr. Vernes, of Saint-Germain.”

“And I see that you come from Mme. Mergy. A patient of yours?”

“A recent patient. I did not know her until I was called in to see
her, the other day, in particularly tragic circumstances.”

“Is she ill?”

“Mme. Mergy has taken poison.”

“What!”

Daubrecq gave a start and he continued, without concealing his
distress:

“What’s that you say? Poison! Is she dead?”

“No, the dose was not large enough. If no complications ensue, I
consider that Mme. Mergy’s life is saved.”

Daubrecq said nothing and sat silent, with his head turned to Lupin.

“Is he looking at me? Are his eyes open or shut?” Lupin asked
himself.

It worried Lupin terribly not to see his adversary’s eyes, those
eyes hidden by the double obstacle of spectacles and black glasses:
weak, bloodshot eyes, Mme. Mergy had told him. How could he follow
the secret train of the man’s thought without seeing the expression
of his face? It was almost like fighting an enemy who wielded an
invisible sword.

Presently, Daubrecq spoke:

“So Mme. Mergy’s life is saved.... And she has sent you to me.... I
don’t quite understand.... I hardly know the lady.”

“Now for the ticklish moment,” thought Lupin. “Have at him!”

And, in a genial, good-natured and rather shy tone, he said:

“No, monsieur le député, there are cases in which a doctor’s duty
becomes very complex . . . very puzzling.... And you may think
that, in taking this step.... However, to cut a long story short,
while I was attending Mme. Mergy, she made a second attempt to
poison herself.... Yes; the bottle, unfortunately, had been left
within her reach. I snatched it from her. We had a struggle. And,
railing in her fever, she said to me, in broken words, ‘He’s the
man.... He’s the man.... Daubrecq the deputy.... Make him give
me back my son. Tell him to . . . or else I would rather die....
Yes, now, to-night.... I would rather die.’ That’s what she said,
monsieur le député.... So I thought that I ought to let you know.
It is quite certain that, in the lady’s highly nervous state of
mind.... Of course, I don’t know the exact meaning of her words....
I asked no questions of anybody . . . obeyed a spontaneous impulse
and came straight to you.”

Daubrecq reflected for a little while and said:

“It amounts to this, doctor, that you have come to ask me if I know
the whereabouts of this child whom I presume to have disappeared.
Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“And, if I did happen to know, you would take him back to his
mother?”

There was a longer pause. Lupin asked himself:

“Can he by chance have swallowed the story? Is the threat of
that death enough? Oh, nonsense it’s out of the question!... And
yet . . . and yet . . . he seems to be hesitating.”

“Will you excuse me?” asked Daubrecq, drawing the telephone, on his
writing-desk, toward him. “I have an urgent message.”

“Certainly, monsieur le député.”

Daubrecq called out:

“Hullo!... 822.19, please, 822.19.”

Having repeated the number, he sat without moving.

Lupin smiled:

“The headquarters of police, isn’t it? The secretary-general’s
office....”

“Yes, doctor.... How do you know?”

“Oh, as a divisional surgeon, I sometimes have to ring them up.”

And, within himself, Lupin asked:

“What the devil does all this mean? The secretary-general is
Prasville.... Then, what?...”

Daubrecq put both receivers to his ears and said:

“Are you 822.19? I want to speak to M. Prasville, the
secretary-general.... Do you say he’s not there?... Yes, yes,
he is: he’s always in his office at this time.... Tell him it’s
M. Daubrecq.... M. Daubrecq the deputy . . . a most important
communication.”

“Perhaps I’m in the way?” Lupin suggested.

“Not at all, doctor, not at all,” said Daubrecq. “Besides, what I
have to say has a certain bearing on your errand.” And, into the
telephone, “Hullo! M. Prasville?... Ah, it’s you, Prasville, old
cock!... Why, you seem quite staggered! Yes, you’re right, it’s
an age since you and I met. But, after all, we’ve never been far
away in thought.... And I’ve had plenty of visits from you and
your henchmen.... In my absence, it’s true. Hullo!.... What?...
Oh, you’re in a hurry? I beg your pardon!... So am I, for that
matter.... Well, to come to the point, there’s a little service I
want to do you.... Wait, can’t you, you brute?... You won’t regret
it.... It concerns your renown.... Hullo!... Are you listening?...
Well, take half-a-dozen men with you . . . plain-clothes
detectives, by preference: you’ll find them at the night-office....
Jump into a taxi, two taxis, and come along here as fast as you
can.... I’ve got a rare quarry for you, old chap. One of the upper
ten . . . a lord, a marquis Napoleon himself . . . in a word,
Arsène Lupin!”

[Illustration: Lupin sprang to his feet. He was prepared for every
upshot except this.]

Lupin sprang to his feet. He was prepared for everything but this.
Yet something within him stronger than astonishment, an impulse of
his whole nature, made him say, with a laugh:

“Oh, well done, well done!”

Daubrecq bowed his head, by way of thanks, and muttered:

“I haven’t quite finished.... A little patience, if you don’t
mind.” And he continued, “Hullo! Prasville!... No, no, old chap,
I’m not humbugging.... You’ll find Lupin here, with me, in my
study.... Lupin, who’s worrying me like the rest of you.... Oh,
one more or less makes no difference to me! But, all the same,
this one’s a bit too pushing. And I am appealing to your sense
of kindness. Rid me of the fellow, do.... Half-a-dozen of your
satellites and the two who are pacing up and down outside my house
will be enough.... Oh, while you’re about it, go up to the third
floor and rope in my cook as well.... She’s the famous Victoire:
you know, Master Lupin’s old nurse.... And, look here, one more
tip, to show you how I love you: send a squad of men to the Rue
Chateaubriand, at the corner of the Rue Balzac.... That’s where our
national hero lives, under the name of Michel Beaumont.... Do you
twig, old cockalorum? And now to business. Hustle!”

When Daubrecq turned his head, Lupin was standing up, with clenched
fists. His burst of admiration had not survived the rest of the
speech and the revelations which Daubrecq had made about Victoire
and the flat in the Rue Chateaubriand. The humiliation was too
great; and Lupin no longer bothered to play the part of the small
general practitioner. He had but one idea in his head: not to give
way to the tremendous fit of rage that was urging him to rush at
Daubrecq like a bull.

Daubrecq gave the sort of little cluck which, with him, did
duty for a laugh. He came waddling up, with his hands in his
trouser-pockets, and said, incisively:

“Don’t you think that this is all for the best? I’ve cleared the
ground, relieved the situation.... At least, we now know where we
stand. Lupin versus Daubrecq; and that’s all about it. Besides,
think of the time saved! Dr. Vernes, the divisional surgeon, would
have taken two hours to spin his yarn! Whereas, like this, Master
Lupin will be compelled to get his little story told in thirty
minutes . . . unless he wants to get himself collared and his
accomplices nabbed. What a shock! What a bolt from the blue! Thirty
minutes and not a minute more. In thirty minutes from now, you’ll
have to clear out, scud away like a hare and beat a disordered
retreat. Ha, ha, ha, what fun! I say, Polonius, you really are
unlucky, each time you come up against Bibi Daubrecq! For it was
you who were hiding behind that curtain, wasn’t it, my ill-starred
Polonius?”

Lupin did not stir a muscle. The one and only solution that would
have calmed his feelings, that is to say, for him to throttle
his adversary then and there, was so absurd that he preferred to
accept Daubrecq’s gibes without attempting to retort, though each
of them cut him like the lash of a whip. It was the second time,
in the same room and in similar circumstances, that he had to bow
before that Daubrecq of misfortune and maintain the most ridiculous
attitude in silence. And he felt convinced in his innermost being
that, if he opened his mouth, it would be to spit words of anger
and insult in his victor’s face. What was the good? Was it not
essential that he should keep cool and do the things which the new
situation called for?

“Well, M. Lupin, well?” resumed the deputy. “You look as if your
nose were out of joint. Come, console yourself and admit that
one sometimes comes across a joker who’s not quite such a mug as
his fellows. So you thought that, because I wear spectacles and
eye-glasses, I was blind? Bless my soul, I don’t say that I at once
suspected Lupin behind Polonius and Polonius behind the gentleman
who came and bored me in the box at the Vaudeville. No, no! But,
all the same, it worried me. I could see that, between the police
and Mme. Mergy, there was a third bounder trying to get a finger
in the pie. And, gradually, what with the words let fall by the
portress, what with watching the movements of my cook and making
inquiries about her in the proper quarter, I began to understand.
Then, the other night, came the lightning-flash. I heard the row in
the house, in spite of my being asleep. I managed to reconstruct
the incident, to follow up Mme. Mergy’s traces, first, to the Rue
Chateaubriand and, afterward, to Saint-Germain.... And then . . .
what then? I put different facts together: the Enghien burglary....
Gilbert’s arrest . . . the inevitable treaty of alliance between
the weeping mother and the leader of the gang... the old nurse
installed as cook . . . all these people entering my house through
the doors or through the windows.... And I knew what I had to
do. Master Lupin was sniffing at the secret. The scent of the
Twenty-seven attracted him. I had only to wait for his visit. The
hour has arrived. Good-evening, Master Lupin.”

Daubrecq paused. He had delivered his speech with the evident
satisfaction of a man entitled to claim the appreciation of the
most captious critics.

As Lupin did not speak, he took out his watch: “I say! Only
twenty-three minutes! How time flies! At this rate, we sha’n’t have
time to come to an explanation.” And, stepping still closer to
Lupin, “I’m bound to say, I’m disappointed. I thought that Lupin
was a different sort of gentleman. So, the moment he meets a more
or less serious adversary, the colossus falls to pieces? Poor young
man! Have a glass of water, to bring you round!” Lupin did not
utter a word, did not betray a gesture of irritation. With absolute
composure, with a precision of movement that showed his perfect
self-control and the clear plan of conduct which he had adopted, he
gently pushed Daubrecq aside, went to the table and, in his turn,
took down the receiver of the telephone:

“I want 565.34, please,” he said.

He waited until he was through; and then, speaking in a slow voice
and picking out every syllable, he said:

“Hullo!.... Rue Chateaubriand?... Is that you, Achille?... Yes,
it’s the governor. Listen to me carefully, Achille.... You must
leave the flat! Hullo!... Yes, at once. The police are coming in
a few minutes. No, no, don’t lose your head.... You’ve got time.
Only, do what I tell you. Is your bag still packed?... Good. And
is one of the sides empty, as I told you?... Good. Well, go to my
bedroom and stand with your face to the chimney-piece. Press with
your left hand on the little carved rosette in front of the marble
slab, in the middle, and with your right hand on the top of the
mantel-shelf. You’ll see a sort of drawer, with two little boxes
in it. Be careful. One of them contains all our papers; the other,
bank-notes and jewellery. Put them both in the empty compartment
of the bag. Take the bag in your hand and go as fast as you can,
on foot, to the corner of the Avenue Victor-Hugo and the Avenue de
Montespan. You’ll find the car waiting, with Victoire. I’ll join
you there.... What?... My clothes? My knick-knacks?... Never mind
about all that.... You be off. See you presently.”

Lupin quietly pushed away the telephone. Then, taking Daubrecq by
the arm, he made him sit in a chair by his side and said:

“And now listen to me, Daubrecq.”

“Oho!” grinned the deputy. “Calling each other by our surnames, are
we?”

“Yes,” said Lupin, “I allowed you to.” And, when Daubrecq released
his arm with a certain misgiving, he said, “No, don’t be afraid. We
sha’n’t come to blows. Neither of us has anything to gain by doing
away with the other. A stab with a knife? What’s the good? No, sir!
Words, nothing but words. Words that strike home, though. Here are
mine: they are plain and to the point. Answer me in the same way,
without reflecting: that’s far better. The boy?”

“I have him.”

“Give him back.”

“No.”

“Mme. Mergy will kill herself.”

“No, she won’t.”

“I tell you she will.”

“And I tell you she will not.”

“But she’s tried to, once.”

“That’s just the reason why she won’t try again.”

“Well, then....”

“No.”

Lupin, after a moment, went on:

“I expected that. Also, I thought, on my way here, that you would
hardly tumble to the story of Dr. Vernes and that I should have to
use other methods.”

“Lupin’s methods.”

“As you say. I had made up my mind to throw off the mask. You
pulled it off for me. Well done you! But that doesn’t change my
plans.”

“Speak.”

Lupin took from a pocketbook a double sheet of foolscap paper,
unfolded it and handed it to Daubrecq, saying:

“Here is an exact, detailed inventory, with consecutive numbers,
of the things removed by my friends and myself from your Villa
Marie-Thérèse on the Lac d’Enghien. As you see, there are one
hundred and thirteen items. Of those one hundred and thirteen
items, sixty-eight, which have a red cross against them, have been
sold and sent to America. The remainder, numbering forty-five, are
in my possession . . . until further orders. They happen to be the
pick of the bunch. I offer you them in return for the immediate
surrender of the child.”

Daubrecq could not suppress a movement of surprise:

“Oho!” he said. “You seem very much bent upon it.”

“Infinitely,” said Lupin, “for I am persuaded that a longer
separation from her son will mean death to Mme. Mergy.”

“And that upsets you, does it . . . Lothario?”

“What!”

Lupin planted himself in front of the other and repeated:

“What! What do you mean?”

“Nothing.... Nothing.... Something that crossed my mind....
Clarisse Mergy is a young woman still and a pretty woman at that.”

Lupin shrugged his shoulders:

“You brute!” he mumbled. “You imagine that everybody is like
yourself, heartless and pitiless. It takes your breath away, what,
to think that a shark like me can waste his time playing the Don
Quixote? And you wonder what dirty motive I can have? Don’t try
to find out: it’s beyond your powers of perception. Answer me,
instead: do you accept?”

“So you’re serious?” asked Daubrecq, who seemed but little
disturbed by Lupin’s contemptuous tone.

“Absolutely. The forty-five pieces are in a shed, of which I will
give you the address, and they will be handed over to you, if you
call there, at nine o’clock this evening, with the child.”

There was no doubt about Daubrecq’s reply. To him, the kidnapping
of little Jacques had represented only a means of working upon
Clarisse Mergy’s feelings and perhaps also a warning for her to
cease the contest upon which she had engaged. But the threat of a
suicide must needs show Daubrecq that he was on the wrong track.
That being so, why refuse the favourable bargain which Arsène Lupin
was now offering him?

“I accept,” he said.

“Here’s the address of my shed: 99, Rue Charles-Lafitte, Neuilly.
You have only to ring the bell.”

“And suppose I send Prasville, the secretary-general, instead?”

“If you send Prasville,” Lupin declared, “the place is so arranged
that I shall see him coming and that I shall have time to escape,
after setting fire to the trusses of hay and straw which surround
and conceal your credence-tables, clocks and Gothic virgins.”

“But your shed will be burnt down....”

“I don’t mind that: the police have their eye on it already. I am
leaving it in any case.”

“And how am I to know that this is not a trap?”

“Begin by receiving the goods and don’t give up the child till
afterward. I trust you, you see.”

“Good,” said Daubrecq; “you’ve foreseen everything. Very well, you
shall have the nipper; the fair Clarisse shall live; and we will
all be happy. And now, if I may give you a word of advice, it is to
pack off as fast as you can.”

“Not yet.”

“Eh?”

“I said, not yet.”

“But you’re mad! Prasville’s on his way!”

“He can wait. I’ve not done.”

“Why, what more do you want? Clarisse shall have her brat. Isn’t
that enough for you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There is another son.”

“Gilbert.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“I want you to save Gilbert.”

“What are you saying? I save Gilbert!”

“You can, if you like; it only means taking a little trouble.”
Until that moment Daubrecq had remained quite calm. He now suddenly
blazed out and, striking the table with his fist:

“No,” he cried, “not that! Never! Don’t reckon on me!... No, that
would be too idiotic!”

He walked up and down, in a state of intense excitement, with that
queer step of his, which swayed him from right to left on each of
his legs, like a wild beast, a heavy, clumsy bear. And, with a
hoarse voice and distorted features, he shouted:

“Let her come here! Let her come and beg for her son’s pardon!
But let her come unarmed, not with criminal intentions, like
last time! Let her come as a supplicant, as a tamed woman, as a
submissive woman, who understands and accepts the situation . . .
Gilbert? Gilbert’s sentence? The scaffold? Why, that is where my
strength lies! What! For more than twenty years have I awaited my
hour; and, when that hour strikes, when fortune brings me this
unhoped-for chance, when I am at last about to know the joy of a
full revenge--and such a revenge!--you think that I will give it
up, give up the thing which I have been pursuing for twenty years?
I save Gilbert? I? For nothing? For love? I, Daubrecq?... No, no,
you can’t have studied my features!”

He laughed, with a fierce and hateful laugh. Visibly, he saw before
him, within reach of his hand, the prey which he had been hunting
down so long. And Lupin also summoned up the vision of Clarisse,
as he had seen her several days before, fainting, already beaten,
fatally conquered, because all the hostile powers were in league
against her.

He contained himself and said:

“Listen to me.”

And, when Daubrecq moved away impatiently, he took him by the two
shoulders, with that superhuman strength which Daubrecq knew, from
having felt it in the box at the Vaudeville, and, holding him
motionless in his grip, he said:

“One last word.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” growled the deputy.

“One last word. Listen, Daubrecq: forget Mme. Mergy, give up all
the nonsensical and imprudent acts which your pride and your
passions are making you commit; put all that on one side and think
only of your interest....”

“My interest,” said Daubrecq, jestingly, “always coincides with my
pride and with what you call my passions.”

“Up to the present, perhaps. But not now, not now that I have taken
a hand in the business. That constitutes a new factor, which you
choose to ignore. You are wrong. Gilbert is my pal. Gilbert is my
chum. Gilbert has to be saved from the scaffold. Use your influence
to that end, and I swear to you, do you hear, I swear that we will
leave you in peace. Gilbert’s safety, that’s all I ask. You will
have no more battles to wage with Mme. Mergy, with me; there will
be no more traps laid for you. You will be the master, free to act
as you please. Gilbert’s safety, Daubrecq! If you refuse....”

“What then?”

“If you refuse, it will be war, relentless war; in other words, a
certain defeat for you.”

“Meaning thereby....”

“Meaning thereby that I shall take the list of the Twenty-seven
from you.”

“Rot! You think so, do you?”

“I swear it.”

“What Prasville and all his men, what Clarisse Mergy, what nobody
has been able to do, you think that you will do!”

“I shall!”

“And why? By favour of what saint will you succeed where everybody
else has failed? There must be a reason?”

“There is.”

“What is it?”

“My name is Arsène Lupin.”

He had let go of Daubrecq, but held him for a time under the
dominion of his authoritative glance and will. At last, Daubrecq
drew himself up, gave him a couple of sharp taps on the shoulder
and, with the same calm, the same intense obstinacy, said:

“And my name’s Daubrecq. My whole life has been one desperate
battle, one long series of catastrophes and routs in which I spent
all my energies until victory came: complete, decisive, crushing,
irrevocable victory. I have against me the police, the government,
France, the world. What difference do you expect it to make to
me if I have M. Arsène Lupin against me into the bargain? I will
go further: the more numerous and skilful my enemies, the more
cautiously I am obliged to play. And that is why, my dear sir,
instead of having you arrested, as I might have done--yes, as I
might have done and very easily--I let you remain at large and beg
charitably to remind you that you must quit in less than three
minutes.”

“Then the answer is no?”

“The answer is no.”

“You won’t do anything for Gilbert?”

“Yes, I shall continue to do what I have been doing since his
arrest--that is to say, to exercise indirect influence with the
minister of justice, so that the trial may be hurried on and end in
the way in which I want to see it end.”

“What!” cried Lupin, beside himself with indignation. “It’s because
of you, it’s for you....”

“Yes, it’s for me, Daubrecq; yes, by Jove! I have a trump card,
the son’s head, and I am playing it. When I have procured a
nice little death-sentence for Gilbert, when the days go by
and Gilbert’s petition for a reprieve is rejected by my good
offices, you shall see, M. Lupin, that his mummy will drop all her
objections to calling herself Mme. Alexis Daubrecq and giving me an
unexceptionable pledge of her good-will. That fortunate issue is
inevitable, whether you like it or not. It is foredoomed. All I can
do for you is to invite you to the wedding and the breakfast. Does
that suit you? No? You persist in your sinister designs? Well, good
luck, lay your traps, spread your nets, rub up your weapons and
grind away at the Complete Foreign-post-paper Burglar’s Handbook.
You’ll need it. And now, good-night. The rules of open-handed and
disinterested hospitality demand that I should turn you out of
doors. Hop it!”

Lupin remained silent for some time. With his eyes fixed on
Daubrecq, he seemed to be taking his adversary’s size, gauging his
weight, estimating his physical strength, discussing, in fine, in
which exact part to attack him. Daubrecq clenched his fists and
worked out his plan of defence to meet the attack when it came.

Half a minute passed. Lupin put his hand to his hip-pocket.
Daubrecq did the same and grasped the handle of his revolver.

A few seconds more. Coolly, Lupin produced a little gold box of the
kind that ladies use for holding sweets, opened it and handed it to
Daubrecq:

“A lozenge?”

“What’s that?” asked the other, in surprise.

“Cough-drops.”

“What for?”

“For the draught you’re going to feel!”

And, taking advantage of the momentary fluster into which Daubrecq
was thrown by his sally, he quickly took his hat and slipped away.

“Of course,” he said, as he crossed the hall, “I am knocked into
fits. But all the same, that bit of commercial-traveller’s waggery
was rather novel, in the circumstances. To expect a pill and
receive a cough-drop is by way of being a sort of disappointment.
It left the old chimpanzee quite flummoxed.”

As he closed the gate, a motor-car drove up and a man sprang out
briskly, followed by several others.

Lupin recognized Prasville:

“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général,” he muttered, “your humble
servant. I have an idea that, some day, fate will bring us face
to face: and I am sorry, for your sake; for you do not inspire me
with any particular esteem and you have a bad time before you, on
that day. Meanwhile, if I were not in such a hurry, I should wait
till you leave and I should follow Daubrecq to find out in whose
charge he has placed the child whom he is going to hand back to me.
But I am in a hurry. Besides, I can’t tell that Daubrecq won’t act
by telephone. So let us not waste ourselves in vain efforts, but
rather join Victoire, Achille and our precious bag.”

Two hours later, Lupin, after taking all his measures, was on the
lookout in his shed at Neuilly and saw Daubrecq turn out of an
adjoining street and walk along with a distrustful air.

Lupin himself opened the double doors:

“Your things are in here, monsieur le député,” he said. “You can go
round and look. There is a job-master’s yard next door: you have
only to ask for a van and a few men. Where is the child?”

Daubrecq first inspected the articles and then took Lupin to the
Avenue de Neuilly, where two closely veiled old ladies stood
waiting with little Jacques.

Lupin carried the child to his car, where Victoire was waiting for
him.

All this was done swiftly, without useless words and as though the
parts had been got by heart and the various movements settled in
advance, like so many stage entrances and exits.

At ten o’clock in the evening Lupin kept his promise and handed
little Jacques to his mother. But the doctor had to be hurriedly
called in, for the child, upset by all those happenings, showed
great signs of excitement and terror. It was more than a fortnight
before he was sufficiently recovered to bear the strain of the
removal which Lupin considered necessary. Mme. Mergy herself was
only just fit to travel when the time came. The journey took place
at night, with every possible precaution and under Lupin’s escort.

He took the mother and son to a little seaside place in Brittany
and entrusted them to Victoire’s care and vigilance.

“At last,” he reflected, when he had seen them settled, “there
is no one between the Daubrecq bird and me. He can do nothing
more to Mme. Mergy and the kid; and she no longer runs the risk
of diverting the struggle through her intervention. By Jingo, we
have made blunders enough! First, I have had to disclose myself to
Daubrecq. Secondly, I have had to surrender my share of the Enghien
movables. True, I shall get those back, sooner or later; of that
there is not the least doubt. But, all the same, we are not getting
on; and, in a week from now, Gilbert and Vaucheray will be up for
trial.”

What Lupin felt most in the whole business was Daubrecq’s
revelation of the whereabouts of the flat. The police had entered
his place in the Rue Chateaubriand. The identity of Lupin and
Michel Beaumont had been recognized and certain papers discovered;
and Lupin, while pursuing his aim, while, at the same time,
managing various enterprises on which he had embarked, while
avoiding the searches of the police, which were becoming more
zealous and persistent than ever, had to set to work and reorganize
his affairs throughout on a fresh basis.

His rage with Daubrecq, therefore, increased in proportion to the
worry which the deputy caused him. He had but one longing, to
pocket him, as he put it, to have him at his bidding by fair means
or foul, to extract his secret from him. He dreamt of tortures
fit to unloose the tongue of the most silent of men. The boot,
the rack, red-hot pincers, nailed planks: no form of suffering,
he thought, was more than the enemy deserved; and the end to be
attained justified every means.

“Oh,” he said to himself, “oh, for a decent bench of inquisitors
and a couple of bold executioners!... What a time we should have!”

Every afternoon the Growler and the Masher watched the road which
Daubrecq took between the Square Lamartine, the Chamber of Deputies
and his club. Their instructions were to choose the most deserted
street and the most favourable moment and, one evening, to hustle
him into a motor-car.

Lupin, on his side, got ready an old building, standing in the
middle of a large garden, not far from Paris, which presented all
the necessary conditions of safety and isolation and which he
called the Monkey’s Cage.

Unfortunately, Daubrecq must have suspected something, for every
time, so to speak, he changed his route, or took the underground or
a tram; and the cage remained unoccupied.

Lupin devised another plan. He sent to Marseilles for one of his
associates, an elderly retired grocer called Brindebois, who
happened to live in Daubrecq’s electoral district and interested
himself in politics. Old Brindebois wrote to Daubrecq from
Marseilles, announcing his visit. Daubrecq gave this important
constituent a hearty welcome, and a dinner was arranged for the
following week.

The elector suggested a little restaurant on the left bank of the
Seine, where the food, he said, was something wonderful. Daubrecq
accepted.

This was what Lupin wanted. The proprietor of the restaurant was
one of his friends. The attempt, which was to take place on the
following Thursday, was this time bound to succeed.

Meanwhile, on the Monday of the same week, the trial of Gilbert and
Vaucheray opened.

       *       *       *       *       *

The reader will remember--and the case took place too recently for me
to recapitulate its details--the really incomprehensible partiality
which the presiding judge showed in his cross-examination of Gilbert.
The thing was noticed and severely criticised at the time. Lupin
recognized Daubrecq’s hateful influence.

The attitude observed by the two prisoners differed greatly.
Vaucheray was gloomy, silent, hard-faced. He cynically, in curt,
sneering, almost defiant phrases, admitted the crimes of which he
had formerly been guilty. But, with an inconsistency which puzzled
everybody except Lupin, he denied any participation in the murder
of Léonard the valet and violently accused Gilbert. His object, in
thus linking his fate with Gilbert’s, was to force Lupin to take
identical measures for the rescue of both his accomplices.

Gilbert, on the other hand, whose frank countenance and dreamy,
melancholy eyes won every sympathy, was unable to protect himself
against the traps laid for him by the judge or to counteract
Vaucheray’s lies. He burst into tears, talked too much, or else did
not talk when he should have talked. Moreover, his counsel, one
of the Leaders of the bar, was taken ill at the last moment--and
here again Lupin saw the hand of Daubrecq--and he was replaced by
a junior who spoke badly, muddied the whole case, set the jury
against him and failed to wipe out the impression produced by the
speeches of the advocate-general and of Vaucheray’s counsel.

Lupin, who had the inconceivable audacity to be present on the last
day of the trial, the Thursday, had no doubt as to the result. A
verdict of guilty was certain in both cases.

It was certain because all the efforts of the prosecution, thus
supporting Vaucheray’s tactics, had tended to link the two
prisoners closely together. It was certain, also and above all,
because it concerned two of Lupin’s accomplices. From the opening
of the inquiry before the magistrate until the delivery of the
verdict, all the proceedings had been directed against Lupin;
and this in spite of the fact that the prosecution, for want of
sufficient evidence and also in order not to scatter its efforts
over too wide an area, had decided not to include Lupin in the
indictment. He was the adversary aimed at, the leader who must
be punished in the person of his friends, the famous and popular
scoundrel whose fascination in the eyes of the crowd must be
destroyed for good and all. With Gilbert and Vaucheray executed,
Lupin’s halo would fade away and the legend would be exploded.

