“Blow!” said Ganimard, holding his head and stopping suddenly, as though he had knocked against something.
“What is it?”
“A door.”
“Bother!” muttered Beautrelet, looking at it. “And not an easy one to break down either. It’s just a solid block of iron.”
“We are done,” said Ganimard. “There’s not even a lock to it.”
“Exactly. That’s what gives me hope.”
“Why?”
“A door is made to open; and, as this one has no lock, that means that there is a secret way of opening it.”
“And, as we don’t know the secret—”
“I shall know it in a minute.”
“How?”
“By means of the document. The fourth line has no other object but to solve each difficulty as and when it crops up. And the solution is comparatively easy, because it’s not written with a view to throwing searchers off the scent, but to assisting them.”
“Comparatively easy! I don’t agree with you,” cried Ganimard, who had unfolded the document. “The number 44 and a triangle with a dot in it: that doesn’t tell us much!”
“Yes, yes, it does! Look at the door. You see it’s strengthened, at each corner, with a triangular slab of iron; and the slabs are fixed with big nails. Take the left-hand bottom slab and work the nail in the corner: I’ll lay ten to one we’ve hit the mark.”
“You’ve lost your bet,” said Ganimard, after trying.
“Then the figure 44 must mean—”
In a low voice, reflecting as he spoke, Beautrelet continued:
“Let me see—Ganimard and I are both standing on the bottom step of the staircase—there are 45. Why 45, when the figure in the document is 44? A coincidence? No. In all this business, there is no such thing as a coincidence, at least not an involuntary one. Ganimard, be so good as to move one step higher up. That’s it, don’t leave this forty-fourth step. And now I will work the iron nail. And the trick’s done, or I’ll eat my boots!”
The heavy door turned on its hinges. A fairly spacious cavern appeared before their eyes.
“We must be exactly under Fort Frefosse,” said Beautrelet. “We have passed through the different earthy layers by now. There will be no more brick. We are in the heart of the solid limestone.”
The room was dimly lit by a shaft of daylight that came from the other end. Going up to it, they saw that it was a fissure in the cliff, contrived in a projecting wall and forming a sort of observatory. In front of them, at a distance of fifty yards, the impressive mass of the Needle loomed from the waves. On the right, quite close, was the arched buttress of the Porte d’Aval and, on the left, very far away, closing the graceful curve of a large inlet, another rocky gateway, more imposing still, was cut out of the cliff; the Manneporte,* which was so wide and tall that a three-master could have passed through it with all sail set. Behind and everywhere, the sea.
“I don’t see our little fleet,” said Beautrelet.
“I know,” said Ganimard. “The Porte d’Aval hides the whole of the coast of Etretat and Yport. But look, over there, in the offing, that black line, level with the water—”
“Well?”
“That’s our fleet of war, Torpedo-boat No. 25. With her there, Lupin is welcome to break loose—if he wants to study the landscape at the bottom of the sea.”
A baluster marked the entrance to the staircase, near the fissure. They started on their way down. From time to time, a little window pierced the wall of the cliff; and, each time, they caught sight of the Needle, whose mass seemed to them to grow more and more colossal.
A little before reaching high-water level, the windows ceased and all was dark.
Isidore counted the steps aloud. At the three hundred and fifty-eight, they emerged into a wider passage, which was barred by another iron door strengthened with slabs and nails.
“We know all about this,” said Beautrelet. “The document gives us 357 and a triangle dotted on the right. We have only to repeat the performance.”
The second door obeyed like the first. A long, a very long tunnel appeared, lit up at intervals by the gleam of a lantern swung from the vault. The walls oozed moisture and drops of water fell to the ground, so that, to make walking easier a regular pavement of planks had been laid from end to end.
“We are passing under the sea,” said Beautrelet. “Are you coming, Ganimard?”
Without replying, the inspector ventured into the tunnel, followed the wooden foot-plank and stopped before a lantern, which he took down.
