This time, perhaps, the finish had not been so brilliant, especially from the stand-point of the public spectators, since Sholmes was obliged to maintain a discreet silence in regard to the circumstances in which the Jewish lamp had been recovered, and to announce that he did not know the name of the thief. But as man to man, Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes, detective against burglar, there was neither victor nor vanquished. Each of them had won corresponding victories.
Therefore they could now converse as courteous adversaries who had lain down their arms and held each other in high regard.
At Sholmes’ request, Arsène Lupin related the strange story of his escape.
“If I may dignify it by calling it an escape,” he said. “It was so simple! My friends were watching for me, as I had asked them to meet me there to recover the Jewish lamp. So, after remaining a good half-hour under the overturned boat, I took advantage of an occasion when Folenfant and his men were searching for my dead body along the bank of the river, to climb on top of the boat. Then my friends simply picked me up as they passed by in their motor-boat, and we sailed away under the staring eyes of an astonished multitude, including Ganimard and Folenfant.”
“Very good,” exclaimed Sholmes, “very neatly played. And now you have some business in England?”
“Yes, some accounts to square up.... But I forgot ... what about Monsieur d’Imblevalle?”
“He knows everything.”
“All! my dear Sholmes, what did I tell you? The wrong is now irreparable. Would it not have been better to have allowed me to carry out the affair in my own way? In a day or two more, I should have recovered the stolen goods from Bresson, restored them to Monsieur d’Imblevalle, and those two honest citizens would have lived together in peace and happiness ever after. Instead of that—”
“Instead of that,” said Sholmes, sneeringly, “I have mixed the cards and sown the seeds of discord in the bosom of a family that was under your protection.”
“Mon Dieu! of course, I was protecting them. Must a person steal, cheat and wrong all the time?”
“Then you do good, also?”
“When I have the time. Besides, I find it amusing. Now, for instance, in our last adventure, I found it extremely diverting that I should be the good genius seeking to help and save unfortunate mortals, while you were the evil genius who dispensed only despair and tears.”
“Tears! Tears!” protested Sholmes.
“Certainly! The d’Imblevalle household is demolished, and Alice Demun weeps.”
“She could not remain any longer. Ganimard would have discovered her some day, and, through her, reached Madame d’Imblevalle.”
“Quite right, monsieur; but whose fault is it?”
Two men passed by. Sholmes said to Lupin, in a friendly tone:
“Do you know those gentlemen?”
“I thought I recognized one of them as the captain of the steamer.”
“And the other?”
“I don’t know.”
“It is Austin Gilett, who occupies in London a position similar to that of Monsieur Dudouis in Paris.”
“Ah! how fortunate! Will you be so kind as to introduce me? Monsieur Dudouis is one of my best friends, and I shall be delighted to say as much of Monsieur Austin Gilett.”
The two gentlemen passed again.
“And if I should take you at your word, Monsieur Lupin?” said Sholmes, rising, and seizing Lupin’s wrist with a hand of iron.
“Why do you grasp me so tightly, monsieur? I am quite willing to follow you.”
In fact, he allowed himself to be dragged along without the least resistance. The two gentlemen were disappearing from sight. Sholmes quickened his pace. His finger-nails even sank into Lupin’s flesh.
“Come! Come!” he exclaimed, with a sort of feverish haste, in harmony with his action. “Come! quicker than that.”
But he stopped suddenly. Alice Demun was following them.
“What are you doing, Mademoiselle? You need not come. You must not come!”
It was Lupin who replied:
“You will notice, monsieur, that she is not coming of her own free will. I am holding her wrist in the same tight grasp that you have on mine.”
“Why!”
“Because I wish to present her also. Her part in the affair of the Jewish lamp is much more important than mine. Accomplice of Arsène Lupin, accomplice of Bresson, she has a right to tell her adventure with the Baroness d’Imblevalle — which will deeply interest Monsieur Gilett as an officer of the law. And by introducing her also, you will have carried your gracious intervention to the very limit, my dear Sholmes.”
The Englishman released his hold on his prisoner’s wrist. Lupin liberated Mademoiselle.
They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, silently and motionless. Then Sholmes returned to the bench and sat down, followed by Lupin and the girl. After a long silence, Lupin said: “You see, monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. You are on one side of the fence; I am on the other. We can exchange greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always there. You will remain Herlock Sholmes, detective, and I, Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar. And Herlock Sholmes will ever obey, more or less spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if possible. And Arsène Lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct, will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and making sport of the detective, if he can do it. And, this time, he can do it. Ha-ha-ha!”
He burst into a loud laugh, cunning, cruel and odious.
