The Confessions of Arsène Lupin

by Maurice Leblanc

  “What are you doing here, d’Emboise? Is this a joke?”

  D’Emboise was standing before him, dressed as a Breton fisherman, in a dirty jacket and breeches, torn, patched and many sizes too large for him.

  The duke seemed dumbfounded. He stared with eyes of amazement at that face which he knew and which, at the same time, roused memories of a very distant past within his brain. Then he strode abruptly to one of the windows overlooking the castle-terrace and called:

  “Angélique!”

  “What is it, father?” she asked, coming forward.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “Over there, father,” said Angélique, pointing to d’Emboise, who was smoking a cigarette and reading, some way off.

  The duke stumbled and fell into a chair, with a great shudder of fright:

  “Oh, I shall go mad!”

  But the man in the fisherman’s garb knelt down before him and said:

  “Look at me, uncle. You know me, don’t you? I’m your nephew, the one who used to play here in the old days, the one whom you called Jacquot … Just think a minute … Here, look at this scar …”

  “Yes, yes,” stammered the duke, “I recognize you. It’s Jacques. But the other one …”

  He put his hands to his head:

  “And yet, no, it can’t be … Explain yourself … I don’t understand … I don’t want to understand …”

  There was a pause, during which the newcomer shut the window and closed the door leading to the next room. Then he came up to the old duke,touched him gently on the shoulder, to wake him from his torpor, and without further preface, as though to cut short any explanation that was not absolutely necessary, spoke as follows:

  “Four years ago, that is to say, in the eleventh year of my voluntary exile, when I settled in the extreme south of Algeria, I made the acquaintance, in the course of a hunting-expedition arranged by a big Arab chief, of a man whose geniality, whose charm of manner, whose consummate prowess, whose indomitable pluck, whose combined humour and depth of mind fascinated me in the highest degree. The Comte d’Andrésy spent six weeks as my guest. After he left, we kept up a correspondence at regular intervals. I also often saw his name in the papers, in the society and sporting columns. He was to come back and I was preparing to receive him, three months ago, when, one evening as I was out riding, my two Arab attendants flung themselves upon me, bound me, blindfolded me and took me, travelling day and night, for a week, along deserted roads, to a bay on the coast, where five men awaited them. I was at once carried on board a small steam-yacht, which weighed anchor without delay. There was nothing to tell me who the men were nor what their object was in kidnapping me. They had locked me into a narrow cabin, secured by a massive door and lighted by a port-hole protected by two iron cross-bars. Every morning, a hand was inserted through a hatch between the next cabin and my own and placed on my bunk two or three pounds of bread, a good helping of food and a flagon of wine and removed the remains of yesterday’s meals, which I put there for the purpose. From time to time, at night, the yacht stopped and I heard the sound of the boat rowing to some harbour and then returning, doubtless with provisions. Then we set out once more, without hurrying, as though on a cruise of people of our class, who travel for pleasure and are not pressed for time. Sometimes, standing on a chair, I would see the coastline, through my port-hole, too indistinctly, however, to locate it. And this lasted for weeks. One morning, in the ninth week, I perceived that the hatch had been left unfastened and I pushed it open. The cabin was empty at the time. With an effort, I was able to take a nail-file from a dressing-table. Two weeks after that, by dint of patient perseverance, I had succeeded in filing through the bars of my port-hole and I could have escaped that way, only, though I am a good swimmer, I soon grow tired. I had therefore to choose a moment when the yacht was not too far from the land. It was not until yesterday that, perched on my chair, I caught sight of the coast; and, in the evening, at sunset, I recognized, to my astonishment, the outlines of the Château de Sarzeau, with its pointed turrets and its square keep. I wondered if this was the goal of my mysterious voyage. All night long, we cruised in the offing. The same all day yesterday. At last, this morning, we put in at a distance which I considered favourable, all the more so as we were steaming through rocks under cover of which I could swim unobserved. But, just as I was about to make my escape, I noticed that the shutter of the hatch, which they thought they had closed, had once more opened of itself and was flapping against the partition. I again pushed it ajar from curiosity. Within arm’s length was a little cupboard which I managed to open and in which my hand, groping at random, laid hold of a bundle of papers. This consisted of letters, letters containing instructions addressed to the pirates who held me prisoner. An hour later, when I wriggled through the port-hole and slipped into the sea, I knew all: the reasons for my abduction, the means employed, the object in view and the infamous scheme plotted during the last three months against the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme and his daughter. Unfortunately, it was too late. I was obliged, in order not to be seen from the yacht, to crouch in the cleft of a rock and did not reach land until mid-day. By the time that I had been to a fisherman’s cabin, exchanged my clothes for his and come on here, it was three o’clock. On my arrival. I learnt that Angélique’s marriage was celebrated this morning.”

