THE LAST BATTLE
When Prasville returned to his office he saw M. Nicole sitting on a
bench in the waiting-room, with his bent back, his ailing air, his
gingham umbrella, his rusty hat and his single glove:
“It’s he all right,” said Prasville, who had feared for a moment
that Lupin might have sent another M. Nicole to see him. “And the
fact that he has come in person proves that he does not suspect
that I have seen through him.” And, for the third time, he said,
“All the same, what a nerve!”
He shut the door of his office and called his secretary:
“M. Lartigue, I am having a rather dangerous person shown in here.
The chances are that he will have to leave my office with the
bracelets on. As soon as he is in my room, make all the necessary
arrangements: send for a dozen inspectors and have them posted in
the waiting-room and in your office. And take this as a definite
instruction: the moment I ring, you are all to come in, revolvers
in hand, and surround the fellow. Do you quite understand?”
“Yes, monsieur le secrétaire;-général.”
“Above all, no hesitation. A sudden entrance, in a body, revolvers
in hand. Send M. Nicole in, please.”
As soon as he was alone, Prasville covered the push of an electric
bell on his desk with some papers and placed two revolvers of
respectable dimensions behind a rampart of books.
“And now,” he said to himself, “to sit tight. If he has the list,
let’s collar it. If he hasn’t, let’s collar him. And, if possible,
let’s collar both. Lupin and the list of the Twenty-seven, on the
same day, especially after the scandal of this morning, would be a
scoop in a thousand.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Prasville.
And, rising from his seat:
“Come in, M. Nicole, come in.”
M. Nicole crept timidly into the room, sat down on the extreme edge
of the chair to which Prasville pointed and said:
“I have come . . . to resume . . . our conversation of yesterday....
Please excuse the delay, monsieur.”
“One second,” said Prasville. “Will you allow me?”
He stepped briskly to the outer room and, seeing his secretary:
“I was forgetting, M. Lartigue. Have the staircases and passages
searched . . . in case of accomplices.”
He returned, settled himself comfortably, as though for a long and
interesting conversation, and began:
“You were saying, M. Nicole?”
“I was saying, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that I must
apologize for keeping you waiting yesterday evening. I was detained
by different matters. First of all, Mme. Mergy....”
“Yes, you had to see Mme. Mergy home.”
“Just so, and to look after her. You can understand the poor
thing’s despair.... Her son Gilbert so near death.... And such a
death!... At that time we could only hope for a miracle . . . an
impossible miracle. I myself was resigned to the inevitable.... You
know as well as I do, when fate shows itself implacable, one ends
by despairing.”
“But I thought,” observed Prasville, “that your intention, on
leaving me, was to drag Daubrecq’s secret from him at all costs.”
“Certainly. But Daubrecq was not in Paris.”
“Oh?”
“No. He was on his way to Paris in a motor-car.”
“Have you a motor-car, M. Nicole?”
“Yes, when I need it: an out-of-date concern, an old tin kettle of
sorts. Well, he was on his way to Paris in a motor-car, or rather
on the roof of a motor-car, inside a trunk in which I packed him.
But, unfortunately, the motor was unable to reach Paris until after
the execution. Thereupon....”
Prasville stared at M. Nicole with an air of stupefaction. If he
had retained the least doubt of the individual’s real identity,
this manner of dealing with Daubrecq would have removed it. By
Jingo! To pack a man in a trunk and pitch him on the top of a
motor-car!... No one but Lupin would indulge in such a freak, no
one but Lupin would confess it with that ingenuous coolness!
“Thereupon,” echoed Prasville, “you decided what?”
“I cast about for another method.”
“What method?”
“Why, surely, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, you know as well as
I do!”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, weren’t you at the execution?”
“I was.”
“In that case, you saw both Vaucheray and the executioner hit, one
mortally, the other with a slight wound. And you can’t fail to
see....”
“Oh,” exclaimed Prasville, dumbfounded, “you confess it? It was you
who fired the shots, this morning?”
“Come, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, think! What choice had I?
The list of the Twenty-seven which you examined was a forgery.
Daubrecq, who possessed the genuine one, would not arrive until a
few hours after the execution. There was therefore but one way for
me to save Gilbert and obtain his pardon; and that was to delay the
execution by a few hours.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, of course. By killing that infamous brute, that hardened
criminal, Vaucheray, and wounding the executioner, I spread
disorder and panic; I made Gilbert’s execution physically and
morally impossible; and I thus gained the few hours which were
indispensable for my purpose.”
“Obviously,” repeated Prasville.
“Well, of course,” repeated Lupin, “it gives us all--the
government, the president and myself--time to reflect and to see
the question in a clearer light. What do you think of it, monsieur
le secrétaire;-général?”