Lupin.... Lupin.... Arsène Lupin: it was the one name heard
throughout the four days. The advocate-general, the presiding
judge, the jury, the counsel, the witnesses had no other words
on their lips. Every moment, Lupin was mentioned and cursed at,
scoffed at, insulted and held responsible for all the crimes
committed. It was as though Gilbert and Vaucheray figured only as
supernumeraries, while the real criminal undergoing trial was he,
Lupin, Master Lupin, Lupin the burglar, the leader of a gang of
thieves, the forger, the incendiary, the hardened offender, the
ex-convict, Lupin the murderer, Lupin stained with the blood of his
victim, Lupin lurking in the shade, like a coward, after sending
his friends to the foot of the scaffold.

“Oh, the rascals know what they’re about!” he muttered. “It’s my
debt which they are making my poor old Gilbert pay.”

And the terrible tragedy went on.

At seven o’clock in the evening, after a long deliberation, the
jury returned to court and the foreman read out the answers to
the questions put from the bench. The answer was “Yes” to every
count of the indictment, a verdict of guilty without extenuating
circumstances.

The prisoners were brought in. Standing up, but staggering and
white-faced, they received their sentence of death.

And, amid the great, solemn silence, in which the anxiety of the
onlookers was mingled with pity, the assize-president asked:

“Have you anything more to say, Vaucheray?”

“Nothing, monsieur le president. Now that my mate is sentenced as
well as myself, I am easy.... We are both on the same footing....
The governor must find a way to save the two of us.”

“The governor?”

“Yes, Arsène Lupin.”

There was a laugh among the crowd.

The president asked:

“And you, Gilbert?”

Tears streamed down the poor lad’s cheeks and he stammered a few
inarticulate sentences. But, when the judge repeated his question,
he succeeded in mastering himself and replied, in a trembling voice:

“I wish to say, monsieur le president, that I am guilty of many
things, that’s true.... I have done a lot of harm.... But, all the
same, not this. No, I have not committed murder.... I have never
committed murder.... And I don’t want to die.... it would be too
horrible....”

He swayed from side to side, supported by the warders, and he was
heard to cry, like a child calling for help:

“Governor.... save me!... Save me!... I don’t want to die!”

Then, in the crowd, amid the general excitement, a voice rose above
the surrounding clamour:

“Don’t be afraid, little ‘un!... The governor’s here!”

A tumult and hustling followed. The municipal guards and the
policemen rushed into court and laid hold of a big, red-faced man,
who was stated by his neighbours to be the author of that outburst
and who struggled hand and foot.

Questioned without delay, he gave his name, Philippe Bonel, an
undertaker’s man, and declared that some one sitting beside him had
offered him a hundred-franc note if he would consent, at the proper
moment, to shout a few words which his neighbour scribbled on a bit
of paper. How could he refuse?

In proof of his statements, he produced the hundred-franc note and
the scrap of paper.

Philippe Bonel was let go.

Meanwhile, Lupin, who of course had assisted energetically in the
individual’s arrest and handed him over to the guards, left the
law-courts, his heart heavy with anguish. His car was waiting for
him on the quay. He flung himself into it, in despair, seized
with so great a sorrow that he had to make an effort to restrain
his tears. Gilbert’s cry, his voice wrung with affliction, his
distorted features, his tottering frame: all this haunted his
brain; and he felt as if he would never, for a single second,
forget those impressions.

He drove home to the new place which he had selected among his
different residences and which occupied a corner of the Place de
Clichy. He expected to find the Growler and the Masher, with whom
he was to kidnap Daubrecq that evening. But he had hardly opened
the door of his flat, when a cry escaped him: Clarisse stood before
him; Clarisse, who had returned from Brittany at the moment of the
verdict.

[Illustration: “What we have to do is to stop the mischief and
to-night, you understand, to-night the thing will be done.”]

He at once gathered from her attitude and her pallor that she knew.
And, at once, recovering his courage in her presence, without
giving her time to speak, he exclaimed:

“Yes, yes, yes . . . but it doesn’t matter. We foresaw that. We
couldn’t prevent it. What we have to do is to stop the mischief.
And to-night, you understand, to-night, the thing will be done.”

Motionless and tragic in her sorrow, she stammered:

“To-night?”

“Yes. I have prepared everything. In two hours, Daubrecq will be
in my hands. To-night, whatever means I have to employ, he shall
speak.”

“Do you mean that?” she asked, faintly, while a ray of hope began
to light up her face.

“He shall speak. I shall have his secret. I shall tear the list of
the Twenty-seven from him. And that list will set your son free.”

“Too late,” Clarisse murmured.

“Too late? Why? Do you think that, in exchange for such a document,
I shall not obtain Gilbert’s pretended escape?... Why, Gilbert will
be at liberty in three days! In three days....”

He was interrupted by a ring at the bell:

“Listen, here are our friends. Trust me. Remember that I keep my
promises. I gave you back your little Jacques. I shall give you
back Gilbert.”

He went to let the Growler and the Masher in and said:

“Is everything ready? Is old Brindebois at the restaurant? Quick,
let us be off!”

“It’s no use, governor,” replied the Masher.

“No use? What do you mean?”

“There’s news.”

“What news? Speak, man!”

“Daubrecq has disappeared.”

“Eh? What’s that? Daubrecq disappeared?”

“Yes, carried off from his house, in broad daylight.”

“The devil! By whom?”

“Nobody knows . . . four men . . . there were pistols fired.... The
police are on the spot. Prasville is directing the investigations.”

Lupin did not move a limb. He looked at Clarisse Mergy, who lay
huddled in a chair.

He himself had to bow his head. Daubrecq carried off meant one more
chance of success lost....




CHAPTER VII.

THE PROFILE OF NAPOLEON


Soon as the prefect of police, the chief of the
criminal-investigation department and the examining-magistrates had
left Daubrecq’s house, after a preliminary and entirely fruitless
inquiry, Prasville resumed his personal search.

He was examining the study and the traces of the struggle which had
taken place there, when the portress brought him a visiting-card,
with a few words in pencil scribbled upon it.

“Show the lady in,” he said.

“The lady has some one with her,” said the portress.

“Oh? Well, show the other person in as well.”

Clarisse Mergy entered at once and introduced the gentleman with
her, a gentleman in a black frock-coat, which was too tight for him
and which looked as though it had not been brushed for ages. He was
shy in his manner and seemed greatly embarrassed how to dispose
of his old, rusty top-hat, his gingham umbrella, his one and only
glove and his body generally.

“M. Nicole,” said Clarisse, “a private teacher, who is acting as
tutor to my little Jacques. M. Nicole has been of the greatest
help to me with his advice during the past year. He worked out the
whole story of the crystal stopper. I should like him, as well as
myself--if you see no objection to telling me--to know the details
of this kidnapping business, which alarms me and upsets my plans;
yours too, I expect?”

Prasville had every confidence in Clarisse Mergy. He knew her
relentless hatred of Daubrecq and appreciated the assistance which
she had rendered in the case. He therefore made no difficulties
about telling her what he knew, thanks to certain clues and
especially to the evidence of the portress.

For that matter, the thing was exceedingly simple. Daubrecq, who
had attended the trial of Gilbert and Vaucheray as a witness and
who was seen in court during the speeches, returned home at six
o’clock. The portress affirmed that he came in alone and that there
was nobody in the house at the time. Nevertheless, a few minutes
later, she heard shouts, followed by the sound of a struggle and
two pistol-shots; and from her lodge she saw four masked men
scuttle down the front steps, carrying Daubrecq the deputy, and
hurry toward the gate. They opened the gate. At the same moment,
a motor-car arrived outside the house. The four men bundled
themselves into it; and the motor-car, which had hardly had time to
stop, set off at full speed.

“Were there not always two policemen on duty?” asked Clarisse.

“They were there,” said Prasville, “but at a hundred and fifty
yards’ distance; and Daubrecq was carried off so quickly that they
were unable to interfere, although they hastened up as fast as they
could.”

“And did they discover nothing, find nothing?”

“Nothing, or hardly anything.... Merely this.”

“What is that?”

“A little piece of ivory, which they picked up on the ground. There
was a fifth party in the car; and the portress saw him get down
while the others were hoisting Daubrecq in. As he was stepping
back into the car, he dropped something and picked it up again at
once. But the thing, whatever it was, must have been broken on the
pavement; for this is the bit of ivory which my men found.”

“But how did the four men manage to enter the house?” asked
Clarisse.

“By means of false keys, evidently, while the portress was doing
her shopping, in the course of the afternoon; and they had no
difficulty in secreting themselves, as Daubrecq keeps no other
servants. I have every reason to believe that they hid in the
room next door, which is the dining-room, and afterward attacked
Daubrecq here, in the study. The disturbance of the furniture and
other articles proves how violent the struggle was. We found a
large-bore revolver, belonging to Daubrecq, on the carpet. One of
the bullets had smashed the glass over the mantel-piece, as you
see.”

Clarisse turned to her companion for him to express an opinion. But
M. Nicole, with his eyes obstinately lowered, had not budged from
his chair and sat fumbling at the rim of his hat, as though he had
not yet found a proper place for it.

Prasville gave a smile. It was evident that he did not look upon
Clarisse’s adviser as a man of first-rate intelligence:

“The case is somewhat puzzling, monsieur,” he said, “is it not?”

“Yes . . . yes,” M. Nicole confessed, “most puzzling.”

“Then you have no little theory of your own upon the matter?”

“Well, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I’m thinking that Daubrecq
has many enemies.”

“Ah, capital!”

“And that several of those enemies, who are interested in his
disappearance, must have banded themselves against him.”

“Capital, capital!” said Prasville, with satirical approval.
“Capital! Everything is becoming clear as daylight. It only remains
for you to furnish us with a little suggestion that will enable us
to turn our search in the right direction.”

“Don’t you think, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that this broken
bit of ivory which was picked up on the ground....”

“No, M. Nicole, no. That bit of ivory belongs to something which we
do not know and which its owner will at once make it his business
to conceal. In order to trace the owner, we should at least be able
to define the nature of the thing itself.”

M. Nicole reflected and then began:

“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, when Napoleon I fell from
power....”

“Oh, M. Nicole, oh, a lesson in French history!”

“Only a sentence, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, just one
sentence which I will ask your leave to complete. When Napoleon
I fell from power, the Restoration placed a certain number of
officers on half-pay. These officers were suspected by the
authorities and kept under observation by the police. They remained
faithful to the emperor’s memory; and they contrived to reproduce
the features of their idol on all sorts of objects of everyday use;
snuff-boxes, rings, breast-pins, pen-knives and so on.”

“Well?”

“Well, this bit comes from a walking-stick, or rather a sort of
loaded cane, or life-preserver, the knob of which is formed of
a piece of carved ivory. When you look at the knob in a certain
way, you end by seeing that the outline represents the profile
of the Little Corporal. What you have in your hand, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général, is a bit of the ivory knob at the top of a
half-pay officer’s life-preserver.”

“Yes,” said Prasville, examining the exhibit, “yes, I can make out
a profile . . . but I don’t see the inference....”

“The inference is very simple. Among Daubrecq’s victims, among
those whose names are inscribed on the famous list, is the
descendant of a Corsican family in Napoleon’s service, which
derived its wealth and title from the emperor and was afterward
ruined under the Restoration. It is ten to one that this
descendant, who was the leader of the Bonapartist party a few years
ago, was the fifth person hiding in the motor-car. Need I state his
name?”

“The Marquis d’Albufex?” said Prasville.

“The Marquis d’Albufex,” said M. Nicole.

M. Nicole, who no longer seemed in the least worried with his hat,
his glove and his umbrella, rose and said to Prasville:

“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I might have kept my discovery
to myself, and not told you of it until after the final victory,
that is, after bringing you the list of the Twenty-seven. But
matters are urgent. Daubrecq’s disappearance, contrary to what
his kidnappers expect, may hasten on the catastrophe which you
wish to avert. We must therefore act with all speed. Monsieur
le secrétaire;-général, I ask for your immediate and practical
assistance.”

“In what way can I help you?” asked Prasville, who was beginning to
be impressed by his quaint visitor.

“By giving me, to-morrow, those particulars about the Marquis
d’Albufex which it would take me personally several days to
collect.”

Prasville seemed to hesitate and turned his head toward Mme. Mergy.
Clarisse said:

“I beg of you to accept M. Nicole’s services. He is an invaluable
and devoted ally. I will answer for him as I would for myself.”

“What particulars do you require, monsieur?” asked Prasville.

“Everything that concerns the Marquis d’Albufex: the position
of his family, the way in which he spends his time, his family
connections, the properties which he owns in Paris and in the
country.”

Prasville objected:

“After all, whether it’s the marquis or another, Daubrecq’s
kidnapper is working on our behalf, seeing that, by capturing the
list, he disarms Daubrecq.”

“And who says, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that he is not
working on his own behalf?”

“That is not possible, as his name is on the list.”

“And suppose he erases it? Suppose you then find yourself dealing
with a second blackmailer, even more grasping and more powerful
than the first and one who, as a political adversary, is in a
better position than Daubrecq to maintain the contest?”

The secretary-general was struck by the argument. After a moment’s
thought, he said:

“Come and see me in my office at four o’clock to-morrow. I will
give you the particulars. What is your address, in case I should
want you?”

“M. Nicole, 25, Place de Clichy. I am staying at a friend’s flat,
which he has lent me during his absence.”

The interview was at an end. M. Nicole thanked the
secretary-general, with a very low bow, and walked out, accompanied
by Mme. Mergy:

“That’s an excellent piece of work,” he said, outside, rubbing his
hands. “I can march into the police-office whenever I like, and set
the whole lot to work.”

Mme. Mergy, who was less hopefully inclined, said:

“Alas, will you be in time? What terrifies me is the thought that
the list may be destroyed.”

“Goodness gracious me, by whom? By Daubrecq?”

“No, but by the marquis, when he gets hold of it.”

“He hasn’t got it yet! Daubrecq will resist long enough, at any
rate, for us to reach him. Just think! Prasville is at my orders!”

“Suppose he discovers who you are? The least inquiry will prove
that there is no such person as M. Nicole.”

“But it will not prove that M. Nicole is the same person as Arsène
Lupin. Besides, make yourself easy. Prasville is not only beneath
contempt as a detective: he has but one aim in life, which is to
destroy his old enemy, Daubrecq. To achieve that aim, all means are
equally good; and he will not waste time in verifying the identity
of a M. Nicole who promises him Daubrecq. Not to mention that I
was brought by you and that, when all is said, my little gifts did
dazzle him to some extent. So let us go ahead boldly.”

Clarisse always recovered confidence in Lupin’s presence. The
future seemed less appalling to her; and she admitted, she forced
herself to admit, that the chances of saving Gilbert were not
lessened by that hideous death-sentence. But he could not prevail
upon her to return to Brittany. She wanted to fight by his side.
She wanted to be there and share all his hopes and all his
disappointments.

The next day the inquiries of the police confirmed what Prasville
and Lupin already knew. The Marquis d’Albufex had been very deeply
involved in the business of the canal, so deeply that Prince
Napoleon was obliged to remove him from the management of his
political campaign in France; and he kept up his very extravagant
style of living only by dint of constant loans and makeshifts. On
the other hand, in so far as concerned the kidnapping of Daubrecq,
it was ascertained that, contrary to his usual custom, the marquis
had not appeared in his club between six and seven that evening and
had not dined at home. He did not come back until midnight; and
then he came on foot.

M. Nicole’s accusation, therefore, was receiving an early proof.
Unfortunately--and Lupin was no more successful in his own
attempts--it was impossible to obtain the least clue as to the
motor-car, the chauffeur and the four people who had entered
Daubrecq’s house. Were they associates of the marquis, compromised
in the canal affair like himself? Were they men in his pay? Nobody
knew.

The whole search, consequently, had to be concentrated upon the
marquis and the country-seats and houses which he might possess at
a certain distance from Paris, a distance which, allowing for the
average speed of a motor-car and the inevitable stoppages, could be
put at sixty to ninety miles.

Now d’Albufex, having sold everything that he ever had, possessed
neither country-houses nor landed estates.

They turned their attention to the marquis’ relations and intimate
friends. Was he able on this side to dispose of some safe retreat
in which to imprison Daubrecq?

The result was equally fruitless.

And the days passed. And what days for Clarisse Mergy! Each of them
brought Gilbert nearer to the terrible day of reckoning. Each of
them meant twenty-four hours less from the date which Clarisse had
instinctively fixed in her mind. And she said to Lupin, who was
racked with the same anxiety:

“Fifty-five days more.... Fifty days more.... What can one do in so
few days?... Oh, I beg of you.... I beg of you....”

What could they do indeed? Lupin, who would not leave the task of
watching the marquis to any one but himself, practically lived
without sleeping. But the marquis had resumed his regular life;
and, doubtless suspecting something, did not risk going away.

Once alone, he went down to the Duc de Montmaur’s, in the daytime.
The duke kept a pack of boar-hounds, with which he hunted the
Forest of Durlaine. D’Albufex maintained no relations with him
outside the hunt.

“It is hardly likely,” said Prasville, “that the Duc de Montmaur,
an exceedingly wealthy man, who is interested only in his estates
and his hunting and takes no part in politics, should lend himself
to the illegal detention of Daubrecq the deputy in his chateau.”

Lupin agreed; but, as he did not wish to leave anything to chance,
the next week, seeing d’Albufex go out one morning in riding-dress,
he followed him to the Gare du Nord and took the same train.

He got out at Aumale, where d’Albufex found a carriage at the
station which took him to the Chateau de Montmaur.

Lupin lunched quietly, hired a bicycle and came in view of the
house at the moment when the guests were going into the park,
in motor-cars or mounted. The Marquis d’Albufex was one of the
horsemen.

Thrice, in the course of the day, Lupin saw him cantering along.
And he found him, in the evening, at the station, where d’Albufex
rode up, followed by a huntsman.

The proof, therefore, was conclusive; and there was nothing
suspicious on that side. Why did Lupin, nevertheless, resolve not
to be satisfied with appearances? And why, next day, did he send
the Masher to find out things in the neighbourhood of Montmaur? It
was an additional precaution, based upon no logical reason, but
agreeing with his methodical and careful manner of acting.

Two days later he received from the Masher, among other information
of less importance, a list of the house-party at Montmaur and of
all the servants and keepers.

One name struck him, among those of the huntsmen. He at once wired:

    “Inquire about huntsman Sébastiani.”

The Masher’s answer was received the next day:

    “Sébastiani, a Corsican, was recommended to the Duc de
    Montmaur by the Marquis d’Albufex. He lives at two or three
    miles from the house, in a hunting-lodge built among the
    ruins of the feudal stronghold which was the cradle of the
    Montmaur family.”

“That’s it,” said Lupin to Clarisse Mergy, showing her the Masher’s
letter. “That name, Sébastiani, at once reminded me that d’Albufex
is of Corsican descent. There was a connection....”

“Then what do you intend to do?”

“If Daubrecq is imprisoned in those ruins, I intend to enter into
communication with him.”

“He will distrust you.”

“No. Lately, acting on the information of the police, I ended by
discovering the two old ladies who carried off your little Jacques
at Saint-Germain and who brought him, the same evening, to Neuilly.
They are two old maids, cousins of Daubrecq, who makes them a
small monthly allowance. I have been to call on those Demoiselles
Rousselot; remember the name and the address: 134 bis, Rue du Bac.
I inspired them with confidence, promised them to find their cousin
and benefactor; and the elder sister, Euphrasie Rousselot, gave me
a letter in which she begs Daubrecq to trust M. Nicole entirely. So
you see, I have taken every precaution. I shall leave to-night.”

“We, you mean,” said Clarisse.

“You!”

“Can I go on living like this, in feverish inaction?” And she
whispered, “I am no longer counting the days, the thirty-eight or
forty days that remain to us: I am counting the hours.”

Lupin felt that her resolution was too strong for him to try to
combat it. They both started at five o’clock in the morning, by
motor-car. The Growler went with them.

So as not to arouse suspicion, Lupin chose a large town as his
headquarters. At Amiens, where he installed Clarisse, he was only
eighteen miles from Montmaur.

At eight o’clock he met the Masher not far from the old fortress,
which was known in the neighbourhood by the name of Mortepierre,
and he examined the locality under his guidance.

On the confines of the forest, the little river Ligier, which
has dug itself a deep valley at this spot, forms a loop which is
overhung by the enormous cliff of Mortepierre.

“Nothing to be done on this side,” said Lupin. “The cliff is steep,
over two hundred feet high, and the river hugs it all round.”

Not far away they found a bridge that led to the foot of a path
which wound, through the oaks and pines, up to a little esplanade,
where stood a massive, iron-bound gate, studded with nails and
flanked on either side by a large tower.

“Is this where Sébastiani the huntsman lives?” asked Lupin.

“Yes,” said the Masher, “with his wife, in a lodge standing in the
midst of the ruins. I also learnt that he has three tall sons and
that all the four were supposed to be away for a holiday on the day
when Daubrecq was carried off.”

“Oho!” said Lupin. “The coincidence is worth remembering. It seems
likely enough that the business was done by those chaps and their
father.”

Toward the end of the afternoon Lupin availed himself of a breach
to the right of the towers to scale the curtain. From there he was
able to see the huntsman’s lodge and the few remains of the old
fortress: here, a bit of wall, suggesting the mantel of a chimney;
further away, a water-tank; on this side, the arches of a chapel;
on the other, a heap of fallen stones.

A patrol-path edged the cliff in front; and, at one of the ends
of this patrol-path, there were the remains of a formidable
donjon-keep razed almost level with the ground.

Lupin returned to Clarisse Mergy in the evening. And from that
time he went backward and forward between Amiens and Mortepierre,
leaving the Growler and the Masher permanently on the watch.

And six days passed. Sébastiani’s habits seemed to be subject
solely to the duties of his post. He used to go up to the Chateau
de Montmaur, walk about in the forest, note the tracks of the game
and go his rounds at night.

But, on the seventh day, learning that there was to be a meet and
that a carriage had been sent to Aumale Station in the morning,
Lupin took up his post in a cluster of box and laurels which
surrounded the little esplanade in front of the gate.

At two o’clock he heard the pack give tongue. They approached,
accompanied by hunting-cries, and then drew farther away. He
heard them again, about the middle of the afternoon, not quite so
distinctly; and that was all. But suddenly, amid the silence, the
sound of galloping horses reached his ears; and, a few minutes
later, he saw two riders climbing the river-path.

He recognized the Marquis d’Albufex and Sébastiani. On reaching the
esplanade, they both alighted; and a woman--the huntsman’s wife, no
doubt--opened the gate. Sébastiani fastened the horses’ bridles to
rings fixed on a post at a few yards from Lupin and ran to join the
marquis. The gate closed behind them.

Lupin did not hesitate; and, though it was still broad daylight,
relying upon the solitude of the place, he hoisted himself to the
hollow of the breach. Passing his head through cautiously, he saw
the two men and Sébastiani’s wife hurrying toward the ruins of the
keep.

The huntsman drew aside a hanging screen of ivy and revealed the
entrance to a stairway, which he went down, as did d’Albufex,
leaving his wife on guard on the terrace.

There was no question of going in after them; and Lupin returned to
his hiding-place. He did not wait long before the gate opened again.

The Marquis d’Albufex seemed in a great rage. He was striking the
leg of his boot with his whip and mumbling angry words which Lupin
was able to distinguish when the distance became less great:

“Ah, the hound!... I’ll make him speak.... I’ll come back to-night
. . . to-night, at ten o’clock, do you hear, Sébastiani?... And we
shall do what’s necessary.... Oh, the brute!”

Sébastiani unfastened the horses. D’Albufex turned to the woman:

“See that your sons keep a good watch.... If any one attempts to
deliver him, so much the worse for him. The trapdoor is there. Can
I rely upon them?”

“As thoroughly as on myself, monsieur le marquis,” declared the
huntsman. “They know what monsieur le marquis has done for me and
what he means to do for them. They will shrink at nothing.”

“Let us mount and get back to the hounds,” said d’Albufex.

So things were going as Lupin had supposed. During these runs,
d’Albufex, taking a line of his own, would push off to Mortepierre,
without anybody’s suspecting his trick. Sébastiani, who was devoted
to him body and soul, for reasons connected with the past into
which it was not worth while to inquire, accompanied him; and
together they went to see the captive, who was closely watched by
the huntsman’s wife and his three sons.

“That’s where we stand,” said Lupin to Clarisse Mergy, when he
joined her at a neighbouring inn. “This evening the marquis
will put Daubrecq to the question--a little brutally, but
indispensably--as I intended to do myself.”

“And Daubrecq will give up his secret,” said Clarisse, already
quite upset.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then....”

“I am hesitating between two plans,” said Lupin, who seemed very
calm. “Either to prevent the interview....”

“How?”

“By forestalling d’Albufex. At nine o’clock, the Growler, the
Masher and I climb the ramparts, burst into the fortress, attack
the keep, disarm the garrison . . . and the thing’s done: Daubrecq
is ours.”

“Unless Sébastiani’s sons fling him through the trapdoor to which
the marquis alluded....”

“For that reason,” said Lupin, “I intend to risk that violent
measure only as a last resort and in case my other plan should not
be practicable.”

“What is the other plan?”

“To witness the interview. If Daubrecq does not speak, it will
give us the time to prepare to carry him off under more favourable
conditions. If he speaks, if they compel him to reveal the place
where the list of the Twenty-seven is hidden, I shall know the
truth at the same time as d’Albufex, and I swear to God that I
shall turn it to account before he does.”

“Yes, yes,” said Clarisse. “But how do you propose to be present?”

“I don’t know yet,” Lupin confessed. “It depends on certain
particulars which the Masher is to bring me and on some which I
shall find out for myself.”

He left the inn and did not return until an hour later as night was
falling. The Masher joined him.

“Have you the little book?” asked Lupin.

“Yes, governor. It was what I saw at the Aumale newspaper-shop. I
got it for ten sous.”

“Give it me.”

The Masher handed him an old, soiled, torn pamphlet, entitled,
on the cover, _A Visit to Mortepierre, 1824, with plans and
illustrations_.

Lupin at once looked for the plan of the donjon-keep.

“That’s it,” he said. “Above the ground were three stories, which
have been razed, and below the ground, dug out of the rock, two
stories, one of which was blocked up by the rubbish, while the
other.... There, that’s where our friend Daubrecq lies. The name is
significant: the torture-chamber.... Poor, dear friend!... Between
the staircase and the torture-chamber, two doors. Between those two
doors, a recess in which the three brothers obviously sit, gun in
hand.”

“So it is impossible for you to get in that way without being seen.”

“Impossible . . . unless I come from above, by the story that has
fallen in, and look for a means of entrance through the ceiling....
But that is very risky....”

He continued to turn the pages of the book. Clarisse asked:

“Is there no window to the room?”

“Yes,” he said. “From below, from the river--I have just been
there--you can see a little opening, which is also marked on the
plan. But it is fifty yards up, sheer; and even then the rock
overhangs the water. So that again is out of the question.”

He glanced through a few pages of the book. The title of one
chapter struck him: _The Lovers’ Towers_. He read the opening lines:

    “In the old days, the donjon was known to the people of the
    neighbourhood as the Lovers’ Tower, in memory of a fatal
    tragedy that marked it in the Middle Ages. The Comte de
    Mortepierre, having received proofs of his wife’s faithlessness,
    imprisoned her in the torture-chamber, where she spent twenty
    years. One night, her lover, the Sire de Tancarville, with
    reckless courage, set up a ladder in the river and then
    clambered up the face of the cliff till he came to the window
    of the room. After filing the bars, he succeeded in releasing
    the woman he loved and bringing her down with him by means of a
    rope. They both reached the top of the ladder, which was watched
    by his friends, when a shot was fired from the patrol-path and
    hit the man in the shoulder. The two lovers were hurled into
    space....”

There was a pause, after he had read this, a long pause during
which each of them drew a mental picture of the tragic escape.
So, three or four centuries earlier, a man, risking his life, had
attempted that surprising feat and would have succeeded but for the
vigilance of some sentry who heard the noise. A man had ventured! A
man had dared! A man done it!

