The first story, set in 1911, is On Top of the Tower. Six years prior to the start of the tale, nineteen-year-old Hortense marries a dangerously unstable man, who squanders her dowry. He is sent to a lunatic asylum and Hortense, now penniless, must live with her uncle, the Comte d’Aigleroche, who is married to the aunt of her deranged husband. Circumstances prevent a divorce, so Hortense is trapped in a tiresome, dependent and unsatisfactory life with her relatives. At the start of the narrative, Hortense has decided to force her uncle’s hand to compel him to give her her own income and she plans to elope with Rossigny, a manipulative man that she thinks she can ‘handle.’
Staying in her uncle’s home, the Château de la Marèze, is an intriguing man named Prince Serge Renine. Hortense is aware that he finds her attractive, yet rebuffs his requests for company (which were accompanied by a veiled warning not to do what she actually wanted to do that day – elope) and goes ahead with her plans. However, she finds herself foiled by Renine and returns in a temper to the chateau to confront him. However, Renine’s charm and sense of mystery proves irresistible and after he takes her on an unsettling adventure, they return to her uncle’s chateau where difficult questions must be asked…and answered.
In The Water Bottle, we find Hortense happily settled and living an independent life in Paris and it would seem that she and Prince Renine have some form of arrangement to work together as solvers of seven more mysteries. Their first ‘client’ is a young man, Gaston Dutreuil, whose dear friend, Jacques Aubrieux, has been condemned to death for the murder of his cousin. Renine and Hortense visit the condemned man’s wife and mother-in-law and are convinced of Aubrieux’s innocence. As the investigation unfolds, the true culprit seems to be closer to them all than first appeared…
In The Case of Jean Louis the sleuthing duo come to the aid of Hortense’s friend, a young woman named Geneviève Aymard, who has been jilted by the mysterious Jean Louis d’Imbleval – or is his name Jean Louis Vaurois? Genevieve cannot believe that despite the terse letter he sent her ending their engagement, he really meant to write those words. Renine and Hortense, carrying a letter from Genevieve, set out to confront the young man and find out the truth of his identity and situation. They are by no means prepared for the farcical scene that awaits them…
There are five more stories: The Tell-Tale Film; Therese and Germanine; The Lady with the Hatchett; Footprints in the Snow; and At the Sign of Mercury. Some of the tales have more sinister misdemeanours at the heart of them than others – The Lady with the Hatchett is an obvious example, where five Parisian women of various ages are murdered with a hatchet blow to the head and their bodies dumped in various places in the Western part of Paris. In The Tell Tale Film, Leblanc uses the new medium of film to help Renine solve the mystery. Apart from the questions needed to solve the mysteries they become entangled in, another ongoing question hangs over Renine and Hortense. Can Hortense ever come to reciprocate the romantic feelings Renine holds for her?
Renine is an urbane, appealing character and his side-kick Hortense is pleasant enough, with sparks of character that make her presence in the mysteries worthwhile. However, she is by no means as important to Renine as Watson is to Holmes – it seems to be more the case that Renine enjoys her companionship rather than her intellectual input. In this, he does bear a strong similarity to Arsène Lupin, as well as in his coolness of manner and brilliance at detection. The collection offers pleasant stories that, in spite of the relative lack of background descriptions, encourage the imagination to vividly evoke the halcyon years just before the First World War.
CONTENTS
ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER
THE WATER-BOTTLE
THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS
THE TELL-TALE FILM
THÉRÈSE AND GERMAINE
THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THESE ADVENTURES WERE told to me in the old days by Arsène Lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named Prince Rénine. As for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, I find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. Arsène Lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his. The reader will judge for himself.
M. L.
ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER
HORTENSE DANIEL PUSHED her window ajar and whispered:
“Are you there, Rossigny?”
“I am here,” replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house.
Leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man looking up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, I had a great argument with my uncle and aunt last night. They absolutely refuse to sign the document of which my lawyer sent them the draft, or to restore the dowry squandered by my husband.”
“But your uncle is responsible by the terms of the marriage-settlement.”
“No matter. He refuses.”
“Well, what do you propose to do?”
“Are you still determined to run away with me?” she asked, with a laugh.
“More so than ever.”