Prasville thought a number of things, especially that this Nicole
was giving proof, to use a vulgar phrase, of the most infernal
cheek, of a cheek so great that Prasville felt inclined to ask
himself if he was really right in identifying Nicole with Lupin and
Lupin with Nicole.
“I think, M. Nicole, that a man has to be a jolly good shot to kill
a person whom he wants to kill, at a distance of a hundred yards,
and to wound another person whom he only wants to wound.”
“I have had some little practice,” said M. Nicole, with modest air.
“And I also think that your plan can only be the fruit of a long
preparation.”
“Not at all! That’s where you’re wrong! It was absolutely
spontaneous! If my servant, or rather the servant of the friend who
lent me his flat in the Place de Clichy, had not shaken me out of
my sleep, to tell me that he had once served as a shopman in that
little house on the Boulevard Arago, that it did not hold many
tenants and that there might be something to be done there, our
poor Gilbert would have had his head cut off by now . . . and Mme.
Mergy would most likely be dead.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“I am sure of it. And that was why I jumped at that faithful
retainer’s suggestion. Only, you interfered with my plans, monsieur
le secrétaire;-général.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You must needs go and take the three-cornered precaution of
posting twelve men at the door of my house. I had to climb five
flights of back stairs and go out through the servants’ corridor
and the next house. Such useless fatigue!”
“I am very sorry, M. Nicole. Another time....”
“It was the same thing at eight o’clock this morning, when I was
waiting for the motor which was bringing Daubrecq to me in his
trunk: I had to march up and down the Place de Clichy, so as to
prevent the car from stopping outside the door of my place and your
men from interfering in my private affairs. Otherwise, once again,
Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy would have been lost.”
“But,” said Prasville, “those painful events, it seems to me, are
only delayed for a day, two days, three days at most. To avert them
for good and all we should want....”
“The real list, I suppose?”
“Exactly. And I daresay you haven’t got it.”
“Yes, I have.”
“The genuine list?”
“The genuine, the undoubtedly genuine list.”
“With the cross of Lorraine?”
“With the cross of Lorraine.”
Prasville was silent. He was labouring under violent emotion,
now that the duel was commencing with that adversary of whose
terrifying superiority he was well aware; and he shuddered at the
idea that Arsène Lupin, the formidable Arsène Lupin, was there,
in front of him, calm and placid, pursuing his aims with as much
coolness as though he had all the weapons in his hands and were
face to face with a disarmed enemy.
Not yet daring to deliver a frontal attack, feeling almost
intimidated, Prasville said:
“So Daubrecq gave it up to you?”
“Daubrecq gives nothing up. I took it.”
“By main force, therefore?”
“Oh, dear, no!” said M. Nicole, laughing. “Of course, I was ready
to go to all lengths; and, when that worthy Daubrecq was dug
out of the basket in which he had been travelling express, with
an occasional dose of chloroform to keep his strength up, I had
prepared things so that the fun might begin at once. Oh, no useless
tortures . . . no vain sufferings! No.... Death, simply.... You
press the point of a long needle on the chest, where the heart
is, and insert it gradually, softly and gently. That’s all but
the point would have been driven by Mme. Mergy. You understand: a
mother is pitiless, a mother whose son is about to die!... ‘Speak,
Daubrecq, or I’ll go deeper.... You won’t speak?... Then I’ll
push another quarter of an inch . . . and another still.’ And the
patient’s heart stops beating, the heart that feels the needle
coming.... And another quarter of an inch . . . and one more.... I
swear before Heaven that the villain would have spoken!... We leant
over him and waited for him to wake, trembling with impatience, so
urgent was our hurry.... Can’t you picture the scene, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général? The scoundrel lying on a sofa, well bound,
bare-chested, making efforts to throw off the fumes of chloroform
that dazed him. He breathes quicker.... He gasps.... He recovers
consciousness . . . his lips move.... Already, Clarisse Mergy
whispers, ‘It’s I . . . it’s I, Clarisse.... Will you answer, you
wretch?’ She has put her finger on Daubrecq’s chest, at the spot
where the heart stirs like a little animal hidden under the skin.
But she says to me, ‘His eyes . . . his eyes.... I can’t see them
under the spectacles.... I want to see them.... ‘And I also want
to see those eyes which I do not know, I want to see their anguish
and I want to read in them, before I hear a word, the secret which
is about to burst from the inmost recesses of the terrified body.
I want to see. I long to see. The action which I am about to
accomplish excites me beyond measure. It seems to me that, when I
have seen the eyes, the veil will be rent asunder. I shall know
things. It is a presentiment. It is the profound intuition of the
truth that keeps me on tenterhooks. The eye-glasses are gone. But
the thick opaque spectacles are there still. And I snatch them
off, suddenly. And, suddenly, startled by a disconcerting vision,
dazzled by the quick light that breaks in upon me and laughing,
oh, but laughing fit to break my jaws, with my thumb--do you
understand? with my thumb--hop, I force out the left eye!”