  The old duke had not spoken a word. With his eyes riveted on the stranger’s, he was listening in ever-increasing dismay. At times, the thought of the warnings given him by the prefect of police returned to his mind:

  “They’re nursing you, monsieur le duc, they are nursing you.”

  He said, in a hollow voice:

  “Speak on … finish your story … All this is ghastly … I don’t understand it yet … and I feel nervous …”

  The stranger resumed:

  “I am sorry to say, the story is easily pieced together and is summed up in a few sentences. It is like this: the Comte d’Andrésy remembered several things from his stay with me and from the confidences which I was foolish enough to make to him. First of all, I was your nephew and yet you had seen comparatively little of me, because I left Sarzeau when I was quite a child, and since then our intercourse was limited to the few weeks which I spent here, fifteen years ago, when I proposed for the hand of my Cousin Angélique; secondly, having broken with the past, I received no letters; lastly, there was a certain physical resemblance between d’Andrésy and myself which could be accentuated to such an extent as to become striking. His scheme was built up on those three points. He bribed my Arab servants to give him warning in case I left Algeria. Then he went back to Paris, bearing my name and made up to look exactly like me, came to see you, was invited to your house once a fortnight and lived under my name, which thus became one of the many aliases beneath which he conceals his real identity. Three months ago, when ‘the apple was ripe,’ as he says in his letters, he began the attack by a series of communications to the press; and, at the same time, fearing no doubt that some newspaper would tell me in Algeria the part that was being played under my name in Paris, he had me assaulted by my servants and kidnapped by his confederates. I need not explain any more in so far as you are concerned, uncle.”

  The Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme was shaken with a fit of nervous trembling. The awful truth to which he refused to open his eyes appeared to him in its nakedness and assumed the hateful countenance of the enemy. He clutched his nephew’s hands and said to him, fiercely, despairingly:

  “It’s Lupin, is it not?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “And it’s to him … it’s to him that I have given my daughter!”

  “Yes, uncle, to him, who has stolen my name of Jacques d’Emboise from me and stolen your daughter from you. Angélique is the wedded wife of Arsène Lupin; and that in accordance with your orders. This letter in his handwriting bears witness to it. He has upset your whole life, thrown you off your balance, besieging your hours of waking and your nights of dreaming, rifling you
r town-house, until the moment when, seized with terror, you took refuge here, where, thinking that you would escape his artifices and his rapacity, you told your daughter to choose one of her three cousins, Mussy, d’Emboise or Caorches, as her husband.”

  “But why did she select that one rather than the others?”

  “It was you who selected him, uncle.”

  “At random … because he had the biggest income …”

  “No, not at random, but on the insidious, persistent and very clever advice of your servant Hyacinthe.”

  The duke gave a start:

  “What! Is Hyacinthe an accomplice?”

  “No, not of Arsène Lupin, but of the man whom he believes to be d’Emboise and who promised to give him a hundred thousand francs within a week after the marriage.”