Then, suddenly becoming serious, he addressed Alice Demun:
“You may be sure, mademoiselle, even when reduced to the last extremity, I shall not betray you. Arsène Lupin never betrays anyone — especially those whom he loves and admires. And, may I be permitted to say, I love and admire the brave, dear woman you have proved yourself to be.”
He took from his pocket a visiting card, tore it in two, gave one-half of it to the girl, as he said, in a voice shaken with emotion:
“If Monsieur Sholmes’ plans for you do not succeed, mademoiselle, go to Lady Strongborough — you can easily find her address — and give her that half of the card, and, at the same time, say to her: Faithful friend. Lady Strongborough will show you the true devotion of a sister.”
“Thank you,” said the girl; “I shall see her to-morrow.”
“And now, Monsieur Sholmes,” exclaimed Lupin, with the satisfied air of a gentleman who has fulfilled his duty, “I will say good-night. We will not land for an hour yet, so I will get that much rest.”
He lay down on the bench, with his hands beneath his head.
In a short time the high cliffs of the English coast loomed up in the increasing light of a new-born day. The passengers emerged from the cabins and crowded the deck, eagerly gazing on the approaching shore. Austin Gilette passed by, accompanied by two men whom Sholmes recognized as sleuths from Scotland Yard.
Lupin was asleep, on his bench.
THE END
Arsène Lupin by Edgar Jepson
A NOVELISATION OF LEBLANC’S PLAY ‘ARSÈNE LUPIN’
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER I
THE MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER
THE RAYS OF the September sun flooded the great halls of the old chateau
of the Dukes of Charmerace, lighting up with their mellow glow the spoils of so many ages and many lands, jumbled together with the execrable taste which so often afflicts those whose only standard of value is money. The golden light warmed the panelled walls and old furniture to a dull lustre, and gave back to the fading gilt of the First Empire chairs and couches something of its old brightness. It illumined the long line of pictures on the walls, pictures of dead and gone Charmeraces, the stern or debonair faces of the men, soldiers, statesmen, dandies, the gentle or imperious faces of beautiful women. It flashed back from armour of brightly polished steel, and drew dull gleams from armour of bronze. The hues of rare porcelain, of the rich inlays of Oriental or Renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor to fill the hall with a rich glow of colour.
But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in front of the long windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and the most precious.
It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of beauty would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear, germander eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth, with its rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he would have been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested on the beautiful face — the wistful melancholy of the Slav, deepened by something of personal misfortune and suffering.
Her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands of gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious to the comb, strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold.
She was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her left hand. When she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a wedding-card. On each was printed:
“M. Gournay-Martin has the honour to inform
you of the marriage of his daughter
Germaine to the Duke of Charmerace.”
She wrote steadily on, adding envelope after envelope to the pile ready for the post, which rose in front of her. But now and again, when the flushed and laughing girls who were playing lawn-tennis on the terrace, raised their voices higher than usual as they called the score, and distracted her attention from her work, her gaze strayed through the open window and lingered on them wistfully; and as her eyes came back to her task she sighed with so faint a wistfulness that she hardly knew she sighed. Then a voice from the terrace cried, “Sonia! Sonia!”
“Yes. Mlle. Germaine?” answered the writing girl.
“Tea! Order tea, will you?” cried the voice, a petulant voice, rather harsh to the ear.
“Very well, Mlle. Germaine,” said Sonia; and having finished addressing the envelope under her pen, she laid it on the pile ready to be posted, and, crossing the room to the old, wide fireplace, she rang the bell.
She stood by the fireplace a moment, restoring to its place a rose which had fallen from a vase on the mantelpiece; and her attitude, as with arms upraised she arranged the flowers, displayed the delightful line of a slender figure. As she let fall her arms to her side, a footman entered the room.
“Will you please bring the tea, Alfred,” she said in a charming voice of that pure, bell-like tone which has been Nature’s most precious gift to but a few of the greatest actresses.
“For how many, miss?” said Alfred.
“For four — unless your master has come back.”
“Oh, no; he’s not back yet, miss. He went in the car to Rennes to lunch; and it’s a good many miles away. He won’t be back for another hour.”
“And the Duke — he’s not back from his ride yet, is he?”
“Not yet, miss,” said Alfred, turning to go.
“One moment,” said Sonia. “Have all of you got your things packed for the journey to Paris? You will have to start soon, you know. Are all the maids ready?”
“Well, all the men are ready, I know, miss. But about the maids, miss, I can’t say. They’ve been bustling about all day; but it takes them longer than it does us.”
“Tell them to hurry up; and be as quick as you can with the tea, please,” said Sonia.
Alfred went out of the room; Sonia went back to the writing-table. She did not take up her pen; she took up one of the wedding-cards; and her lips moved slowly as she read it in a pondering depression.
The petulant, imperious voice broke in upon her musing.