M. Nicole was really laughing, as he said, fit to break his jaws.
And he was no longer the timid little unctuous and obsequious
provincial usher, but a well-set-up fellow, who, after reciting and
mimicking the whole scene with impressive ardour, was now laughing
with a shrill laughter the sound of which made Prasville’s flesh
creep:
“Hop! Jump, Marquis! Out of your kennel, Towzer! What’s the use of
two eyes? It’s one more than you want. Hop! I say, Clarisse, look
at it rolling over the carpet! Mind Daubrecq’s eye! Be careful with
the grate!”
M. Nicole, who had risen and pretended to be hunting after
something across the room, now sat down again, took from his pocket
a thing shaped like a marble, rolled it in the hollow of his hand,
chucked it in the air, like a ball, put it back in his fob and
said, coolly:
“Daubrecq’s left eye.”
Prasville was utterly bewildered. What was his strange visitor
driving at? What did all this story mean? Pale with excitement, he
said:
“Explain yourself.”
“But it’s all explained, it seems to me. And it fits in so well
with things as they were, fits in with all the conjectures which
I had been making in spite of myself and which would inevitably
have led to my solving the mystery, if that damned Daubrecq had
not so cleverly sent me astray! Yes, think, follow the trend of
my suppositions: ‘As the list is not to be discovered away from
Daubrecq,’ I said to myself, ‘it cannot exist away from Daubrecq.
And, as it is not to be discovered in the clothes he wears, it must
be hidden deeper still, in himself, to speak plainly, in his flesh,
under his skin....”
“In his eye, perhaps?” suggested Prasville, by way of a joke....
“In his eye? Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, you have said the
word.”
“What?”
“I repeat, in his eye. And it is a truth that ought to have
occurred to my mind logically, instead of being revealed to me by
accident. And I will tell you why. Daubrecq knew that Clarisse
had seen a letter from him instructing an English manufacturer
to ‘empty the crystal within, so as to leave a void which it was
unpossible to suspect.’ Daubrecq was bound, in prudence, to divert
any attempt at search. And it was for this reason that he had a
crystal stopper made, ‘emptied within,’ after a model supplied by
himself. And it is this crystal stopper which you and I have been
after for months; and it is this crystal stopper which I dug out of
a packet of tobacco. Whereas all I had to do....”
“Was what?” asked Prasville, greatly puzzled.
M. Nicole burst into a fresh fit of laughter:
“Was simply to go for Daubrecq’s eye, that eye ‘emptied within so
as to leave a void which it is impossible to suspect,’ the eye
which you see before you.”
And M. Nicole once more took the thing from his pocket and rapped
the table with it, producing the sound of a hard body with each rap.
Prasville whispered, in astonishment:
“A glass eye!”
“Why, of course!” cried M. Nicole, laughing gaily. “A glass eye!
A common or garden decanter-stopper, which the rascal stuck
into his eyesocket in the place of an eye which he had lost--a
decanter-stopper, or, if you prefer, a crystal stopper, but the
real one, this time, which he faked, which he hid behind the double
bulwark of his spectacles and eye-glasses, which contained and
still contains the talisman that enabled Daubrecq to work as he
pleased in safety.”
Prasville lowered his head and put his hand to his forehead to
hide his flushed face: he was almost possessing the list of the
Twenty-seven. It lay before him, on the table.
Mastering his emotion, he said, in a casual tone:
“So it is there still?”
“At least, I suppose so,” declared M. Nicole.
“What! You suppose so?”
“I have not opened the hiding-place. I thought, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général, I would reserve that honour for you.”
Prasville put out his hand, took the thing up and inspected it. It
was a block of crystal, imitating nature to perfection, with all
the details of the eyeball, the iris, the pupil, the cornea.
He at once saw a movable part at the back, which slid in a groove.
He pushed it. The eye was hollow.
There was a tiny ball of paper inside. He unfolded it, smoothed
it out and, quickly, without delaying to make a preliminary
examination of the names, the hand-writing or the signatures, he
raised his arms and turned the paper to the light from the windows.
“Is the cross of Lorraine there?” asked M. Nicole.
“Yes, it is there,” replied Prasville. “This is the genuine list.”
He hesitated a few seconds and remained with his arms raised, while
reflecting what he would do. Then he folded up the paper again,
replaced it in its little crystal sheath and put the whole thing in
his pocket. M. Nicole, who was looking at him, asked:
“Are you convinced?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then we are agreed?”
“We are agreed.”