Lupin raised his eyes to Clarisse. She was looking at him . . .
with such a desperate, such a beseeching look! The look of a mother
who demanded the impossible and who would have sacrificed anything
to save her son.

“Masher,” he said, “get a strong rope, but very slender, so that I
can roll it round my waist, and very long: fifty or sixty yards.
You, Growler, go and look for three or four ladders and fasten them
end to end.”

“Why, what are you thinking of, governor?” cried the two
accomplices. “What, you mean to.... But it’s madness!”

“Madness? Why? What another has done I can do.”

“But it’s a hundred chances to one that you break your neck.”

“Well, you see, Masher, there’s one chance that I don’t.”

“But, governor....”

“That’s enough, my friends. Meet me in an hour on the river-bank.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The preparations took long in the making. It was difficult to find
the material for a fifty-foot ladder that would reach the first
ledge of the cliff; and it required an endless effort and care to
join the different sections.

At last, a little after nine o’clock, it was set up in the middle
of the river and held in position by a boat, the bows of which were
wedged between two of the rungs, while the stern was rammed into
the bank.

The road through the river-valley was little used, and nobody came
to interrupt the work. The night was dark, the sky heavy with
moveless clouds.

Lupin gave the Masher and the Growler their final instructions and
said, with a laugh:

“I can’t tell you how amused I am at the thought of seeing
Daubrecq’s face when they proceed to take his scalp or slice his
skin into ribbons. Upon my word, it’s worth the journey.”

Clarisse also had taken a seat in the boat. He said to her:

“Until we meet again. And, above all, don’t stir. Whatever happens,
not a movement, not a cry.”

“Can anything happen?” she asked.

“Why, remember the Sire de Tancarville! It was at the very moment
when he was achieving his object, with his true love in his arms,
that an accident betrayed him. But be easy: I shall be all right.”

She made no reply. She seized his hand and grasped it warmly
between her own.

He put his foot on the ladder and made sure that it did not sway
too much. Then he went up.

He soon reached the top rung.

This was where the dangerous ascent began, a difficult ascent at
the start, because of the excessive steepness, and developing,
mid-way, into an absolute escalade.

Fortunately, here and there were little hollows, in which his feet
found a resting-place, and projecting stones, to which his hands
clung. But twice those stones gave way and he slipped; and twice
he firmly believed that all was lost. Finding a deeper hollow, he
took a rest. He was worn out, felt quite ready to throw up the
enterprise, asked himself if it was really worth while for him to
expose himself to such danger:

“I say!” he thought. “Seems to me you’re showing the white feather,
Lupin, old boy. Throw up the enterprise? Then Daubrecq will babble
his secret, the marquis will possess himself of the list, Lupin
will return empty-handed, and Gilbert....”

The long rope which he had fastened round his waist caused him
needless inconvenience and fatigue. He fixed one of the ends to the
strap of his trousers and let the rope uncoil all the way down the
ascent, so that he could use it, on returning, as a hand-rail.

Then he once more clutched at the rough surface of the cliff and
continued the climb, with bruised nails and bleeding fingers. At
every moment he expected the inevitable fall. And what discouraged
him most was to hear the murmur of voices rising from the boat,
murmur so distinct that it seemed as though he were not increasing
the distance between his companions and himself.

And he remembered the Sire de Tancarville, alone, he too, amid the
darkness, who must have shivered at the noise of the stones which
he loosened and sent bounding down the cliff. How the least sound
reverberated through the silence! If one of Daubrecq’s guards
was peering into the gloom from the Lovers’ Tower, it meant a
shot . . . and death.

And he climbed . . . he climbed.... He had climbed so long that he
ended by imagining that the goal was passed. Beyond a doubt, he
had slanted unawares to the right or left and he would finish at
the patrol-path. What a stupid upshot! And what other upshot could
there be to an attempt which the swift force of events had not
allowed him to study and prepare?

Madly, he redoubled his efforts, raised himself by a number of
yards, slipped, recovered the lost ground, clutched a bunch of
roots that came loose in his hand, slipped once more and was
abandoning the game in despair when, suddenly, stiffening himself
and contracting his whole frame, his muscles and his will, he
stopped still: a sound of voices seemed to issue from the very rock
which he was grasping.

He listened. It came from the right. Turning his head, he thought
that he saw a ray of light penetrating the darkness of space. By
what effort of energy, by what imperceptible movements he succeeded
in dragging himself to the spot he was never able exactly to
realize. But suddenly he found himself on the ledge of a fairly
wide opening, at least three yards deep, which dug into the wall of
the cliff like a passage, while its other end, much narrower, was
closed by three bars.

Lupin crawled along. His head reached the bars. And he saw....




CHAPTER VIII.

THE LOVERS’ TOWER


The torture-chamber showed beneath him. It was a large, irregular
room, divided into unequal portions by the four wide, massive
pillars that supported its arched roof. A smell of damp and mildew
came from its walls and from its flags moistened by the water that
trickled from without. Its appearance at any time must have been
gruesome. But, at that moment, with the tall figures of Sébastiani
and his sons, with the slanting gleams of light that fell between
the pillars, with the vision of the captive chained down upon the
truckle-bed, it assumed a sinister and barbarous aspect.

Daubrecq was in the front part of the room, four or five yards down
from the window at which Lupin lurked. In addition to the ancient
chains that had been used to fasten him to his bed and to fasten
the bed to an iron hook in the wall, his wrists and ankles were
girt with leather thongs; and an ingenious arrangement caused his
least movement to set in motion a bell hung to the nearest pillar.

A lamp placed on a stool lit him full in the face.

The Marquis d’Albufex was standing beside him. Lupin could see
his pale features, his grizzled moustache, his long, lean form as
he looked at his prisoner with an expression of content and of
gratified hatred.

A few minutes passed in profound silence. Then the marquis gave an
order:

“Light those three candles, Sébastiani, so that I can see him
better.”

And, when the three candles were lit and he had taken a long look
at Daubrecq, he stooped over him and said, almost gently:

“I can’t say what will be the end of you and me. But at any rate
I shall have had some deuced happy moments in this room. You have
done me so much harm, Daubrecq! The tears you have made me shed!
Yes, real tears, real sobs of despair.... The money you have robbed
me of! A fortune!... And my terror at the thought that you might
give me away! You had but to utter my name to complete my ruin and
bring about my disgrace!... Oh, you villain!...”

Daubrecq did not budge. He had been deprived of his black glasses,
but still kept his spectacles, which reflected the light from the
candles. He had lost a good deal of flesh; and the bones stood out
above his sunken cheeks.

“Come along,” said d’Albufex. “The time has come to act. It seems
that there are rogues prowling about the neighbourhood. Heaven
forbid that they are here on your account and try to release you;
for that would mean your immediate death, as you know.... Is the
trapdoor still in working order, Sébastiani?”

Sébastiani came nearer, knelt on one knee and lifted and turned a
ring, at the foot of the bed, which Lupin had not noticed. One of
the flagstones moved on a pivot, disclosing a black hole.

“You see,” the marquis continued, “everything is provided for; and
I have all that I want at hand, including dungeons: bottomless
dungeons, says the legend of the castle. So there is nothing to
hope for, no help of any kind. Will you speak?”

Daubrecq did not reply; and he went on:

“This is the fourth time that I am questioning you, Daubrecq. It is
the fourth time that I have troubled to ask you for the document
which you possess, in order that I may escape your blackmailing
proceedings. It is the fourth time and the last. Will you speak?”

The same silence as before. D’Albufex made a sign to Sébastiani.
The huntsman stepped forward, followed by two of his sons. One of
them held a stick in his hand.

“Go ahead,” said d’Albufex, after waiting a few seconds.

Sébastiani slackened the thongs that bound Daubrecq’s wrists and
inserted and fixed the stick between the thongs.

“Shall I turn, monsieur le marquis?”

A further silence. The marquis waited. Seeing that Daubrecq did not
flinch, he whispered:

“Can’t you speak? Why expose yourself to physical suffering?”

No reply.

“Turn away, Sébastiani.”

Sébastiani made the stick turn a complete circle. The thongs
stretched and tightened. Daubrecq gave a groan.

“You won’t speak? Still, you know that I won’t give way, that I
can’t give way, that I hold you and that, if necessary, I shall
torture you till you die of it. You won’t speak? You won’t?...
Sébastiani, once more.”

The huntsman obeyed. Daubrecq gave a violent start of pain and fell
back on his bed with a rattle in his throat.

“You fool!” cried the marquis, shaking with rage. “Why don’t you
speak? What, haven’t you had enough of that list? Surely it’s
somebody else’s turn! Come, speak.... Where is it? One word. One
word only . . . and we will leave you in peace.... And, to-morrow,
when I have the list, you shall be free. Free, do you understand?
But, in Heaven’s name, speak!... Oh, the brute! Sébastiani, one
more turn.”

Sébastiani made a fresh effort. The bones cracked.

“Help! Help!” cried Daubrecq, in a hoarse voice, vainly struggling
to release himself. And, in a spluttering whisper, “Mercy . . .
mercy.”

It was a dreadful sight.... The faces of the three sons were
horror-struck. Lupin shuddered, sick at heart, and realized that
he himself could never have accomplished that abominable thing. He
listened for the words that were bound to come. He must learn the
truth. Daubrecq’s secret was about to be expressed in syllables,
in words wrung from him by pain. And Lupin began to think of his
retreat, of the car which was waiting for him, of the wild rush to
Paris, of the victory at hand.

“Speak,” whispered d’Albufex. “Speak and it will be over.”

“Yes . . . yes . . .” gasped Daubrecq.

“Well...?”

“Later . . . to-morrow....”

“Oh, you’re mad!... What are you talking about: to-morrow?...
Sébastiani, another turn!”

“No, no!” yelled Daubrecq. “Stop!”

“Speak!”

“Well, then . . . the paper.... I have hidden the paper....”

But his pain was too great. He raised his head with a last effort,
uttered incoherent words, succeeded in twice saying, “Marie....
Marie....” and fell back, exhausted and lifeless.

“Let go at once!” said d’Albufex to Sébastiani. “Hang it all, can
we have overdone it?”

But a rapid examination showed him that Daubrecq had only fainted.
Thereupon, he himself, worn out with the excitement, dropped on
the foot of the bed and, wiping the beads of perspiration from his
forehead, stammered:

“Oh, what a dirty business!”

“Perhaps that’s enough for to-day,” said the huntsman, whose rough
face betrayed a certain emotion. “We might try again to-morrow or
the next day....”

The marquis was silent. One of the sons handed him a flask of
brandy. He poured out half a glass and drank it down at a draught:

“To-morrow?” he said. “No. Here and now. One little effort more. At
the stage which he has reached, it won’t be difficult.” And, taking
the huntsman aside, “Did you hear what he said? What did he mean by
that word, ‘Marie’? He repeated it twice.”

“Yes, twice,” said the huntsman. “Perhaps he entrusted the document
to a person called Marie.”

“Not he!” protested d’Albufex. “He never entrusts anything to
anybody. It means something different.”

“But what, monsieur le marquis?”

“We’ll soon find out, I’ll answer for it.”

At that moment, Daubrecq drew a long breath and stirred on his
couch.

D’Albufex, who had now recovered all his composure and who did not
take his eyes off the enemy, went up to him and said:

“You see, Daubrecq, it’s madness to resist.... Once you’re beaten,
there’s nothing for it but to submit to your conqueror, instead
of allowing yourself to be tortured like an idiot.... Come, be
sensible.”

He turned to Sébastiani:

“Tighten the rope . . . let him feel it a little that will wake him
up.... He’s shamming death....” Sébastiani took hold of the stick
again and turned until the cord touched the swollen flesh. Daubrecq
gave a start.

“That’ll do, Sébastiani,” said the marquis. “Our friend seems
favourably disposed and understands the need for coming to terms.
That’s so, Daubrecq, is it not? You prefer to have done with it?
And you’re quite right!”

The two men were leaning over the sufferer, Sébastiani with his
hand on the stick, d’Albufex holding the lamp so as to throw the
light on Daubrecq’s face: “His lips are moving . . . he’s going
to speak. Loosen the rope a little, Sébastiani: I don’t want our
friend to be hurt.... No, tighten it: I believe our friend is
hesitating.... One turn more . . . stop!... That’s done it! Oh, my
dear Daubrecq, if you can’t speak plainer than that, it’s no use!
What? What did you say?”

Arsène Lupin muttered an oath. Daubrecq was speaking and he, Lupin,
could not hear a word of what he said! In vain, he pricked up his
ears, suppressed the beating of his heart and the throbbing of his
temples: not a sound reached him.

“Confound it!” he thought. “I never expected this. What am I to do?”

He was within an ace of covering Daubrecq with his revolver and
putting a bullet into him which would cut short any explanation.
But he reflected that he himself would then be none the wiser and
that it was better to trust to events in the hope of making the
most of them.

Meanwhile the confession continued beneath him, indistinctly,
interrupted by silences and mingled with moans. D’Albufex clung to
his prey:

“Go on!... Finish, can’t you?...”

And he punctuated the sentences with exclamations of approval:

“Good!... Capital!... Oh, how funny!... And no one suspected?...
Not even Prasville?... What an ass!... Loosen a bit, Sébastiani:
don’t you see that our friend is out of breath?... Keep calm,
Daubrecq . . . don’t tire yourself.... And so, my dear fellow, you
were saying....”

That was the last. There was a long whispering to which d’Albufex
listened without further interruption and of which Arsène Lupin
could not catch the least syllable. Then the marquis drew himself
up and exclaimed, joyfully:

“That’s it!.... Thank you, Daubrecq. And, believe me, I shall
never forget what you have just done. If ever you’re in need, you
have only to knock at my door and there will always be a crust of
bread for you in the kitchen and a glass of water from the filter.
Sébastiani, look after monsieur le député as if he were one of
your sons. And, first of all, release him from his bonds. It’s a
heartless thing to truss one’s fellow-man like that, like a chicken
on the spit!”

“Shall we give him something to drink?” suggested the huntsman.

“Yes, that’s it, give him a drink.”

Sébastiani and his sons undid the leather straps, rubbed the
bruised wrists, dressed them with an ointment and bandaged them.
Then Daubrecq swallowed a few drops of brandy.

“Feeling better?” said the marquis. “Pooh, it’s nothing much! In
a few hours, it won’t show; and you’ll be able to boast of having
been tortured, as in the good old days of the Inquisition. You
lucky dog!”

He took out his watch. “Enough said! Sébastiani, let your sons
watch him in turns. You, take me to the station for the last train.”

“Then are we to leave him like that, monsieur le marquis, free to
move as he pleases?”

“Why not? You don’t imagine that we are going to keep him here to
the day of his death? No, Daubrecq, sleep quietly. I shall go to
your place to-morrow afternoon; and, if the document is where you
told me, a telegram shall be sent off at once and you shall be set
free. You haven’t told me a lie, I suppose?”

He went back to Daubrecq and, stooping over him again:

“No humbug, eh? That would be very silly of you. I should lose a
day, that’s all. Whereas you would lose all the days that remain to
you to live. But no, the hiding-place is too good. A fellow doesn’t
invent a thing like that for fun. Come on, Sébastiani. You shall
have the telegram to-morrow.”

“And suppose they don’t let you into the house, monsieur le
marquis?”

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“The house in the Square Lamartine is occupied by Prasville’s men.”

“Don’t worry, Sébastiani. I shall get in. If they don’t open the
door, there’s always the window. And, if the window won’t open,
I shall arrange with one of Prasville’s men. It’s a question of
money, that’s all. And, thank goodness, I shan’t be short of that,
henceforth! Good-night, Daubrecq.”

He went out, accompanied by Sébastiani, and the heavy door closed
after them.

Lupin at once effected his retreat, in accordance with a plan which
he had worked out during this scene.

The plan was simple enough: to scramble, by means of his rope,
to the bottom of the cliff, take his friends with him, jump into
the motor-car and attack d’Albufex and Sébastiani on the deserted
road that leads to Aumale Station. There could be no doubt about
the issue of the contest. With d’Albufex and Sébastiani prisoners;
it would be an easy matter to make one of them speak. D’Albufex
had shown him how to set about it; and Clarisse Mergy would be
inflexible where it was a question of saving her son.

He took the rope with which he had provided himself and groped
about to find a jagged piece of rock round which to pass it, so
as to leave two equal lengths hanging, by which he could let
himself down. But, when he found what he wanted, instead of
acting swiftly--for the business was urgent--he stood motionless,
thinking. His scheme failed to satisfy him at the last moment.

“It’s absurd, what I’m proposing,” he said to himself. “Absurd and
illogical. How can I tell that d’Albufex and Sébastiani will not
escape me? How can I even tell that, once they are in my power,
they will speak? No, I shall stay. There are better things to
try . . . much better things. It’s not those two I must be at, but
Daubrecq. He’s done for; he has not a kick left in him. If he has
told the marquis his secret, there is no reason why he shouldn’t
tell it to Clarisse and me, when we employ the same methods.
That’s settled! We’ll kidnap the Daubrecq bird.” And he continued,
“Besides, what do I risk? If the scheme miscarries, Clarisse and
I will rush off to Paris and, together with Prasville, organize a
careful watch in the Square Lamartine to prevent d’Albufex from
benefiting by Daubrecq’s revelations. The great thing is for
Prasville to be warned of the danger. He shall be.”

The church-clock in a neighbouring village struck twelve. That gave
Lupin six or seven hours to put his new plan into execution. He set
to work forthwith.

When moving away from the embrasure which had the window at the
bottom of it, he had come upon a clump of small shrubs in one of
the hollows of the cliff. He cut away a dozen of these, with his
knife, and whittled them all down to the same size. Then he cut off
two equal lengths from his rope. These were the uprights of the
ladder. He fastened the twelve little sticks between the uprights
and thus contrived a rope-ladder about six yards long.

When he returned to this post, there was only one of the three sons
beside Daubrecq’s bed in the torture-chamber. He was smoking his
pipe by the lamp. Daubrecq was asleep.

“Hang it!” thought Lupin. “Is the fellow going to sit there all
night? In that case, there’s nothing for me to do but to slip
off....”

The idea that d’Albufex was in possession of the secret vexed him
mightily. The interview at which he had assisted had left the clear
impression in his mind that the marquis was working “on his own”
and that, in securing the list, he intended not only to escape
Daubrecq’s activity, but also to gain Daubrecq’s power and build up
his fortune anew by the identical means which Daubrecq had employed.

That would have meant, for Lupin, a fresh battle to wage against
a fresh enemy. The rapid march of events did not allow of the
contemplation of such a possibility. He must at all costs spike the
Marquis d’Albufex’ guns by warning Prasville.

However, Lupin remained held back by the stubborn hope of some
incident that would give him the opportunity of acting.

The clock struck half-past twelve.

It struck one.

The waiting became terrible, all the more so as an icy mist rose
from the valley and Lupin felt the cold penetrate to his very
marrow.

He heard the trot of a horse in the distance:

“Sébastiani returning from the station,” he thought.

But the son who was watching in the torture-chamber, having
finished his packet of tobacco, opened the door and asked his
brothers if they had a pipeful for him. They made some reply; and
he went out to go to the lodge.

And Lupin was astounded. No sooner was the door closed than
Daubrecq, who had been so sound asleep, sat up on his couch,
listened, put one foot to the ground, followed by the other, and,
standing up, tottering a little, but firmer on his legs than one
would have expected, tried his strength.

“Well” said Lupin, “the beggar doesn’t take long recovering. He
can very well help in his own escape. There’s just one point that
ruffles me: will he allow himself to be convinced? Will he consent
to go with me? Will he not think that this miraculous assistance
which comes to him straight from heaven is a trap laid by the
marquis?”

But suddenly Lupin remembered the letter which he had made
Daubrecq’s old cousins write, the letter of recommendation, so to
speak, which the elder of the two sisters Rousselot had signed with
her Christian name, Euphrasie.

It was in his pocket. He took it and listened. Not a sound, except
the faint noise of Daubrecq’s footsteps on the flagstones. Lupin
considered that the moment had come. He thrust his arm through the
bars and threw the letter in.

Daubrecq seemed thunderstruck.

The letter had fluttered through the room and lay on the floor, at
three steps from him. Where did it come from? He raised his head
toward the window and tried to pierce the darkness that hid all
the upper part of the room from his eyes. Then he looked at the
envelope, without yet daring to touch it, as though he dreaded
a snare. Then, suddenly, after a glance at the door, he stooped
briskly, seized the envelope and opened it.

“Ah,” he said, with a sigh of delight, when he saw the signature.

He read the letter half-aloud:

    “Rely implicitly on the bearer of this note. He has succeeded
    in discovering the marquis’ secret, with the money which we
    gave him, and has contrived a plan of escape. Everything is
    prepared for your flight.

  “EUPHRASIE ROUSSELOT.”

He read the letter again, repeated, “Euphrasie.... Euphrasie....”
and raised his head once more.

Lupin whispered:

“It will take me two or three hours to file through one of the
bars. Are Sébastiani and his sons coming back?”

“Yes, they are sure to,” replied Daubrecq, in the same low voice,
“but I expect they will leave me to myself.”

“But they sleep next door?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t they hear?”

“No, the door is too thick.”

“Very well. In that case, it will soon be done. I have a
rope-ladder. Will you be able to climb up alone, without my
assistance?”

“I think so.... I’ll try.... It’s my wrists that they’ve broken....
Oh, the brutes! I can hardly move my hands . . . and I have very
little strength left. But I’ll try all the same . . . needs
must....”

He stopped, listened and, with his finger to his mouth, whispered:

“Hush!”

When Sébastiani and his sons entered the room, Daubrecq, who had
hidden the letter and lain down on his bed, pretended to wake with
a start.

The huntsman brought him a bottle of wine, a glass and some food:

“How goes it, monsieur le député?” he cried. “Well, perhaps we did
squeeze a little hard.... It’s very painful, that thumbscrewing.
Seems they often did it at the time of the Great Revolution and
Bonaparte . . . in the days of the _chauffeurs_.[C] A pretty
invention! Nice and clean . . . no bloodshed.... And it didn’t
last long either! In twenty minutes, you came out with the missing
word!” Sébastiani burst out laughing. “By the way, monsieur le
député, my congratulations! A capital hiding-place. Who would ever
suspect it?... You see, what put us off, monsieur le marquis and
me, was that name of Marie which you let out at first. You weren’t
telling a lie; but there you are, you know: the word was only
half-finished. We had to know the rest. Say what you like, it’s
amusing! Just think, on your study-table! Upon my word, what a
joke!”

The huntsman rose and walked up and down the room, rubbing his
hands:

“Monsieur le marquis is jolly well pleased, so pleased, in fact,
that he himself is coming to-morrow evening to let you out. Yes, he
has thought it over; there will be a few formalities: you may have
to sign a cheque or two, stump up, what, and make good monsieur le
marquis’ expense and trouble. But what’s that to you? A trifle!
Not to mention that, from now on, there will be no more chains, no
more straps round your wrists; in short, you will be treated like
a king! And I’ve even been told--look here!--to allow you a good
bottle of old wine and a flask of brandy.”

Sébastiani let fly a few more jests, then took the lamp, made a
last examination of the room and said to his sons:

“Let’s leave him to sleep. You also, take a rest, all three of you.
But sleep with one eye open. One never can tell....” They withdrew.

Lupin waited a little longer and asked, in a low voice:

“Can I begin?”

“Yes, but be careful. It’s not impossible that they may go on a
round in an hour or two.”

Lupin set to work. He had a very powerful file; and the iron of
the bars, rusted and gnawed away by time, was, in places, almost
reduced to dust. Twice Lupin stopped to listen, with ears pricked
up. But it was only the patter of a rat over the rubbish in the
upper story, or the flight of some night-bird; and he continued his
task, encouraged by Daubrecq, who stood by the door, ready to warn
him at the least alarm.

“Oof!” he said, giving a last stroke of the file. “I’m glad that’s
over, for, on my word, I’ve been a bit cramped in this cursed
tunnel . . . to say nothing of the cold....”

He bore with all his strength upon the bar, which he had sawn from
below, and succeeded in forcing it down sufficiently for a man’s
body to slip between the two remaining bars. Next, he had to go
back to the end of the embrasure, the wider part, where he had left
the rope-ladder. After fixing it to the bars, he called Daubrecq:

“Psst!... It’s all right.... Are you ready?”

“Yes . . . coming.... One more second, while I listen.... All
right.... They’re asleep.... give me the ladder.”

Lupin lowered it and asked:

“Must I come down?”

“No.... I feel a little weak . . . but I shall manage.”

Indeed, he reached the window of the embrasure pretty quickly and
crept along the passage in the wake of his rescuer. The open air,
however, seemed to make him giddy. Also, to give himself strength,
he had drunk half the bottle of wine; and he had a fainting-fit
that kept him lying on the stones of the embrasure for half an
hour. Lupin, losing patience, was fastening him to one end of the
rope, of which the other end was knotted round the bars and was
preparing to let him down like a bale of goods, when Daubrecq woke
up, in better condition:

“That’s over,” he said. “I feel fit now. Will it take long?”

“Pretty long. We are a hundred and fifty yards up.”

“How was it that d’Albufex did not foresee that it was possible to
escape this way?”

“The cliff is perpendicular.”

“And you were able to....”

“Well, your cousins insisted.... And then one has to live, you
know, and they were free with their money.”

“The dear, good souls!” said Daubrecq. “Where are they?”

“Down below, in a boat.”

“Is there a river, then?”

“Yes, but we won’t talk, if you don’t mind. It’s dangerous.”

“One word more. Had you been there long when you threw me the
letter?”

“No, no. A quarter of an hour or so. I’ll tell you all about it....
Meanwhile, we must hurry.”

Lupin went first, after recommending Daubrecq to hold tight to the
rope and to come down backward. He would give him a hand at the
difficult places.

It took them over forty minutes to reach the platform of the ledge
formed by the cliff; and Lupin had several times to help his
companion, whose wrists, still bruised from the torture, had lost
all their strength and suppleness.

Over and over again, he groaned:

“Oh, the swine, they’ve done for me!... The swine!... Ah,
d’Albufex, I’ll make you pay dear for this!...”

“Ssh!” said Lupin.

“What’s the matter?”

“A noise . . . up above....”

Standing motionless on the platform, they listened. Lupin thought
of the Sire de Tancarville and the sentry who had killed him with
a shot from his harquebus. He shivered, feeling all the anguish of
the silence and the darkness.

“No,” he said, “I was mistaken.... Besides, it’s absurd.... They
can’t hit us here.”

“Who would hit us?”

“No one . . . no one... it was a silly notion....”

He groped about till he found the uprights of the ladder; then he
said:

“There, here’s the ladder. It is fixed in the bed of the river. A
friend of mine is looking after it, as well as your cousins.”

He whistled:

“Here I am,” he said, in a low voice. “Hold the ladder fast.” And,
to Daubrecq, “I’ll go first.”

Daubrecq objected:

“Perhaps it would be better for me to go down first.”

“Why?”

“I am very tired. You can tie your rope round my waist and hold
me.... Otherwise, there is a danger that I might....”

“Yes, you are right,” said Lupin. “Come nearer.”

Daubrecq came nearer and knelt down on the rock. Lupin fastened the
rope to him and then, stooping over, grasped one of the uprights in
both hands to keep the ladder from shaking:

“Off you go,” he said.

At the same moment, he felt a violent pain in the shoulder:

“Blast it!” he said, sinking to the ground.

Daubrecq had stabbed him with a knife below the nape of the neck, a
little to the right.

“You blackguard! You blackguard!”

He half-saw Daubrecq, in the dark, ridding himself of his rope, and
heard him whisper:

“You’re a bit of a fool, you know!... You bring me a letter
from my Rousselot cousins, in which I recognize the writing of
the elder, Adelaide, but which that sly puss of an Adelaide,
suspecting something and meaning to put me on my guard, if
necessary, took care to sign with the name of the younger sister,
Euphrasie Rousselot. You see, I tumbled to it! So, with a little
reflection . . . you are Master Arsène Lupin, are you not?
Clarisse’s protector, Gilbert’s saviour.... Poor Lupin, I fear
you’re in a bad way.... I don’t use the knife often; but, when I
do, I use it with a vengeance.”