“Your intentions are strictly honourable, remember!”
“Just as you please. You know that I am madly in love with you.”
“Unfortunately I am not madly in love with you!”
“Then what made you choose me?”
“Chance. I was bored. I was growing tired of my humdrum existence. So I’m ready to run risks.... Here’s my luggage: catch!”
She let down from the window a couple of large leather kit-bags. Rossigny caught them in his arms.
“The die is cast,” she whispered. “Go and wait for me with your car at the If cross-roads. I shall come on horseback.”
“Hang it, I can’t run off with your horse!”
“He will go home by himself.”
“Capital!... Oh, by the way....”
“What is it?”
“Who is this Prince Rénine, who’s been here the last three days and whom nobody seems to know?”
“I don’t know much about him. My uncle met him at a friend’s shoot and asked him here to stay.”
“You seem to have made a great impression on him. You went for a long ride with him yesterday. He’s a man I don’t care for.”
“In two hours I shall have left the house in your company. The scandal will cool him off.... Well, we’ve talked long enough. We have no time to lose.”
For a few minutes she stood watching the fat man bending under the weight of her traps as he moved away in the shelter of an empty avenue. Then she closed the window.
Outside, in the park, the huntsmen’s horns were sounding the reveille. The hounds burst into frantic baying. It was the opening day of the hunt that morning at the Château de la Marèze, where, every year, in the first week in September, the Comte d’Aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the Lord, and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the neighbouring landowners.
Hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a riding-habit, which revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which encircled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, M. d’Aigleroche, a farewell letter to be delivered to him that evening. It was a difficult letter to word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the idea.
“I will write to him later,” she said to herself, “when his anger has cooled down.”
And she went downstairs to the dining-room.
Enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. The walls were hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. The guests were flocking in from every side, shaking hands with the Comte d
’Aigleroche, one of those typical country squires, heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting and shooting. He was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival.
Hortense kissed him absently:
“What, uncle! You who are usually so sober!”
“Pooh!” he said. “A man may surely indulge himself a little once a year!...”
“Aunt will give you a scolding!”
“Your aunt has one of her sick headaches and is not coming down. Besides,” he added, gruffly, “it is not her business ... and still less is it yours, my dear child.”
Prince Rénine came up to Hortense. He was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. He bowed to her, kissed her hand and said:
“May I remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?”
“My promise?”
“Yes, we agreed that we should repeat our delightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. It seems to be known as the Domaine de Halingre.”
She answered a little curtly:
“I’m extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be rather far and I’m feeling a little done up. I shall go for a canter in the park and come indoors again.”
There was a pause. Then Serge Rénine said, smiling, with his eyes fixed on hers and in a voice which she alone could hear:
“I am sure that you’ll keep your promise and that you’ll let me come with you. It would be better.”
“For whom? For you, you mean?”
“For you, too, I assure you.”
She coloured slightly, but did not reply, shook hands with a few people around her and left the room.
A groom was holding the horse at the foot of the steps. She mounted and set off towards the woods beyond the park.
It was a cool, still morning. Through the leaves, which barely quivered, the sky showed crystalline blue. Hortense rode at a walk down winding avenues which in half an hour brought her to a country-side of ravines and bluffs intersected by the high-road.
She stopped. There was not a sound. Rossigny must have stopped his engine and concealed the car in the thickets around the If cross-roads.
She was five hundred yards at most from that circular space. After hesitating for a few seconds, she dismounted, tied her horse carelessly, so that he could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on.
As she expected, she saw Rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. He ran up to her and drew her into the coppice!
“Quick, quick! Oh, I was so afraid that you would be late ... or even change your mind! And here you are! It seems too good to be true!”
She smiled:
“You appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!”
“I should think I am happy! And so will you be, I swear you will! Your life will be one long fairy-tale. You shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for.”
“I want neither money nor luxuries.”
“What then?”
“Happiness.”
“You can safely leave your happiness to me.”
She replied, jestingly:
“I rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me.”
“Wait! You’ll see! You’ll see!”
They had reached the motor. Rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the engine. Hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. The car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the cross-roads and Rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly forced to pull up. A shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. The car was swerving from side to side.
“A front tire burst,” shouted Rossigny, leaping to the ground.