There was a pause, during which the two men watched each other
without appearing to. M. Nicole seemed to be waiting for the
conversation to be resumed. Prasville, sheltered behind the piles
of books on the table, sat with one hand grasping his revolver and
the other touching the push of the electric bell. He felt the whole
strength of his position with a keen zest. He held the list. He
held Lupin:
“If he moves,” he thought, “I cover him with my revolver and I
ring. If he attacks me, I shoot.”
And the situation appeared to him so pleasant that he prolonged it,
with the exquisite relish of an epicure.
In the end, M. Nicole took up the threads:
“As we are agreed, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I think there
is nothing left for you to do but to hurry. Is the execution to
take place to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“In that case, I shall wait here.”
“Wait for what?”
“The answer from the Élysée.”
“Oh, is some one to bring you an answer?”
“Yes.”
“You, monsieur le secrétaire;-général.”
Prasville shook his head:
“You must not count on me, M. Nicole.”
“Really?” said M. Nicole, with an air of surprise. “May I ask the
reason?”
“I have changed my mind.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. I have come to the conclusion that, as things stand,
after this last scandal, it is impossible to try to do anything
in Gilbert’s favour. Besides, an attempt in this direction at the
Élysée, under present conditions, would constitute a regular case
of blackmail, to which I absolutely decline to lend myself.”
“You are free to do as you please, monsieur. Your scruples do you
honour, though they come rather late, for they did not trouble you
yesterday. But, in that case, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, as
the compact between us is destroyed, give me back the list of the
Twenty-seven.”
“What for?”
“So that I may apply to another spokesman.”
“What’s the good? Gilbert is lost.”
“Not at all, not at all. On the contrary, I consider that, now
that his accomplice is dead, it will be much easier to grant him a
pardon which everybody will look upon as fair and humane. Give me
back the list.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, you have a short memory and none too nice
a conscience. Have you forgotten your promise of yesterday?”
“Yesterday, I made a promise to a M. Nicole.”
“Well?”
“You are not M. Nicole.”
“Indeed! Then, pray, who am I?”
“Need I tell you?”
M. Nicole made no reply, but began to laugh softly, as though
pleased at the curious turn which the conversation was taking;
and Prasville felt a vague misgiving at observing that fit of
merriment. He grasped the butt-end of his revolver and wondered
whether he ought not to ring for help.
M. Nicole drew his chair close to the desk, put his two elbows on
the table, looked Prasville straight in the face and jeered:
“So, M. Prasville, you know who I am and you have the assurance to
play this game with me?”
“I have that assurance,” said Prasville, accepting the sneer
without flinching.
“Which proves that you consider me, Arsène Lupin--we may as well
use the name: yes, Arsène Lupin--which proves that you consider me
fool enough, dolt enough to deliver myself like this, bound hand
and foot into your hands.”
“Upon my word,” said Prasville, airily, patting the
waistcoat-pocket in which he had secreted the crystal ball, “I
don’t quite see what you can do, M. Nicole, now that Daubrecq’s eye
is here, with the list of the Twenty-seven inside it.”
“What I can do?” echoed M. Nicole, ironically.
“Yes! The talisman no longer protects you; and you are now no
better off than any other man who might venture into the very heart
of the police-office, among some dozens of stalwart fellows posted
behind each of those doors and some hundreds of others who will
hasten up at the first signal.”
M. Nicole shrugged his shoulders and gave Prasville a look of great
commiseration:
“Shall I tell you what is happening, monsieur le
secrétaire;-général? Well, you too are having your head turned
by all this business. Now that you possess the list, your state
of mind has suddenly sunk to that of a Daubrecq or a d’Albufex.
There is no longer even a question, in your thoughts, of taking it
to your superiors, so that this ferment of disgrace and discord
may be ended. No, no; a sodden temptation has seized upon you and
intoxicated you; and, losing your head, you say to yourself, ‘It
is here, in my pocket. With its aid, I am omnipotent. It means
wealth, absolute, unbounded power. Why not benefit by it? Why not
let Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy die? Why not lock up that idiot of
a Lupin? Why not seize this unparalleled piece of fortune by the
forelock?’”
He bent toward Prasville and, very softly, in a friendly and
confidential tone, said:
“Don’t do that, my dear sir, don’t do it.”
“And why not?”
“It is not to your interest, believe me.”
“Really!”
“No. Or, if you absolutely insist on doing it, have the kindness
first to consult the twenty-seven names on the list of which you
have just robbed me and reflect, for a moment, on the name of the
third person on it.”
“Oh? And what is the name of that third person?”
“It is the name of a friend of yours.”
“What friend?”
“Stanislas Vorenglade, the ex-deputy.”
“And then?” said Prasville, who seemed to be losing some of his
self-confidence.
“Then? Ask yourself if an inquiry, however summary, would not end
by discovering, behind that Stanislas Vorenglade, the name of one
who shared certain little profits with him.”
“And whose name is?”
“Louis Prasville.”