He bent over the wounded man and felt in his pockets:

“Give me your revolver, can’t you? You see, your friends will know
at once that it is not their governor; and they will try to secure
me.... And, as I have not much strength left, a bullet or two....
Good-bye, Lupin. We shall meet in the next world, eh? Book me a
nice flat, with all the latest conveniences.

“Good-bye, Lupin. And my best thanks. For really I don’t know what
I should have done without you. By Jove, d’Albufex was hitting me
hard! It’ll be a joke to meet the beggar again!”

Daubrecq had completed his preparations. He whistled once more. A
reply came from the boat.

“Here I am,” he said.

With a last effort, Lupin put out his arm to stop him. But his
hand touched nothing but space. He tried to call out, to warn his
accomplices: his voice choked in his throat.

He felt a terrible numbness creep over his whole being. His temples
buzzed.

Suddenly, shouts below. Then a shot. Then another, followed by a
triumphant chuckle. And a woman’s wail and moans. And, soon after,
two more shots.

Lupin thought of Clarisse, wounded, dead perhaps; of Daubrecq,
fleeing victoriously; of d’Albufex; of the crystal stopper, which
one or other of the two adversaries would recover unresisted. Then
a sudden vision showed him the Sire de Tancarville falling with the
woman he loved. Then he murmured, time after time:

“Clarisse.... Clarisse.... Gilbert....” A great silence overcame
him; an infinite peace entered into him; and, without the least
revolt, he received the impression that his exhausted body, with
nothing now to hold it back, was rolling to the very edge of the
rock, toward the abyss.


[C] The name given to the brigands in the Vendée, who tortured
their victims with fire to make them confess where their money was
hidden.--_Translator’s Note._




CHAPTER IX.

IN THE DARK


An hotel bedroom at Amiens.

Lupin was recovering a little consciousness for the first time.
Clarisse and the Masher were seated by his bedside.

Both were talking; and Lupin listened to them, without opening his
eyes. He learned that they had feared for his life, but that all
danger was now removed. Next, in the course of the conversation, he
caught certain words that revealed to him what had happened in the
tragic night at Mortepierre: Daubrecq’s descent; the dismay of the
accomplices, when they saw that it was not the governor; then the
short struggle: Clarisse flinging herself on Daubrecq and receiving
a wound in the shoulder; Daubrecq leaping to the bank; the Growler
firing two revolver-shots and darting off in pursuit of him; the
Masher clambering up the ladder and finding the governor in a swoon:

“True as I live,” said the Masher, “I can’t make out even now how
he did not roll over. There was a sort of hollow at that place, but
it was a sloping hollow; and, half dead as he was, he must have
hung on with his ten fingers. Crikey, it was time I came!”

Lupin listened, listened in despair. He collected his strength to
grasp and understand the words. But suddenly a terrible sentence
was uttered: Clarisse, weeping, spoke of the eighteen days that had
elapsed, eighteen more days lost to Gilbert’s safety.

Eighteen days! The figure terrified Lupin. He felt that all was
over, that he would never be able to recover his strength and
resume the struggle and that Gilbert and Vaucheray were doomed....
His brain slipped away from him. The fever returned and the
delirium.

       *       *       *       *       *

And more days came and went. It was perhaps the time of his life
of which Lupin speaks with the greatest horror. He retained just
enough consciousness and had sufficiently lucid moments to realize
the position exactly. But he was not able to coordinate his ideas,
to follow a line of argument nor to instruct or forbid his friends
to adopt this or that line of conduct.

Often, when he emerged from his torpor, he found his hand in
Clarisse’s and, in that half-slumbering condition in which a fever
keeps you, he would address strange words to her, words of love and
passion, imploring her and thanking her and blessing her for all
the light and joy which she had brought into his darkness.

Then, growing calmer and not fully understanding what he had said,
he tried to jest:

“I have been delirious, have I not? What a heap of nonsense I must
have talked!”

But Lupin felt by Clarisse’s silence that he could safely talk
as much nonsense as ever his fever suggested to him. She did not
hear. The care and attention which she lavished on the patient, her
devotion, her vigilance, her alarm at the least relapse: all this
was meant not for him, but for the possible saviour of Gilbert. She
anxiously watched the progress of his convalescence. How soon would
he be fit to resume the campaign? Was it not madness to linger by
his side, when every day carried away a little hope?

Lupin never ceased repeating to himself, with the inward belief
that, by so doing, he could influence the course of his illness:

“I will get well.... I will get well....”

And he lay for days on end without moving, so as not to disturb the
dressing of his wound nor increase the excitement of his nerves in
the smallest degree.

He also strove not to think of Daubrecq. But the image of his dire
adversary haunted him; and he reconstituted the various phases
of the escape, the descent of the cliff.... One day, struck by a
terrible memory, he exclaimed:

“The list! The list of the Twenty-seven! Daubrecq must have it by
now . . . or else d’Albufex. It was on the table!”

Clarisse reassured him:

“No one can have taken it,” she declared. “The Growler was in Paris
that same day, with a note from me for Prasville, entreating him to
redouble his watch in the Square Lamartine, so that no one should
enter, especially d’Albufex....”

“But Daubrecq?”

“He is wounded. He cannot have gone home.”

“Ah, well,” he said, “that’s all right!... But you too were
wounded....”

“A mere scratch on the shoulder.”

Lupin was easier in his mind after these revelations. Nevertheless,
he was pursued by stubborn notions which he was unable either to
drive from his brain or to put into words. Above all, he thought
incessantly of that name of “Marie” which Daubrecq’s sufferings
had drawn from him. What did the name refer to? Was it the title
of one of the books on the shelves, or a part of the title? Would
the book in question supply the key to the mystery? Or was it the
combination word of a safe? Was it a series of letters written
somewhere: on a wall, on a paper, on a wooden panel, on the mount
of a drawing, on an invoice?

These questions, to which he was unable to find a reply, obsessed
and exhausted him.

One morning Arsène Lupin woke feeling a great deal better. The
wound was closed, the temperature almost normal. The doctor, a
personal friend, who came every day from Paris, promised that he
might get up two days later. And, on that day, in the absence of
his accomplices and of Mme. Mergy, all three of whom had left two
days before, in quest of information, he had himself moved to the
open window.

He felt life return to him with the sunlight, with the balmy
air that announced the approach of spring. He recovered the
concatenation of his ideas; and facts once more took their place in
his brain in their logical sequence and in accordance with their
relations one to the other.

In the evening he received a telegram from Clarisse to say that
things were going badly and that she, the Growler and the Masher
were all staying in Paris. He was much disturbed by this wire and
had a less quiet night. What could the news be that had given rise
to Clarisse’s telegram?

But, the next day, she arrived in his room looking very pale, her
eyes red with weeping, and, utterly worn out, dropped into a chair:

“The appeal has been rejected,” she stammered.

He mastered his emotion and asked, in a voice of surprise:

“Were you relying on that?”

“No, no,” she said, “but, all the same . . . one hopes in spite of
one’s self.”

“Was it rejected yesterday?”

“A week ago. The Masher kept it from me; and I have not dared to
read the papers lately.”

“There is always the commutation of sentence,” he suggested.

“The commutation? Do you imagine that they will commute the
sentence of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices?”

She ejaculated the words with a violence and a bitterness which he
pretended not to notice; and he said:

“Vaucheray perhaps not.... But they will take pity on Gilbert, on
his youth....”

“They will do nothing of the sort.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen his counsel.”

“You have seen his counsel! And you told him....”

“I told him that I was Gilbert’s mother and I asked him whether,
by proclaiming my son’s identity, we could not influence the
result . . . or at least delay it.”

“You would do that?” he whispered. “You would admit....”

“Gilbert’s life comes before everything. What do I care about my
name! What do I care about my husband’s name!”

“And your little Jacques?” he objected. “Have you the right to ruin
Jacques, to make him the brother of a man condemned to death?”

She hung her head. And he resumed:

“What did the counsel say?”

“He said that an act of that sort would not help Gilbert in the
remotest degree. And, in spite of all his protests, I could see
that, as far as he was concerned, he had no illusions left and
that the pardoning commission are bound to find in favour of the
execution.”

“The commission, I grant you; but what of the president of the
Republic?”

“The president always goes by the advice of the commission.”

“He will not do so this time.”

“And why not?”

“Because we shall bring influence to bear upon him.”

“How?”

“By the conditional surrender of the list of the Twenty-seven!”

“Have you it?”

“No, but I shall have it.”

His certainty had not wavered. He made the statement with equal
calmness and faith in the infinite power of his will.

She had lost some part of her confidence in him and she shrugged
her shoulders lightly:

“If d’Albufex has not purloined the list, one man alone can
exercise any influence; one man alone: Daubrecq.”

She spoke these words in a low and absent voice that made him
shudder. Was she still thinking, as he had often seemed to feel, of
going back to Daubrecq and paying him for Gilbert’s life?

“You have sworn an oath to me,” he said. “I’m reminding you of it.
It was agreed that the struggle with Daubrecq should be directed by
me and that there would never be a possibility of any arrangement
between you and him.”

She retorted:

“I don’t even know where he is. If I knew, wouldn’t you know?”

It was an evasive answer. But he did not insist, resolving to watch
her at the opportune time; and he asked her, for he had not yet
been told all the details:

“Then it’s not known what became of Daubrecq?”

“No. Of course, one of the Growler’s bullets struck him. For, next
day, we picked up, in a coppice, a handkerchief covered with blood.
Also, it seems that a man was seen at Aumale Station, looking very
tired and walking with great difficulty. He took a ticket for
Paris, stepped into the first train and that is all....”

“He must be seriously wounded,” said Lupin, “and he is nursing
himself in some safe retreat. Perhaps, also, he considers it wise
to lie low for a few weeks and avoid any traps on the part of the
police, d’Albufex, you, myself and all his other enemies.”

He stopped to think and continued:

“What has happened at Mortepierre since Daubrecq’s escape? Has
there been no talk in the neighbourhood?”

“No, the rope was removed before daybreak, which proves that
Sébastiani or his sons discovered Daubrecq’s flight on the same
night. Sébastiani was away the whole of the next day.”

“Yes, he will have informed the marquis. And where is the marquis
himself?”

“At home. And, from what the Growler has heard, there is nothing
suspicious there either.”

“Are they certain that he has not been inside Daubrecq’s house?”

“As certain as they can be.”

“Nor Daubrecq?”

“Nor Daubrecq.”

“Have you seen Prasville?”

“Prasville is away on leave. But Chief-inspector Blanchon, who has
charge of the case, and the detectives who are guarding the house
declare that, in accordance with Prasville’s instructions, their
watch is not relaxed for a moment, even at night; that one of them,
turn and turn about, is always on duty in the study; and that no
one, therefore, can have gone in.”

“So, on principle,” Arsène Lupin concluded, “the crystal stopper
must still be in Daubrecq’s study?”

“If it was there before Daubrecq’s disappearance, it should be
there now.”

“And on the study-table.”

“On the study-table? Why do you say that?”

“Because I know,” said Lupin, who had not forgotten Sébastiani’s
words.

“But you don’t know the article in which the stopper is hidden?”

“No. But a study-table, a writing-desk, is a limited space. One can
explore it in twenty minutes. One can demolish it, if necessary, in
ten.”

The conversation had tired Arsène Lupin a little. As he did not
wish to commit the least imprudence, he said to Clarisse:

“Listen. I will ask you to give me two or three days more. This is
Monday, the 4th of March. On Wednesday or Thursday, at latest, I
shall be up and about. And you can be sure that we shall succeed.”

“And, in the meantime....”

“In the meantime, go back to Paris. Take rooms, with the Growler
and the Masher, in the Hôtel Franklin, near the Trocadero, and keep
a watch on Daubrecq’s house. You are free to go in and out as you
please. Stimulate the zeal of the detectives on duty.”

“Suppose Daubrecq returns?”

“If he returns, that will be so much the better: we shall have him.”

“And, if he only passes?”

“In that case, the Growler and the Masher must follow him.”

“And if they lose sight of him?”

Lupin did not reply. No one felt more than he how fatal it was to
remain inactive in a hotel bedroom and how useful his presence
would have been on the battlefield! Perhaps even this vague idea
had already prolonged his illness beyond the ordinary limits.

He murmured:

“Go now, please.”

There was a constraint between them which increased as the awful
day drew nigh. In her injustice, forgetting or wishing to forget
that it was she who had forced her son into the Enghien enterprise,
Mme. Mergy did not forget that the law was pursuing Gilbert with
such rigour not so much because he was a criminal as because he
was an accomplice of Arsène Lupin’s. And then, notwithstanding all
his efforts, notwithstanding his prodigious expenditure of energy,
what result had Lupin achieved, when all was said? How far had his
intervention benefited Gilbert?

After a pause, she rose and left him alone.

The next day he was feeling rather low. But on the day after, the
Wednesday, when his doctor wanted him to keep quiet until the end
of the week, he said:

“If not, what have I to fear?”

“A return of the fever.”

“Nothing worse?”

“No. The wound is pretty well healed.”

“Then I don’t care. I’ll go back with you in your car. We shall be
in Paris by mid-day.”

What decided Lupin to start at once was, first, a letter in which
Clarisse told him that she had found Daubrecq’s traces, and, also,
a telegram, published in the Amiens papers, which stated that the
Marquis d’Albufex had been arrested for his complicity in the
affair of the canal.

Daubrecq was taking his revenge.

Now the fact that Daubrecq was taking his revenge proved that the
marquis had not been able to prevent that revenge by seizing the
document which was on the writing-desk in the study. It proved
that Chief-inspector Blanchon and the detectives had kept a good
watch. It proved that the crystal stopper was still in the Square
Lamartine.

It was still there; and this showed either that Daubrecq had not
ventured to go home, or else that his state of health hindered him
from doing so, or else again that he had sufficient confidence in
the hiding-place not to trouble to put himself out.

In any case, there was no doubt as to the course to be pursued:
Lupin must act and he must act smartly. He must forestall Daubrecq
and get hold of the crystal stopper.

When they had crossed the Bois de Boulogne and were nearing the
Square Lamartine, Lupin took leave of the doctor and stopped the
car. The Growler and the Masher, to whom he had wired, met him.

“Where’s Mme. Mergy?” he asked.

“She has not been back since yesterday; she sent us an express
message to say that she saw Daubrecq leaving his cousins’ place and
getting into a cab. She knows the number of the cab and will keep
us informed.”

“Nothing further?”

“Nothing further.”

“No other news?”

“Yes, the _Paris-Midi_ says that d’Albufex opened his veins last
night, with a piece of broken glass, in his cell at the Santé. He
seems to have left a long letter behind him, confessing his fault,
but accusing Daubrecq of his death and exposing the part played by
Daubrecq in the canal affair.”

“Is that all?”

“No. The same paper stated that it has reason to believe that the
pardoning commission, after examining the record, has rejected
Vaucheray and Gilbert’s petition and that their counsel will
probably be received in audience by the president on Friday.”

Lupin gave a shudder.

“They’re losing no time,” he said. “I can see that Daubrecq, on
the very first day, put the screw on the old judicial machine. One
short week more . . . and the knife falls. My poor Gilbert! If, on
Friday next, the papers which your counsel submits to the president
of the Republic do not contain the conditional offer of the list of
the Twenty-seven, then, my poor Gilbert, you are done for!”

“Come, come, governor, are you losing courage?”

“I? Rot! I shall have the crystal stopper in an hour. In two hours,
I shall see Gilbert’s counsel. And the nightmare will be over.”

“Well done, governor! That’s like your old self. Shall we wait for
you here?”

“No, go back to your hotel. I’ll join you later.”

They parted. Lupin walked straight to the house and rang the bell.

A detective opened the door and recognized him:

“M. Nicole, I believe?”

“Yes,” he said. “Is Chief-inspector Blanchon here?”

“He is.”

“Can I speak to him?”

The man took him to the study, where Chief-inspector Blanchon
welcomed him with obvious pleasure.

“Well, chief-inspector, one would say there was something new?”

“M. Nicole, my orders are to place myself entirely at your
disposal; and I may say that I am very glad to see you to-day.”

“Why so?”

“Because there is something new.”

“Something serious?”

“Something very serious.”

“Quick, speak.”

“Daubrecq has returned.”

“Eh, what!” exclaimed Lupin, with a start. “Daubrecq returned? Is
he here?”

“No, he has gone.”

“And did he come in here, in the study?”

“Yes.”

“This morning.”

“And you did not prevent him?”

“What right had I?”

“And you left him alone?”

“By his positive orders, yes, we left him alone.”

Lupin felt himself turn pale. Daubrecq had come back to fetch the
crystal stopper!

He was silent for some time and repeated to himself:

“He came back to fetch it.... He was afraid that it would be
found and he has taken it.... Of course, it was inevitable . . .
with d’Albufex arrested, with d’Albufex accused and accusing him,
Daubrecq was bound to defend himself. It’s a difficult game for
him. After months and months of mystery, the public is at last
learning that the infernal being who contrived the whole tragedy
of the Twenty-Seven and who ruins and kills his adversaries is he,
Daubrecq. What would become of him if, by a miracle, his talisman
did not protect him? He has taken it back.”

And, trying to make his voice sound firm, he asked:

“Did he stay long?”

“Twenty seconds, perhaps.”

“What! Twenty seconds? No longer?”

“No longer.”

“What time was it?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Could he have known of the Marquis d’Albufex’ suicide by then?”

“Yes. I saw the special edition of the _Paris-Midi_ in his pocket.”

“That’s it, that’s it,” said Lupin. And he asked, “Did M. Prasville
give you no special instructions in case Daubrecq should return?”

“No. So, in M. Prasville’s absence, I telephoned to the
police-office and I am waiting. The disappearance of Daubrecq the
deputy caused a great stir, as you know, and our presence here has
a reason, in the eyes of the public, as long as that disappearance
continues. But, now that Daubrecq has returned, now that we have
proofs that he is neither under restraint nor dead, how can we stay
in the house?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lupin, absently. “It doesn’t matter
whether the house is guarded or not. Daubrecq has been; therefore
the crystal stopper is no longer here.”

He had not finished the sentence, when a question quite naturally
forced itself upon his mind. If the crystal stopper was no longer
there, would this not be obvious from some material sign? Had the
removal of that object, doubtless contained within another object,
left no trace, no void?

It was easy to ascertain. Lupin had simply to examine the
writing-desk, for he knew, from Sébastiani’s chaff, that this was
the spot of the hiding-place. And the hiding-place could not be a
complicated one, seeing that Daubrecq had not remained in the study
for more than twenty seconds, just long enough, so to speak, to
walk in and walk out again.

Lupin looked. And the result was immediate. His memory had
so faithfully recorded the picture of the desk, with all the
articles lying on it, that the absence of one of them struck
him instantaneously, as though that article and that alone were
the characteristic sign which distinguished this particular
writing-table from every other table in the world.

“Oh,” he thought, quivering with delight, “everything fits in!
Everything!... Down to that half-word which the torture drew from
Daubrecq in the tower at Mortepierre! The riddle is solved. There
need be no more hesitation, no more groping in the dark. The end is
in sight.”

And, without answering the inspector’s questions, he thought of the
simplicity of the hiding-place and remembered Edgar Allan Poe’s
wonderful story in which the stolen letter, so eagerly sought for,
is, in a manner of speaking, displayed to all eyes. People do not
suspect what does not appear to be hidden.

“Well, well,” said Lupin, as he went out, greatly excited by his
discovery, “I seem doomed, in this confounded adventure, to knock
up against disappointments to the finish. Everything that I build
crumbles to pieces at once. Every victory ends in disaster.”

Nevertheless, he did not allow himself to be cast down. On the
one hand, he now knew where Daubrecq the deputy hid the crystal
stopper. On the other hand, he would soon learn from Clarisse Mergy
where Daubrecq himself was lurking. The rest, to him, would be
child’s play.

The Growler and the Masher were waiting for him in the drawing-room
of the Hôtel Franklin, a small family-hotel near the Trocadero.
Mme. Mergy had not yet written to him.

“Oh,” he said, “I can trust her! She will hang on to Daubrecq until
she is certain.”

However, toward the end of the afternoon, he began to grow
impatient and anxious. He was fighting one of those battles--the
last, he hoped--in which the least delay might jeopardize
everything. If Daubrecq threw Mme. Mergy off the scent, how was he
to be caught again? They no longer had weeks or days, but only a
few hours, a terribly limited number of hours, in which to repair
any mistakes that they might commit.

He saw the proprietor of the hotel and asked him:

“Are you sure that there is no express letter for my two friends?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Nor for me, M. Nicole?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s curious,” said Lupin. “We were certain that we should hear
from Mme. Audran.”

Audran was the name under which Clarisse was staying at the hotel.

“But the lady has been,” said the proprietor.

“What’s that?”

“She came some time ago and, as the gentlemen were not there, left
a letter in her room. Didn’t the porter tell you?”

Lupin and his friends hurried upstairs. There was a letter on the
table.

“Hullo!” said Lupin. “It’s been opened! How is that? And why has it
been cut about with scissors?”

The letter contained the following lines:

    “Daubrecq has spent the week at the Hôtel Central. This morning
    he had his luggage taken to the Gare de ---- and telephoned to
    reserve a berth in the sleeping-car ---- for ----

    “I do not know when the train starts. But I shall be at the
    station all the afternoon. Come as soon as you can, all three
    of you. We will arrange to kidnap him.”

“What next?” said the Masher. “At which station? And where’s the
sleeping-car for? She has cut out just the words we wanted!”

“Yes,” said the Growler. “Two snips with the scissors in each
place; and the words which we most want are gone. Who ever saw such
a thing? Has Mme. Mergy lost her head?”

Lupin did not move. A rush of blood was beating at his temples with
such violence that he glued his fists to them and pressed with all
his might. His fever returned, burning and riotous, and his will,
incensed to the verge of physical suffering, concentrated itself
upon that stealthy enemy, which must be controlled then and there,
if he himself did not wish to be irretrievably beaten.

He muttered, very calmly:

“Daubrecq has been here.”

“Daubrecq!”

“We can’t suppose that Mme. Mergy has been amusing herself by
cutting out those two words. Daubrecq has been here. Mme. Mergy
thought that she was watching him. He was watching her instead.”

“How?”

“Doubtless through that hall-porter who did not tell us that Mme.
Mergy had been to the hotel, but who must have told Daubrecq.
He came. He read the letter. And, by way of getting at us, he
contented himself with cutting out the essential words.”

“We can find out . . . we can ask....”

“What’s the good? What’s the use of finding out how he came, when
we know that he did come?”

He examined the letter for some time, turned it over and over, then
stood up and said:

“Come along.”

“Where to?”

“Gare de Lyon.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure of nothing with Daubrecq. But, as we have to choose,
according to the contents of the letter, between the Gare _de_
l’Est and the Gare _de_ Lyon, [D] I am presuming that his business,
his pleasure and his health are more likely to take Daubrecq in the
direction of Marseilles and the Riviera than to the Gare de l’Est.”

It was past seven when Lupin and his companions left the Hôtel
Franklin. A motor-car took them across Paris at full speed, but
they soon saw that Clarisse Mergy was not outside the station, nor
in the waiting-rooms, nor on any of the platforms.

“Still,” muttered Lupin, whose agitation grew as the obstacles
increased, “still, if Daubrecq booked a berth in a sleeping-car, it
can only have been in an evening train. And it is barely half-past
seven!”

A train was starting, the night express. They had time to rush
along the corridor. Nobody . . . neither Mme. Mergy nor Daubrecq....

But, as they were all three going, a porter accosted them near the
refreshment-room:

“Is one of you gentlemen looking for a lady?”

“Yes, yes, . . . I am,” said Lupin. “Quick, what is it?”

“Oh, it’s you, sir! The lady told me there might be three of you or
two of you.... And I didn’t know....”

“But, in heaven’s name, speak, man! What lady?”

“The lady who spent the whole day on the pavement, with the
luggage, waiting.”

“Well, out with it! Has she taken a train?”

“Yes, the _train-de-luxe_, at six-thirty: she made up her mind at
the last moment, she told me to say. And I was also to say that the
gentleman was in the same train and that they were going to Monte
Carlo.”

“Damn it!” muttered Lupin. “We ought to have taken the express just
now! There’s nothing left but the evening trains, and they crawl!
We’ve lost over three hours.”

The wait seemed interminable. They booked their seats. They
telephoned to the proprietor of the Hôtel Franklin to send on their
letters to Monte Carlo. They dined. They read the papers. At last,
at half-past nine, the train started.

And so, by a really tragic series of circumstances, at the most
critical moment of the contest, Lupin was turning his back on the
battlefield and going away, at haphazard, to seek, he knew not
where, and beat, he knew not how, the most formidable and elusive
enemy that he had ever fought.

And this was happening four days, five days at most, before the
inevitable execution of Gilbert and Vaucheray.

It was a bad and painful night for Lupin. The more he studied the
situation the more terrible it appeared to him. On every side he
was faced with uncertainty, darkness, confusion, helplessness.

True, he knew the secret of the crystal stopper. But how was he to
know that Daubrecq would not change or had not already changed his
tactics? How was he to know that the list of the Twenty-seven was
still inside that crystal stopper or that the crystal stopper was
still inside the object where Daubrecq had first hidden it?

And there was a further serious reason for alarm in the fact that
Clarisse Mergy thought that she was shadowing and watching Daubrecq
at a time when, on the contrary, Daubrecq was watching her, having
her shadowed and dragging her, with diabolical cleverness, toward
the places selected by himself, far from all help or hope of help.

Oh, Daubrecq’s game was clear as daylight! Did not Lupin know the
unhappy woman’s hesitations? Did he not know--and the Growler and
the Masher confirmed it most positively--that Clarisse looked
upon the infamous bargain planned by Daubrecq in the light of a
possible, an acceptable thing? In that case, how could he, Lupin,
succeed? The logic of events, so powerfully moulded by Daubrecq,
led to a fatal result: the mother must sacrifice herself and, to
save her son, throw her scruples, her repugnance, her very honour,
to the winds!

“Oh, you scoundrel!” snarled Lupin, in a fit of rage. “If I get
hold of you, I’ll make you dance to a pretty tune! I wouldn’t be in
your shoes for a great deal, when that happens.”

They reached Monte Carlo at three o’clock in the afternoon. Lupin
was at once disappointed not to see Clarisse on the platform at the
station.

He waited. No messenger came up to him.

He asked the porters and ticket-collectors if they had noticed,
among the crowd, two travellers answering to the description of
Daubrecq and Clarisse. They had not.

He had, therefore, to set to work and hunt through all the hotels
and lodging-houses in the principality. Oh, the time wasted!

By the following evening, Lupin knew, beyond a doubt, that Daubrecq
and Clarisse were not at Monte Carlo, nor at Monaco, nor at the Cap
d’Ail, nor at La Turbie, nor at Cap Martin.

“Where can they be then?” he wondered, trembling with rage.

At last, on the Saturday, he received, at the _poste restante_, a
telegram which had been readdressed from the Hôtel Franklin and
which said:

    “He got out at Cannes and is going on to San Remo, Hôtel Palace
    des Ambassadeurs.

  “CLARISSE.”

The telegram was dated the day before.

“Hang it!” exclaimed Lupin. “They passed through Monte Carlo. One
of us ought to have remained at the station. I did think of it;
but, in the midst of all that bustle....”

Lupin and his friends took the first train for Italy.

They crossed the frontier at twelve o’clock. The train entered the
station at San Remo at twelve-forty.

They at once saw an hotel-porter, with “Ambassadeurs-Palace” on
his braided cap, who seemed to be looking for some one among the
arrivals.

Lupin went up to him:

“Are you looking for M. Nicole?”

“Yes, M. Nicole and two gentlemen.”

“From a lady?”

“Yes, Mme. Mergy.”

“Is she staying at your hotel?”

“No. She did not get out. She beckoned to me, described you three
gentlemen and told me to say that she was going on to Genoa, to the
Hôtel Continental.”

“Was she by herself?”

“Yes.”

Lupin tipped the man, dismissed him and turned to his friends:

“This is Saturday. If the execution takes place on Monday, there’s
nothing to be done. But Monday is not a likely day.... What I have
to do is to lay hands on Daubrecq to-night and to be in Paris on
Monday, with the document. It’s our last chance. Let’s take it.”