“Not a bit of it!” cried Hortense. “Somebody fired!”
“Impossible, my dear! Don’t be so absurd!”
At that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood.
Rossigny snarled:
“The back tires burst now ... both of them.... But who, in the devil’s name, can the ruffian be?... Just let me get hold of him, that’s all!...”
He clambered up the road-side slope. There was no one there. Moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view.
“Damn it! Damn it!” he swore. “You were right: somebody was firing at the car! Oh, this is a bit thick! We shall be held up for hours! Three tires to mend!... But what are you doing, dear girl?”
Hortense herself had alighted from the car. She ran to him, greatly excited:
“I’m going.”
“But why?”
“I want to know. Some one fired. I want to know who it was.”
“Don’t let us separate, please!”
“Do you think I’m going to wait here for you for hours?”
“What about your running away?... All our plans ...?”
“We’ll discuss that to-morrow. Go back to the house. Take back my things with you.... And good-bye for the present.”
She hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction leading away from La Marèze.
There was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by Prince Rénine.
“It was he,” she muttered, angrily, “it was he. No one else would be capable of such behaviour.”
Besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, masterful way, that he would expect her.
She was weeping with rage and humiliation. At that moment, had she found herself face to face with Prince Rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip.
Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alençon, and which is known as Little Switzerland. Steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against Prince Rénine. She bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness.
She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a château and a few windows with closed shutters. This was the Domaine de Halingre. She followed the wall and turned a corner. In the middle of the crescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, Serge Rénine stood waiting beside his horse.
She sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking her for coming, she cried:
“One word, monsieur, to begin with. Something quite inexplicable happened just now. Three shots were fired at a motor-car in which I was sitting. Did you fire those shots?”
“Yes.”
She seemed dumbfounded:
“Then you confess it?”
“You have asked a question, madame, and I have answered it.”
“But how dared you? What gave you the right?”
“I was not exercising a right, madame; I was performing a duty!”
“Indeed! And what duty, pray?”
“The duty of protecting you against a man who is trying to profit by your troubles.”
“I forbid you to speak like that. I am responsible for my own actions, and I decided upon them in perfect liberty.”
“Madame, I overheard your conversation with M. Rossigny this morning and it did not appear to me that you were accompanying him with a light heart. I admit the ruthlessness and bad taste of my interference and I apologis
e for it humbly; but I risked being taken for a ruffian in order to give you a few hours for reflection.”
“I have reflected fully, monsieur. When I have once made up my mind to a thing, I do not change it.”
“Yes, madame, you do, sometimes. If not, why are you here instead of there?”
Hortense was confused for a moment. All her anger had subsided. She looked at Rénine with the surprise which one experiences when confronted with certain persons who are unlike their fellows, more capable of performing unusual actions, more generous and disinterested. She realised perfectly that he was acting without any ulterior motive or calculation, that he was, as he had said, merely fulfilling his duty as a gentleman to a woman who has taken the wrong turning.
Speaking very gently, he said:
“I know very little about you, madame, but enough to make me wish to be of use to you. You are twenty-six years old and have lost both your parents. Seven years ago, you became the wife of the Comte d’Aigleroche’s nephew by marriage, who proved to be of unsound mind, half insane indeed, and had to be confined. This made it impossible for you to obtain a divorce and compelled you, since your dowry had been squandered, to live with your uncle and at his expense. It’s a depressing environment. The count and countess do not agree. Years ago, the count was deserted by his first wife, who ran away with the countess’ first husband. The abandoned husband and wife decided out of spite to unite their fortunes, but found nothing but disappointment and ill-will in this second marriage. And you suffer the consequences. They lead a monotonous, narrow, lonely life for eleven months or more out of the year. One day, you met M. Rossigny, who fell in love with you and suggested an elopement. You did not care for him. But you were bored, your youth was being wasted, you longed for the unexpected, for adventure ... in a word, you accepted with the very definite intention of keeping your admirer at arm’s length, but also with the rather ingenuous hope that the scandal would force your uncle’s hand and make him account for his trusteeship and assure you of an independent existence. That is how you stand. At present you have to choose between placing yourself in M. Rossigny’s hands ... or trusting yourself to me.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 307