M. Nicole banged the table with his fist.
“Enough of this humbug, monsieur! For twenty minutes, you and I
have been beating about the bush. That will do. Let us understand
each other. And, to begin with, drop your pistols. You can’t
imagine that I am frightened of those playthings! Stand up, sir,
stand up, as I am doing, and finish the business: I am in a hurry.”
He put his hand on Prasville’s shoulder and, speaking with great
deliberation, said:
“If, within an hour from now, you are not back from the Élysée,
bringing with you a line to say that the decree of pardon has been
signed; if, within one hour and ten minutes, I, Arsène Lupin, do
not walk out of this building safe and sound and absolutely free,
this evening four Paris newspapers will receive four letters
selected from the correspondence exchanged between Stanislas
Vorenglade and yourself, the correspondence which Stanislas
Vorenglade sold me this morning. Here’s your hat, here’s your
overcoat, here’s your stick. Be off. I will wait for you.”
Then happened this extraordinary and yet easily understood thing,
that Prasville did not raise the slightest protest nor make the
least show of fight. He received the sudden, far-reaching, utter
conviction of what the personality known as Arsène Lupin meant,
in all its breadth and fulness. He did not so much as think of
carping, of pretending--as he had until then believed--that the
letters had been destroyed by Vorenglade the deputy or, at any
rate, that Vorenglade would not dare to hand them over, because,
in so doing, Vorenglade was also working his own destruction. No,
Prasville did not speak a word. He felt himself caught in a vise
of which no human strength could force the jaws asunder. There was
nothing to do but yield. He yielded.
“Here, in an hour,” repeated M. Nicole.
“In an hour,” said Prasville, tamely. Nevertheless, in order to
know exactly where he stood, he added, “The letters, of course,
will be restored to me against Gilbert’s pardon?”
“No.”
“How do you mean, no? In that case, there is no object in....”
“They will be restored to you, intact, two months after the day
when my friends and I have brought about Gilbert’s escape . . .
thanks to the very slack watch which will be kept upon him, in
accordance with your orders.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there are two further conditions: first, the immediate payment
of a cheque for forty thousand francs.”
“Forty thousand francs?”
“The sum for which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me the letters. It is
only fair....”
“And next?”
“Secondly, your resignation, within six months, of your present
position.”
“My resignation? But why?”
M. Nicole made a very dignified gesture:
“Because it is against public morals that one of the highest
positions in the police-service should be occupied by a man whose
hands are not absolutely clean. Make them send you to parliament or
appoint you a minister, a councillor of State, an ambassador, in
short, any post which your success in the Daubrecq case entitles
you to demand. But not secretary-general of police; anything but
that! The very thought of it disgusts me.”
Prasville reflected for a moment. He would have rejoiced in the
sudden destruction of his adversary and he racked his brain for the
means to effect it. But he was helpless.
He went to the door and called:
“M. Lartigue.” And, sinking his voice, but not very low, for he
wished M. Nicole to hear, “M. Lartigue, dismiss your men. It’s a
mistake. And let no one come into my office while I am gone. This
gentleman will wait for me here.”
He came back, took the hat, stick and overcoat which M. Nicole
handed him and went out.
“Well done, sir,” said Lupin, between his teeth, when the door was
closed. “You have behaved like a sportsman and a gentleman.... So
did I, for that matter . . . perhaps with too obvious a touch of
contempt . . . and a little too bluntly. But, tush, this sort of
business has to be carried through with a high hand! The enemy’s
got to be staggered! Besides, when one’s own conscience is clear,
one can’t take up too bullying a tone with that sort of individual.
Lift your head, Lupin. You have been the champion of outraged
morality. Be proud of your work. And now take a chair, stretch out
your legs and have a rest. You’ve deserved it.”
When Prasville returned, he found Lupin sound asleep and had to tap
him on the shoulder to wake him.
“Is it done?” asked Lupin.
“It’s done. The pardon will be signed presently. Here is the
written promise.”
“The forty thousand francs?”
“Here’s your cheque.”
“Good. It but remains for me to thank you, monsieur.”
“So the correspondence....”
“The Stanislas Vorenglade correspondence will be handed to you on
the conditions stated. However, I am glad to be able to give you,
here and now, as a sign of my gratitude, the four letters which I
meant to send to the papers this evening.”
“Oh, so you had them on you?” said Prasville.
“I felt so certain, monsieur le secrétaire;-général, that we should
end by coming to an understanding.”
He took from his hat a fat envelope, sealed with five red seals,
which was pinned inside the lining, and handed it to Prasville, who
thrust it into his pocket. Then he said:
“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, I don’t know when I shall
have the pleasure of seeing you again. If you have the least
communication to make to me, one line in the agony column of the
_Journal_ will be sufficient. Just head it, ‘M. Nicole.’ Good-day
to you.”