The Growler went to the booking-office and returned with three
tickets for Genoa.

The engine whistled.

Lupin had a last hesitation:

“No, really, it’s too childish! What are we doing? We ought to be
in Paris, not here!... Just think!...”

He was on the point of opening the door and jumping out on the
permanent way. But his companions held him back. The train started.
He sat down again.

And they continued their mad pursuit, travelling at random, toward
the unknown....

And this happened two days before the inevitable execution of
Gilbert and Vaucheray.


[D] These are the only two main-line stations in Paris with
the word _de_ in their name. The others have _du_, as the Gare
du Nord or the Gare du Luxembourg, d’ as the Gare d’Orleans,
or no participle at all, as the Gare Saint-Lazare or the Gare
Montparnasse.--_Translator’s Note._




CHAPTER X.

EXTRA-DRY?


On one of the hills that girdle Nice with the finest scenery in
the world, between the Vallon de Saint-Silvestre and the Vallon
de La Mantéga, stands a huge hotel which overlooks the town and
the wonderful Baie des Anges. A crowd flocks to it from all parts,
forming a medley of every class and nation.

On the evening of the same Saturday when Lupin, the Growler and
the Masher were plunging into Italy, Clarisse Mergy entered this
hotel, asked for a bedroom facing south and selected No. 130, on
the second floor, a room which had been vacant since that morning.

The room was separated from No. 129 by two partition-doors. As soon
as she was alone, Clarisse pulled back the curtain that concealed
the first door, noiselessly drew the bolt and put her ear to the
second door:

“He is here,” she thought. “He is dressing to go to the club . . .
as he did yesterday.”

When her neighbour had gone, she went into the passage and,
availing herself of a moment when there was no one in sight, walked
up to the door of No. 129. The door was locked.

She waited all the evening for her neighbour’s return and did not
go to bed until two o’clock. On Sunday morning, she resumed her
watch.

The neighbour went out at eleven. This time he left the key in the
door.

Hurriedly turning the key, Clarisse entered boldly, went to the
partition-door, raised the curtain, drew the bolt and found herself
in her own room.

In a few minutes, she heard two chambermaids doing the room in No.
129.

She waited until they were gone. Then, feeling sure that she would
not be disturbed, she once more slipped into the other room.

Her excitement made her lean against a chair. After days and nights
of stubborn pursuit, after alternate hopes and disappointments,
she had at last succeeded in entering a room occupied by Daubrecq.
She could look about at her ease; and, if she did not discover the
crystal stopper, she could at least hide in the space between the
partition-doors, behind the hanging, see Daubrecq, spy upon his
movements and surprise his secret.

She looked around her. A travelling-bag at once caught her
attention. She managed to open it; but her search was useless.

She ransacked the trays of a trunk and the compartments of a
portmanteau. She searched the wardrobe, the writing-table, the
chest of drawers, the bathroom, all the tables, all the furniture.
She found nothing.

She gave a start when she saw a scrap of paper on the balcony,
lying as though flung there by accident:

“Can it be a trick of Daubrecq’s?” she thought, out loud. “Can that
scrap of paper contain....”

“No,” said a voice behind her, as she put her hand on the latch.

She turned and saw Daubrecq.

She felt neither astonishment nor alarm, nor even any embarrassment
at finding herself face to face with him. She had suffered too
deeply for months to trouble about what Daubrecq could think of her
or say, at catching her in the act of spying.

She sat down wearily.

He grinned:

“No, you’re out of it, dear friend. As the children say, you’re not
‘burning’ at all. Oh, not a bit of it! And it’s so easy! Shall I
help you? It’s next to you, dear friend, on that little table....
And yet, by Jove, there’s not much on that little table! Something
to read, something to write with, something to smoke, something
to eat . . . and that’s all.... Will you have one of these
candied fruits?... Or perhaps you would rather wait for the more
substantial meal which I have ordered?”

Clarisse made no reply. She did not even seem to listen to what he
was saying, as though she expected other words, more serious words,
which he could not fail to utter.

He cleared the table of all the things that lay upon it and put
them on the mantel-piece. Then he rang the bell.

A head-waiter appeared. Daubrecq asked:

“Is the lunch which I ordered ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s for two, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the champagne?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Extra-dry?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another waiter brought a tray and laid two covers on the table: a
cold lunch, some fruit and a bottle of champagne in an ice-pail.

Then the two waiters withdrew.

“Sit down, dear lady. As you see, I was thinking of you and your
cover is laid.”

And, without seeming to observe that Clarisse was not at all
prepared to do honour to his invitation, he sat down, began to eat
and continued:

“Yes, upon my word, I hoped that you would end by consenting to
this little private meeting. During the past week, while you
were keeping so assiduous a watch upon me, I did nothing but say
to myself, ‘I wonder which she prefers: sweet champagne, dry
champagne, or extra-dry?’ I was really puzzled. Especially after
our departure from Paris. I had lost your tracks, that is to say,
I feared that you had lost mine and abandoned the pursuit which
was so gratifying to me. When I went for a walk, I missed your
beautiful dark eyes, gleaming with hatred under your hair just
touched with gray. But, this morning, I understood: the room next
to mine was empty at last; and my friend Clarisse was able to take
up her quarters, so to speak, by my bedside. From that moment I was
reassured. I felt certain that, on coming back--instead of lunching
in the restaurant as usual--I should find you arranging my things
to your convenience and suiting your own taste. That was why I
ordered two covers: one for your humble servant, the other for his
fair friend.”

She was listening to him now and in the greatest terror. So
Daubrecq knew that he was spied upon! For a whole week he had seen
through her and all her schemes!

In a low voice, anxious-eyed, she asked:

“You did it on purpose, did you not? You only went away to drag me
with you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But why? Why?”

“Do you mean to say that you don’t know?” retorted Daubrecq,
laughing with a little cluck of delight.

She half-rose from her chair and, bending toward him, thought, as
she thought each time, of the murder which she could commit, of the
murder which she would commit. One revolver-shot and the odious
brute was done for.

Slowly her hand glided to the weapon concealed in her bodice.

Daubrecq said:

“One second, dear friend.... You can shoot presently; but I beg you
first to read this wire which I have just received.”

She hesitated, not knowing what trap he was laying for her; but he
went on, as he produced a telegram:

“It’s about your son.”

“Gilbert?” she asked, greatly concerned.

“Yes, Gilbert.... Here, read it.”

She gave a yell of dismay. She had read:

    “Execution on Tuesday morning.”

And she at once flung herself on Daubrecq, crying:

“It’s not true!... It’s a lie . . . to madden me.... Oh, I know
you: you are capable of anything! Confess! It won’t be on Tuesday,
will it? In two days! No, no.... I tell you, we have four days yet,
five days, in which to save him.... Confess it, confess it!”

She had no strength left, exhausted by this fit of rebellion; and
her voice uttered none but inarticulate sounds.

He looked at her for a moment, then poured himself out a glass of
champagne and drank it down at a gulp. He took a few steps up and
down the room, came back to her and said:

“Listen to me, _darling_....”

The insult made her quiver with an unexpected energy. She drew
herself up and, panting with indignation, said:

“I forbid you.... I forbid you to speak to me like that. I will not
accept such an outrage. You wretch!...”

He shrugged his shoulders and resumed:

“Pah, I see you’re not quite alive to the position. That comes,
of course, because you still hope for assistance in some quarter.
Prasville, perhaps? The excellent Prasville, whose right hand you
are.... My dear friend, a forlorn hope.... You must know that
Prasville is mixed up in the Canal affair! Not directly: that is
to say, his name is not on the list of the Twenty-seven; but it is
there under the name of one of his friends, an ex-deputy called
Vorenglade, Stanislas Vorenglade, his man of straw, apparently: a
penniless individual whom I left alone and rightly. I knew nothing
of all that until this morning, when, lo and behold, I received a
letter informing me of the existence of a bundle of documents which
prove the complicity of our one and only Prasville! And who is my
informant? Vorenglade himself! Vorenglade, who, tired of living in
poverty, wants to extort money from Prasville, at the risk of being
arrested, and who will be delighted to come to terms with me. And
Prasville will get the sack. Oh, what a lark! I swear to you that
he will get the sack, the villain! By Jove, but he’s annoyed me
long enough! Prasville, old boy, you’ve deserved it....”

He rubbed his hands together, revelling in his coming revenge. And
he continued:

“You see, my dear Clarisse . . . there’s nothing to be done in
that direction. What then? What straw will you cling to? Why, I
was forgetting: M. Arsène Lupin! Mr. Growler! Mr. Masher!... Pah,
you’ll admit that those gentlemen have not shone and that all their
feats of prowess have not prevented me from going my own little
way. It was bound to be. Those fellows imagine that there’s no one
to equal them. When they meet an adversary like myself, one who
is not to be bounced, it upsets them and they make blunder after
blunder, while still believing that they are hoodwinking him like
mad. Schoolboys, that’s what they are! However, as you seem to have
some illusions left about the aforesaid Lupin, as you are counting
on that poor devil to crush me and to work a miracle in favour of
your innocent Gilbert, come, let’s dispel that illusion. Oh! Lupin!
Lord above, she believes in Lupin! She places her last hopes in
Lupin! Lupin! Just wait till I prick you, my illustrious windbag!”

He took up the receiver of the telephone which communicated with
the hall of the hotel and said:

“I’m No. 129, mademoiselle. Would you kindly ask the person
sitting opposite your office to come up to me?... Huh!... Yes,
mademoiselle, the gentleman in a gray felt hat. He knows. Thank
you, mademoiselle.”

Hanging up the receiver, he turned to Clarisse:

“Don’t be afraid. The man is discretion itself. Besides, it’s
the motto of his trade: ‘Discretion and dispatch.’ As a retired
detective, he has done me a number of services, including that of
following you while you were following me. Since our arrival in the
south, he has been less busy with you; but that was because he was
more busy elsewhere. Come in, Jacob.”

He himself opened the door, and a short, thin man, with a red
moustache, entered the room.

“Please tell this lady, Jacob, in a few brief words, what you have
done since Wednesday evening, when, after letting her get into the
_train-de-luxe_ which was taking me from the Gare de Lyon to the
south, you yourself remained on the platform at the station. Of
course, I am not asking how you spent your time, except in so far
as concerns the lady and the business with which I entrusted you.”

Jacob dived into the inside-pocket of his jacket and produced a
little note-book of which he turned over the pages and read them
aloud in the voice of a man reading a report:

    “_Wednesday evening_, 8.15. Gare de Lyon. Wait for two gents,
    Growler and Masher. They come with another whom I don’t know
    yet, but who can only be M. Nicole. Give a porter ten francs
    for the loan of his cap and blouse. Accost the gents and tell
    them, from a lady, ‘that they were gone to Monte Carlo.’ Next,
    telephone to the porter at the Hôtel Franklin. All telegrams
    sent to his boss and dispatched by said boss will be read by
    said hotel-porter and, if necessary, intercepted.

    “_Thursday._ Monte Carlo. The three gents search the hotels.

    “_Friday._ Flying visits to La Turbie, the Cap d’Ail, Cap
    Martin. M. Daubrecq rings me up. Thinks it wiser to send the
    gents to Italy. Make the porter of the Hôtel Franklin send
    them a telegram appointing a meeting at San Remo.

    “_Saturday._ San Remo. Station platform. Give the porter of
    the Ambassadeurs-Palace ten francs for the loan of his cap.
    The three gents arrive. They speak to me. Explain to them that
    a lady traveller, Mme. Mergy, is going on to Genoa, to the
    Hôtel Continental. The gents hesitate. M. Nicole wants to get
    out. The others hold him back. The train starts. Good luck,
    gents! An hour later, I take the train for France and get out
    at Nice, to await fresh orders.”

Jacob closed his note-book and concluded:

“That’s all. To-day’s doings will be entered this evening.”

“You can enter them now, M. Jacob. ‘12 noon. M. Daubrecq sends me
to the Wagon-Lits Co. I book two berths in the Paris sleeping-car,
by the 2.48 train, and send them to M. Daubrecq by express
messenger. Then I take the 12.58 train for Vintimille, the
frontier-station, where I spend the day on the platform watching
all the travellers who come to France. Should Messrs. Nicole,
Growler and Masher take it into their heads to leave Italy and
return to Paris by way of Nice, my instructions are to telegraph to
the headquarters of police that Master Arsène Lupin and two of his
accomplices are in train number so-and-so.”

While speaking, Daubrecq led Jacob to the door. He closed it after
him, turned the key, pushed the bolt and, going up to Clarisse,
said:

“And now, _darling_, listen to me.”

This time, she uttered no protest. What could she do against such
an enemy, so powerful, so resourceful, who provided for everything,
down to the minutest details, and who toyed with his adversaries in
such an airy fashion? Even if she had hoped till then for Lupin’s
interference, how could she do so now, when he was wandering
through Italy in pursuit of a shadow?

She understood at last why three telegrams which she had sent to
the Hôtel Franklin had remained unanswered. Daubrecq was there,
lurking in the dark, watching, establishing a void around her,
separating her from her comrades in the fight, bringing her
gradually, a beaten prisoner, within the four walls of that room.

She felt her weakness. She was at the monster’s mercy. She must be
silent and resigned.

He repeated, with an evil delight:

“Listen to me, darling. Listen to the irrevocable words which I
am about to speak. Listen to them well. It is now 12 o’clock. The
last train starts at 2.48: you understand, the last train that can
bring me to Paris to-morrow, Monday, in time to save your son. The
evening-trains would arrive too late. The _trains-de-luxe_ are full
up. Therefore I shall have to start at 2.48. Am I to start?”

“Yes.”

“Our berths are booked. Will you come with me?”

“Yes.”

“You know my conditions for interfering?”

“Yes.”

“Do you accept them?”

“Yes.”

“You will marry me?”

“Yes.”

Oh, those horrible answers! The unhappy woman gave them in a
sort of awful torpor, refusing even to understand what she was
promising. Let him start first, let him snatch Gilbert from the
engine of death whose vision haunted her day and night.... And
then . . . and then . . . let what must come come....

He burst out laughing:

“Oh, you rogue, it’s easily said!... You’re ready to pledge
yourself to anything, eh? The great thing is to save Gilbert,
isn’t it? Afterward, when that noodle of a Daubrecq comes with his
engagement-ring, not a bit of it! Nothing doing! We’ll laugh in his
face!... No, no, enough of empty words. I don’t want promises that
won’t be kept: I want facts, immediate facts.”

He came and sat close beside her and stated, plainly:

“This is what I propose . . . what must be . . . what shall be....
I will ask, or rather I will demand, not Gilbert’s pardon, to
begin with, but a reprieve, a postponement of the execution, a
postponement of three or four weeks. They will invent a pretext of
some sort: that’s not my affair. And, when Mme. Mergy has become
Mme. Daubrecq, then and not till then will I ask for his pardon,
that is to say, the commutation of his sentence. And make yourself
quite easy: they’ll grant it.”

“I accept.... I accept,” she stammered.

He laughed once more:

“Yes, you accept, because that will happen in a month’s time . . .
and meanwhile you reckon on finding some trick, an assistance of
some kind or another . . . M. Arsène Lupin....”

“I swear it on the head of my son.”

“The head of your son!... Why, my poor pet, you would sell yourself
to the devil to save it from falling!...”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered, shuddering. “I would gladly sell my soul!”

He sidled up against her and, in a low voice:

“Clarisse, it’s not your soul I ask for.... It’s something else....
For more than twenty years my life has spun around that longing.
You are the only woman I have ever loved.... Loathe me, hate me--I
don’t care--but do not spurn me.... Am I to wait? To wait another
month?... No, Clarisse, I have waited too many years already....”

He ventured to touch her hand. Clarisse shrank back with such
disgust that he was seized with fury and cried:

“Oh, I swear to heaven, my beauty, the executioner won’t stand on
such ceremony when he catches hold of your son!... And you give
yourself airs! Why, think, it’ll happen in forty hours! Forty
hours, no more, and you hesitate . . . and you have scruples, when
your son’s life is at stake! Come, come, no whimpering, no silly
sentimentality.... Look things in the face. By your own oath,
you are my wife, you are my bride from this moment.... Clarisse,
Clarisse, give me your lips....”

Half-fainting, she had hardly the strength to put out her arm and
push him away; and, with a cynicism in which all his abominable
nature stood revealed, Daubrecq, mingling words of cruelty and
words of passion, continued:

“Save your son!... Think of the last morning: the preparations for
the scaffold, when they snip away his shirt and cut his hair....
Clarisse, Clarisse, I will save him.... Be sure of it.... All my
life shall be yours.... Clarisse....”

She no longer resisted. It was over. The loathsome brute’s lips
were about to touch hers; and it had to be, and nothing could
prevent it. It was her duty to obey the decree of fate. She had
long known it. She understood it; and, closing her eyes, so as not
to see the foul face that was slowly raised to hers, she repeated
to herself:

“My son . . . my poor son.”

A few seconds passed: ten, twenty perhaps. Daubrecq did not move.
Daubrecq did not speak. And she was astounded at that great silence
and that sudden quiet. Did the monster, at the last moment, feel a
scruple of remorse?

She raised her eyelids.

[Illustration: The sight which she beheld struck her with
stupefaction.]

The sight which she beheld struck her with stupefaction. Instead
of the grinning features which she expected to see, she saw a
motionless, unrecognizable face, contorted by an expression of
unspeakable terror: and the eyes, invisible under the double
impediment of the spectacles, seemed to be staring above her head,
above the chair in which she lay prostrate.

Clarisse turned her face. Two revolver-barrels, pointed at
Daubrecq, showed on the right, a little above the chair. She saw
only that: those two huge, formidable revolvers, gripped in two
clenched hands. She saw only that and also Daubrecq’s face, which
fear was discolouring little by little, until it turned livid. And,
almost at the same time, some one slipped behind Daubrecq, sprang
up fiercely, flung one of his arms round Daubrecq’s neck, threw
him to the ground with incredible violence and applied a pad of
cotton-wool to his face. A sudden smell of chloroform filled the
room.

Clarisse had recognized M. Nicole.

“Come along, Growler!” he cried. “Come along, Masher! Drop your
shooters: I’ve got him! He’s a limp rag.... Tie him up.”

Daubrecq, in fact, was bending in two and falling on his knees like
a disjointed doll. Under the action of the chloroform, the fearsome
brute sank into impotence, became harmless and grotesque.

The Growler and the Masher rolled him in one of the blankets of the
bed and tied him up securely.

“That’s it! That’s it!” shouted Lupin, leaping to his feet.

And, in a sudden reaction of mad delight, he began to dance a wild
jig in the middle of the room, a jig mingled with bits of can-can
and the contortions of the cakewalk and the whirls of a dancing
dervish and the acrobatic movements of a clown and the lurching
steps of a drunken man. And he announced, as though they were the
numbers in a music-hall performance:

“The prisoner’s dance!... The captive’s hornpipe!... A _fantasia_
on the corpse of a representative of the people!... The chloroform
polka!... The two-step of the conquered goggles! _Ollé! Ollé!_ The
blackmailer’s fandango! Hoot! Hoot! The McDaubrecq’s fling!... The
turkey trot!... _And_ the bunny hug!... _And_ the grizzly bear!...
The Tyrolean dance: tra-la-liety!... _Allons, enfants de la
partie!_.... Zing, boum, boum! Zing, boum, boum!...”

All his street-arab nature, all his instincts of gaiety, so long
suppressed by his constant anxiety and disappointment, came out and
betrayed themselves in roars of laughter, bursts of animal spirits
and a picturesque need of childlike exuberance and riot.

He gave a last high kick, turned a series of cartwheels round the
room and ended by standing with his hands on his hips and one foot
on Daubrecq’s lifeless body.

“An allegorical _tableau_!” he announced. “The angel of virtue
destroying the hydra of vice!”

And the humour of the scene was twice as great because Lupin was
appearing under the aspect of M. Nicole, in the clothes and figure
of that wizened, awkward, nervous private tutor.

A sad smile flickered across Mme. Mergy’s face, her first smile for
many a long month. But, at once returning to the reality of things,
she besought him:

“Please, please . . . think of Gilbert!”

He ran up to her, caught her in his arms and, obeying a spontaneous
impulse, so frank that she could but laugh at it, gave her a
resounding kiss on either cheek:

“There, lady, that’s the kiss of a decent man! Instead of Daubrecq,
it’s I kissing you.... Another word and I’ll do it again . . . and
I’ll call you darling next.... Be angry with me, if you dare. Oh,
how happy I am!”

He knelt before her on one knee. And, respectfully:

“I beg your pardon, madame. The fit is over.”

And, getting up again, resuming his whimsical manner, he continued,
while Clarisse wondered what he was driving at:

“What’s the next article, madame? Your son’s pardon, perhaps?
Certainly! Madame, I have the honour to grant you the pardon of
your son, the commutation of his sentence to penal servitude for
life and, to wind up with, his early escape. It’s settled, eh,
Growler? Settled, Masher, what? You’ll both go with the boy to New
Caledonia and arrange for everything. Oh, my dear Daubrecq, we owe
you a great debt! But I’m not forgetting you, believe me! What
would you like? A last pipe? Coming, coming!”

He took one of the pipes from the mantel-piece, stooped over the
prisoner, shifted his pad and thrust the amber mouth-piece between
his teeth:

“Draw, old chap, draw. Lord, how funny you look, with your plug
over your nose and your cutty in your mouth. Come, puff away.
By Jove, I forgot to fill your pipe! Where’s your tobacco, your
favourite Maryland?... Oh, here we are!...”

He took from the chimney an unopened yellow packet and tore off the
government band:

“His lordship’s tobacco! Ladies and gentlemen, keep your eyes on
me! This is a great moment. I am about to fill his lordship’s pipe:
by Jupiter, what an honour! Observe my movements! You see, I have
nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves!...”

He turned back his cuffs and stuck out his elbows. Then he opened
the packet and inserted his thumb and fore-finger, slowly,
gingerly, like a conjurer performing a sleight-of-hand trick before
a puzzled audience, and, beaming all over his face, extracted
from the tobacco a glittering object which he held out before the
spectators.

Clarisse uttered a cry.

It was the crystal stopper.

She rushed at Lupin and snatched it from him:

“That’s it; that’s the one!” she exclaimed, feverishly. “There’s no
scratch on the stem! And look at this line running down the middle,
where the gilt finishes.... That’s it; it unscrews!... Oh, dear,
my strength’s going!...” She trembled so violently that Lupin took
back the stopper and unscrewed it himself.

The inside of the knob was hollow; and in the hollow space was a
piece of paper rolled into a tiny pellet.

“The foreign-post-paper,” he whispered, himself greatly excited,
with quivering hands.

There was a long silence. All four felt as if their hearts were
ready to burst from their bodies; and they were afraid of what was
coming.

“Please, please . . .” stammered Clarisse.

Lupin unfolded the paper.

There was a set of names written one below the other, twenty-seven
of them, the twenty-seven names of the famous list: Langeroux,
Dechaumont, Vorenglade, d’Albufex, Victorien Mergy and the rest.

And, at the foot, the signature of the chairman of the Two-Seas
Canal Company, the signature written in letters of blood.

Lupin looked at his watch:

“A quarter to one,” he said. “We have twenty minutes to spare.
Let’s have some lunch.”

“But,” said Clarisse, who was already beginning to lose her head,
“don’t forget....”

He simply said:

“All I know is that I’m dying of hunger.”

He sat down at the table, cut himself a large slice of cold pie and
said to his accomplices:

“Growler? A bite? You, Masher?”

“I could do with a mouthful, governor.”

“Then hurry up, lads. And a glass of champagne to wash it down
with: it’s the chloroform-patient’s treat. Your health, Daubrecq!
Sweet champagne? Dry champagne? Extra-dry?”




CHAPTER XI.

THE CROSS OF LORRAINE


The moment Lupin had finished lunch, he at once and, so to speak,
without transition, recovered all his mastery and authority. The
time for joking was past; and he must no longer yield to his love
of astonishing people with claptrap and conjuring tricks. Now that
he had discovered the crystal stopper in the hiding-place which he
had guessed with absolute certainty, now that he possessed the list
of the Twenty-seven, it became a question of playing off the last
game of the rubber without delay.

It was child’s play, no doubt, and what remained to be done
presented no difficulty. Nevertheless, it was essential that he
should perform these final actions with promptness, decision and
infallible perspicacity. The smallest blunder was irretrievable.
Lupin knew this; but his strangely lucid brain had allowed for
every contingency. And the movements and words which he was now
about to make and utter were all fully prepared and matured:

“Growler, the commissionaire is waiting on the Boulevard Gambetta
with his barrow and the trunk which we bought. Bring him here and
have the trunk carried up. If the people of the hotel ask any
questions, say it’s for the lady in No. 130.”

Then, addressing his other companion:

“Masher, go back to the station and take over the limousine. The
price is arranged: ten thousand francs. Buy a chauffeur’s cap and
overcoat and bring the car to the hotel.”

“The money, governor.”

Lupin opened a pocketbook which had been removed from Daubrecq’s
jacket and produced a huge bundle of bank-notes. He separated ten
of them:

“Here you are. Our friend appears to have been doing well at the
club. Off with you, Masher!”

The two men went out through Clarisse’s room. Lupin availed himself
of a moment when Clarisse Mergy was not looking to stow away the
pocketbook with the greatest satisfaction:

“I shall have done a fair stroke of business,” he said to himself.
“When all the expenses are paid, I shall still be well to the good;
and it’s not over yet.”

Then turning to Clarisse Mergy, he asked:

“Have you a bag?”

“Yes, I bought one when I reached Nice, with some linen and a few
necessaries; for I left Paris unprepared.”

“Get all that ready. Then go down to the office. Say that you are
expecting a trunk which a commissionaire is bringing from the
station cloakroom and that you will want to unpack and pack it
again in your room; and tell them that you are leaving.”

When alone, Lupin examined Daubrecq carefully, felt in all his
pockets and appropriated everything that seemed to present any sort
of interest.

The Growler was the first to return. The trunk, a large wicker
hamper covered with black moleskin, was taken into Clarisse’s room.
Assisted by Clarisse and the Growler, Lupin moved Daubrecq and put
him in the trunk, in a sitting posture, but with his head bent so
as to allow of the lid being fastened:

“I don’t say that it’s as comfortable as your berth in a
sleeping-car, my dear deputy,” Lupin observed. “But, all the same,
it’s better than a coffin. At least, you can breathe. Three little
holes in each side. You have nothing to complain of!”

Then, unstopping a flask:

“A drop more chloroform? You seem to love it!...”

He soaked the pad once more, while, by his orders, Clarisse and the
Growler propped up the deputy with linen, rugs and pillows, which
they had taken the precaution to heap in the trunk.

“Capital!” said Lupin. “That trunk is fit to go round the world.
Lock it and strap it.”

The Masher arrived, in a chauffeur’s livery:

“The car’s below, governor.”

“Good,” he said. “Take the trunk down between you. It would be
dangerous to give it to the hotel-servants.”

“But if any one meets us?”

“Well, what then, Masher? Aren’t you a chauffeur? You’re carrying
the trunk of your employer here present, the lady in No. 130, who
will also go down, step into her motor . . . and wait for me two
hundred yards farther on. Growler, you help to hoist the trunk up.
Oh, first lock the partition-door!”

Lupin went to the next room, closed the other door, shot the bolt,
walked out, locked the door behind him and went down in the lift.

In the office, he said:

“M. Daubrecq has suddenly been called away to Monte Carlo. He asked
me to say that he would not be back until Tuesday and that you were
to keep his room for him. His things are all there. Here is the
key.”

He walked away quietly and went after the car, where he found
Clarisse lamenting:

“We shall never be in Paris to-morrow! It’s madness! The least
breakdown....”

“That’s why you and I are going to take the train. It’s safer....”

He put her into a cab and gave his parting instructions to the two
men:

“Thirty miles an hour, on the average, do you understand? You’re
to drive and rest, turn and turn about. At that rate, you ought
to be in Paris between six and seven to-morrow evening. But don’t
force the pace. I’m keeping Daubrecq, not because I want him for
my plans, but as a hostage . . . and then by way of precaution....
I like to feel that I can lay my hands on him during the next few
days. So look after the dear fellow.... Give him a few drops of
chloroform every three or four hours: it’s his one weakness.... Off
with you, Masher.... And you, Daubrecq, don’t get excited up there.
The roof’ll bear you all right.... If you feel at all sick, don’t
mind... Off you go, Masher!”

