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 lé secrétaire-general.”
“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
lé secrétaire-general, 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 motorcar!... 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 lé secrétaire-general,
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 lé
secrétaire-general, 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 lé secrétaire-general?”
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 lé secrétaire-general.”
“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 lé secrétaire-general?
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
lé secrétaire-general, 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 lé secrétaire-general,
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
lé secrétaire-general, 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 Elysee.”
“Oh, is some one to bring you an answer?”
“Yes.”
“You, monsieur lé secrétaire-general.”
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 Elysee, 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
lé secrétaire-general, 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 lé secrétaire-general?
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 Elysee, 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
lé secrétaire-general, 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 lé secrétaire-general,
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 lé secrétaire-general,
it’s Monsieur lé Depute Daubrecq
asking to see you... on a matter of the highest importance.”
“Daubrecq!” exclaimed
Prasville, in bewilderment. “Daubrecq here!
Show him in.”
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 Re, 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 Angelique de Sarzeau-Vendome, Princesse
de Bourbon-Conde, to-day Sister Marie-Auguste, a humble
nun in the Visitation Convent...
See The Confessions
of Arsène Lupin By Maurice Leblanc
Translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos
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 Re, 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...”