And he withdrew.
Prasville, when he was alone, felt as if he were waking from a
nightmare during which he had performed incoherent actions over
which his conscious mind had no control. He was almost thinking
of ringing and causing a stir in the passages; but, just then,
there was a tap at the door and one of the office-messengers came
hurrying in.
“What’s the matter?” asked Prasville.
“Monsieur le secrétaire;-général, it’s Monsieur le Député Daubrecq
asking to see you . . . on a matter of the highest importance.”
“Daubrecq!” exclaimed Prasville, in bewilderment. “Daubrecq here!
Show him in.”
[Illustration: Daubrecq ran up to Prasville out of breath and caught
hold of him with his two enormous hands.]
Daubrecq had not waited for the order. He ran up to Prasville, out
of breath, with his clothes in disorder, a bandage over his left
eye, no tie, no collar, looking like an escaped lunatic; and the
door was not closed before he caught hold of Prasville with his two
enormous hands:
“Have you the list?”
“Yes.”
“Have you bought it?”
“Yes.”
“At the price of Gilbert’s pardon?”
“Yes.”
“Is it signed?”
“Yes.”
Daubrecq made a furious gesture:
“You fool! You fool! You’ve been trapped! For hatred of me, I
expect? And now you’re going to take your revenge?”
“With a certain satisfaction, Daubrecq. Remember my little friend,
the opera-dancer, at Nice.... It’s your turn now to dance.”
“So it means prison?”
“I should think so,” said Prasville. “Besides, it doesn’t matter.
You’re done for, anyhow. Deprived of the list, without defence of
any kind, you’re bound to fall to pieces of your own weight. And I
shall be present at the break-up. That’s my revenge.”
“And you believe that!” yelled Daubrecq, furiously. “You believe
that they will wring my neck like a chicken’s and that I shall not
know how to defend myself and that I have no claws left and no
teeth to bite with! Well, my boy, if I do come to grief, there’s
always one who will fall with me and that is Master Prasville, the
partner of Stanislas Vorenglade, who is going to hand me every
proof in existence against him, so that I may get him sent to
gaol without delay. Aha, I’ve got you fixed, old chap! With those
letters, you’ll go as I please, hang it all, and there will be fine
days yet for Daubrecq the deputy! What! You’re laughing, are you?
Perhaps those letters don’t exist?”
Prasville shrugged his shoulders:
“Yes, they exist. But Vorenglade no longer has them in his
possession.”
“Since when?”
“Since this morning. Vorenglade sold them, two hours ago, for the
sum of forty thousand francs; and I have bought them back at the
same price.”
Daubrecq burst into a great roar of laughter:
“Lord, how funny! Forty thousand francs! You’ve paid forty thousand
francs! To M. Nicole, I suppose, who sold you the list of the
Twenty-seven? Well, would you like me to tell you the real name of
M. Nicole? It’s Arsène Lupin!”
“I know that.”
“Very likely. But what you don’t know, you silly ass, is that I
have come straight from Stanislas Vorenglade’s and that Stanislas
Vorenglade left Paris four days ago! Oh, what a joke! They’ve sold
you waste paper! And your forty thousand francs! What an ass! What
an ass!”
He walked out of the room, screaming with laughter and leaving
Prasville absolutely dumbfounded.
So Arsène Lupin possessed no proof at all; and, when he was
threatening and commanding and treating Prasville with that airy
insolence, it was all a farce, all bluff!
“No, no, it’s impossible,” thought the secretary-general. “I have
the sealed envelope.... It’s here.... I have only to open it.”
He dared not open it. He handled it, weighed it, examined it....
And doubt made its way so swiftly into his mind that he was not in
the least surprised, when he did open it, to find that it contained
four blank sheets of note-paper.
“Well, well,” he said, “I am no match for those rascals. But all is
not over yet.”
And, in point of fact, all was not over. If Lupin had acted so
daringly, it showed that the letters existed and that he relied
upon buying them from Stanislas Vorenglade. But, as, on the other
hand, Vorenglade was not in Paris, Prasville’s business was simply
to forestall Lupin’s steps with regard to Vorenglade and obtain
the restitution of those dangerous letters from Vorenglade at all
costs. The first to arrive would be the victor.
Prasville once more took his hat, coat and stick, went downstairs,
stepped into a taxi and drove to Vorenglade’s flat.
Here he was told that the ex-deputy was expected home from London
at six o’clock that evening.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Prasville therefore had plenty
of time to prepare his plan.
He arrived at the Gare du Nord at five o’clock and posted all
around, in the waiting-rooms and in the railway-offices, the three
or four dozen detectives whom he had brought with him.
This made him feel easy. If M. Nicole tried to speak to Vorenglade,
they would arrest Lupin. And, to make assurance doubly sure, they
would arrest whosoever could be suspected of being either Lupin or
one of Lupin’s emissaries.