He watched the car move into the distance and then told the cabman
to drive to a post-office, where he dispatched a telegram in these
words:

  “_M. Prasville, Prefecture de Police, Paris_:

    “Person found. Will bring you document eleven o’clock to-morrow
    morning. Urgent communication.

  “CLARISSE.”

Clarisse and Lupin reached the station by half-past two.

“If only there’s room!” said Clarisse, who was alarmed at the least
thing.

“Room? Why, our berths are booked!”

“By whom?”

“By Jacob . . . by Daubrecq.”

“How?”

“Why, at the office of the hotel they gave me a letter which had
come for Daubrecq by express. It was the two berths which Jacob
had sent him. Also, I have his deputy’s pass. So we shall travel
under the name of M. and Mme. Daubrecq and we shall receive all the
attention due to our rank and station. You see, my dear madam, that
everything’s arranged.”

The journey, this time, seemed short to Lupin. Clarisse told him
what she had done during the past few days. He himself explained
the miracle of his sudden appearance in Daubrecq’s bedroom at the
moment when his adversary believed him in Italy:

“A miracle, no,” he said. “But still a remarkable phenomenon took
place in me when I left San Remo, a sort of mysterious intuition
which prompted me first to try and jump out of the train--and the
Masher prevented me--and next to rush to the window, let down the
glass and follow the porter of the Ambassadeurs-Palace, who had
given me your message, with my eyes. Well, at that very minute,
the porter aforesaid was rubbing his hands with an air of such
satisfaction that, for no other reason, suddenly, I understood
everything: I had been diddled, taken in by Daubrecq, as you
yourself were. Heaps of little details flashed across my mind. My
adversary’s scheme became clear to me from start to finish. Another
minute . . . and the disaster would have been beyond remedy. I had,
I confess, a few moments of real despair, at the thought that I
should not be able to repair all the mistakes that had been made.
It depended simply on the time-table of the trains, which would
either allow me or would not allow me to find Daubrecq’s emissary
on the railway-platform at San Remo. This time, at last, chance
favoured me. We had hardly alighted at the first station when a
train passed, for France. When we arrived at San Remo, the man was
there. I had guessed right. He no longer wore his hotel-porter’s
cap and frock-coat, but a jacket and bowler. He stepped into a
second-class compartment. From that moment, victory was assured.”

“But . . . how...?” asked Clarisse, who, in spite of the thoughts
that obsessed her, was interested in Lupin’s story.

“How did I find you? Lord, simply by not losing sight of Master
Jacob, while leaving him free to move about as he pleased, knowing
that he was bound to account for his actions to Daubrecq. In point
of fact, this morning, after spending the night in a small hotel
at Nice, he met Daubrecq on the Promenade des Anglais. They talked
for some time. I followed them. Daubrecq went back to the hotel,
planted Jacob in one of the passages on the ground-floor, opposite
the telephone-office, and went up in the lift. Ten minutes later I
knew the number of his room and knew that a lady had been occupying
the next room, No. 130, since the day before. ‘I believe we’ve done
it,’ I said to the Growler and the Masher. I tapped lightly at your
door. No answer. And the door was locked.”

“Well?” asked Clarisse.

“Well, we opened it. Do you think there’s only one key in the world
that will work a lock? So I walked in. Nobody in your room. But the
partition-door was ajar. I slipped through it. Thenceforth, a mere
hanging separated me from you, from Daubrecq and from the packet of
tobacco which I saw on the chimney-slab.”

“Then you knew the hiding-place?”

“A look round Daubrecq’s study in Paris showed me that that packet
of tobacco had disappeared. Besides....”

“What?”

“I knew, from certain confessions wrung from Daubrecq in the
Lovers’ Tower, that the word Marie held the key to the riddle.
Since then I had certainly thought of this word, but with the
preconceived notion that it was spelt M A R I E. Well, it was
really the first two syllables of another word, which I guessed, so
to speak, only at the moment when I was struck by the absence of
the packet of tobacco.”

“What word do you mean?”

“Maryland, Maryland tobacco, the only tobacco that Daubrecq smokes.”

And Lupin began to laugh:

“Wasn’t it silly? And, at the same time, wasn’t it clever of
Daubrecq? We looked everywhere, we ransacked everything. Didn’t I
unscrew the brass sockets of the electric lights to see if they
contained a crystal stopper? But how could I have thought, how
could any one, however great his perspicacity, have thought of
tearing off the paper band of a packet of Maryland, a band put on,
gummed, sealed, stamped and dated by the State, under the control
of the Inland Revenue Office? Only think! The State the accomplice
of such an act of infamy! The Inland R-r-r-revenue Awfice lending
itself to such a trick! No, a thousand times no! The Régie[E] is
not perfect. It makes matches that won’t light and cigarettes
filled with hay. But there’s all the difference in the world
between recognizing that fact and believing the Inland Revenue to
be in league with Daubrecq with the object of hiding the list of
the Twenty-seven from the legitimate curiosity of the government
and the enterprising efforts of Arsène Lupin! Observe that all
Daubrecq had to do, in order to introduce the crystal stopper, was
to bear upon the band a little, loosen it, draw it back, unfold the
yellow paper, remove the tobacco and fasten it up again. Observe
also that all we had to do, in Paris, was to take the packet in
our hands and examine it, in order to discover the hiding-place.
No matter! The packet itself, the plug of Maryland made up and
passed by the State and by the Inland Revenue Office, was a sacred,
intangible thing, a thing above suspicion! And nobody opened it.
That was how that demon of a Daubrecq allowed that untouched packet
of tobacco to lie about for months on his table, among his pipes
and among other unopened packets of tobacco. And no power on earth
could have given any one even the vaguest notion of looking into
that harmless little cube. I would have you observe, besides....”
Lupin went on pursuing his remarks relative to the packet of
Maryland and the crystal stopper. His adversary’s ingenuity and
shrewdness interested him all the more inasmuch as Lupin had ended
by getting the better of him. But to Clarisse these topics mattered
much less than did her anxiety as to the acts which must be
performed to save her son; and she sat wrapped in her own thoughts
and hardly listened to him.

“Are you sure,” she kept on repeating, “that you will succeed?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“But Prasville is not in Paris.”

“If he’s not there, he’s at the Havre. I saw it in the paper
yesterday. In any case, a telegram will bring him to Paris at once.”

“And do you think that he has enough influence?”

“To obtain the pardon of Vaucheray and Gilbert personally. No.
If he had, we should have set him to work before now. But he is
intelligent enough to understand the value of what we are bringing
him and to act without a moment’s delay.”

“But, to be accurate, are you not deceived as to that value?”

“Was Daubrecq deceived? Was Daubrecq not in a better position than
any of us to know the full power of that paper? Did he not have
twenty proofs of it, each more convincing than the last? Think of
all that he was able to do, for the sole reason that people knew
him to possess the list. They knew it; and that was all. He did
not use the list, but he had it. And, having it, he killed your
husband. He built up his fortune on the ruin and the disgrace of
the Twenty-seven. Only last week, one of the gamest of the lot,
d’Albufex, cut his throat in a prison. No, take it from me, as
the price of handing over that list, we could ask for anything we
pleased. And we are asking for what? Almost nothing . . . less than
nothing . . . the pardon of a child of twenty. In other words, they
will take us for idiots. What! We have in our hands....”

He stopped. Clarisse, exhausted by so much excitement, sat fast
asleep in front of him.

They reached Paris at eight o’clock in the morning.

Lupin found two telegrams awaiting him at his flat in the Place de
Clichy.

One was from the Masher, dispatched from Avignon on the previous
day and stating that all was going well and that they hoped to
keep their appointment punctually that evening. The other was from
Prasville, dated from the Havre and addressed to Clarisse:

    “Impossible return to-morrow Monday morning. Come to my office
    five o’clock. Reckon on you absolutely.”

“Five o’clock!” said Clarisse. “How late!”

“It’s a first-rate hour,” declared Lupin.

“Still, if....”

“If the execution is to take place to-morrow morning: is that what
you mean to say?... Don’t be afraid to speak out, for the execution
will not take place.”

“The newspapers....”

“You haven’t read the newspapers and you are not to read them.
Nothing that they can say matters in the least. One thing alone
matters: our interview with Prasville. Besides....”

He took a little bottle from a cupboard and, putting his hand on
Clarisse’s shoulder, said:

“Lie down here, on the sofa, and take a few drops of this mixture.”

“What’s it for?”

“It will make you sleep for a few hours . . . and forget. That’s
always so much gained.”

“No, no,” protested Clarisse, “I don’t want to. Gilbert is not
asleep. He is not forgetting.”

“Drink it,” said Lupin, with gentle insistence. She yielded all of
a sudden, from cowardice, from excessive suffering, and did as she
was told and lay on the sofa and closed her eyes. In a few minutes
she was asleep.

Lupin rang for his servant:

“The newspapers . . . quick!... Have you bought them?”

“Here they are, governor.”

Lupin opened one of them and at once read the following lines:

  “ARSENE LUPIN’S ACCOMPLICES”

    “We know from a positive source that Arsène Lupin’s accomplices,
    Gilbert and Vaucheray, will be executed to-morrow, Tuesday,
    morning. M. Deibler has inspected the scaffold. Everything is
    ready.”

He raised his head with a defiant look.

“Arsène Lupin’s accomplices! The execution of Arsène Lupin’s
accomplices! What a fine spectacle! And what a crowd there will be
to witness it! Sorry, gentlemen, but the curtain will not rise.
Theatre closed by order of the authorities. And the authorities are
myself!”

He struck his chest violently, with an arrogant gesture:

“The authorities are myself!”

At twelve o’clock Lupin received a telegram which the Masher had
sent from Lyons:

    “All well. Goods will arrive without damage.”

At three o’clock Clarisse woke. Her first words were:

“Is it to be to-morrow?”

He did not answer. But she saw him look so calm and smiling that
she felt herself permeated with an immense sense of peace and
received the impression that everything was finished, disentangled,
settled according to her companion’s will.

They left the house at ten minutes past four. Prasville’s
secretary, who had received his chief’s instructions by telephone,
showed them into the office and asked them to wait. It was a
quarter to five.

Prasville came running in at five o’clock exactly and, at once,
cried:

“Have you the list?”

“Yes.”

“Give it me.”

He put out his hand. Clarisse, who had risen from her chair, did
not stir.

Prasville looked at her for a moment, hesitated and sat down. He
understood. In pursuing Daubrecq, Clarisse Mergy had not acted only
from hatred and the desire for revenge. Another motive prompted
her. The paper would not be handed over except upon conditions.

“Sit down, please,” he said, thus showing that he accepted the
discussion.

Clarisse resumed her seat and, when she remained silent, Prasville
said:

“Speak, my friend, and speak quite frankly. I do not scruple to say
that we wish to have that paper.”

“If it is only a wish,” remarked Clarisse, whom Lupin had coached
in her part down to the least detail, “if it is only a wish, I fear
that we shall not be able to come to an arrangement.”

Prasville smiled:

“The wish, obviously, would lead us to make certain sacrifices.”

“Every sacrifice,” said Mme. Mergy, correcting him.

“Every sacrifice, provided, of course, that we keep within the
bounds of acceptable requirements.”

“And even if we go beyond those bounds,” said Clarisse, inflexibly.

Prasville began to lose patience:

“Come, what is it all about? Explain yourself.”

“Forgive me, my friend, but I wanted above all to mark the
great importance which you attach to that paper and, in view of
the immediate transaction which we are about to conclude, to
specify--what shall I say?--the value of my share in it. That
value, which has no limits, must, I repeat, be exchanged for an
unlimited value.”

“Agreed,” said Prasville, querulously.

“I presume, therefore, that it is unnecessary for me to trace the
whole story of the business or to enumerate, on the one hand, the
disasters which the possession of that paper would have allowed you
to avert and, on the other hand, the incalculable advantages which
you will be able to derive from its possession?”

Prasville had to make an effort to contain himself and to answer in
a tone that was civil, or nearly so:

“I admit everything. Is that enough?”

“I beg your pardon, but we cannot explain ourselves too plainly.
And there is one point that remains to be cleared up. Are you in a
position to treat, personally?”

“How do you mean?”

“I want to know not, of course, if you are empowered to settle this
business here and now, but if, in dealing with me, you represent
the views of those who know the business and who are qualified to
settle it.”

“Yes,” declared Prasville, forcibly.

“So that I can have your answer within an hour after I have told
you my conditions?”

“Yes.”

“Will the answer be that of the government?”

“Yes.”

Clarisse bent forward and, sinking her voice:

“Will the answer be that of the Élysée?”

Prasville appeared surprised. He reflected for a moment and then
said:

“Yes.”

“It only remains for me to ask you to give me your word of honour
that, however incomprehensible my conditions may appear to you, you
will not insist on my revealing the reason. They are what they are.
Your answer must be yes or no.”

“I give you my word of honour,” said Prasville, formally.

Clarisse underwent a momentary agitation that made her turn paler
still. Then, mastering herself, with her eyes fixed on Prasville’s
eyes, she said:

“You shall have the list of the Twenty-seven in exchange for the
pardon of Gilbert and Vaucheray.”

“Eh? What?”

Prasville leapt from his chair, looking absolutely dumbfounded:

“The pardon of Gilbert and Vaucheray? Of Arsène Lupin’s
accomplices?”

“Yes,” she said.

“The murderers of the Villa Marie-Thérèse? The two who are due to
die to-morrow?”

“Yes, those two,” she said, in a loud voice. “I ask? I demand their
pardon.”

“But this is madness! Why? Why should you?”

“I must remind you, Prasville, that you gave me your word....”

“Yes . . . yes.... I know.... But the thing is so unexpected....”

“Why?”

“Why? For all sorts of reasons!”

“What reasons?”

“Well . . . well, but . . . think! Gilbert and Vaucheray have been
sentenced to death!”

“Send them to penal servitude: that’s all you have to do.”

“Impossible! The case has created an enormous sensation. They
are Arsène Lupin’s accomplices. The whole world knows about the
verdict.”

“Well?”

“Well, we cannot, no, we cannot go against the decrees of justice.”

“You are not asked to do that. You are asked for a commutation of
punishment as an act of mercy. Mercy is a legal thing.”

“The pardoning-commission has given its finding....”

“True, but there remains the president of the Republic.”

“He has refused.”

“He can reconsider his refusal.”

“Impossible!”

“Why?”

“There’s no excuse for it.”

“He needs no excuse. The right of mercy is absolute. It is
exercised without control, without reason, without excuse or
explanation. It is a _royal_ prerogative; the president of the
Republic can wield it according to his good pleasure, or rather
according to his conscience, in the best interests of the State.”

“But it is too late! Everything is ready. The execution is to take
place in a few hours.”

“One hour is long enough to obtain your answer; you have just told
us so.”

“But this is confounded madness! There are insuperable obstacles
to your conditions. I tell you again, it’s impossible, physically
impossible.”

“Then the answer is no?”

“No! No! A thousand times no!”

“In that case, there is nothing left for us to do but to go.”

She moved toward the door. M. Nicole followed her. Prasville
bounded across the room and barred their way:

“Where are you going?”

“Well, my friend, it seems to me that our conversation is at an
end. As you appear to think, as, in fact, you are certain that the
president of the Republic will not consider the famous list of the
Twenty-seven to be worth....”

“Stay where you are,” said Prasville.

He turned the key in the door and began to pace the room, with his
hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the floor.

And Lupin, who had not breathed a word during the whole of this
scene and who had prudently contented himself with playing a
colourless part, said to himself:

“What a fuss! What a lot of affectation to arrive at the inevitable
result! As though Prasville, who is not a genius, but not an
absolute blockhead either, would be likely to lose the chance of
revenging himself on his mortal enemy! There, what did I say? The
idea of hurling Daubrecq into the bottomless pit appeals to him.
Come, we’ve won the rubber.”

Prasville was opening a small inner door which led to the office of
his private secretary.

He gave an order aloud:

“M. Lartigue, telephone to the Élysée and say that I request the
favour of an audience for a communication of the utmost importance.”

He closed the door, came back to Clarisse and said:

“In any case, my intervention is limited to submitting your
proposal.”

“Once you submit it, it will be accepted.”

A long silence followed. Clarisse’s features expressed so profound
a delight that Prasville was struck by it and looked at her with
attentive curiosity. For what mysterious reason did Clarisse wish
to save Gilbert and Vaucheray? What was the incomprehensible link
that bound her to those two men? What tragedy connected those three
lives and, no doubt, Daubrecq’s in addition?

“Go ahead, old boy,” thought Lupin, “cudgel your brains: you’ll
never spot it! Ah, if we had asked for Gilbert’s pardon only, as
Clarisse wished, you might have twigged the secret! But Vaucheray,
that brute of a Vaucheray, there really could not be the least
bond between Mme. Mergy and him..... Aha, by Jingo, it’s my turn
now!... He’s watching me.... The inward soliloquy is turning
upon myself.... ‘I wonder who that M. Nicole can be? Why has
that little provincial usher devoted himself body and soul to
Clarisse Mergy? Who is that old bore, if the truth were known? I
made a mistake in not inquiring.... I must look into this.... I
must rip off the beggar’s mask. For, after all, it’s not natural
that a man should take so much trouble about a matter in which
he is not directly interested. Why should he also wish to save
Gilbert and Vaucheray? Why? Why should he?...” Lupin turned his
head away. “Look out!... Look out!... There’s a notion passing
through that red-tape-merchant’s skull: a confused notion which
he can’t put into words. Hang it all, he mustn’t suspect M. Lupin
under M. Nicole! The thing’s complicated enough as it is, in all
conscience!...”

But there was a welcome interruption. Prasville’s secretary came to
say that the audience would take place in an hour’s time.

“Very well. Thank you,” said Prasville. “That will do.”

And, resuming the interview, with no further circumlocution,
speaking like a man who means to put a thing through, he declared:

“I think that we shall be able to manage it. But, first of all, so
that I may do what I have undertaken to do, I want more precise
information, fuller details. Where was the paper?”

“In the crystal stopper, as we thought,” said Mme. Mergy.

“And where was the crystal stopper?”

“In an object which Daubrecq came and fetched, a few days ago, from
the writing-desk in his study in the Square Lamartine, an object
which I took from him yesterday.”

“What sort of object?”

“Simply a packet of tobacco, Maryland tobacco, which used to lie
about on the desk.”

Prasville was petrified. He muttered, guilelessly:

“Oh, if I had only known! I’ve had my hand on that packet of
Maryland a dozen times! How stupid of me!”

“What does it matter?” said Clarisse. “The great thing is that the
discovery is made.”

Prasville pulled a face which implied that the discovery would have
been much pleasanter if he himself had made it. Then he asked:

“So you have the list?”

“Yes.”

“Show it to me.”

And, when Clarisse hesitated, he added:

“Oh, please, don’t be afraid! The list belongs to you, and I will
give it back to you. But you must understand that I cannot take the
step in question without making certain.”

Clarisse consulted M. Nicole with a glance which did not escape
Prasville. Then she said:

“Here it is.”

He seized the scrap of paper with a certain excitement, examined it
and almost immediately said:

“Yes, yes . . . the secretary’s writing: I recognize it.... And the
signature of the chairman of the company: the signature in red....
Besides, I have other proofs.... For instance, the torn piece which
completes the left-hand top corner of this sheet....”

He opened his safe and, from a special cash-box, produced a tiny
piece of paper which he put against the top left corner:

“That’s right. The torn edges fit exactly. The proof is undeniable.
All that remains is to verify the make of this foreign-post-paper.”

Clarisse was radiant with delight. No one would have believed that
the most terrible torture had racked her for weeks and weeks and
that she was still bleeding and quivering from its effects.

While Prasville was holding the paper against a window-pane, she
said to Lupin:

“I insist upon having Gilbert informed this evening. He must be so
awfully unhappy!”

“Yes,” said Lupin. “Besides, you can go to his lawyer and tell him.”

She continued:

“And then I must see Gilbert to-morrow. Prasville can think what he
likes.”

“Of course. But he must first gain his cause at the Élysée.”

“There can’t be any difficulty, can there?”

“No. You saw that he gave way at once.”

Prasville continued his examination with the aid of a
magnifying-glass and compared the sheet with the scrap of torn
paper. Next, he took from the cash-box some other sheets of
letter-paper and examined one of these by holding it up to the
light:

“That’s done,” he said. “My mind is made up. Forgive me, dear
friend: it was a very difficult piece of work.... I passed through
various stages. When all is said, I had my suspicions . . . and not
without cause....”

“What do you mean?” asked Clarisse.

“One second.... I must give an order first.”

He called his secretary:

“Please telephone at once to the Élysée, make my apologies and say
that I shall not require the audience, for reasons which I will
explain later.”

He closed the door and returned to his desk. Clarisse and Lupin
stood choking, looking at him in stupefaction, failing to
understand this sudden change. Was he mad? Was it a trick on his
part? A breach of faith? And was he refusing to keep his promise,
now that he possessed the list?

He held it out to Clarisse:

“You can have it back.”

“Have it back?”

“And return it to Daubrecq.”

“To Daubrecq?”

“Unless you prefer to burn it.”

“What do you say?”

“I say that, if I were in your place, I would burn it.”

“Why do you say that? It’s ridiculous!”

“On the contrary, it is very sensible.”

“But why? Why?”

“Why? I will tell you. The list of the Twenty-seven, as we know
for absolutely certain, was written on a sheet of letter-paper
belonging to the chairman of the Canal Company, of which there are
a few samples in this cash-box. Now all these samples have as a
water-mark a little cross of Lorraine which is almost invisible,
but which can just be seen in the thickness of the paper when you
hold it up to the light. The sheet which you have brought me does
not contain that little cross of Lorraine.”[F]

Lupin felt a nervous trembling shake him from head to foot and he
dared not turn his eyes on Clarisse, realizing what a terrible blow
this was to her. He heard her stammer:

“Then are we to suppose . . . that Daubrecq was taken in?”

“Not a bit of it!” exclaimed Prasville. “It is you who have been
taken in, my poor friend. Daubrecq has the real list, the list
which he stole from the dying man’s safe.”

“But this one....”

“This one is a forgery.”

“A forgery?”

“An undoubted forgery. It was an admirable piece of cunning on
Daubrecq’s part. Dazzled by the crystal stopper which he flashed
before your eyes, you did nothing but look for that stopper in
which he had stowed away no matter what, the first bit of paper
that came to hand, while he quietly kept....”

Prasville interrupted himself. Clarisse was walking up to him with
short, stiff steps, like an automaton. She said:

“Then....”

“Then what, dear friend?”

“You refuse?”

“Certainly, I am obliged to; I have no choice.”

“You refuse to take that step?”

“Look here, how can I do what you ask? It’s not possible, on the
strength of a valueless document....”

“You won’t do it?... You won’t do it?... And, to-morrow
morning . . . in a few hours . . . Gilbert....”

She was frightfully pale, her face sunk, like the face of one
dying. Her eyes opened wider and wider and her teeth chattered....

Lupin, fearing the useless and dangerous words which she was about
to utter, seized her by the shoulders and tried to drag her away.
But she thrust him back with indomitable strength, took two or
three more steps, staggered, as though on the point of falling,
and, suddenly, in a burst of energy and despair, laid hold of
Prasville and screamed:

“You shall go to the Élysée!... You shall go at once!... You
must!... You must save Gilbert!”

“Please, please, my dear friend, calm yourself....”

She gave a strident laugh:

“Calm myself!... When, to-morrow morning, Gilbert.... Ah, no, no,
I am terrified . . . it’s appalling.... Oh, run, you wretch, run!
Obtain his pardon!... Don’t you understand? Gilbert.... Gilbert is
my son! My son! My son!”

Prasville gave a cry. The blade of a knife flashed in Clarisse’s
hand and she raised her arm to strike herself. But the movement was
not completed. M. Nicole caught her arm in its descent and, taking
the knife from Clarisse, reducing her to helplessness, he said, in
a voice that rang through the room like steel:

“What you are doing is madness!... When I gave you my oath that I
would save him! You must . . . live for him.... Gilbert shall not
die.... How can he die, when . . . I gave you my oath?...”

“Gilbert . . . my son . . .” moaned Clarisse.

He clasped her fiercely, drew her against himself and put his hand
over her mouth:

“Enough! Be quiet!... I entreat you to be quiet.... Gilbert shall
not die....”

With irresistible authority, he dragged her away like a subdued
child that suddenly becomes obedient; but, at the moment of opening
the door, he turned to Prasville:

“Wait for me here, monsieur,” he commanded, in an imperative tone.
“If you care about that list of the Twenty-seven, the real list,
wait for me. I shall be back in an hour, in two hours, at most; and
then we will talk business.”

And abruptly, to Clarisse:

“And you, madame, a little courage yet. I command you to show
courage, in Gilbert’s name.”

He went away, through the passages, down the stairs, with a jerky
step, holding Clarisse under the arm, as he might have held a
lay-figure, supporting her, carrying her almost. A court-yard,
another court-yard, then the street.

Meanwhile, Prasville, surprised at first, bewildered by the course
of events, was gradually recovering his composure and thinking.
He thought of that M. Nicole, a mere supernumerary at first, who
played beside Clarisse the part of one of those advisers to whom
we cling in the serious crises of our lives and who suddenly,
shaking off his torpor, appeared in the full light of day,
resolute, masterful, mettlesome, brimming over with daring, ready
to overthrow all the obstacles that fate placed on his path.

Who was there that was capable of acting thus?

Prasville started. The question had no sooner occurred to his mind
than the answer flashed on him, with absolute certainty. All the
proofs rose up, each more exact, each more convincing than the last.

Hurriedly he rang. Hurriedly he sent for the chief
detective-inspector on duty. And, feverishly:

“Were you in the waiting-room, chief-inspector?”

“Yes, monsieur le secrétaire;-général.”

“Did you see a gentleman and a lady go out?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know the man again?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t lose a moment, chief-inspector. Take six inspectors
with you. Go to the Place de Clichy. Make inquiries about a man
called Nicole and watch the house. The Nicole man is on his way
back there.”

“And if he comes out, monsieur le secrétaire;-général?”

“Arrest him. Here’s a warrant.”

He sat down to his desk and wrote a name on a form:

“Here you are, chief-inspector. I will let the chief-detective
know.”

The chief-inspector seemed staggered:

“But you spoke to me of a man called Nicole, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général.”

“Well?”

“The warrant is in the name of Arsène Lupin.”

“Arsène Lupin and the Nicole man are one and the same individual.”


[E] The department of the French excise which holds the monopoly
for the manufacture and sale of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes and
matches.--_Translator’s Note._

[F] The cross of Lorraine is a cross with two horizontal
lines or bars across the upper half of the perpendicular
beam.--_Translator’s Note._




CHAPTER XII.

THE SCAFFOLD


“I will save him, I will save him,” Lupin repeated, without
ceasing, in the taxicab in which he and Clarisse drove away. “I
swear that I will save him.”

Clarisse did not listen, sat as though numbed, as though possessed
by some great nightmare of death, which left her ignorant of all
that was happening outside her. And Lupin set forth his plans,
perhaps more to reassure himself than to convince Clarisse:

“No, no, the game is not lost yet. There is one trump left, a
huge trump, in the shape of the letters and documents which
Vorenglade, the ex-deputy, is offering to sell to Daubrecq and of
which Daubrecq spoke to you yesterday at Nice. I shall buy those
letters and documents of Stanislas Vorenglade at whatever price he
chooses to name. Then we shall go back to the police-office and I
shall say to Prasville, ‘Go to the Élysée at once.... Use the list
as though it were genuine, save Gilbert from death and be content
to acknowledge to-morrow, when Gilbert is saved, that the list is
forged.... Be off, quickly!... If you refuse, well, if you refuse,
the Vorenglade letters and documents shall be reproduced to-morrow,
Tuesday, morning in one of the leading newspapers.’ Vorenglade will
be arrested. And M. Prasville will find himself in prison before
night.’”

