by Irene Adler
“My mother? You know her?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” the woman replied. “I have known your mother for many years. I knew she had a lovely daughter, honest and intelligent. But to see you now before me and discover you are just as she said … Ah, believe me, it is truly thrilling!”
She went to pat me, but I pulled back instinctively, almost without being aware of it.
“Please excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “but … you know I’m here because of a strange note.”
“Yes, exactly. And thank you for coming, despite the times we live in.”
“You mentioned my mother …”
The lady sighed, but she seemed to do so to buy time. It was strange — I felt no warmth from her, and yet it was as if there was something burning between us.
At that point, staring right at me, the lady pulled the veil away from her face. I studied her closely, but I did not recognize her. I had never seen her before.
“Your mother would probably kill me,” the woman continued, whispering, “if she only knew I had come to you and what I intended to do. But I have to do it. And you, miss, will certainly forgive me for this bizarre request.”
And then, in a faint voice, the lady with the pale eyes and broad, white forehead with a single wrinkle, begged me to return home to the d’Aurevilly house and retrieve an oilcloth envelope that was hidden behind a portrait in the library. She explained that the object had no monetary value, but that it was crucial it did not fall into the wrong hands. It would save Mr. d’Aurevilly, and as result, said the lady, my mother, too.
There seemed to be a number of holes in her story, not the least of which was her wanting to meet me, a young girl, in great secrecy, and promising a reward for delivering this precious envelope to her. But before I could even ask her a few of the questions that came to mind, her expression grew distressed, as if something worrisome had just occurred to her.
The woman stammered a couple of words quickly. “I — I’m sorry, but I must go,” she said. “I beg you to believe me. That item is of utmost importance to me … Meet me tomorrow at this same place and same time. Farewell!”
Confused, I found myself staring at that strange person as she rushed away toward the cathedral. Just then, I noticed that a carriage had appeared over where the main street crossed the bridge and was lost in the countryside.
“Wait!” I cried, but it was too late. The woman pulled open the small side door of the cathedral and went in.
I ran after her. In the meantime, the carriage that had arrived from the countryside turned down one of the village lanes.
As soon as I flung the door open, I was hit with the organ’s thundering chords. A dull, funereal song rose from the depths of the church. I staggered in the incense-rich air and leaned against a column. It was warm inside, and a service was taking place. The notes of the organ dissolved in the air, accompanying the choir, which was singing in Latin.
I felt short of breath. I searched in vain for the woman with the hat and veil among the faithful sitting in the pews. Thinking I heard the sound of her heels echoing along one of the naves, I anxiously followed it and found myself under the light of the rose window, completely paralyzed.
“What is this, here?” I whispered.
I went back out to the park and somehow forced myself to pass the time until mass was over.
When the main door opened, I stayed to watch all the faithful leaving for their homes. The sun began to sink behind my back, lengthening my shadow like a sad scarecrow.
I waited until no one else came out, but the woman with the blue handwriting did not leave the church. I had guessed she would.
What I could not have guessed would happen on a day like that was hearing the voice of my friend Arsène Lupin, instead. “Excuse me, miss, could you tell me where the Adlers live?” he asked me.
“ARSÈNE!” I shouted, overwhelmed with surprise and joy.
“I’m honored that you know me, miss,” Lupin said, taking off his hat like the most seasoned of theatrical folk. “But I was asking you about the Adlers. They’re quite reserved. You may have met a tall, dark-skinned butler and an adorable young girl with red hair …”
“A sea of freckles,” I think he also said, but I cannot be sure, because I suddenly found myself in his arms. I held him tightly, and he hugged me back. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat under his coarse shirt and waistcoat.
He kissed my hair and held my face between his hands, moving far enough away to look me directly in the eyes.
I could not believe it.
“How did you get here?” I asked him. As I asked him that, I wondered if Mr. Nelson had seen him this afternoon and if perhaps the note and the lady were nothing more than one of my friend Lupin’s jokes. But there was enough time to look back at him and see that his gaze was somehow lost and desperate.
“I pedaled on my new boneshaker,” he said, presenting me with one of his irresistible smiles.
I did not understand my feelings.
Even today, from the distance of so many years and after the thousands of adventures and encounters I have had, I cannot keep myself from hesitating as I write that yes, that day, in front of the Evreux Cathedral, with the blood-red sun shining between the hills and the river, it was I who kissed Arsène Lupin.
Perhaps my father was right. Perhaps I really did need a tutor. But like so many other things that should have happened, by then it was already too late.
Chapter 5
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
“Remarkable. Truly remarkable!”
My father muttered words such as these for almost half an hour after Arsène Lupin showed him the bicycle he had ridden — alone and in a single day — across the ninety-six kilometers that separated us from Paris. “This boneshaker really is a marvel.”
“You can say that again, Mr. Adler!” Arsène replied. “Entirely front-wheel drive, and look at those wheels — wood covered with a practically indestructible iron ring. It’s just too bad that the backsides of those who ride it aren’t made like that!”