Moreover, Prasville made a close inspection of the whole station.
He discovered nothing suspicious. But, at ten minutes to six,
Chief-inspector Blanchon, who was with him, said:
“Look, there’s Daubrecq.”
Daubrecq it was; and the sight of his enemy exasperated the
secretary-general to such a pitch that he was on the verge of
having him arrested. But he reflected that he had no excuse, no
right, no warrant for the arrest.
Besides, Daubrecq’s presence proved, with still greater force,
that everything now depended on Stanislas Vorenglade. Vorenglade
possessed the letters: who would end by having them? Daubrecq?
Lupin? Or he, Prasville?
Lupin was not there and could not be there. Daubrecq was not in a
position to fight. There could be no doubt, therefore, about the
result: Prasville would reenter into possession of his letters and,
through this very fact, would escape Daubrecq’s threats and Lupin’s
threats and recover all his freedom of action against them.
The train arrived.
In accordance with orders, the stationmaster had issued
instructions that no one was to be admitted to the platform.
Prasville, therefore, walked on alone, in front of a number of his
men, with Chief-inspector Blanchon at their head.
The train drew up.
Prasville almost at once saw Stanislas Vorenglade at the window of
a first-class compartment, in the middle of the train.
The ex-deputy alighted and then held out his hand to assist an old
gentleman who was travelling with him.
Prasville ran up to him and said, eagerly:
“Vorenglade . . . I want to speak to you....”
At the same moment, Daubrecq, who had managed to pass the barrier,
appeared and exclaimed:
“M. Vorenglade, I have had your letter. I am at your disposal.”
Vorenglade looked at the two men, recognized Prasville, recognized
Daubrecq, and smiled:
“Oho, it seems that my return was awaited with some impatience!
What’s it all about? Certain letters, I expect?”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” replied the two men, fussing around him.
“You’re too late,” he declared.
“Eh? What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that the letters are sold.”
“Sold! To whom?”
“To this gentleman,” said Vorenglade, pointing to his
travelling-companion, “to this gentleman, who thought that the
business was worth going out of his way for and who came to Amiens
to meet me.”
The old gentleman, a very old man wrapped in furs and leaning on
his stick, took off his hat and bowed.
“It’s Lupin,” thought Prasville, “it’s Lupin, beyond a doubt.”
And he glanced toward the detectives, was nearly calling them, but
the old gentleman explained:
“Yes, I thought the letters were good enough to warrant a few
hours’ railway journey and the cost of two return tickets.”
“Two tickets?”
“One for me and the other for one of my friends.”
“One of your friends?”
“Yes, he left us a few minutes ago and reached the front part of
the train through the corridor. He was in a great hurry.”
Prasville understood: Lupin had taken the precaution to bring an
accomplice, and the accomplice was carrying off the letters. The
game was lost, to a certainty. Lupin had a firm grip on his victim.
There was nothing to do but submit and accept the conqueror’s
conditions.
“Very well, sir,” said Prasville. “We shall see each other when the
time comes. Good-bye for the present, Daubrecq: you shall hear from
me.” And, drawing Vorenglade aside, “As for you, Vorenglade, you
are playing a dangerous game.”
“Dear me!” said the ex-deputy. “And why?”
The two men moved away.
Daubrecq had not uttered a word and stood motionless, as though
rooted to the ground.
The old gentleman went up to him and whispered:
“I say, Daubrecq, wake up, old chap.... It’s the chloroform, I
expect....”
Daubrecq clenched his fists and gave a muttered growl.
“Ah, I see you know me!” said the old gentleman. “Then you will
remember our interview, some months ago, when I came to see you
in the Square Lamartine and asked you to intercede in Gilbert’s
favour. I said to you that day, ‘Lay down your arms, save Gilbert
and I will leave you in peace. If not, I shall take the list of the
Twenty-seven from you; and then you’re done for.’ Well, I have a
strong suspicion that done for is what you are. That comes of not
making terms with kind M. Lupin. Sooner or later, you’re bound to
lose your boots by it. However, let it be a lesson to you.... By
the way, here’s your pocketbook which I forgot to give you. Excuse
me if you find it lightened of its contents. There were not only a
decent number of bank-notes in it, but also the receipt from the
warehouse where you stored the Enghien things which you took back
from me. I thought I might as well save you the trouble of taking
them out yourself. It ought to be done by now. No, don’t thank me:
it’s not worth mentioning. Good-bye, Daubrecq. And, if you should
want a louis or two, to buy yourself a new decanter-stopper, drop
me a line. Good-bye, Daubrecq.”
He walked away.
He had not gone fifty steps when he heard the sound of a shot.
He turned round.
Daubrecq had blown his brains out.