“The utensils may date back to the Middle Ages, but the lighting is modern,” he said. “Our friends use incandescent mantles.”
He continued his way. The tunnel ended in another and a larger cave, with, on the opposite side, the first steps of a staircase that led upward.
“It’s the ascent of the Needle beginning,” said Ganimard. “This is more serious.”
But one of his men called him:
“There’s another flight here, sir, on the left.”
And, immediately afterward, they discovered a third, on the right.
“The deuce!” muttered the inspector. “This complicates matters. If we go by this way, they’ll make tracks by that.”
“Shall we separate?” asked Beautrelet.
“No, no—that would mean weakening ourselves. It would be better for one of us to go ahead and scout.”
“I will, if you like—”
“Very well, Beautrelet, you go. I will remain with my men—then there will be no fear of anything. There may be other roads through the cliff than that by which we came and several roads also through the Needle. But it is certain that, between the cliff and the Needle, there is no communication except the tunnel. Therefore they must pass through this cave. And so I shall stay here till you come back. Go ahead, Beautrelet, and be prudent: at the least alarm, scoot back again.”
Isidore disappeared briskly up the middle staircase. At the thirtieth step, a door, an ordinary wooden door, stopped him. He seized the handle turned it. The door was not locked.
He entered a room that seemed to him very low owing to its immense size. Lit by powerful lamps and supported by squat pillars, with long vistas showing between them, it had nearly the same dimensions as the Needle itself. It was crammed with packing cases and miscellaneous objects—pieces of furniture, oak settees, chests, credence-tables, strong-boxes—a whole confused heap of the kind which one sees in the basement of an old curiosity shop.
On his right and left, Beautrelet perceived the wells of two staircases, the same, no doubt, that started from the cave below. He could easily have gone down, therefore, and told Ganimard. But a new flight of stairs led upward in front of him and he had the curiosity to pursue his investigations alone.
Thirty more steps. A door and then a room, not quite so large as the last, Beautrelet thought. And again, opposite him, an ascending flight of stairs.
Thirty steps more. A door. A smaller room.
Beautrelet grasped the plan of the works executed inside the Needle. It was a series or rooms placed one above the other and, therefore, gradually decreasing in size. They all served as store-rooms.
In the fourth, there was no lamp. A little light filtered in through clefts in the walls and Beautrelet saw the sea some thirty feet below him.
At that moment, he felt himself so far from Ganimard that a certain anguish began to take hold of him and he had to master his nerves lest he should take to his heels. No danger threatened him, however, and the silence around him was even so great that he asked himself whether the whole Needle had not been abandoned by Lupin and his confederates.
“I shall not go beyond the next floor,” he said to himself.
Thirty stairs again and a door. This door was lighter in construction and modern in appearance. He pushed it open gently, quite prepared for flight. There was no one there. But the room differed from the others in its purpos
e. There were hangings on the walls, rugs on the floor. Two magnificent sideboards, laden with gold and silver plate, stood facing each other. The little windows contrived in the deep, narrow cleft were furnished with glass panes.
In the middle of the room was a richly-decked table, with a lace-edged cloth, dishes of fruits and cakes, champagne in decanters and flowers, heaps of flowers.
Three places were laid around the table.
Beautrelet walked up. On the napkins were cards with the names of the party. He read first:
“Arsène Lupin.”
“Mme. Arsène Lupin.”
He took up the third card and started back with surprise. It bore his own name:
“Isidore Beautrelet!”
* Les Origines d’Etretat. The Abbe Cochet seems to conclude, in the end, that the two letters are the initials of a passer-by. The revelations now made prove the fallacy of the theory.
* The toise, or fathom, measured 1.949 metres.—Translator’s Note.
* Magna porta.
CHAPTER TEN
THE TREASURES OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE
A CURTAIN WAS DRAWN BACK.
“Good morning, my dear Beautrelet, you’re a little late. Lunch was fixed for twelve. However, it’s only a few minutes—but what’s the matter? Don’t you know me? Have I changed so much?”