My father looked puzzled, but Arsène went on. “It’s a trouble on country roads, believe me. But on the smooth Parisian tarmac, which has no bumps, or at least what’s left of it doesn’t, I mean, you can go eighteen miles an hour!”
“Bah!”
“Try it, Mr. Adler, and tell me if I’m wrong!”
“So how much does this contraption weigh?” Papa asked.
“A trifling sixty pounds!”
They went on like this until Mr. Nelson announced that dinner was ready.
They completely ignored me, as if Arsène had not ridden all the way here after receiving my letter, but rather only to show my father this brand-new invention that would eventually transform the streets of Paris yet again. They acted like two children with a new toy, ready to compete with each other and take it apart. Mind you, it was a demon of a bicycle — a very heavy, rigid contraption, far from the fully developed, more comfortable models we would see in the streets in years to come. But perhaps that was exactly why Lupin’s bicycle held such an appeal.
We sat down at the table, where my father took advantage of my friend Lupin’s arrival to get fresh news of Paris.
“It’s just like what you’d imagine, sir,” Lupin responded. “Everyone lives one day to the next in an atmosphere of great confusion. Mr. Thiers has declared that —”
“Mr. Thiers, eh?” my father interrupted. “He’s now supposed to be governing? And whom did we put in charge of the schools?”
“They seem to want a woman, sir.”
“A woman! Good God!”
“And excuse me, why not?” I broke in at that point, as the sole representative of the female gender. “May I ask what is so strange about entrusting a woman with the job of —”
“Please, Irene,” my father muttered.
Lupin smirked at me.
“No, I really mean it, Papa!” I retorted. “Explain it to me. Explain why you think the job needs a man at any cost.”
“Look —” he grumbled, much less exasperated than he wanted to appear.
“Do you think I wouldn’t be capable of doing the same things as this … this … Thiers?!”
“As well as him? Well, of course, but that’s little enough!”
“Papa!” I objected, but Arsène burst out laughing, unable to hold himself back.
“Arsène!” I shouted.
But both kept laughing. That mysterious male alliance had sprung between the two of them — an alliance that lets two men from even the farthest parts of the planet find a perfect reason to agree about something. And perhaps, a moment later, another perfect reason to wage war with their armies.
But I was not offended by their laughter. I had other things on my mind, and the fact that my father and Lupin were getting along allowed me to consider those things.
My thoughts revolved around that afternoon’s meeting, the strange woman who said she knew my mother, and the task with which she had entrusted me. And also that kiss, which I thought Lupin and I would finally have to talk about once we were alone.
Instead, he seemed comfortable telling all sorts of other stories. Apparently his father, Theophraste, had finally settled down. He had opened a school for acrobats in the XII arrondissement, one of the neighborhoods in Paris.
“A school for acrobats?” my father groaned. “That’s doomed to break down as soon as we have a self-respecting government again!”
“You bet, sir,” Arsène replied. “But in the meantime, my poor father has found a post as a director and is very satisfied with it. He teaches children the sport in exchange for a modest payment, and in the evenings he holds long meetings discussing philosophy.”
“Like every self-respecting Frenchman,” Papa replied.
“My father is Belgian, sir. So for him, being listened to has a certain novelty.”
“And what does your mother say about this? Is she happy about these meetings?”
I stiffened, thinking that Lupin would react poorly to this question.
It was not an easy subject, much like Sherlock’s father was a difficult subject for him. These two figures were both absent in their children’s lives. I only knew that Arsène’s mother had been separated from Theophraste for many years and that Sherlock’s father had died eight years before.
“I’d prefer not to speak of my mother if that’s all right,” Lupin amiably replied. And he did not touch on the subject again.
We clinked our glasses, and I proposed a toast and some dessert, which Mr. Nelson had brought out quickly.Then Papa took his leave and went to visit with Mama.
Lupin and I moved into the sitting room. “Mr. Nelson,” he murmured, as he marched right under my butler’s nose.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Master Lupin. We were already into our second week of complete tranquility.”
“You offend me, Mr. Nelson,” Lupin retorted.
“Have you already found lodgings at the village inn?” asked Mr. Nelson.
“How did you guess?” he answered back.
“It’s elementary, as your friend Master Holmes — whom I hope won’t pop out from under the bushes right now — would say,” Mr. Nelson said. “Your iron roadster has no luggage, nor a change of clothing. Thus I deduced you had already passed by there. But it’s a pity. We’ve set up a comfortable room for guests in the attic, for unexpected events like this.”
“There’s really no need,” Lupin said, laughing. “And my compliments for making those deductions. It would seem that our passion for investigating has become contagious!”
Mr. Nelson gave us a comic bow. In the middle of it, I thought he exchanged a few words with Lupin in a low voice. But I was facing away, so I could not be sure of it. Then Mr. Nelson cleared his throat. “May I bring you a nice hot tea or a small herbal digestive?”
When we were finally alone, I told Arsène everything, pausing only when Mr. Nelson brought us our drinks.
“Completely crazy!” Arsène exclaimed at the end of the tale. “And this envelope. Did you get it yet?”
