“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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 disg
ust 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.
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! Olle! Olle! 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 champage 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.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 136