In the course of his fight with Lupin, Beautrelet had met with many surprises and he was still prepared, at the moment of the final catastrophe, to experience any number of further emotions; but the shock which he received this time was utterly unexpected. It was not astonishment, but stupefaction, terror. The man who stood before him, the man whom the brutal force of events compelled him to look upon as Arsène Lupin, was—Valmeras! Valmeras, the owner of the Chateau de l’Aiguille! Valmeras, the very man to whom he had applied for assistance against Arsène Lupin! Valmeras, his companion on the expedition to Crozant! Valmeras, the plucky friend who had made Raymonde’s escape possible by felling one of Lupin’s accomplices, or pretending to fell him, in the dusk of the great hall! And Valmeras was Lupin!
“You—you—So it’s you!” he stammered.
“Why not?” exclaimed Lupin. “Did you think that you knew me for good and all because you had seen me in the guise of a clergyman or under the features of M. Massiban? Alas, when a man selects the position in society which I occupy, he must make use of his little social gifts! If Lupin were not able to change himself, at will, into a minister of the Church of England or a member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres, it would be a bad lookout for Lupin! Now Lupin, the real Lupin, is here before you, Beautrelet! Take a good look at him.”
“But then—if it’s you—then—Mademoiselle—”
“Yes, Beautrelet, as you say—”
He again drew back the hanging, beckoned and announced:
“Mme. Arsène Lupin.”
“Ah,” murmured the lad, confounded in spite of everything, “Mlle. de Saint-Veran!”
“No, no,” protested Lupin. “Mme. Arsène Lupin, or rather, if you prefer, Mme. Louis Valmeras, my wedded wife, married to me in accordance with the strictest forms of law; and all thanks to you, my dear Beautrelet.”
He held out his hand to him.
“All my acknowledgements—and no ill will on your side, I trust?”
Strange to say, Beautrelet felt no ill will at all, no sense of humiliation, no bitterness. He realized so strongly the immense superiority of his adversary that he did not blush at being beaten by him. He pressed the offered hand.
“Luncheon is served, ma’am.”
A butler had placed a tray of dishes on the table.
“You must excuse us, Beautrelet: my chef is away and we can only give you a cold lunch.”
Beautrelet felt very little inclined to eat. He sat down, however, and was enormously interested in Lupin’s attitude. How much exactly did he know? Was he aware of the danger he was running? Was he ignorant of the presence of Ganimard and his men?
And Lupin continued:
“Yes, thanks to you, my dear friend. Certainly, Raymonde and I loved each other from the first. Just so, my boy—Raymonde’s abduction, her imprisonment, were mere humbug: we loved each other. But neither she nor I, when we were free to love, would allow a casual bond at the mercy of chance, to be formed between us. The position, therefore, was hopeless for Lupin. Fortunately, it ceased to be so if I resumed my identity as the Louis Valmeras that I had been from a child. It was then that I conceived the idea, as you refused to relinquish your quest and had found the Chateau de l’Aiguille, of profiting by your obstinacy.”
“And my silliness.”
“Pooh! Any one would have been caught as you were!”
“So you were really able to succeed because I screened you and assisted you?”
“Of course! How could any one suspect Valmeras of being Lupin, when Valmeras was Beautrelet’s friend and after Valmeras had snatched from Lupin’s clutches the girl whom Lupin loved? And how charming it was! Such delightful memories! The expedition to Crozant! The bouquets we found! My pretended love letter to Raymonde! And, later, the precautions which I, Valmeras, had to take against myself, Lupin, before my marriage! And the night of your great banquet, Beautrelet, when you fainted in my arms! Oh, what memories!”
There was a pause. Beautrelet watched Raymonde. She had listened to Lupin without saying a word and looked at him with eyes in which he read love, passion and something else besides, something which the lad could not define, a sort of anxious embarrassment and a vague sadness. But Lupin turned his eyes upon her and she gave him an affectionate smile. Their hands met over the table.