Lupin rubbed his hands:

“He’ll do as he’s told!... He’ll do as he’s told!... I felt that
at once, when I was with him. The thing appeared to me as a
dead certainty. And I found Vorenglade’s address in Daubrecq’s
pocket-books, so . . . driver, Boulevard Raspail!”

They went to the address given. Lupin sprang from the cab, ran up
three flights of stairs.

The servant said that M. Vorenglade was away and would not be back
until dinner-time next evening.

“And don’t you know where he is?”

“M. Vorenglade is in London, sir.”

Lupin did not utter a word on returning to the cab. Clarisse, on
her side, did not even ask him any questions, so indifferent had
she become to everything, so absolutely did she look upon her son’s
death as an accomplished fact.

They drove to the Place de Clichy. As Lupin entered the house he
passed two men who were just leaving the porter’s box. He was too
much engrossed to notice them. They were Prasville’s inspectors.

“No telegram?” he asked his servant.

“No, governor,” replied Achille.

“No news of the Masher and the Growler?”

“No, governor, none.”

“That’s all right,” he said to Clarisse, in a casual tone. “It’s
only seven o’clock and we mustn’t reckon on seeing them before
eight or nine. Prasville will have to wait, that’s all. I will
telephone to him to wait.”

He did so and was hanging up the receiver, when he heard a moan
behind him. Clarisse was standing by the table, reading an
evening-paper. She put her hand to her heart, staggered and fell.

“Achille, Achille!” cried Lupin, calling his man. “Help me
put her on my bed.... And then go to the cupboard and get me
the medicine-bottle marked number four, the bottle with the
sleeping-draught.”

He forced open her teeth with the point of a knife and compelled
her to swallow half the bottle:

“Good,” he said. “Now the poor thing won’t wake till
to-morrow . . . _after_.”

He glanced through the paper, which was still clutched in Clarisse’
hand, and read the following lines:

    “The strictest measures have been taken to keep order at the
    execution of Gilbert and Vaucheray, lest Arsène Lupin should
    make an attempt to rescue his accomplices from the last
    penalty. At twelve o’clock to-night a cordon of troops will
    be drawn across all the approaches to the Santé Prison. As
    already stated, the execution will take place outside the
    prison-walls, in the square formed by the Boulevard Arago
    and the Rue de la Santé.

    “We have succeeded in obtaining some details of the attitude
    of the two condemned men. Vaucheray observes a stolid sullenness
    and is awaiting the fatal event with no little courage:

    “‘Crikey,’ he says, ‘I can’t say I’m delighted; but I’ve got to
    go through it and I shall keep my end up.’ And he adds, ‘Death
    I don’t care a hang about! What worries me is the thought that
    they’re going to cut my head off. Ah, if the governor could
    only hit on some trick to send me straight off to the next
    world before I had time to say knife! A drop of Prussic acid,
    governor, if you please!’

    “Gilbert’s calmness is even more impressive, especially when
    we remember how he broke down at the trial. He retains an
    unshaken confidence in the omnipotence of Arsène Lupin:

    “‘The governor shouted to me before everybody not to be
    afraid, that he was there, that he answered for everything.
    Well, I’m not afraid. I shall rely on him until the last
    day, until the last minute, at the very foot of the
    scaffold. I know the governor! There’s no danger with him.
    He has promised and he will keep his word. If my head were
    off, he’d come and clap it on my shoulders and firmly!
    Arsène Lupin allow his chum Gilbert to die? Not he! Excuse
    my humour!’

    “There is a certain touching frankness in all this enthusiasm
    which is not without a dignity of its own. We shall see if
    Arsène Lupin deserves the confidence so blindly placed in him.”

Lupin was hardly able to finish reading the article for the tears
that dimmed his eyes: tears of affection, tears of pity, tears of
distress.

No, he did not deserve the confidence of his chum Gilbert.
Certainly, he had performed impossibilities; but there are
circumstances in which we must perform more than impossibilities,
in which we must show ourselves stronger than fate; and, this
time, fate had been stronger than he. Ever since the first day and
throughout this lamentable adventure, events had gone contrary
to his anticipations, contrary to logic itself. Clarisse and he,
though pursuing an identical aim, had wasted weeks in fighting
each other. Then, at the moment when they were uniting their
efforts, a series of ghastly disasters had come one after the
other: the kidnapping of little Jacques, Daubrecq’s disappearance,
his imprisonment in the Lovers’ Tower, Lupin’s wound, his enforced
inactivity, followed by the cunning manoeuvres that dragged
Clarisse--and Lupin after her--to the south, to Italy. And then,
as a crowning catastrophe, when, after prodigies of will-power,
after miracles of perseverance, they were entitled to think that
the Golden Fleece was won, it all came to nothing. The list of the
Twenty-seven had no more value than the most insignificant scrap of
paper.

“The game’s up!” said Lupin. “It’s an absolute defeat. What if I
do revenge myself on Daubrecq, ruin him and destroy him? He is the
real victor, once Gilbert is going to die.”

He wept anew, not with spite or rage, but with despair. Gilbert was
going to die! The lad whom he called his chum, the best of his pals
would be gone for ever, in a few hours. He could not save him. He
was at the end of his tether. He did not even look round for a last
expedient. What was the use?

And his persuasion of his own helplessness was so deep, so definite
that he felt no shock of any kind on receiving a telegram from the
Masher that said:

    “Motor accident. Essential part broken. Long repair. Arrive
    to-morrow morning.”

It was a last proof to show that fate had uttered its decree. He no
longer thought of rebelling against the decision.

He looked at Clarisse. She was peacefully sleeping; and this total
oblivion, this absence of all consciousness, seemed to him so
enviable that, suddenly yielding to a fit of cowardice, he seized
the bottle, still half-filled with the sleeping-draught, and drank
it down.

Then he stretched himself on a couch and rang for his man:

“Go to bed, Achille, and don’t wake me on any pretence whatever.”

“Then there’s nothing to be done for Gilbert and Vaucheray,
governor?” said Achille.

“Nothing.”

“Are they going through it?”

“They are going through it.”

Twenty minutes later Lupin fell into a heavy sleep. It was ten
o’clock in the evening.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night was full of incident and noise around the prison. At one
o’clock in the morning the Rue de la Santé, the Boulevard Arago and
all the streets abutting on the gaol were guarded by police, who
allowed no one to pass without a regular cross-examination.

For that matter, it was raining in torrents; and it seemed as
though the lovers of this sort of show would not be very numerous.
The public-houses were all closed by special order. At four o’clock
three companies of infantry came and took up their positions along
the pavements, while a battalion occupied the Boulevard Arago in
case of a surprise. Municipal guards cantered up and down between
the lines; a whole staff of police-magistrates, officers and
functionaries, brought together for the occasion, moved about among
the troops.

The guillotine was set up in silence, in the middle of the square
formed by the boulevard and the street; and the sinister sound of
hammering was heard.

But, at five o’clock, the crowd gathered, notwithstanding the rain,
and people began to sing. They shouted for the footlights, called
for the curtain to rise, were exasperated to see that, at the
distance at which the barriers had been fixed, they could hardly
distinguish the uprights of the guillotine.

Several carriages drove up, bringing official persons dressed in
black. There were cheers and hoots, whereupon a troop of mounted
municipal guards scattered the groups and cleared the space to
a distance of three hundred yards from the square. Two fresh
companies of soldiers lined up.

And suddenly there was a great silence. A vague white light fell
from the dark sky. The rain ceased abruptly.

Inside the prison, at the end of the passage containing the
condemned cells, the men in black were conversing in low voices.
Prasville was talking to the public prosecutor, who expressed his
fears:

“No, no,” declared Prasville, “I assure you, it will pass without
an incident of any kind.”

“Do your reports mention nothing at all suspicious, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général?”

“Nothing. And they can’t mention anything, for the simple reason
that we have Lupin.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes, we know his hiding-place. The house where he lives, on the
Place de Clichy, and where he went at seven o’clock last night, is
surrounded. Moreover, I know the scheme which he had contrived to
save his two accomplices. The scheme miscarried at the last moment.
We have nothing to fear, therefore. The law will take its course.”

Meanwhile, the hour had struck.

They took Vaucheray first; and the governor of the prison ordered
the door of his cell to be opened. Vaucheray leapt out of bed and
cast eyes dilated with terror upon the men who entered.

“Vaucheray, we have come to tell you....”

“Stow that, stow that,” he muttered. “No words. I know all about
it. Get on with the business.”

One would have thought that he was in a hurry for it to be over
as fast as possible, so readily did he submit to the usual
preparations. But he would not allow any of them to speak to him:

“No words,” he repeated. “What? Confess to the priest? Not worth
while. I have shed blood. The law sheds my blood. It’s the good old
rule. We’re quits.”

Nevertheless, he stopped short for a moment:

“I say, is my mate going through it too?”

And, when he heard that Gilbert would go to the scaffold at the
same time as himself, he had two or three seconds of hesitation,
glanced at the bystanders, seemed about to speak, was silent and,
at last, muttered:

“It’s better so.... They’ll pull us through together . . . we’ll
clink glasses together.”

Gilbert was not asleep either, when the men entered his cell.

Sitting on his bed, he listened to the terrible words, tried to
stand up, began to tremble frightfully, from head to foot, like a
skeleton when shaken, and then fell back, sobbing:

“Oh, my poor mummy, poor mummy!” he stammered.

They tried to question him about that mother, of whom he had never
spoken; but his tears were interrupted by a sudden fit of rebellion
and he cried:

“I have done no murder.... I won’t die. I have done no murder....”

“Gilbert,” they said, “show yourself a man.”

“Yes, yes . . . but I have done no murder.... Why should I die?”

His teeth chattered so loudly that words which he uttered became
unintelligible. He let the men do their work, made his confession,
heard mass and then, growing calmer and almost docile, with the
voice of a little child resigning itself, murmured:

“Tell my mother that I beg her forgiveness.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes.... Put what I say in the papers.... She will understand....
And then....”

“What, Gilbert?”

“Well, I want the governor to know that I have not lost confidence.”

He gazed at the bystanders, one after the other, as though he
entertained the mad hope that “the governor” was one of them,
disguised beyond recognition and ready to carry him off in his arms:

“Yes,” he said, gently and with a sort of religious piety, “yes, I
still have confidence, even at this moment.... Be sure and let him
know, won’t you?... I am positive that he will not let me die. I am
certain of it....”

They guessed, from the fixed look in his eyes, that he saw Lupin,
that he felt Lupin’s shadow prowling around and seeking an inlet
through which to get to him. And never was anything more touching
than the sight of that stripling--clad in the strait-jacket,
with his arms and legs bound, guarded by thousands of men--whom
the executioner already held in his inexorable hand and who,
nevertheless, hoped on.

Anguish wrung the hearts of all the beholders. Their eyes were
dimmed with tears:

“Poor little chap!” stammered some one.

Prasville, touched like the rest and thinking of Clarisse,
repeated, in a whisper:

“Poor little chap!”

But the hour struck, the preparations were finished. They set out.

The two processions met in the passage. Vaucheray, on seeing
Gilbert, snapped out:

“I say, kiddie, the governor’s chucked us!”

And he added a sentence which nobody, save Prasville, was able to
understand:

“Expect he prefers to pocket the proceeds of the crystal stopper.”

They went down the staircases. They crossed the prison-yards. An
endless, horrible distance.

And, suddenly, in the frame of the great doorway, the wan light of
day, the rain, the street, the outlines of houses, while far-off
sounds came through the awful silence.

They walked along the wall, to the corner of the boulevard.

A few steps farther Vaucheray started back: he had seen!

Gilbert crept along, with lowered head, supported by an
executioner’s assistant and by the chaplain, who made him kiss the
crucifix as he went.

There stood the guillotine.

“No, no,” shouted Gilbert, “I won’t.... I won’t.... Help! Help!”

A last appeal, lost in space.

The executioner gave a signal. Vaucheray was laid hold of, lifted,
dragged along, almost at a run.

And then came this staggering thing: a shot, a shot fired from the
other side, from one of the houses opposite.

The assistants stopped short.

The burden which they were dragging had collapsed in their arms.

“What is it? What’s happened?” asked everybody.

“He’s wounded....”

Blood spurted from Vaucheray’s forehead and covered his face.

He spluttered:

“That’s done it . . . one in a thousand! Thank you, governor, thank
you.”

“Finish him off! Carry him there!” said a voice, amid the general
confusion.

“But he’s dead!”

“Get on with it . . . finish him off!”

Tumult was at its height, in the little group of magistrates,
officials and policemen. Every one was giving orders:

“Execute him!... The law must take its course!... We have no right
to delay! It would be cowardice!... Execute him!”

“But the man’s dead!”

“That makes no difference!... The law must be obeyed!... Execute
him!”

The chaplain protested, while two warders and Prasville kept their
eyes on Gilbert. In the meantime, the assistants had taken up the
corpse again and were carrying it to the guillotine.

“Hurry up!” cried the executioner, scared and hoarse-voiced. “Hurry
up!... And the other one to follow.... Waste no time....”

He had not finished speaking, when a second report rang out. He
spun round on his heels and fell, groaning:

“It’s nothing . . . a wound in the shoulder.... Go on.... The next
one’s turn!”

But his assistants were running away, yelling with terror. The
space around the guillotine was cleared. And the prefect of
police, rallying his men, drove everybody back to the prison,
helter-skelter, like a disordered rabble: the magistrates, the
officials, the condemned man, the chaplain, all who had passed
through the archway two or three minutes before.

In the meanwhile, a squad of policemen, detectives and soldiers
were rushing upon the house, a little old-fashioned, three-storied
house, with a ground-floor occupied by two shops which happened to
be empty. Immediately after the first shot, they had seen, vaguely,
at one of the windows on the second floor, a man holding a rifle in
his hand and surrounded with a cloud of smoke.

Revolver-shots were fired at him, but missed him. He, standing
calmly on a table, took aim a second time, fired from the shoulder;
and the crack of the second report was heard. Then he withdrew into
the room.

Down below, as nobody answered the peal at the bell, the assailants
demolished the door, which gave way almost immediately. They
made for the staircase, but their onrush was at once stopped, on
the first floor, by an accumulation of beds, chairs and other
furniture, forming a regular barricade and so close-entangled that
it took the aggressors four or five minutes to clear themselves a
passage.

Those four or five minutes lost were enough to render all pursuit
hopeless. When they reached the second floor they heard a voice
shouting from above:

“This way, friends! Eighteen stairs more. A thousand apologies for
giving you so much trouble!”

They ran up those eighteen stairs and nimbly at that! But, at the
top, above the third story, was the garret, which was reached by a
ladder and a trapdoor. And the fugitive had taken away the ladder
and bolted the trapdoor.

The reader will not have forgotten the sensation created by
this amazing action, the editions of the papers issued in quick
succession, the newsboys tearing and shouting through the streets,
the whole metropolis on edge with indignation and, we may say, with
anxious curiosity.

But it was at the headquarters of police that the excitement
developed into a paroxysm. Men flung themselves about on every
side. Messages, telegrams, telephone calls followed one upon the
other.

At last, at eleven o’clock in the morning, there was a meeting in
the office of the prefect of police, and Prasville was there. The
chief-detective read a report of his inquiry, the results of which
amounted to this: shortly before midnight yesterday some one had
rung at the house on the Boulevard Arago. The portress, who slept
in a small room on the ground-floor, behind one of the shops pulled
the rope. A man came and tapped at her door. He said that he had
come from the police on an urgent matter concerning to-morrow’s
execution. The portress opened the door and was at once attacked,
gagged and bound.

Ten minutes later a lady and gentleman who lived on the first floor
and who had just come home were also reduced to helplessness by the
same individual and locked up, each in one of the two empty shops.
The third-floor tenant underwent a similar fate, but in his own
flat and his own bedroom, which the man was able to enter without
being heard. The second floor was unoccupied, and the man took up
his quarters there. He was now master of the house.

“And there we are!” said the prefect of police, beginning to
laugh, with a certain bitterness. “There we are! It’s as simple as
shelling peas. Only, what surprises me is that he was able to get
away so easily.”

“I will ask you to observe, monsieur le préfet, that, being
absolute master of the house from one o’clock in the morning, he
had until five o’clock to prepare his flight.”

“And that flight took place...?”

“Over the roofs. At that spot the houses in the next street, the
Rue de la Glacière, are quite near and there is only one break
in the roofs, about three yards wide, with a drop of one yard in
height.”

“Well?”

“Well, our man had taken away the ladder leading to the garret
and used it as a foot-bridge. After crossing to the next block of
buildings, all he had to do was to look through the windows until
he found an empty attic, enter one of the houses in the Rue de la
Glacière and walk out quietly with his hands in his pockets. In
this way his flight, duly prepared beforehand, was effected very
simply and without the least obstacle.”

“But you had taken the necessary measures.”

“Those which you ordered, monsieur le préfet. My men spent three
hours last evening visiting all the houses, so as to make sure that
there was no stranger hiding there. At the moment when they were
leaving the last house I had the street barred. Our man must have
slipped through during that few minutes’ interval.”

“Capital! Capital! And there is no doubt in your minds, of course:
it’s Arsène Lupin?”

“Not a doubt. In the first place, it was all a question of his
accomplices. And then . . . and then . . . no one but Arsène Lupin
was capable of contriving such a master-stroke and carrying it out
with that inconceivable boldness.”

“But, in that case,” muttered the prefect of police--and, turning
to Prasville, he continued--“but, in that case, my dear Prasville,
the fellow of whom you spoke to me, the fellow whom you and the
chief-detective have had watched since yesterday evening, in his
flat in the Place de Clichy, that fellow is not Arsène Lupin?”

“Yes, he is, monsieur le préfet. There is no doubt about that
either.”

“Then why wasn’t he arrested when he went out last night?”

“He did not go out.”

“I say, this is getting complicated!”

“It’s quite simple, monsieur le préfet. Like all the houses in
which traces of Arsène Lupin are to be found, the house in the
Place de Clichy has two outlets.”

“And you didn’t know it?”

“I didn’t know it. I only discovered it this morning, on inspecting
the flat.”

“Was there no one in the flat?”

“No. The servant, a man called Achille, went away this morning,
taking with him a lady who was staying with Lupin.”

“What was the lady’s name?”

“I don’t know,” replied Prasville, after an imperceptible
hesitation.

“But you know the name under which Arsène Lupin passed?”

“Yes. M. Nicole, a private tutor, master of arts and so on. Here is
his card.”

As Prasville finished speaking, an office-messenger came to tell
the prefect of police that he was wanted immediately at the Élysée.
The prime minister was there already.

“I’m coming,” he said. And he added, between his teeth, “It’s to
decide upon Gilbert’s fate.”

Prasville ventured:

“Do you think they will pardon him, monsieur le préfet?”

“Never! After last night’s affair, it would make a most deplorable
impression. Gilbert must pay his debt to-morrow morning.”

The messenger had, at the same time, handed Prasville a
visiting-card. Prasville now looked at it, gave a start and
muttered:

“Well, I’m hanged! What a nerve!”

“What’s the matter?” asked the prefect of police.

“Nothing, nothing, monsieur le préfet,” declared Prasville, who did
not wish to share with another the honour of seeing this business
through. “Nothing . . . an unexpected visit.... I hope soon to have
the pleasure of telling you the result.”

And he walked away, mumbling, with an air of amazement:

“Well, upon my word! What a nerve the beggar has! What a nerve!”

The visiting-card which he held in his hand bore these words:

          +---------------------------------------------+
          |                                             |
          |                 _M. Nicole,_                |
          |                                             |
          |       _Master of Arts, Private Tutor._      |
          |                                             |
          +---------------------------------------------+




CHAPTER XIII.

THE LAST BATTLE


When Prasville returned to his office he saw M. Nicole sitting on a
bench in the waiting-room, with his bent back, his ailing air, his
gingham umbrella, his rusty hat and his single glove:

“It’s he all right,” said Prasville, who had feared for a moment
that Lupin might have sent another M. Nicole to see him. “And the
fact that he has come in person proves that he does not suspect
that I have seen through him.” And, for the third time, he said,
“All the same, what a nerve!”

He shut the door of his office and called his secretary:

“M. Lartigue, I am having a rather dangerous person shown in here.
The chances are that he will have to leave my office with the
bracelets on. As soon as he is in my room, make all the necessary
arrangements: send for a dozen inspectors and have them posted in
the waiting-room and in your office. And take this as a definite
instruction: the moment I ring, you are all to come in, revolvers
in hand, and surround the fellow. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, monsieur le secrétaire;-général.”

“Above all, no hesitation. A sudden entrance, in a body, revolvers
in hand. Send M. Nicole in, please.”

As soon as he was alone, Prasville covered the push of an electric
bell on his desk with some papers and placed two revolvers of
respectable dimensions behind a rampart of books.

“And now,” he said to himself, “to sit tight. If he has the list,
let’s collar it. If he hasn’t, let’s collar him. And, if possible,
let’s collar both. Lupin and the list of the Twenty-seven, on the
same day, especially after the scandal of this morning, would be a
scoop in a thousand.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” said Prasville.

And, rising from his seat:

“Come in, M. Nicole, come in.”

M. Nicole crept timidly into the room, sat down on the extreme edge
of the chair to which Prasville pointed and said:

“I have come . . . to resume . . . our conversation of yesterday....
Please excuse the delay, monsieur.”

“One second,” said Prasville. “Will you allow me?”

He stepped briskly to the outer room and, seeing his secretary:

“I was forgetting, M. Lartigue. Have the staircases and passages
searched . . . in case of accomplices.”

He returned, settled himself comfortably, as though for a long and
interesting conversation, and began:

“You were saying, M. Nicole?”

“I was saying, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that I must
apologize for keeping you waiting yesterday evening. I was detained
by different matters. First of all, Mme. Mergy....”

“Yes, you had to see Mme. Mergy home.”

“Just so, and to look after her. You can understand the poor
thing’s despair.... Her son Gilbert so near death.... And such a
death!... At that time we could only hope for a miracle . . . an
impossible miracle. I myself was resigned to the inevitable.... You
know as well as I do, when fate shows itself implacable, one ends
by despairing.”

“But I thought,” observed Prasville, “that your intention, on
leaving me, was to drag Daubrecq’s secret from him at all costs.”

“Certainly. But Daubrecq was not in Paris.”

“Oh?”

“No. He was on his way to Paris in a motor-car.”

“Have you a motor-car, M. Nicole?”

“Yes, when I need it: an out-of-date concern, an old tin kettle of
sorts. Well, he was on his way to Paris in a motor-car, or rather
on the roof of a motor-car, inside a trunk in which I packed him.
But, unfortunately, the motor was unable to reach Paris until after
the execution. Thereupon....”

Prasville stared at M. Nicole with an air of stupefaction. If he
had retained the least doubt of the individual’s real identity,
this manner of dealing with Daubrecq would have removed it. By
Jingo! To pack a man in a trunk and pitch him on the top of a
motor-car!... No one but Lupin would indulge in such a freak, no
one but Lupin would confess it with that ingenuous coolness!

“Thereupon,” echoed Prasville, “you decided what?”

“I cast about for another method.”

“What method?”

“Why, surely, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, you know as well as
I do!”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, weren’t you at the execution?”

“I was.”

“In that case, you saw both Vaucheray and the executioner hit, one
mortally, the other with a slight wound. And you can’t fail to
see....”

“Oh,” exclaimed Prasville, dumbfounded, “you confess it? It was you
who fired the shots, this morning?”

“Come, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, think! What choice had I?
The list of the Twenty-seven which you examined was a forgery.
Daubrecq, who possessed the genuine one, would not arrive until a
few hours after the execution. There was therefore but one way for
me to save Gilbert and obtain his pardon; and that was to delay the
execution by a few hours.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, of course. By killing that infamous brute, that hardened
criminal, Vaucheray, and wounding the executioner, I spread
disorder and panic; I made Gilbert’s execution physically and
morally impossible; and I thus gained the few hours which were
indispensable for my purpose.”

“Obviously,” repeated Prasville.

“Well, of course,” repeated Lupin, “it gives us all--the
government, the president and myself--time to reflect and to see
the question in a clearer light. What do you think of it, monsieur
le secrétaire;-général?”

Prasville thought a number of things, especially that this Nicole
was giving proof, to use a vulgar phrase, of the most infernal
cheek, of a cheek so great that Prasville felt inclined to ask
himself if he was really right in identifying Nicole with Lupin and
Lupin with Nicole.

“I think, M. Nicole, that a man has to be a jolly good shot to kill
a person whom he wants to kill, at a distance of a hundred yards,
and to wound another person whom he only wants to wound.”

“I have had some little practice,” said M. Nicole, with modest air.

“And I also think that your plan can only be the fruit of a long
preparation.”

“Not at all! That’s where you’re wrong! It was absolutely
spontaneous! If my servant, or rather the servant of the friend who
lent me his flat in the Place de Clichy, had not shaken me out of
my sleep, to tell me that he had once served as a shopman in that
little house on the Boulevard Arago, that it did not hold many
tenants and that there might be something to be done there, our
poor Gilbert would have had his head cut off by now . . . and Mme.
Mergy would most likely be dead.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“I am sure of it. And that was why I jumped at that faithful
retainer’s suggestion. Only, you interfered with my plans, monsieur
le secrétaire;-général.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You must needs go and take the three-cornered precaution of
posting twelve men at the door of my house. I had to climb five
flights of back stairs and go out through the servants’ corridor
and the next house. Such useless fatigue!”

“I am very sorry, M. Nicole. Another time....”

“It was the same thing at eight o’clock this morning, when I was
waiting for the motor which was bringing Daubrecq to me in his
trunk: I had to march up and down the Place de Clichy, so as to
prevent the car from stopping outside the door of my place and your
men from interfering in my private affairs. Otherwise, once again,
Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy would have been lost.”

“But,” said Prasville, “those painful events, it seems to me, are
only delayed for a day, two days, three days at most. To avert them
for good and all we should want....”

“The real list, I suppose?”

“Exactly. And I daresay you haven’t got it.”

“Yes, I have.”

“The genuine list?”

“The genuine, the undoubtedly genuine list.”

“With the cross of Lorraine?”

“With the cross of Lorraine.”

Prasville was silent. He was labouring under violent emotion,
now that the duel was commencing with that adversary of whose
terrifying superiority he was well aware; and he shuddered at the
idea that Arsène Lupin, the formidable Arsène Lupin, was there,
in front of him, calm and placid, pursuing his aims with as much
coolness as though he had all the weapons in his hands and were
face to face with a disarmed enemy.

Not yet daring to deliver a frontal attack, feeling almost
intimidated, Prasville said:

“So Daubrecq gave it up to you?”

“Daubrecq gives nothing up. I took it.”

“By main force, therefore?”

“Oh, dear, no!” said M. Nicole, laughing. “Of course, I was ready
to go to all lengths; and, when that worthy Daubrecq was dug
out of the basket in which he had been travelling express, with
an occasional dose of chloroform to keep his strength up, I had
prepared things so that the fun might begin at once. Oh, no useless
tortures . . . no vain sufferings! No.... Death, simply.... You
press the point of a long needle on the chest, where the heart
is, and insert it gradually, softly and gently. That’s all but
the point would have been driven by Mme. Mergy. You understand: a
mother is pitiless, a mother whose son is about to die!... ‘Speak,
Daubrecq, or I’ll go deeper.... You won’t speak?... Then I’ll
push another quarter of an inch . . . and another still.’ And the
patient’s heart stops beating, the heart that feels the needle
coming.... And another quarter of an inch . . . and one more.... I
swear before Heaven that the villain would have spoken!... We leant
over him and waited for him to wake, trembling with impatience, so
urgent was our hurry.... Can’t you picture the scene, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général? The scoundrel lying on a sofa, well bound,
bare-chested, making efforts to throw off the fumes of chloroform
that dazed him. He breathes quicker.... He gasps.... He recovers
consciousness . . . his lips move.... Already, Clarisse Mergy
whispers, ‘It’s I . . . it’s I, Clarisse.... Will you answer, you
wretch?’ She has put her finger on Daubrecq’s chest, at the spot
where the heart stirs like a little animal hidden under the skin.
But she says to me, ‘His eyes . . . his eyes.... I can’t see them
under the spectacles.... I want to see them.... ‘And I also want
to see those eyes which I do not know, I want to see their anguish
and I want to read in them, before I hear a word, the secret which
is about to burst from the inmost recesses of the terrified body.
I want to see. I long to see. The action which I am about to
accomplish excites me beyond measure. It seems to me that, when I
have seen the eyes, the veil will be rent asunder. I shall know
things. It is a presentiment. It is the profound intuition of the
truth that keeps me on tenterhooks. The eye-glasses are gone. But
the thick opaque spectacles are there still. And I snatch them
off, suddenly. And, suddenly, startled by a disconcerting vision,
dazzled by the quick light that breaks in upon me and laughing,
oh, but laughing fit to break my jaws, with my thumb--do you
understand? with my thumb--hop, I force out the left eye!”