“_De profundis!_” murmured Lupin, taking off his hat.
* * * * *
Two months later, Gilbert, whose sentence had been commuted to one
of penal servitude for life, made his escape from the Île de Ré, on
the day before that on which he was to have been transported to New
Caledonia.
It was a strange escape. Its least details remained difficult to
understand; and, like the two shots on the Boulevard Arago, it
greatly enhanced Arsène Lupin’s prestige.
“Taken all round,” said Lupin to me, one day, after telling me the
different episodes of the story, “taken all around, no enterprise
has ever given me more trouble or cost me greater exertions than
that confounded adventure which, if you don’t mind, we will call,
_The Crystal Stopper; or, Never Say Die_. In twelve hours, between
six o’clock in the morning and six o’clock in the evening, I made
up for six months of bad luck, blunders, gropings in the dark and
reverses. I certainly count those twelve hours among the finest and
the most glorious of my life.”
“And Gilbert?” I asked. “What became of him?”
“He is farming his own land, way down in Algeria, under his
real name, his only name of Antoine Mergy. He is married to an
Englishwoman, and they have a son whom he insisted on calling
Arsène. I often receive a bright, chatty, warm-hearted letter from
him.”
“And Mme. Mergy?”
“She and her little Jacques are living with them.”
“Did you see her again?”
“I did not.”
“Really!”
Lupin hesitated for a few moments and then said with a smile:
“My dear fellow, I will let you into a secret that will make me
seem ridiculous in your eyes. But you know that I have always
been as sentimental as a schoolboy and as silly as a goose. Well,
on the evening when I went back to Clarisse Mergy and told her
the news of the day--part of which, for that matter, she already
knew--I felt two things very thoroughly. One was that I entertained
for her a much deeper feeling than I thought; the other that
she, on the contrary, entertained for me a feeling which was not
without contempt, not without a rankling grudge nor even a certain
aversion.”
“Nonsense! Why?”
“Why? Because Clarisse Mergy is an exceedingly honest woman and
because I am . . . just Arsène Lupin.”
“Oh!”
“Dear me, yes, an attractive bandit, a romantic and chivalrous
cracksman, anything you please. For all that, in the eyes of a
really honest woman, with an upright nature and a well-balanced
mind, I am only the merest riff-raff.”
I saw that the wound was sharper than he was willing to admit, and
I said:
“So you really loved her?”
“I even believe,” he said, in a jesting tone, “that I asked her to
marry me. After all, I had saved her son, had I not?... So . . . I
thought. What a rebuff!... It produced a coolness between us....
Since then....”
“You have forgotten her?”
“Oh, certainly! But it required the consolations of one Italian,
two Americans, three Russians, a German grand-duchess and a
Chinawoman to do it!”
“And, after that....?”
“After that, so as to place an insuperable barrier between myself
and her, I got married.”
“Nonsense! You got married, you, Arsène Lupin?”
“Married, wedded, spliced, in the most lawful fashion. One of the
greatest names in France. An only daughter. A colossal fortune....
What! You don’t know the story? Well, it’s worth hearing.”
And, straightway, Lupin, who was in a confidential vein, began to
tell me the story of his marriage to Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme,
Princesse de Bourbon-Condé, to-day Sister Marie-Auguste, a humble
nun in the Visitation Convent....[G]
But, after the first few words, he stopped, as though his narrative
had suddenly ceased to interest him, and he remained pensive.
“What’s the matter, Lupin?”
“The matter? Nothing.”
“Yes, yes.... There . . . now you’re smiling.... Is it Daubrecq’s
secret receptacle, his glass eye, that’s making you laugh?”
“Not at all.”
“What then?”
“Nothing, I tell you . . . only a memory.”
“A pleasant memory?”
“Yes!... Yes, a delightful memory even. It was at night, off the
Île de Ré, on the fishing-smack in which Clarisse and I were taking
Gilbert away.... We were alone, the two of us, in the stern of the
boat.... And I remember.... I talked.... I spoke words and more
words.... I said all that I had on my heart.... And then . . . then
came silence, a perturbing and disarming silence.”
“Well?”
“Well, I swear to you that the woman whom I took in my arms that
night and kissed on the lips--oh, not for long: a few seconds only,
but no matter!--I swear before heaven that she was something more
than a grateful mother, something more than a friend yielding to
a moment of susceptibility, that she was a woman also, a woman
quivering with emotion....” And he continued, with a bitter laugh,
“Who ran away next day, never to see me again.”
He was silent once more. Then he whispered:
“Clarisse.... Clarisse.... On the day when I am tired and
disappointed and weary of life, I will come to you down there, in
your little Arab house . . . in that little white house, Clarisse,
where you are waiting for me....”
[G] See _The Confessions of Arsène Lupin_. By Maurice Leblanc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.
THE END