“Actually, no,” I admitted. “I haven’t had time.”
“What are we waiting for?” Lupin asked, leaping to his feet.
We headed toward the library in the house, trying to walk at a pace that was casual and calm. Once we went into the little reading room, I realized right away which portrait the woman was referring to. I approached it and pulled the frame away from the wall. Running my hand behind it, I found a small packet made of oilcloth wedged behind the frame.
Lupin was waiting for me in the doorway, half-heartedly admiring the watercolor landscapes that lined the hallway. In a moment, I was back next to him.
We returned to the sitting room, envelope tightly in my hand, and sat back down where we had been before.
Arsène sipped a splash of digestive, as if it were totally normal. And I thought that it was not so strange to see him here on the other side of the table after all. He was my good friend. He was one of my two best friends. And although my heart beat furiously — and confused me — I actually felt calmer. I realized that most of his boldness was just an act, and that he had to be even better than Sherlock at hiding his real feelings.
Shielded by the evening shadows, with the embers crackling in the fireplace beside us, sending reddish flashes into the sitting room, it seemed far nicer to me than I now recall.
I lowered my eyes right away, so as not to get even more confused. I wanted to say to him, “Do you know why I kissed you?” Instead, I pulled out the envelope and laid it on the table between us.
“Now what do we do?” I asked, staring at it.
“We open it, of course!” my impulsive friend responded.
I hesitated, uncertain. Then I pushed the envelope toward him, inviting him to continue.
“No,” Lupin replied, amiably. “That could bring bad luck. You found it, and you open it.” Smiling, he passed me a silver letter opener that I was certain had been in the hallway connecting the dining room with the sitting room a few moments before.
“Arsène!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Nelson —”
“Shhh … It’s just a little conjuring trick,” Lupin whispered. “To stay in practice.”
Sly, thieving, and unapologetic Arsène. I took my letter opener back from him and opened the envelope without another word.
“So?” he asked me, distracted by the embers in the hearth.
“So, I really don’t know what to say …” I murmured, pulling a scrap of old, yellowed paper from the envelope. It was covered with meaningless lines. I looked at Lupin. “What is it, do you think?”
“Hanged if I know!” Lupin exclaimed, leaning over to see better. He looked at it for a long time, from one side and the other, and even through the light.
Then Arsène grew weary of it. Putting it on the table he said, “Do you know what?”
“Yes,” I replied, because I understood. There was no need for us to say anything else.
There was only one person in the world who could get excited by a scrap of old, yellowed paper covered with meaningless lines.
“Will you write him?” Lupin asked me, jumping to his feet.
“I’ll write him,” I replied.
I went with him to the garden, where it had grown decidedly brisk. Lupin pointed to a small walkway hidden among the vines and asked if he could leave his bicycle there. The inn was just a few steps away from the center of town, and he did not feel comfortable riding at night.
“Of course,” I responded, looking down at it. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
We made a couple of laughable movements, both of us stiff and awkward.
&n
bsp; “Perhaps we should shake hands?” I laughed, by then completely embarrassed.
He laughed, too, and gave me a brotherly hug.
“I missed you,” he said.
“Me, too,” I replied. “It’s good to see you here.”
And we both were sincere.
I waited until he had gone through the gate before I went back into the house. I climbed up to the lilac room, my stomach in knots, and met Mr. Nelson coming down from the attic. He was carrying the stub of a candle in a candlestick.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Nelson?” I asked him, surprised.
“Everything is very good, miss,” he replied, with no further explanation.
Chapter 6
THE RIVER
The next morning, a light drizzle fell and low clouds shrouded the countryside. A dull ringing filled my head. It had been a stormy night in which it seemed as if every piece of furniture in the house creaked and my covers were scorching hot. I had kept turning the heart-shaped, golden pendant that one of my two friends gave me for Christmas over and over in my hands. I’d tried lighting the gas fire many times to see it better. It must have been from Lupin, I kept repeating the whole night. Of course the gift had to have come from Lupin!
I rose and got the latest of my diaries — those same diaries that have allowed me to reconstruct my daring childhood today. I opened it to a certain page filled with cross-outs. During those first months of the year, every time I believed I could guess whether Arsène or Sherlock had given me that gift, I wrote down one of their names. By then, I had crossed out their names on the page twenty times.
That night I checked. And, as I had thought during the ebb and flow of my dreams, I had crossed out Sherlock’s name for the umpteenth time and replaced it with that of Arsène. Only then, exhausted, did I fall asleep.
The morning passed slowly. I took refuge in my room, in the company of the pages of my beloved Le Fanu. I tried not to think of my afternoon appointment with the woman from the cathedral.
I did not even try to draft a letter for our friend, Sherlock Holmes. What could I write him? That I missed him? That Arsène and I wished he were with us? Why, then? Because we had an old piece of paper we could not decipher? I told myself that we did not have enough information to be able to ask for an opinion. And although in my heart I was dying for news from him, I put it off and sought refuge between the pages of Uncle Silas.