“Whatever are you doing, Sonia? Aren’t you getting on with those letters?” it cried angrily; and Germaine Gournay-Martin came through the long window into the hall.
The heiress to the Gournay-Martin millions carried her tennis racquet in her hand; and her rosy cheeks were flushed redder than ever by the game. She was a pretty girl in a striking, high-coloured, rather obvious way — the very foil to Sonia’s delicate beauty. Her lips were a little too thin, her eyes too shallow; and together they gave her a rather hard air, in strongest contrast to the gentle, sympathetic face of Sonia.
The two friends with whom Germaine had been playing tennis followed her into the hall: Jeanne Gautier, tall, sallow, dark, with a somewhat malicious air; Marie Bullier, short, round, commonplace, and sentimental.
They came to the table at which Sonia was at work; and pointing to the pile of envelopes, Marie said, “Are these all wedding-cards?”
“Yes; and we’ve only got to the letter V,” said Germaine, frowning at Sonia.
“Princesse de Vernan — Duchesse de Vauvieuse — Marquess — Marchioness? You’ve invited the whole Faubourg Saint-Germain,” said Marie, shuffling the pile of envelopes with an envious air.
“You’ll know very few people at your wedding,” said Jeanne, with a spiteful little giggle.
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Germaine boastfully. “Madame de Relzieres, my fiance’s cousin, gave an At Home the other day in my honour. At it she introduced half Paris to me — the Paris I’m destined to know, the Paris you’ll see in my drawing-rooms.”
“But we shall no longer be fit friends for you when you’re the Duchess of Charmerace,” said Jeanne.
“Why?” said Germaine; and then she added quickly, “Above everything, Sonia, don’t forget Veauleglise, 33, University Street — 33, University Street.”
“Veauleglise — 33, University Street,” said Sonia, taking a fresh envelope, and beginning to address it.
“Wait — wait! don’t close the envelope. I’m wondering whether Veauleglise ought to have a cross, a double cross, or a triple cross,” said Germaine, with an air of extreme importance.
“What’s that?” cried Marie and Jeanne together.
“A single cross means an invitation to the church, a double cross an invitation to the marriage and the wedding-breakfast, and the triple cross means an invitation to the marriage, the breakfast, and the signing of the marriage-contract. What do you think the Duchess of Veauleglise ought to have?”
“Don’t ask me. I haven’t the honour of knowing that great lady,” cried Jeanne.
“Nor I,” said Marie.
“Nor I,” said Germaine. “But I have here the visiting-list of the late Duchess of Charmerace, Jacques’ mother. The two duchesses were on excellent terms. Besides the Duchess of Veauleglise is rather worn-out, but greatly admired for her piety. She goes to early service three times a week.”
“Then put three crosses,” said Jeanne.
“I shouldn’t,” said Marie quickly. “In your place, my dear, I shouldn’t risk a slip. I should ask my fiance’s advice. He knows this world.”
“Oh, goodness — my fiance! He doesn’t care a rap about this kind of thing. He has changed so in the last seven years. Seven years ago he took nothing seriously. Why, he set off on an expedition to the South P
ole — just to show off. Oh, in those days he was truly a duke.”
“And to-day?” said Jeanne.
“Oh, to-day he’s a regular slow-coach. Society gets on his nerves. He’s as sober as a judge,” said Germaine.
“He’s as gay as a lark,” said Sonia, in sudden protest.
Germaine pouted at her, and said: “Oh, he’s gay enough when he’s making fun of people. But apart from that he’s as sober as a judge.”
“Your father must be delighted with the change,” said Jeanne.
“Naturally he’s delighted. Why, he’s lunching at Rennes to-day with the Minister, with the sole object of getting Jacques decorated.”
“Well; the Legion of Honour is a fine thing to have,” said Marie.
“My dear! The Legion of Honour is all very well for middle-class people, but it’s quite out of place for a duke!” cried Germaine.
Alfred came in, bearing the tea-tray, and set it on a little table near that at which Sonia was sitting.
Germaine, who was feeling too important to sit still, was walking up and down the room. Suddenly she stopped short, and pointing to a silver statuette which stood on the piano, she said, “What’s this? Why is this statuette here?”
“Why, when we came in, it was on the cabinet, in its usual place,” said Sonia in some astonishment.
“Did you come into the hall while we were out in the garden, Alfred?” said Germaine to the footman.
“No, miss,” said Alfred.
“But some one must have come into it,” Germaine persisted.
“I’ve not heard any one. I was in my pantry,” said Alfred.
“It’s very odd,” said Germaine.
“It is odd,” said Sonia. “Statuettes don’t move about of themselves.”
All of them stared at the statuette as if they expected it to move again forthwith, under their very eyes. Then Alfred put it back in its usual place on one of the cabinets, and went out of the room.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 39