  “Oh, the villain! … He planned everything, foresaw everything …”

  “Foresaw everything, uncle, down to shamming an attempt upon his life so as to avert suspicion, down to shamming a wound received in your service.”

  “But with what object? Why all these dastardly tricks?”

  “Angélique has a fortune of eleven million francs. Your solicitor in Paris was to hand the securities next week to the counterfeit d’Emboise, who had only to realize them forthwith and disappear. But, this very morning, you yourself were to hand your son-in-law, as a personal wedding-present, five hundred thousand francs’ worth of bearer-stock, which he has arranged to deliver to one of his accomplices at nine o’clock this evening, outside the castle, near the Great Oak, so that they may be negotiated to-morrow morning in Brussels.”

  The Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme had risen from his seat and was stamping furiously up and down the room:

  “At nine o’clock this evening?” he said. “We’ll see about that … We’ll see about that … I’ll have the gendarmes here before then …”

  “Arsène Lupin laughs at gendarmes.”

  “Let’s telegraph to Paris.”

  “Yes, but how about the five hundred thousand francs? … And, still worse, uncle, the scandal? … Think of this: your daughter, Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme, married to that swindler, that thief … No, no, it would never do …”

  “What then?”

  “What? …”

  The nephew now rose and, stepping to a gun-rack, took down a rifle and laid it on the table, in front of the duke:

  “Away in Algeria, uncle, on the verge of the desert, when we find ourselves face to face with a wild beast, we do not send for the gendarmes. We take our rifle and we shoot the wild beast. Otherwise, the beast would tear us to pieces with its claws.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, over there, I acquired the habit of dispensing with the gendarmes. It is a rather summary way of doing justice, but it is the best way, believe me, and to-day, in the present case, it is the only way. Once the beast is killed, you and I will bury it in some corner, unseen and unknown.”

  “And Angélique?”

  “We will tell her later.”

  “What will become of her?”

  “She will be my wife, the wife of the real d’Emboise. I desert her to-morrow and return to Algeria. The divorce will be granted in two months’ time.”

  The duke listened, pale and staring, with set jaws. He whispered:

  “Are you sure that his accomplices on the yacht will not inform him of your escape?”

  “Not before to-morrow.”

  “So that …?”

  “So that inevitably, at nine o’clock this evening, Arsène Lupin, on his way to the Great Oak, will take the patrol-path that follows the old ramparts and skirts the ruins of the chapel. I shall be there, in the ruins.”

  “I shall be there too,” said the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme, quietly, taking down a gun.

  It was now five o’clock. The duke talked some time longer to his nephew, examined the weapons, loaded them with fresh cartridges. Then, when night came, he took d’Emboise through the dark passages to his bedroom and hid him in an adjoining closet.

  Nothing further happened until dinner. The duke forced himself to keep calm during the meal. From time to time, he stole a glance at his son-in-law and was surprised at the likeness between him and the real d’Emboise. It was the same complexion, the same cast of features, the same cut of hair. Nevertheless, the look of the eye was different, keener in this case and brighter; and gradually the duke discovered minor details which had passed unperceived till then and which proved the fellow’s imposture.

  The party broke up after dinner. It was eight o’clock. The duke went to his room and released his nephew. Ten minutes later, under cover of the darkness, they slipped into the ruins, gun in hand.

  Meanwhile, Angélique, accompanied by her husband, had gone to the suite of rooms which she occupied on the ground-floor of a tower that flanked the left wing. Her husband stopped at the entrance to the rooms and said:

  “I am going for a short stroll, Angélique. May I come to you here, when I return?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He left her and went up to the first floor, which had been assigned to him as his quarters. The moment he was alone, he locked the door, noiselessly opened a window that looked over the landscape and leant out. He saw a shadow at the foot of the tower, some hundred feet or more below him. He whistled and received a faint whistle in reply.