“What do you say to the way I have arranged my little home, Beautrelet?” cried Lupin. “There’s a style about it, isn’t there? I don’t pretend that it’s as comfortable as it might be. And yet, some have been quite satisfied with it; and not the least of mankind, either!—Look at the list of distinguished people who have owned the Needle in their time and who thought it an honor to leave a mark of their sojourn.”
On the walls, one below the other, were carved the following names:
JULIUS CAESAR
CHARLEMAGNE ROLLO
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
RICHARD COEUR-DE-LEON
LOUIS XI
FRANCIS I
HENRY IV
LOUIS XIV
ARSÈNE LUPIN
“Whose name will figure after ours?” he continued. “Alas, the list is closed! From Caesar to Lupin—and there it ends. Soon the nameless mob will come to visit the strange citadel. And to think that, but for Lupin, all this would have remained for ever unknown to men! Ah Beautrelet, what a feeling of pride was mine on the day when I first set foot on this abandoned soil. To have found the lost secret and become its master, its sole master! To inherit such an inheritance! To live in the Needle, after all those kings!—”
He was interrupted by a gesture of his wife’s. She seemed greatly agitated.
“There is a noise,” she said. “Underneath us.—You can hear it.”
“It’s the lapping of the water,” said Lupin.
“No, indeed it’s not. I know the sound of the waves. This is something different.”
“What would you have it be, darling?” said Lupin, smiling. “I invited no one to lunch except Beautrelet.” And, addressing the servant, “Charolais, did you lock the staircase doors behind the gentleman?”
“Yes, sir, and fastened the bolts.”
Lupin rose:
“Come, Raymonde, don’t shake like that. Why, you’re quite pale!”
He spoke a few words to her in an undertone, as also to the servant, drew back the curtain and sent them both out of the room.
The noise below grew more distinct. It was a series of dull blows, repeated at intervals. Beautrelet thought:
“Ganimard has lost patience and is breaking down the doors.”
Lupin resumed the thread of his conversation, speakin
g very calmly and as though he had really not heard:
“By Jove, the Needle was badly damaged when I succeeded in discovering it! One could see that no one had possessed the secret for more than a century, since Louis XVI and the Revolution. The tunnel was threatening to fall in. The stairs were in a shocking state. The water was trickling in from the sea. I had to prop up and strengthen and rebuild the whole thing.”
Beautrelet could not help asking:
“When you arrived, was it empty?”
“Very nearly. The kings did not use the Needle, as I have done, as a warehouse.”
“As a place of refuge, then?”
“Yes, no doubt, in times of invasion and during the civil wars. But its real destination was to be—how shall I put it?—the strong-room or the bank of the kings of France.”
The sound of blows increased, more distinctly now. Ganimard must have broken down the first door and was attacking the second. There was a short silence and then more blows, nearer still. It was the third door. Two remained.
Through one of the windows, Beautrelet saw a number of fishing-smacks sailing round the Needle and, not far away, floating on the waters like a great black fish, the torpedo-boat.
“What a row!” exclaimed Lupin. “One can’t hear one’s self speak! Let’s go upstairs, shall we? It may interest you to look over the Needle.”
They climbed to the floor above, which was protected, like the others, by a door which Lupin locked behind him.
“My picture gallery,” he said.
The walls were covered with canvases on which Beautrelet recognized the most famous signatures. There were Raphael’s Madonna of the Agnus Dei, Andrea del Sarto’s Portrait of Lucrezia Fede, Titian’s Salome, Botticelli’s Madonna and Angels and numbers of Tintorettos, Carpaccios, Rembrandts, Velasquez.
“What fine copies!” said Beautrelet, approvingly.
Lupin looked at him with an air of stupefaction:
“What! Copies! You must be mad! The copies are in Madrid, my dear fellow, in Florence, Venice, Munich, Amsterdam.”
“Then these—”
“Are the original pictures, my lad, patiently collected in all the museums of Europe, where I have replaced them, like an honest man, with first-rate copies.”
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