M. Nicole was really laughing, as he said, fit to break his jaws.
And he was no longer the timid little unctuous and obsequious
provincial usher, but a well-set-up fellow, who, after reciting and
mimicking the whole scene with impressive ardour, was now laughing
with a shrill laughter the sound of which made Prasville’s flesh
creep:

“Hop! Jump, Marquis! Out of your kennel, Towzer! What’s the use of
two eyes? It’s one more than you want. Hop! I say, Clarisse, look
at it rolling over the carpet! Mind Daubrecq’s eye! Be careful with
the grate!”

M. Nicole, who had risen and pretended to be hunting after
something across the room, now sat down again, took from his pocket
a thing shaped like a marble, rolled it in the hollow of his hand,
chucked it in the air, like a ball, put it back in his fob and
said, coolly:

“Daubrecq’s left eye.”

Prasville was utterly bewildered. What was his strange visitor
driving at? What did all this story mean? Pale with excitement, he
said:

“Explain yourself.”

“But it’s all explained, it seems to me. And it fits in so well
with things as they were, fits in with all the conjectures which
I had been making in spite of myself and which would inevitably
have led to my solving the mystery, if that damned Daubrecq had
not so cleverly sent me astray! Yes, think, follow the trend of
my suppositions: ‘As the list is not to be discovered away from
Daubrecq,’ I said to myself, ‘it cannot exist away from Daubrecq.
And, as it is not to be discovered in the clothes he wears, it must
be hidden deeper still, in himself, to speak plainly, in his flesh,
under his skin....”

“In his eye, perhaps?” suggested Prasville, by way of a joke....

“In his eye? Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, you have said the
word.”

“What?”

“I repeat, in his eye. And it is a truth that ought to have
occurred to my mind logically, instead of being revealed to me by
accident. And I will tell you why. Daubrecq knew that Clarisse
had seen a letter from him instructing an English manufacturer
to ‘empty the crystal within, so as to leave a void which it was
unpossible to suspect.’ Daubrecq was bound, in prudence, to divert
any attempt at search. And it was for this reason that he had a
crystal stopper made, ‘emptied within,’ after a model supplied by
himself. And it is this crystal stopper which you and I have been
after for months; and it is this crystal stopper which I dug out of
a packet of tobacco. Whereas all I had to do....”

“Was what?” asked Prasville, greatly puzzled.

M. Nicole burst into a fresh fit of laughter:

“Was simply to go for Daubrecq’s eye, that eye ‘emptied within so
as to leave a void which it is impossible to suspect,’ the eye
which you see before you.”

And M. Nicole once more took the thing from his pocket and rapped
the table with it, producing the sound of a hard body with each rap.

Prasville whispered, in astonishment:

“A glass eye!”

“Why, of course!” cried M. Nicole, laughing gaily. “A glass eye!
A common or garden decanter-stopper, which the rascal stuck
into his eyesocket in the place of an eye which he had lost--a
decanter-stopper, or, if you prefer, a crystal stopper, but the
real one, this time, which he faked, which he hid behind the double
bulwark of his spectacles and eye-glasses, which contained and
still contains the talisman that enabled Daubrecq to work as he
pleased in safety.”

Prasville lowered his head and put his hand to his forehead to
hide his flushed face: he was almost possessing the list of the
Twenty-seven. It lay before him, on the table.

Mastering his emotion, he said, in a casual tone:

“So it is there still?”

“At least, I suppose so,” declared M. Nicole.

“What! You suppose so?”

“I have not opened the hiding-place. I thought, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général, I would reserve that honour for you.”

Prasville put out his hand, took the thing up and inspected it. It
was a block of crystal, imitating nature to perfection, with all
the details of the eyeball, the iris, the pupil, the cornea.

He at once saw a movable part at the back, which slid in a groove.
He pushed it. The eye was hollow.

There was a tiny ball of paper inside. He unfolded it, smoothed
it out and, quickly, without delaying to make a preliminary
examination of the names, the hand-writing or the signatures, he
raised his arms and turned the paper to the light from the windows.

“Is the cross of Lorraine there?” asked M. Nicole.

“Yes, it is there,” replied Prasville. “This is the genuine list.”

He hesitated a few seconds and remained with his arms raised, while
reflecting what he would do. Then he folded up the paper again,
replaced it in its little crystal sheath and put the whole thing in
his pocket. M. Nicole, who was looking at him, asked:

“Are you convinced?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we are agreed?”

“We are agreed.”

There was a pause, during which the two men watched each other
without appearing to. M. Nicole seemed to be waiting for the
conversation to be resumed. Prasville, sheltered behind the piles
of books on the table, sat with one hand grasping his revolver and
the other touching the push of the electric bell. He felt the whole
strength of his position with a keen zest. He held the list. He
held Lupin:

“If he moves,” he thought, “I cover him with my revolver and I
ring. If he attacks me, I shoot.”

And the situation appeared to him so pleasant that he prolonged it,
with the exquisite relish of an epicure.

In the end, M. Nicole took up the threads:

“As we are agreed, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I think there
is nothing left for you to do but to hurry. Is the execution to
take place to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“In that case, I shall wait here.”

“Wait for what?”

“The answer from the Élysée.”

“Oh, is some one to bring you an answer?”

“Yes.”

“You, monsieur le secrétaire;-général.”

Prasville shook his head:

“You must not count on me, M. Nicole.”

“Really?” said M. Nicole, with an air of surprise. “May I ask the
reason?”

“I have changed my mind.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. I have come to the conclusion that, as things stand,
after this last scandal, it is impossible to try to do anything
in Gilbert’s favour. Besides, an attempt in this direction at the
Élysée, under present conditions, would constitute a regular case
of blackmail, to which I absolutely decline to lend myself.”

“You are free to do as you please, monsieur. Your scruples do you
honour, though they come rather late, for they did not trouble you
yesterday. But, in that case, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, as
the compact between us is destroyed, give me back the list of the
Twenty-seven.”

“What for?”

“So that I may apply to another spokesman.”

“What’s the good? Gilbert is lost.”

“Not at all, not at all. On the contrary, I consider that, now
that his accomplice is dead, it will be much easier to grant him a
pardon which everybody will look upon as fair and humane. Give me
back the list.”

“Upon my word, monsieur, you have a short memory and none too nice
a conscience. Have you forgotten your promise of yesterday?”

“Yesterday, I made a promise to a M. Nicole.”

“Well?”

“You are not M. Nicole.”

“Indeed! Then, pray, who am I?”

“Need I tell you?”

M. Nicole made no reply, but began to laugh softly, as though
pleased at the curious turn which the conversation was taking;
and Prasville felt a vague misgiving at observing that fit of
merriment. He grasped the butt-end of his revolver and wondered
whether he ought not to ring for help.

M. Nicole drew his chair close to the desk, put his two elbows on
the table, looked Prasville straight in the face and jeered:

“So, M. Prasville, you know who I am and you have the assurance to
play this game with me?”

“I have that assurance,” said Prasville, accepting the sneer
without flinching.

“Which proves that you consider me, Arsène Lupin--we may as well
use the name: yes, Arsène Lupin--which proves that you consider me
fool enough, dolt enough to deliver myself like this, bound hand
and foot into your hands.”

“Upon my word,” said Prasville, airily, patting the
waistcoat-pocket in which he had secreted the crystal ball, “I
don’t quite see what you can do, M. Nicole, now that Daubrecq’s eye
is here, with the list of the Twenty-seven inside it.”

“What I can do?” echoed M. Nicole, ironically.

“Yes! The talisman no longer protects you; and you are now no
better off than any other man who might venture into the very heart
of the police-office, among some dozens of stalwart fellows posted
behind each of those doors and some hundreds of others who will
hasten up at the first signal.”

M. Nicole shrugged his shoulders and gave Prasville a look of great
commiseration:

“Shall I tell you what is happening, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général? Well, you too are having your head turned
by all this business. Now that you possess the list, your state
of mind has suddenly sunk to that of a Daubrecq or a d’Albufex.
There is no longer even a question, in your thoughts, of taking it
to your superiors, so that this ferment of disgrace and discord
may be ended. No, no; a sodden temptation has seized upon you and
intoxicated you; and, losing your head, you say to yourself, ‘It
is here, in my pocket. With its aid, I am omnipotent. It means
wealth, absolute, unbounded power. Why not benefit by it? Why not
let Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy die? Why not lock up that idiot of
a Lupin? Why not seize this unparalleled piece of fortune by the
forelock?’”

He bent toward Prasville and, very softly, in a friendly and
confidential tone, said:

“Don’t do that, my dear sir, don’t do it.”

“And why not?”

“It is not to your interest, believe me.”

“Really!”

“No. Or, if you absolutely insist on doing it, have the kindness
first to consult the twenty-seven names on the list of which you
have just robbed me and reflect, for a moment, on the name of the
third person on it.”

“Oh? And what is the name of that third person?”

“It is the name of a friend of yours.”

“What friend?”

“Stanislas Vorenglade, the ex-deputy.”

“And then?” said Prasville, who seemed to be losing some of his
self-confidence.

“Then? Ask yourself if an inquiry, however summary, would not end
by discovering, behind that Stanislas Vorenglade, the name of one
who shared certain little profits with him.”

“And whose name is?”

“Louis Prasville.”

M. Nicole banged the table with his fist.

“Enough of this humbug, monsieur! For twenty minutes, you and I
have been beating about the bush. That will do. Let us understand
each other. And, to begin with, drop your pistols. You can’t
imagine that I am frightened of those playthings! Stand up, sir,
stand up, as I am doing, and finish the business: I am in a hurry.”

He put his hand on Prasville’s shoulder and, speaking with great
deliberation, said:

“If, within an hour from now, you are not back from the Élysée,
bringing with you a line to say that the decree of pardon has been
signed; if, within one hour and ten minutes, I, Arsène Lupin, do
not walk out of this building safe and sound and absolutely free,
this evening four Paris newspapers will receive four letters
selected from the correspondence exchanged between Stanislas
Vorenglade and yourself, the correspondence which Stanislas
Vorenglade sold me this morning. Here’s your hat, here’s your
overcoat, here’s your stick. Be off. I will wait for you.”

Then happened this extraordinary and yet easily understood thing,
that Prasville did not raise the slightest protest nor make the
least show of fight. He received the sudden, far-reaching, utter
conviction of what the personality known as Arsène Lupin meant,
in all its breadth and fulness. He did not so much as think of
carping, of pretending--as he had until then believed--that the
letters had been destroyed by Vorenglade the deputy or, at any
rate, that Vorenglade would not dare to hand them over, because,
in so doing, Vorenglade was also working his own destruction. No,
Prasville did not speak a word. He felt himself caught in a vise
of which no human strength could force the jaws asunder. There was
nothing to do but yield. He yielded.

“Here, in an hour,” repeated M. Nicole.

“In an hour,” said Prasville, tamely. Nevertheless, in order to
know exactly where he stood, he added, “The letters, of course,
will be restored to me against Gilbert’s pardon?”

“No.”

“How do you mean, no? In that case, there is no object in....”

“They will be restored to you, intact, two months after the day
when my friends and I have brought about Gilbert’s escape . . .
thanks to the very slack watch which will be kept upon him, in
accordance with your orders.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there are two further conditions: first, the immediate payment
of a cheque for forty thousand francs.”

“Forty thousand francs?”

“The sum for which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me the letters. It is
only fair....”

“And next?”

“Secondly, your resignation, within six months, of your present
position.”

“My resignation? But why?”

M. Nicole made a very dignified gesture:

“Because it is against public morals that one of the highest
positions in the police-service should be occupied by a man whose
hands are not absolutely clean. Make them send you to parliament or
appoint you a minister, a councillor of State, an ambassador, in
short, any post which your success in the Daubrecq case entitles
you to demand. But not secretary-general of police; anything but
that! The very thought of it disgusts me.”

Prasville reflected for a moment. He would have rejoiced in the
sudden destruction of his adversary and he racked his brain for the
means to effect it. But he was helpless.

He went to the door and called:

“M. Lartigue.” And, sinking his voice, but not very low, for he
wished M. Nicole to hear, “M. Lartigue, dismiss your men. It’s a
mistake. And let no one come into my office while I am gone. This
gentleman will wait for me here.”

He came back, took the hat, stick and overcoat which M. Nicole
handed him and went out.

“Well done, sir,” said Lupin, between his teeth, when the door was
closed. “You have behaved like a sportsman and a gentleman.... So
did I, for that matter . . . perhaps with too obvious a touch of
contempt . . . and a little too bluntly. But, tush, this sort of
business has to be carried through with a high hand! The enemy’s
got to be staggered! Besides, when one’s own conscience is clear,
one can’t take up too bullying a tone with that sort of individual.
Lift your head, Lupin. You have been the champion of outraged
morality. Be proud of your work. And now take a chair, stretch out
your legs and have a rest. You’ve deserved it.”

When Prasville returned, he found Lupin sound asleep and had to tap
him on the shoulder to wake him.

“Is it done?” asked Lupin.

“It’s done. The pardon will be signed presently. Here is the
written promise.”

“The forty thousand francs?”

“Here’s your cheque.”

“Good. It but remains for me to thank you, monsieur.”

“So the correspondence....”

“The Stanislas Vorenglade correspondence will be handed to you on
the conditions stated. However, I am glad to be able to give you,
here and now, as a sign of my gratitude, the four letters which I
meant to send to the papers this evening.”

“Oh, so you had them on you?” said Prasville.

“I felt so certain, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that we should
end by coming to an understanding.”

He took from his hat a fat envelope, sealed with five red seals,
which was pinned inside the lining, and handed it to Prasville, who
thrust it into his pocket. Then he said:

“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I don’t know when I shall
have the pleasure of seeing you again. If you have the least
communication to make to me, one line in the agony column of the
_Journal_ will be sufficient. Just head it, ‘M. Nicole.’ Good-day
to you.”

And he withdrew.

Prasville, when he was alone, felt as if he were waking from a
nightmare during which he had performed incoherent actions over
which his conscious mind had no control. He was almost thinking
of ringing and causing a stir in the passages; but, just then,
there was a tap at the door and one of the office-messengers came
hurrying in.

“What’s the matter?” asked Prasville.

“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, it’s Monsieur le Député Daubrecq
asking to see you . . . on a matter of the highest importance.”

“Daubrecq!” exclaimed Prasville, in bewilderment. “Daubrecq here!
Show him in.”

[Illustration: Daubrecq ran up to Prasville out of breath and caught
hold of him with his two enormous hands.]

Daubrecq had not waited for the order. He ran up to Prasville, out
of breath, with his clothes in disorder, a bandage over his left
eye, no tie, no collar, looking like an escaped lunatic; and the
door was not closed before he caught hold of Prasville with his two
enormous hands:

“Have you the list?”

“Yes.”

“Have you bought it?”

“Yes.”

“At the price of Gilbert’s pardon?”

“Yes.”

“Is it signed?”

“Yes.”

Daubrecq made a furious gesture:

“You fool! You fool! You’ve been trapped! For hatred of me, I
expect? And now you’re going to take your revenge?”

“With a certain satisfaction, Daubrecq. Remember my little friend,
the opera-dancer, at Nice.... It’s your turn now to dance.”

“So it means prison?”

“I should think so,” said Prasville. “Besides, it doesn’t matter.
You’re done for, anyhow. Deprived of the list, without defence of
any kind, you’re bound to fall to pieces of your own weight. And I
shall be present at the break-up. That’s my revenge.”

“And you believe that!” yelled Daubrecq, furiously. “You believe
that they will wring my neck like a chicken’s and that I shall not
know how to defend myself and that I have no claws left and no
teeth to bite with! Well, my boy, if I do come to grief, there’s
always one who will fall with me and that is Master Prasville, the
partner of Stanislas Vorenglade, who is going to hand me every
proof in existence against him, so that I may get him sent to
gaol without delay. Aha, I’ve got you fixed, old chap! With those
letters, you’ll go as I please, hang it all, and there will be fine
days yet for Daubrecq the deputy! What! You’re laughing, are you?
Perhaps those letters don’t exist?”

Prasville shrugged his shoulders:

“Yes, they exist. But Vorenglade no longer has them in his
possession.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning. Vorenglade sold them, two hours ago, for the
sum of forty thousand francs; and I have bought them back at the
same price.”

Daubrecq burst into a great roar of laughter:

“Lord, how funny! Forty thousand francs! You’ve paid forty thousand
francs! To M. Nicole, I suppose, who sold you the list of the
Twenty-seven? Well, would you like me to tell you the real name of
M. Nicole? It’s Arsène Lupin!”

“I know that.”

“Very likely. But what you don’t know, you silly ass, is that I
have come straight from Stanislas Vorenglade’s and that Stanislas
Vorenglade left Paris four days ago! Oh, what a joke! They’ve sold
you waste paper! And your forty thousand francs! What an ass! What
an ass!”

He walked out of the room, screaming with laughter and leaving
Prasville absolutely dumbfounded.

So Arsène Lupin possessed no proof at all; and, when he was
threatening and commanding and treating Prasville with that airy
insolence, it was all a farce, all bluff!

“No, no, it’s impossible,” thought the secretary-general. “I have
the sealed envelope.... It’s here.... I have only to open it.”

He dared not open it. He handled it, weighed it, examined it....
And doubt made its way so swiftly into his mind that he was not in
the least surprised, when he did open it, to find that it contained
four blank sheets of note-paper.

“Well, well,” he said, “I am no match for those rascals. But all is
not over yet.”

And, in point of fact, all was not over. If Lupin had acted so
daringly, it showed that the letters existed and that he relied
upon buying them from Stanislas Vorenglade. But, as, on the other
hand, Vorenglade was not in Paris, Prasville’s business was simply
to forestall Lupin’s steps with regard to Vorenglade and obtain
the restitution of those dangerous letters from Vorenglade at all
costs. The first to arrive would be the victor.

Prasville once more took his hat, coat and stick, went downstairs,
stepped into a taxi and drove to Vorenglade’s flat.

Here he was told that the ex-deputy was expected home from London
at six o’clock that evening.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Prasville therefore had plenty
of time to prepare his plan.

He arrived at the Gare du Nord at five o’clock and posted all
around, in the waiting-rooms and in the railway-offices, the three
or four dozen detectives whom he had brought with him.

This made him feel easy. If M. Nicole tried to speak to Vorenglade,
they would arrest Lupin. And, to make assurance doubly sure, they
would arrest whosoever could be suspected of being either Lupin or
one of Lupin’s emissaries.

Moreover, Prasville made a close inspection of the whole station.
He discovered nothing suspicious. But, at ten minutes to six,
Chief-inspector Blanchon, who was with him, said:

“Look, there’s Daubrecq.”

Daubrecq it was; and the sight of his enemy exasperated the
secretary-general to such a pitch that he was on the verge of
having him arrested. But he reflected that he had no excuse, no
right, no warrant for the arrest.

Besides, Daubrecq’s presence proved, with still greater force,
that everything now depended on Stanislas Vorenglade. Vorenglade
possessed the letters: who would end by having them? Daubrecq?
Lupin? Or he, Prasville?

Lupin was not there and could not be there. Daubrecq was not in a
position to fight. There could be no doubt, therefore, about the
result: Prasville would reenter into possession of his letters and,
through this very fact, would escape Daubrecq’s threats and Lupin’s
threats and recover all his freedom of action against them.

The train arrived.

In accordance with orders, the stationmaster had issued
instructions that no one was to be admitted to the platform.
Prasville, therefore, walked on alone, in front of a number of his
men, with Chief-inspector Blanchon at their head.

The train drew up.

Prasville almost at once saw Stanislas Vorenglade at the window of
a first-class compartment, in the middle of the train.

The ex-deputy alighted and then held out his hand to assist an old
gentleman who was travelling with him.

Prasville ran up to him and said, eagerly:

“Vorenglade . . . I want to speak to you....”

At the same moment, Daubrecq, who had managed to pass the barrier,
appeared and exclaimed:

“M. Vorenglade, I have had your letter. I am at your disposal.”

Vorenglade looked at the two men, recognized Prasville, recognized
Daubrecq, and smiled:

“Oho, it seems that my return was awaited with some impatience!
What’s it all about? Certain letters, I expect?”

“Yes . . . yes . . .” replied the two men, fussing around him.

“You’re too late,” he declared.

“Eh? What? What do you mean?”

“I mean that the letters are sold.”

“Sold! To whom?”

“To this gentleman,” said Vorenglade, pointing to his
travelling-companion, “to this gentleman, who thought that the
business was worth going out of his way for and who came to Amiens
to meet me.”

The old gentleman, a very old man wrapped in furs and leaning on
his stick, took off his hat and bowed.

“It’s Lupin,” thought Prasville, “it’s Lupin, beyond a doubt.”

And he glanced toward the detectives, was nearly calling them, but
the old gentleman explained:

“Yes, I thought the letters were good enough to warrant a few
hours’ railway journey and the cost of two return tickets.”

“Two tickets?”

“One for me and the other for one of my friends.”

“One of your friends?”

“Yes, he left us a few minutes ago and reached the front part of
the train through the corridor. He was in a great hurry.”

Prasville understood: Lupin had taken the precaution to bring an
accomplice, and the accomplice was carrying off the letters. The
game was lost, to a certainty. Lupin had a firm grip on his victim.
There was nothing to do but submit and accept the conqueror’s
conditions.

“Very well, sir,” said Prasville. “We shall see each other when the
time comes. Good-bye for the present, Daubrecq: you shall hear from
me.” And, drawing Vorenglade aside, “As for you, Vorenglade, you
are playing a dangerous game.”

“Dear me!” said the ex-deputy. “And why?”

The two men moved away.

Daubrecq had not uttered a word and stood motionless, as though
rooted to the ground.

The old gentleman went up to him and whispered:

“I say, Daubrecq, wake up, old chap.... It’s the chloroform, I
expect....”

Daubrecq clenched his fists and gave a muttered growl.

“Ah, I see you know me!” said the old gentleman. “Then you will
remember our interview, some months ago, when I came to see you
in the Square Lamartine and asked you to intercede in Gilbert’s
favour. I said to you that day, ‘Lay down your arms, save Gilbert
and I will leave you in peace. If not, I shall take the list of the
Twenty-seven from you; and then you’re done for.’ Well, I have a
strong suspicion that done for is what you are. That comes of not
making terms with kind M. Lupin. Sooner or later, you’re bound to
lose your boots by it. However, let it be a lesson to you.... By
the way, here’s your pocketbook which I forgot to give you. Excuse
me if you find it lightened of its contents. There were not only a
decent number of bank-notes in it, but also the receipt from the
warehouse where you stored the Enghien things which you took back
from me. I thought I might as well save you the trouble of taking
them out yourself. It ought to be done by now. No, don’t thank me:
it’s not worth mentioning. Good-bye, Daubrecq. And, if you should
want a louis or two, to buy yourself a new decanter-stopper, drop
me a line. Good-bye, Daubrecq.”

He walked away.

He had not gone fifty steps when he heard the sound of a shot.

He turned round.

Daubrecq had blown his brains out.

“_De profundis!_” murmured Lupin, taking off his hat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two months later, Gilbert, whose sentence had been commuted to one
of penal servitude for life, made his escape from the Île de Ré, on
the day before that on which he was to have been transported to New
Caledonia.

It was a strange escape. Its least details remained difficult to
understand; and, like the two shots on the Boulevard Arago, it
greatly enhanced Arsène Lupin’s prestige.

“Taken all round,” said Lupin to me, one day, after telling me the
different episodes of the story, “taken all around, no enterprise
has ever given me more trouble or cost me greater exertions than
that confounded adventure which, if you don’t mind, we will call,
_The Crystal Stopper; or, Never Say Die_. In twelve hours, between
six o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the evening, I made
up for six months of bad luck, blunders, gropings in the dark and
reverses. I certainly count those twelve hours among the finest and
the most glorious of my life.”

“And Gilbert?” I asked. “What became of him?”

“He is farming his own land, way down in Algeria, under his
real name, his only name of Antoine Mergy. He is married to an
Englishwoman, and they have a son whom he insisted on calling
Arsène. I often receive a bright, chatty, warm-hearted letter from
him.”

“And Mme. Mergy?”

“She and her little Jacques are living with them.”

“Did you see her again?”

“I did not.”

“Really!”

Lupin hesitated for a few moments and then said with a smile:

“My dear fellow, I will let you into a secret that will make me
seem ridiculous in your eyes. But you know that I have always
been as sentimental as a schoolboy and as silly as a goose. Well,
on the evening when I went back to Clarisse Mergy and told her
the news of the day--part of which, for that matter, she already
knew--I felt two things very thoroughly. One was that I entertained
for her a much deeper feeling than I thought; the other that
she, on the contrary, entertained for me a feeling which was not
without contempt, not without a rankling grudge nor even a certain
aversion.”

“Nonsense! Why?”

“Why? Because Clarisse Mergy is an exceedingly honest woman and
because I am . . . just Arsène Lupin.”

“Oh!”

“Dear me, yes, an attractive bandit, a romantic and chivalrous
cracksman, anything you please. For all that, in the eyes of a
really honest woman, with an upright nature and a well-balanced
mind, I am only the merest riff-raff.”

I saw that the wound was sharper than he was willing to admit, and
I said:

“So you really loved her?”

“I even believe,” he said, in a jesting tone, “that I asked her to
marry me. After all, I had saved her son, had I not?... So . . . I
thought. What a rebuff!... It produced a coolness between us....
Since then....”

“You have forgotten her?”

“Oh, certainly! But it required the consolations of one Italian,
two Americans, three Russians, a German grand-duchess and a
Chinawoman to do it!”

“And, after that....?”

“After that, so as to place an insuperable barrier between myself
and her, I got married.”

“Nonsense! You got married, you, Arsène Lupin?”

“Married, wedded, spliced, in the most lawful fashion. One of the
greatest names in France. An only daughter. A colossal fortune....
What! You don’t know the story? Well, it’s worth hearing.”

And, straightway, Lupin, who was in a confidential vein, began to
tell me the story of his marriage to Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme,
Princesse de Bourbon-Condé, to-day Sister Marie-Auguste, a humble
nun in the Visitation Convent....[G]

But, after the first few words, he stopped, as though his narrative
had suddenly ceased to interest him, and he remained pensive.

“What’s the matter, Lupin?”

“The matter? Nothing.”

“Yes, yes.... There . . . now you’re smiling.... Is it Daubrecq’s
secret receptacle, his glass eye, that’s making you laugh?”

“Not at all.”

“What then?”

“Nothing, I tell you . . . only a memory.”

“A pleasant memory?”

“Yes!... Yes, a delightful memory even. It was at night, off the
Île de Ré, on the fishing-smack in which Clarisse and I were taking
Gilbert away.... We were alone, the two of us, in the stern of the
boat.... And I remember.... I talked.... I spoke words and more
words.... I said all that I had on my heart.... And then . . . then
came silence, a perturbing and disarming silence.”

“Well?”

“Well, I swear to you that the woman whom I took in my arms that
night and kissed on the lips--oh, not for long: a few seconds only,
but no matter!--I swear before heaven that she was something more
than a grateful mother, something more than a friend yielding to
a moment of susceptibility, that she was a woman also, a woman
quivering with emotion....” And he continued, with a bitter laugh,
“Who ran away next day, never to see me again.”

He was silent once more. Then he whispered:

“Clarisse.... Clarisse.... On the day when I am tired and
disappointed and weary of life, I will come to you down there, in
your little Arab house  . . . in that little white house, Clarisse,
where you are waiting for me....”


[G] See _The Confessions of Arsène Lupin_. By Maurice Leblanc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.


  THE END