  He then took from a cupboard a thick leather satchel, crammed with papers, wrapped it in a piece of black cloth and tied it up. Then he sat down at the table and wrote:

  “Glad you got my message, for I think it unsafe to walk out of the castle with that large bundle of securities. Here they are. You will be in Paris, on your motor-cycle, in time to catch the morning train to Brussels, where you will hand over the bonds to Z.; and he will negotiate them at once.”

  “A. L.”

  “P. S.—As you pass by the Great Oak, tell our chaps that I’m coming. I have some instructions to give them. But everything is going well. No one here has the least suspicion.”

  He fastened the letter to the parcel and lowered both through the window with a length of string:

  “Good,” he said. “That’s all right. It’s a weight off my mind.”

  He waited a few minutes longer, stalking up and down the room and smiling at the portraits of two gallant gentlemen hanging on the wall:

  “Horace de Sarzeau-Vendôme, marshal of France … And you, the Great Condé … I salute you, my ancestors both. Lupin de Sarzeau-Vendôme will show himself worthy of you.”

  At last, when the time came, he took his hat and went down. But, when he reached the ground-floor, Angélique burst from her rooms and exclaimed, with a distraught air:

  “I say … if you don’t mind … I think you had better …”

  And then, without saying more, she went in again, leaving a vision of irresponsible terror in her husband’s mind.

  “She’s out of sorts,” he said to himself. “Marriage doesn’t suit her.”

  He lit a cigarette and went out, without attaching importance to an incident that ought to have impressed him:

  “Poor Angélique! This will all end in a divorce …”

  The night outside was dark, with a cloudy sky.

  The servants were closing the shutters of the castle. There was no light in the windows, it being the duke’s habit to go to bed soon after dinner.

  Lupin passed the gate-keeper’s lodge and, as he put his foot on the drawbridge, said:

  “Leave the gate open. I am going for a breath of air; I shall be back soon.”

  The patrol-path was on the right and ran along one of the old ramparts, which used to surround the castle with a second and much larger enclosure, until it ended at an almost demolished postern-gate. The park, which skirted a hillock and afterward followed the side of a deep valley, was bordered on the left by thick coppices.

  “What a wonderful place for an ambush!” he said. “A regular cut-throat spot!”

  He stopped, thinking that he hear
d a noise. But no, it was a rustling of the leaves. And yet a stone went rattling down the slopes, bounding against the rugged projections of the rock. But, strange to say, nothing seemed to disquiet him. The crisp sea-breeze came blowing over the plains of the headland; and he eagerly filled his lungs with it:

  “What a thing it is to be alive!” he thought. “Still young, a member of the old nobility, a multi-millionaire: what could a man want more?”

  At a short distance, he saw against the darkness the yet darker outline of the chapel, the ruins of which towered above the path. A few drops of rain began to fall; and he heard a clock strike nine. He quickened his pace. There was a short descent; then the path rose again. And suddenly, he stopped once more.

  A hand had seized his.

  He drew back, tried to release himself.

  But some one stepped from the clump of trees against which he was brushing; and a voice said; “Ssh! … Not a word! …”

  He recognized his wife, Angélique:

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She whispered, so low that he could hardly catch the words:

  “They are lying in wait for you … they are in there, in the ruins, with their guns …”

  “Who?”

  “Keep quiet … Listen …”

  They stood for a moment without stirring; then she said:

  “They are not moving … Perhaps they never heard me … Let’s go back …”

  “But …”

  “Come with me.”

  Her accent was so imperious that he obeyed without further question. But suddenly she took fright:

  “Run! … They are coming! … I am sure of it! …”

  True enough, they heard a sound of footsteps.

  Then, swiftly, still holding him by the hand, she dragged him, with irresistible energy, along a shortcut, following its turns without hesitation in spite of the darkness and the brambles. And they very soon arrived at the drawbridge.

  She put her arm in his. The gate-keeper touched his cap. They crossed the courtyard and entered the castle; and she led him to the corner tower in which both of them had their apartments: