He set to work at once. Taking a war-office map, he divided it into

small squares, which he visited one after the other, entering the

farmhouses making the peasants talk, calling on the schoolmasters, the

mayors, the parish priests, chatting to the women. It seemed to him

that he must attain his end without delay and his dreams grew until it

was no longer his father alone whom he hoped to deliver, but all those

whom Lupin was holding captive: Raymonde de Saint-Véran, Ganimard,

Holmlock Shears, perhaps, and others, many others; and, in reaching

them, he would, at the same time, reach Lupin’s stronghold, his lair,

the impenetrable retreat where he was piling up the treasures of which

he had robbed the wide world.

But, after a fortnight’s useless searching, his enthusiasm ended by

slackening and he very soon lost confidence. Because success was slow

in appearing, from one day to the next, almost, he ceased to believe in

it; and, though he continued to pursue his plan of investigations, he

would have felt a real surprise if his efforts had led to the smallest

discovery.

More days still passed by, monotonous days of discouragement. He read

in the newspapers that the Comte de Gesvres and his daughter had left

Ambrumésy and gone to stay near Nice. He also learnt that Harlington

had been released, that gentleman’s innocence having become

self-obvious, in accordance with the indications supplied by Arsène

Lupin.

Isidore changed his head-quarters, established himself for two days at

the Châtre, for two days at Argenton. The result was the same.

Just then, he was nearly throwing up the game. Evidently, the gig in

which his father had been carried off could only have furnished a

stage, which had been followed by another stage, furnished by some

other conveyance. And his father was far away.

He was thinking of leaving, when, one Monday morning, he saw, on the

envelope of an unstamped letter, sent on to him from Paris, a

handwriting that set him trembling with emotion. So great was his

excitement that, for some minutes, he dared not open the letter, for

fear of a disappointment. His hand shook. Was it possible? Was this not

a trap laid for him by his infernal enemy?

He tore open the envelope. It was indeed a letter from his father,

written by his father himself. The handwriting presented all the

peculiarities, all the oddities of the hand which he knew so well.

He read:

Will these lines ever reach you, my dear son? I dare not believe it.

During the whole night of my abduction, we traveled by motor car; then,

in the morning, by carriage. I could see nothing. My eyes were

bandaged. The castle in which I am confined should be somewhere in the

midlands, to judge by its construction and the vegetation in the park.

The room which I occupy is on the second floor: it is a room with two

windows, one of which is almost blocked by a screen of climbing

glycines. In the afternoon, I am allowed to walk about the park, at

certain hours, but I am kept under unrelaxing observation.

I am writing this letter, on the mere chance of its reaching you, and

fastening it to a stone. Perhaps, one day, I shall be able to throw it

over the wall and some peasant will pick it up.

But do not be distressed about me. I am treated with every

consideration.

Your old father, who is very fond of you and very sad to think of the

trouble he is giving you,

BEAUTRELET.

Isidore at once looked at the postmarks. They read, “Cuzion, Indre.”

The Indre! The department which he had been stubbornly searching for

weeks!

He consulted a little pocket-guide which he always carried. Cuzion, in

the canton of Éguzon—he had been there too.

For prudence’s sake, he discarded his personality as an Englishman,

which was becoming too well known in the district, disguised himself as

a workman and made for Cuzion. It was an unimportant village. He would

easily discover the sender of the letter.

For that matter, chance served him without delay:

“A letter posted on Wednesday last?” exclaimed the mayor, a respectable

tradesman in whom he confided and who placed himself at his disposal.

“Listen, I think I can give you a valuable clue: on Saturday morning,

Gaffer Charel, an old knife-grinder who visits all the fairs in the

department, met me at the end of the village and asked, ‘Monsieur le

maire, does a letter without a stamp on it go all the same?’ ‘Of

course,’ said I. ‘And does it get there?’ ‘Certainly. Only there’s

double postage to pay on it, that’s all the difference.’”

“And where does he live?”

“He lives over there, all alone—on the slope—the hovel that comes next

after the churchyard.—Shall I go with you?”

It was a hovel standing by itself, in the middle of an orchard

surrounded by tall trees. As they entered the orchard, three magpies

flew away with a great splutter and they saw that the birds were flying

out of the very hole in which the watch-dog was fastened. And the dog

neither barked nor stirred as they approached.

Beautrelet went up in great surprise. The brute was lying on its side,

with stiff paws, dead.

They ran quickly to the cottage. The door stood open. They entered. At

the back of a low, damp room, on a wretched straw mattress, flung on

the floor itself, lay a man fully dressed.

“Gaffer Charel!” cried the mayor. “Is he dead, too?”

The old man’s hands were cold, his face terribly pale, but his heart

was still beating, with a faint, slow throb, and he seemed not to be

wounded in any way.

They tried to resuscitate him and, as they failed in their efforts,

Beautrelet went to fetch a doctor. The doctor succeeded no better than

they had done. The old man did not seem to be suffering. He looked as

if he were just asleep, but with an artificial slumber, as though he

had been put to sleep by hypnotism or with the aid of a narcotic.

In the middle of the night that followed, however, Isidore, who was

watching by his side, observed that the breathing became stronger and

that his whole being appeared to be throwing off the invisible bonds

that paralyzed it.

At daybreak, he woke up and resumed his normal functions: ate, drank

and moved about. But, the whole day long, he was unable to reply to the

young man’s questions and his brain seemed as though still numbed by an

inexplicable torpor.

The next day, he asked Beautrelet:

“What are you doing here, eh?”

It was the first time that he had shown surprise at the presence of a

stranger beside him.

Gradually, in this way, he recovered all his faculties. He talked. He

made plans. But, when Beautrelet asked him about the events immediately

preceding his sleep, he seemed not to understand.

And Beautrelet felt that he really did not understand. He had lost the

recollection of all that had happened since the Friday before. It was

like a sudden gap in the ordinary flow of his life. He described his

morning and afternoon on the Friday, the purchases he had made at the

fair, the meals he had taken at the inn. Then—nothing—nothing more. He

believed himself to be waking on the morrow of that day.

It was horrible for Beautrelet. The truth lay there, in those eyes

which had seen the walls of the park behind which his father was

waiting for him, in those hands which had picked up the letter, in that

muddled brain which had recorded the whereabouts of that scene, the

setting, the little corner of the world in which the play had been

enacted. And from those hands, from that brain he was unable to extract

the faintest echo of the truth so near at hand!

Oh, that impalpable and formidable obstacle, against which all his

efforts hurled themselves in vain, that obstacle built up of silence

and oblivion! How clearly it bore the mark of Arsène Lupin! He alone,

informed, no doubt, that M. Beautrelet had attempted to give a signal,

he alone could have struck with partial death the one man whose

evidence could injure him. It was not that Beautrelet felt himself to

be discovered or thought that Lupin, hearing of his stealthy attack and

knowing that a letter had reached him, was defending himself against

him personally. But what an amount of foresight and real intelligence

it displayed to suppress any possible accusation on the part of that

chance wayfarer! Nobody now knew that within the walls of a park there

lay a prisoner asking for help.

Nobody? Yes, Beautrelet. Gaffer Charel was unable to speak. Very well.

But, at least, one could find out which fair the old man had visited

and which was the logical road that he had taken to return by. And,

along this road, perhaps it would at last be possible to find—

Isidore, as it was, had been careful not to visit Gaffer Charel’s hovel

except with the greatest precautions and in such a way as not to give

an alarm. He now decided not to go back to it. He made inquiries and

learnt that Friday was market-day at Fresselines, a fair-sized town

situated a few leagues off, which could be reached either by the rather

winding highroad or by a series of short cuts.

On the Friday, he chose the road and saw nothing that attracted his

attention, no high walled enclosure, no semblance of an old castle.

He lunched at an inn at Fresselines and was on the point of leaving

when he saw Gaffer Charel arrive and cross the square, wheeling his

little knife-grinding barrow before him. He at once followed him at a

good distance.

The old man made two interminable waits, during which he ground dozens

of knives. Then, at last, he went away by a quite different road, which

ran in the direction of Crozant and the market-town of Éguzon.

Beautrelet followed him along this road. But he had not walked five

minutes before he received the impression that he was not alone in

shadowing the old fellow. A man was walking along between them,

stopping at the same time as Charel and starting off again when he did,

without, for that matter, taking any great precautions against being

seen.

“He is being watched,” thought Beautrelet. “Perhaps they want to know

if he stops in front of the walls—”

His heart beat violently. The event was at hand.

The three of them, one behind the other, climbed up and down the steep

slopes of the country and arrived at Crozant, famed for the colossal

ruins of its castle. There Charel made a halt of an hour’s duration.

Next he went down to the riverside and crossed the bridge.

But then a thing happened that took Beautrelet by surprise. The other

man did not cross the river. He watched the old fellow move away and,

when he had lost sight of him, turned down a path that took him right

across the fields.

Beautrelet hesitated for a few seconds as to what course to take, and

then quietly decided. He set off in pursuit of the man.

“He has made sure,” he thought, “that Gaffer Charel has gone straight

ahead. That is all he wanted to know and so he is going—where? To the

castle?”

He was within touch of the goal. He felt it by a sort of agonizing

gladness that uplifted his whole being.

The man plunged into a dark wood overhanging the river and then

appeared once more in the full light, where the path met the horizon.

When Beautrelet, in his turn, emerged from the wood, he was greatly

surprised no longer to see the man. He was seeking him with his eyes

when, suddenly, he gave a stifled cry and, with a backward spring, made

for the line of trees which he had just left. On his right, he had seen

a rampart of high walls, flanked, at regular distances, by massive

buttresses.

It was there! It was there! Those walls held his father captive! He had

found the secret place where Lupin confined his victim.

He dared not quit the shelter which the thick foliage of the wood

afforded him. Slowly, almost on all fours, he bore to the right and in

this way reached the top of a hillock that rose to the level of the

neighboring trees. The walls were taller still. Nevertheless, he

perceived the roof of the castle which they surrounded, an old Louis

XIII. roof, surmounted by very slender bell-turrets arranged

corbel-wise around a higher steeple which ran to a point.

Beautrelet did no more that day. He felt the need to reflect and to

prepare his plan of attack without leaving anything to chance. He held

Lupin safe; and it was for Beautrelet now to select the hour and the

manner of the combat.

He walked away.

Near the bridge, he met two country-girls carrying pails of milk. He

asked:

“What is the name of the castle over there, behind the trees?”

“That’s the Château de l’Aiguille, sir.”

He had put his question without attaching any importance to it. The

answer took away his breath:

“The Château de l’Aiguille?—Oh!—But in what department are we? The

Indre?”

“Certainly not. The Indre is on the other side of the river. This side,

it’s the Creuse.”

Isidore saw it all in a flash. The Château de l’Aiguille! The

department of the Creuse! _L’Aiguille Creuse!_ The Hollow Needle! The

very key to the document! Certain, decisive, absolute victory!

Without another word, he turned his back on the two girls and went his

way, tottering like a drunken man.

CHAPTER SIX

AN HISTORIC SECRET

Beautrelet’s resolve was soon taken: he would act alone. To inform the

police was too dangerous. Apart from the fact that he could only offer

presumptions, he dreaded the slowness of the police, their inevitable

indiscretions, the whole preliminary inquiry, during which Lupin, who

was sure to be warned, would have time to effect a retreat in good

order.

At eight o’clock the next morning, with his bundle under his arm, he

left the inn in which he was staying near Cuzion, made for the nearest

thicket, took off his workman’s clothes, became once more the young

English painter that he had been and went to call on the notary at

Éguzon, the largest place in the immediate neighborhood.

He said that he liked the country and that he was thinking of taking up

his residence there, with his relations, if he could find a suitable

house.

The notary mentioned a number of properties. Beautrelet took note of

them and let fall that some one had spoken to him of the Château de

l’Aiguille, on the bank of the Creuse.

“Oh, yes, but the Château de l’Aiguille, which has belonged to one of

my clients for the last five years, is not for sale.”

“He lives in it, then?”

“He used to live in it, or rather his mother did. But she did not care

for it; found the castle rather gloomy. So they left it last year.”

“And is no one living there at present?”

“Yes, an Italian, to whom my client let it for the summer season: Baron

Anfredi.”

“Oh, Baron Anfredi! A man still young, rather grave and

solemn-looking—?”

“I’m sure I can’t say.—My client dealt with him direct. There was no

regular agreement, just a letter—”

“But you know the baron?”

“No, he never leaves the castle.—Sometimes, in his motor, at night, so

they say. The marketing is done by an old cook, who talks to nobody.

They are queer people—”

“Do you think your client would consent to sell his castle?”

“I don’t think so. It’s an historic castle, built in the purest Louis

XIII. style. My client was very fond of it; and, unless he has changed

his mind—”

“Can you give me his name and address?”

“Louis Valméras, 34, Rue du Mont-Thabor.”

Beautrelet took the train for Paris at the nearest station. On the next

day but one, after three fruitless calls, he at last found Louis

Valméras at home. He was a man of about thirty, with a frank and

pleasing face. Beautrelet saw no need to beat about the bush, stated

who he was and described his efforts and the object of the step which

he was now taking:

“I have good reason to believe,” he concluded, “that my father is

imprisoned in the Château de l’Aiguille, doubtless in the company of

other victims. And I have come to ask you what you know of your tenant,

Baron Anfredi.”

“Not much. I met Baron Anfredi last winter at Monte Carlo. He had heard

by accident that I was the owner of the Château de l’Aiguille and, as

he wished to spend the summer in France, he made me an offer for it.”

“He is still a young man—”

“Yes, with very expressive eyes, fair hair—”

“And a beard?”

“Yes, ending in two points, which fall over a collar fastened at the

back, like a clergyman’s. In fact, he looks a little like an English

parson.”

“It’s he,” murmured Beautrelet, “it’s he, as I have seen him: it’s his

exact description.”

“What! Do you think—?”

“I think, I am sure that your tenant is none other than Arsène Lupin.”

The story amused Louis Valméras. He knew all the adventures of Arsène

Lupin and the varying fortunes of his struggle with Beautrelet. He

rubbed his hands:

“Ha, the Château de l’Aiguille will become famous!—I’m sure I don’t

mind, for, as a matter of fact, now that my mother no longer lives in

it, I have always thought that I would get rid of it at the first

opportunity. After this, I shall soon find a purchaser. Only—”

“Only what?”

“I will ask you to act with the most extreme prudence and not to inform

the police until you are quite sure. Can you picture the situation,

supposing my tenant were not Arsène Lupin?”

Beautrelet set forth his plan. He would go alone at night; he would

climb the walls; he would sleep in the park— Louis Valméras stopped him

at once:

“You will not climb walls of that height so easily. If you do, you will

be received by two huge sheep-dogs which belonged to my mother and

which I left behind at the castle.”

“Pooh! A dose of poison—”

“Much obliged. But suppose you escaped them. What then? How would you

get into the castle? The doors are massive, the windows barred. And,

even then, once you were inside, who would guide you? There are eighty

rooms.”

“Yes, but that room with two windows, on the second story—”

“I know it, we call it the glycine room. But how will you find it?

There are three staircases and a labyrinth of passages. I can give you

the clue and explain the way to you, but you would get lost just the

same.”

“Come with me,” said Beautrelet, laughing.

“I can’t. I have promised to go to my mother in the South.”

Beautrelet returned to the friend with whom he was staying and began to

make his preparations. But, late in the day, as he was getting ready to

go, he received a visit from Valméras.

“Do you still want me?”

“Rather!”

“Well, I’m coming with you. Yes, the expedition fascinates me. I think

it will be very amusing and I like being mixed up in this sort of

thing.—Besides, my help will be of use to you. Look, here’s something

to start with.”

He held up a big key, all covered with rust and looking very old.

“What does the key open?” asked Beautrelet.

“A little postern hidden between two buttresses and left unused since

centuries ago. I did not even think of pointing it out to my tenant. It

opens straight on the country, just at the verge of the wood.”

Beautrelet interrupted him quickly:

“They know all about that outlet. It was obviously by this way that the

man whom I followed entered the park. Come, it’s fine game and we shall

win it. But, by Jupiter, we must play our cards carefully!”

Two days later, a half-famished horse dragged a gipsy caravan into

Crozant. Its driver obtained leave to stable it at the end of the

village, in an old deserted cart-shed. In addition to the driver, who

was none other than Valméras, there were three young men, who occupied

themselves in the manufacture of wicker-work chairs: Beautrelet and two

of his Janson friends.

They stayed there for three days, waiting for a propitious, moonless

night and roaming singly round the outskirts of the park. Once

Beautrelet saw the postern. Contrived between two buttresses placed

very close together, it was almost merged, behind the screen of

brambles that concealed it, in the pattern formed by the stones of the

wall.

At last, on the fourth evening, the sky was covered with heavy black

clouds and Valméras decided that they should go reconnoitring, at the

risk of having to return again, should circumstances prove unfavorable.

All four crossed the little wood. Then Beautrelet crept through the

heather, scratched his hands at the bramble-hedge and, half raising

himself, slowly, with restrained movements, put the key into the lock.

He turned it gently. Would the door open without an effort? Was there

no bolt closing it on the other side? He pushed: the door opened,

without a creak or jolt. He was in the park.

“Are you there, Beautrelet?” asked Valméras. “Wait for me. You two

chaps, watch the door and keep our line of retreat open. At the least

alarm, whistle.”

He took Beautrelet’s hand and they plunged into the dense shadow of the

thickets. A clearer space was revealed to them when they reached the

edge of the central lawn. At the same moment a ray of moonlight pierced

the clouds; and they saw the castle, with its pointed turrets arranged

around the tapering spire to which, no doubt, it owed its name. There

was no light in the windows; not a sound.

Valméras grasped his companion’s arm:

“Keep still!”

“What is it?”

“The dogs, over there—look—”

There was a growl. Valméras gave a low whistle. Two white forms leapt

forward and, in four bounds, came and crouched at their master’s feet.

“Gently—lie down—that’s it—good dogs—stay there.”

And he said to Beautrelet:

“And now let us push on. I feel more comfortable.”

“Are you sure of the way?”

“Yes. We are near the terrace.”

“And then?”

“I remember that, on the left, at a place where the river terrace rises

to the level of the ground-floor windows, there is a shutter which

closes badly and which can be opened from the outside.”

They found, when they came to it, that the shutter yielded to pressure.

Valméras removed a pane with a diamond which he carried. He turned the

window-latch. First one and then the other stepped over the balcony.

They were now in the castle, at the end of a passage which divided the

left wing into two.

“This room,” said Valméras, “opens at the end of a passage. Then comes

an immense hall, lined with statues, and at the end of the hall a

staircase which ends near the room occupied by your father.”

He took a step forward.

“Are you coming, Beautrelet?”

“Yes, yes.”

“But no, you’re not coming—What’s the matter with you?”

He seized him by the hand. It was icy cold and he perceived that the

young man was cowering on the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” he repeated.

“Nothing—it’ll pass off—”

“But what is it?”

“I’m afraid—”

“You’re afraid?”

“Yes,” Beautrelet confessed, frankly, “it’s my nerves giving way—I

generally manage to control them—but, to-day, the silence—the

excitement—And then, since I was stabbed by that magistrate’s clerk—But

it will pass off—There, it’s passing now—”

He succeeded in rising to his feet and Valméras dragged him out of the

room. They groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither

could hear a sound made by the other.

A faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were

making. Valméras put his head round the corner. It was a night-light

placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed

through the frail branches of a palm tree.

“Halt!” whispered Valméras.

Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun.

Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him,

for he brought the gun to his shoulder.

Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant,

and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest.

Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the

man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the

direction of the tub.

Terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. A moonbeam had glided

through a window on the staircase. And, suddenly, Beautrelet became

aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before

fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full

in his face.

Great drops of perspiration fell from his forehead on his trembling

hands. His anguish was such that he was on the point of getting up and

running away—But, remembering that Valméras was there, he sought him

with his eyes and was astounded to see him, or rather to imagine him,

creeping in the dark, under cover of the statues and plants. He was

already at the foot of the stairs, within a few steps of the man.

What was he going to do? To pass in spite of all? To go upstairs alone

and release the prisoner? But could he pass?

Beautrelet no longer saw him and he had an impression that something

was about to take place, something that seemed foreboded also by the

silence, which hung heavier, more awful than before.

And, suddenly, a shadow springing upon the man, the night-light

extinguished, the sound of a struggle—Beautrelet ran up. The two bodies

had rolled over on the flagstones. He tried to stoop and see. But he

heard a hoarse moan, a sigh; and one of the adversaries rose to his

feet and seized him by the arm:

“Quick!—Come along!”

It was Valméras.

They went up two storys and came out at the entrance to a corridor,

covered by a hanging.

“To the right,” whispered Valméras. “The fourth room on the left.”

They soon found the door of the room. As they expected, the captive was

locked in. It took them half an hour, half an hour of stifled efforts,

of muffled attempts, to force open the lock. The door yielded at last.

Beautrelet groped his way to the bed. His father was asleep.

He woke him gently:

“It’s I—Isidore—and a friend—don’t be afraid—get up—not a word.”

The father dressed himself, but, as they were leaving the room, he

whispered:

“I am not alone in the castle—”

“Ah? Who else? Ganimard? Shears?”

“No—at least, I have not seen them.”

“Who then?”

“A young girl.”

“Mlle. de Saint-Véran, no doubt.”

“I don’t know—I saw her several times at a distance, in the park—and,

when I lean out of my window, I can see hers. She has made signals to

me.”

“Do you know which is her room?”

“Yes, in this passage, the third on the right.”

“The blue room,” murmured Valméras. “It has folding doors: they won’t

give us so much trouble.”

One of the two leaves very soon gave way. Old Beautrelet undertook to

tell the girl.

Ten minutes later, he left the room with her and said to his son:

“You were right—Mlle. de Saint-Véran—;”

They all four went down the stairs. When they reached the bottom,

Valméras stopped and bent over the man. Then, leading them to the

terrace-room:

“He is not dead,” he said. “He will live.”

“Ah!” said Beautrelet, with a sigh of relief.

“No, fortunately, the blade of my knife bent: the blow is not fatal.

Besides, in any case, those rascals deserve no pity.”

Outside, they were met by the dogs, which accompanied them to the

postern. Here, Beautrelet found his two friends and the little band

left the park. It was three o’clock in the morning.

This first victory was not enough to satisfy Beautrelet. As soon as he

had comfortably settled his father and Mlle. de Saint-Véran, he asked

them about the people who lived at the castle, and, particularly, about

the habits of Arsène Lupin. He thus learnt that Lupin came only every

three or four days, arriving at night in his motor car and leaving

again in the morning. At each of his visits, he called separately upon

his two prisoners, both of whom agreed in praising his courtesy and his

extreme civility. For the moment, he was not at the castle.

Apart from him, they had seen no one except an old woman, who ruled

over the kitchen and the house, and two men, who kept watch over them

by turns and never spoke to them: subordinates, obviously, to judge by

their manners and appearance.

“Two accomplices, for all that,” said Beautrelet, in conclusion, “or

rather three, with the old woman. It is a bag worth having. And, if we

lose no time—”

He jumped on his bicycle, rode to Éguzon, woke up the gendarmerie, set

them all going, made them sound the boot and saddle and returned to

Crozant at eight o’clock, accompanied by the sergeant and eight

gendarmes. Two of the men were posted beside the gipsy-van. Two others

took up their positions outside the postern-door. The last four,

commanded by their chief and accompanied by Beautrelet and Valméras,

marched to the main entrance of the castle.

Too late. The door was wide open. A peasant told them that he had seen

a motor car drive out of the castle an hour before.

Indeed, the search led to no result. In all probability, the gang had

installed themselves there picnic fashion. A few clothes were found, a

little linen, some household implements; and that was all.

What astonished Beautrelet and Valméras more was the disappearance of

the wounded man. They could not see the faintest trace of a struggle,

not even a drop of blood on the flagstones of the hall.

All said, there was no material evidence to prove the fleeting presence

of Lupin at the Château de l’Aiguille; and the authorities would have

been entitled to challenge the statements of Beautrelet and his father,

of Valméras and Mlle. de Saint-Véran, had they not ended by

discovering, in a room next to that occupied by the young girl, some

half-dozen exquisite bouquets with Arsène Lupin’s card pinned to them,

bouquets scorned by her, faded and forgotten—One of them, in addition

to the card, contained a letter which Raymonde had not seen. That

afternoon, when opened by the examining magistrate, it was found to

contain page upon page of prayers, entreaties, promises, threats,

despair, all the madness of a love that has encountered nothing but

contempt and repulsion.

And the letter ended:

I shall come on Tuesday evening, Raymonde. Reflect between now and

then. As for me, I will wait no longer. I am resolved on all.

Tuesday evening was the evening of the very day on which Beautrelet had

released Mlle. de Saint-Véran from her captivity.

The reader will remember the extraordinary explosion of surprise and

enthusiasm that resounded throughout the world at the news of that

unexpected issue: Mlle. de Saint-Véran free! The pretty girl whom Lupin

coveted, to secure whom he had contrived his most Machiavellian

schemes, snatched from his claws! Free also Beautrelet’s father, whom

Lupin had chosen as a hostage in his extravagant longing for the

armistice demanded by the needs of his passion! They were both free,

the two prisoners! And the secret of the Hollow Needle was known,

published, flung to the four corners of the world!

The crowd amused itself with a will. Ballads were sold and sung about

the defeated adventurer: _Lupin’s Little Love-Affairs!—Arsène’s Piteous

Sobs!—The Lovesick Burglar! The Pickpocket’s Lament!_—They were cried

on the boulevards and hummed in the artists’ studios.

Raymonde, pressed with questions and pursued by interviewers, replied

with the most extreme reserve. But there was no denying the letter, or

the bouquets of flowers, or any part of the pitiful story! Then and

there, Lupin, scoffed and jeered at, toppled from his pedestal.

And Beautrelet became the popular idol. He had foretold everything,

thrown light on everything. The evidence which Mlle. de Saint-Véran

gave before the examining magistrate confirmed, down to the smallest

detail, the hypothesis imagined by Isidore. Reality seemed to submit,

in every point, to what he had decreed beforehand. Lupin had found his

master.—

Beautrelet insisted that his father, before returning to his mountains

in Savoy, should take a few months’ rest in the sunshine, and himself

escorted him and Mlle. de Saint-Véran to the outskirts of Nice, where

the Comte de Gesvres and his daughter Suzanne were already settled for

the winter. Two days later, Valméras brought his mother to see his new

friends and they thus composed a little colony grouped around the Villa

de Gesvres and watched over day and night by half a dozen men engaged

by the comte.

Early in October, Beautrelet, once more the sixth-form pupil, returned

to Paris to resume the interrupted course of his studies and to prepare

for his examinations. And life began again, calmer, this time, and free

from incident. What could happen, for that matter. Was the war not

over?

Lupin, on his side, must have felt this very clearly, must have felt

that there was nothing left for him but to resign himself to the

accomplished fact; for, one fine day, his two other victims, Ganimard

and Holmlock Shears, made their reappearance. Their return to the life

of this planet, however, was devoid of any sort of glamor or

fascination. An itinerant rag-man picked them up on the Quai des

Orfèvres, opposite the headquarters of police. Both of them were

gagged, bound and fast asleep.

After a week of complete bewilderment, they succeeded in recovering the

control of their thought and told—or rather Ganimard told, for Shears

wrapped himself in a fierce and stubborn silence—how they had made a

voyage of circumnavigation round the coast of Africa on board the yacht

_Hirondelle_, a voyage combining amusement with instruction, during

which they could look upon themselves as free, save for a few hours

which they spent at the bottom of the hold, while the crew went on

shore at outlandish ports.

As for their landing on the Quai des Orfèvres, they remembered nothing

about it and had probably been asleep for many days before.

This liberation of the prisoners was the final confession of defeat. By

ceasing to fight, Lupin admitted it without reserve.

One incident, moreover, made it still more glaring, which was the

engagement of Louis Valméras and Mlle. de Saint-Véran. In the intimacy

created between them by the new conditions under which they lived, the

two young people fell in love with each other. Valméras loved

Raymonde’s melancholy charm; and she, wounded by life, greedy for

protection, yielded before the strength and energy of the man who had

contributed so gallantly to her preservation.

The wedding day was awaited with a certain amount of anxiety. Would

Lupin not try to resume the offensive? Would he accept with a good

grace the irretrievable loss of the woman he loved? Twice or three

times, suspicious-looking people were seen prowling round the villa;

and Valméras even had to defend himself one evening against a so-called

drunken man, who fired a pistol at him and sent a bullet through his

hat. But, in the end, the ceremony was performed at the appointed hour

and day and Raymonde de Saint-Véran became Mme. Louis Valméras.

It was as though Fate herself had taken sides with Beautrelet and

countersigned the news of victory. This was so apparent to the crowd

that his admirers now conceived the notion of entertaining him at a

banquet to celebrate his triumph and Lupin’s overthrow. It was a great

idea and aroused general enthusiasm. Three hundred tickets were sold in

less than a fortnight. Invitations were issued to the public schools of

Paris, to send two sixth-form pupils apiece. The press sang pæans. The

banquet was what it could not fail to be, an apotheosis.

But it was a charming and simple apotheosis, because Beautrelet was its

hero. His presence was enough to bring things back to their due

proportion. He showed himself modest, as usual, a little surprised at

the excessive cheering, a little embarrassed by the extravagant

panegyrics in which he was pronounced greater than the most illustrious

detectives—a little embarrassed, but also not a little touched.

He said as much in a few words that pleased all his hearers and with

the shyness of a child that blushes when you look at it. He spoke of

his delight, of his pride. And really, reasonable and self-controlled

as he was, this was for him a moment of never-to-be-forgotten

exultation. He smiled to his friends, to his fellow-Jansonians, to

Valméras, who had come specially to give him a cheer, to M. de Gesvres,

to his father.

When he had finished speaking; and while he still held his glass in his

hand, a sound of voices came from the other end of the room and some

one was gesticulating and waving a newspaper. Silence was restored and

the importunate person sat down again: but a thrill of curiosity ran

round the table, the newspaper was passed from hand to hand and, each

time that one of the guests cast his eyes upon the page at which it was

opened, exclamations followed:

“Read it! Read it!” they cried from the opposite side.

The people were leaving their seats at the principal table. M.

Beautrelet went and took the paper and handed it to his son.

“Read it out! Read it out!” they cried, louder.

And others said:

“Listen! He’s going to read it! Listen!”

Beautrelet stood facing his audience, looked in the evening paper which

his father had given him for the article that was causing all this

uproar and, suddenly, his eyes encountering a heading underlined in

blue pencil, he raised his hand to call for silence and began in a loud

voice to read a letter addressed to the editor by M. Massiban, of the

Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres. His voice broke and fell,

little by little, as he read those stupefying revelations, which

reduced all his efforts to nothing, upset his notions concerning the

Hollow Needle and proved the vanity of his struggle with Arsène Lupin:

SIR:

On the 17th of March, 1679, there appeared a little book with the

following title: _The Mystery of the Hollow Needle. The Whole Truth now

first exhibited. One hundred copies printed by myself for the

instruction of the Court._

At nine o’clock on the morning of that day, the author, a very young

man, well-dressed, whose name has remained unknown, began to leave his

book on the principal persons at court. At ten o’clock, when he had

fulfilled four of these errands, he was arrested by a captain in the

guards, who took him to the king’s closet and forthwith set off in

search of the four copies distributed.

When the hundred copies were got together, counted, carefully looked

through and verified, the king himself threw them into the fire and

burnt them, all but one, which he kept for his own purposes.

Then he ordered the captain of the guards to take the author of the

book to M. de Saint-Mars, who confined his prisoner first at Pignerol

and then in the fortress of the Ile Sainte-Marguerite. This man was

obviously no other than the famous Man with the Iron Mask.

The truth would never have been known, or at least a part of the truth,

if the captain in the guards had not been present at the interview and

if, when the king’s back was turned, he had not been tempted to

withdraw another of the copies from the chimney, before the fire got to

it.

Six months later, the captain was found dead on the highroad between

Gaillon and Mantes. His murderers had stripped him of all his apparel,

forgetting, however, in his right boot a jewel which was discovered

there afterward, a diamond of the first water and of considerable

value.

Among his papers was found a sheet in his handwriting, in which he did

not speak of the book snatched from the flames, but gave a summary of

the earlier chapters. It referred to a secret which was known to the

Kings of England, which was lost by them when the crown passed from the

poor fool, Henry VI., to the Duke of York, which was revealed to

Charles VII., King of France, by Joan of Arc and which, becoming a

State secret, was handed down from sovereign to sovereign by means of a

letter, sealed anew on each occasion, which was found in the deceased

monarch’s death-bed with this superscription: “For the King of France.”

This secret concerned the existence and described the whereabouts of a

tremendous treasure, belonging to the kings, which increased in

dimensions from century to century.

One hundred and fourteen years later, Louis XVI., then a prisoner in

the Temple, took aside one of the officers whose duty it was to guard

the royal family, and asked:

“Monsieur, had you not an ancestor who served as a captain under my

predecessor, the Great King?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, could you be relied upon—could you be relied upon—”

He hesitated. The officer completed the sentence:

“Not to betray your Majesty! Oh, sire!—”

“Then listen to me.”

He took from his pocket a little book of which he tore out one of the

last pages. But, altering his mind:

“No, I had better copy it—”

He seized a large sheet of paper and tore it in such a way as to leave

only a small rectangular space, on which he copied five lines of dots,

letters and figures from the printed page. Then, after burning the

latter, he folded the manuscript sheet in four, sealed it with red wax,

and gave it to the officer.

“Monsieur, after my death, you must hand this to the Queen and say to

her, ‘From the King, madame—for Your Majesty and for your son.’ If she

does not understand—”

“If she does not understand, sire—”

“You must add, ‘It concerns the secret, the secret of the Needle.’ The

Queen will understand.”

When he had finished speaking, he flung the book into the embers

glowing on the hearth.

He ascended the scaffold on the 21st of January.

It took the officer several months, in consequence of the removal of

the Queen to the Conciergerie, before he could fulfil the mission with

which he was entrusted. At last, by dint of cunning intrigues, he

succeeded, one day, in finding himself in the presence of Marie

Antoinette.

Speaking so that she could just hear him, he said:

“Madame, from the late King, your husband, for Your Majesty and your

son.”

And he gave her the sealed letter.

She satisfied herself that the jailers could not see her, broke the

seals, appeared surprised at the sight of those undecipherable lines

and then, all at once, seemed to understand.

She smiled bitterly and the officer caught the words:

“Why so late?”

She hesitated. Where should she hide this dangerous document? At last,

she opened her book of hours and slipped the paper into a sort of

secret pocket contrived between the leather of the binding and the

parchment that covered it.

“Why so late?” she had asked.

It is, in fact, probable that this document, if it could have saved

her, came too late, for, in the month of October next, Queen Marie

Antoinette ascended the scaffold in her turn.

Now the officer, when going through his family papers, came upon his

ancestor’s manuscript. From that moment, he had but one idea, which was

to devote his leisure to elucidating this strange problem. He read all

the Latin authors, studied all the chronicles of France and those of

the neighboring countries, visited the monasteries, deciphered

account-books, cartularies, treaties; and, in this way, succeeded in

discovering certain references scattered over the ages.

In Book III of Cæsar’s _Commentaries on the Gallic War_ (MS. edition,

Alexandria), it is stated that, after the defeat of Veridovix by G.

Titullius Sabinus, the chief of the Caleti was brought before Cæsar and

that, for his ransom, he revealed the secret of the Needle—

The Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, between Charles the Simple and

Rollo, the chief of the Norse barbarians, gives Rollo’s name followed

by all his titles, among which we read that of Master of the Secret of

the Needle.

The _Saxon Chronicle_ (Gibson’s edition, page 134), speaking of William

the Conqueror, says that the staff of his banner ended in a steel point

pierced with an eye, like a needle.

In a rather ambiguous phrase in her examination, Joan of Arc admits

that she has still a great secret to tell the King of France. To which

her judges reply, “Yes, we know of what you speak; and that, Joan, is

why you shall die the death.”

Philippe de Comines mentions it in connection with Louis XI., and,

later, Sully in connection with Henry IV.: “By the virtue of the

Needle!” the good king sometimes swears.

Between these two, Francis I., in a speech addressed to the notables of

the Havre, in 1520, uttered this phrase, which has been handed down in

the diary of a Honfleur burgess; “The Kings of France carry secrets

that often decide the conduct of affairs and the fate of towns.”

All these quotations, all the stories relating to the Iron Mask, the

captain of the guards and his descendant, I have found to-day in a

pamphlet written by this same descendant and published in the month of

June, 1815, just before or just after the battle of Waterloo, in a

period, therefore, of great upheavals, in which the revelations which

it contained were likely to pass unperceived.

What is the value of this pamphlet? Nothing, you will tell me, and we

must attach no credit to it. And this is the impression which I myself

would have carried away, if it had not occurred to me to open Cæsar’s

_Commentaries_ at the chapter given. What was my astonishment when I

came upon the phrase quoted in the little book before me! And it was

the same thing with the Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, with the _Saxon

Chronicle_, with the examination of Joan of Arc, in short, with all

that I have been able to verify up to the present.

Lastly, there is an even more precise fact related by the author of the

pamphlet of 1815. During the French campaign, he being then an officer

under Napoleon, his horse dropped dead, one evening, and he rang at the

door of a castle where he was received by an old knight of St. Louis.

And, in the course of conversation with the old man, he learnt that

this castle, standing on the bank of the Creuse, was called the Château

de l’Aiguille, that it had been built and christened by Louis XIV., and

that, by his express order, it was adorned with turrets and with a

spire which represented the Needle. As its date it bore, it must still

bear, the figure 1680.

1680! One year after the publication of the book and the imprisonment

of the Iron Mask! Everything was now explained: Louis XIV., foreseeing

that the secret might be noised abroad, had built and named that castle

so as to offer the quidnuncs a natural explanation of the ancient

mystery. The Hollow Needle! A castle with pointed bell-turrets standing

on the bank of the Creuse and belonging to the King. People would at

once think that they had the key to the riddle and all enquiries would

cease.

The calculation was just, seeing that, more than two centuries later,

M. Beautrelet fell into the trap. And this, Sir, is what I was leading

up to in writing this letter. If Lupin, under the name of Anfredi,

rented from M. Valméras the Château de l’Aiguille on the bank of the

Creuse; if, admitting the success of the inevitable investigations of

M. Beautrelet, he lodged his two prisoners there, it was because he

admitted the success of the inevitable researches made by M. Beautrelet

and because, with the object of obtaining the peace for which he had

asked, he laid for M. Beautrelet precisely what we may call the

historic trap of Louis XIV.

And hence we come to this undeniable conclusion, that he, Lupin, by his

unaided lights, without possessing any other facts than those which we

possess, managed by means of the witchcraft of a really extraordinary

genius, to decipher the undecipherable document; and that he, Lupin,

the last heir of the Kings of France, knows the royal mystery of the

Hollow Needle!

Here ended the letter. But, for some minutes, from the passage that

referred to the Château de l’Aiguille onward, it was not Beautrelet’s

but another voice that read it aloud. Realizing his defeat, crushed

under the weight of his humiliation, Isidore had dropped the newspaper

and sunk into his chair, with his face buried in his hands.

Panting, shaken with excitement by this incredible story, the crowd had

come gradually nearer and was now pressing round.

With a thrill of anguish, they waited for the words which he would say

in reply, the objections which he would raise.

He did not stir.

Valméras gently uncrossed his hands and raised his head.

Isidore Beautrelet was weeping.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE TREATISE OF THE NEEDLE

It is four o’clock in the morning. Isidore has not returned to the

Lycée Janson. He has no intention of returning before the end of the

war of extermination which he has declared against Lupin. This much he

swore to himself under his breath, while his friends drove off with

him, all faint and bruised, in a cab.

A mad oath! An absurd and illogical war! What can he do, a single,

unarmed stripling, against that phenomenon of energy and strength? On

which side is he to attack him? He is unassailable. Where to wound him?

He is invulnerable. Where to get at him? He is inaccessible.

Four o’clock in the morning. Isidore has again accepted his

schoolfellow’s hospitality. Standing before the chimney in his bedroom,

with his elbows flat on the mantel-shelf and his two fists under his

chin, he stares at his image in the looking-glass. He is not crying

now, he can shed no more tears, nor fling himself about on his bed, nor

give way to despair, as he has been doing for the last two hours and

more. He wants to think, to think and understand.

And he does not remove his eyes from those same eyes reflected in the

glass, as though he hoped to double his powers of thought by

contemplating his pensive image, as though he hoped to find at the back

of that mirrored Beautrelet the unsolvable solution of what he does not

find within himself.

He stands thus until six o’clock, and, little by little, the question

presents itself to his mind with the strictness of an equation, bare

and dry and cleared of all the details that complicate and obscure it.

Yes, he has made a mistake. Yes, his reading of the document is all

wrong. The word _aiguille_ does not point to the castle on the Creuse.

Also, the word _demoiselles_ cannot be applied to Raymonde de

Saint-Véran and her cousin, because the text of the document dates back

for centuries.

Therefore, all must be done over again, from the beginning.

How?

One piece of evidence alone would be incontestible: the book published

under Louis XIV. Now of those hundred copies printed by the person who

was presumed to be the Man with the Iron Mask only two escaped the

flames. One was purloined by the captain of the guards and lost. The

other was kept by Louis XIV., handed down to Louis XV., and burnt by

Louis XVI. But a copy of the essential page, the page containing the

solution of the problem, or at least a cryptographic solution, was

conveyed to Marie Antoinette, who slipped it into the binding of her

book of hours. What has become of this paper? Is it the one which

Beautrelet has held in his hands and which Lupin recovered from him

through Brédoux, the magistrate’s clerk? Or is it still in Marie

Antoinette’s book of hours? And the question resolves itself into this:

what has become of the Queen’s book of hours?

After taking a short rest, Beautrelet consulted his friend’s father, an

old and experienced collector, who was often called upon officially to

give an expert opinion and who had quite lately been invited to advise

the director of one of our museums on the drawing up of the catalogue.

“Marie Antoinette’s book of hours?” he exclaimed. “Why, the Queen left

it to her waiting-woman, with secret instructions to forward it to

Count Fersen. After being piously preserved in the count’s family, it

has been, for the last five years, in a glass case—”

“A glass case?”

“In the Musée Carnavalet, quite simply.”

“When will the museum be open?”

“At twenty minutes from now, as it is every morning.”

Isidore and his friend jumped out of a cab at the moment when the doors

of Madame de Sévigné’s old mansion were opening.

“Hullo! M. Beautrelet!”

A dozen voices greeted his arrival. To his great surprise, he

recognized the whole crowd of reporters who were following up “the

mystery of the Hollow Needle.” And one of them exclaimed:

“Funny, isn’t it, that we should all have had the same idea? Take care,

Arsène Lupin may be among us!”

They entered the museum together. The director was at once informed,

placed himself entirely at their disposal, took them to the glass case

and showed them a poor little volume, devoid of all ornament, which

certainly had nothing royal about it. Nevertheless, they were overcome

by a certain emotion at the sight of this object which the Queen had

touched in those tragic days, which her eyes, red with tears, had

looked upon—And they dared not take it and hunt through it: it was as

though they feared lest they should be guilty of a sacrilege—

“Come, M. Beautrelet, it’s your business!”

He took the book with an anxious gesture. The description corresponded

with that given by the author of the pamphlet. Outside was a parchment

cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under it, the real

binding, in stiff leather. With what a thrill Beautrelet felt for the

hidden pocket! Was it a fairy tale? Or would he find the document

written by Louis XVI. and bequeathed by the queen to her fervent

admirer?

At the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no

receptacle.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Nothing,” they echoed, palpitating with excitement.

But, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once saw

that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. He slipped his fingers

in between—there was something—yes, he felt something—a paper—

“Oh!” he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. “Here—is it possible?”

“Quick, quick!” they cried. “What are you waiting for?”

He drew out a sheet folded in two.

“Well, read it!—There are words in red ink—Look!—it might be

blood—pale, faded blood—Read it!—”

He read:

To you, Fersen. For my son.

16 October, 1793.

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

And suddenly Beautrelet gave a cry of stupefaction. Under the queen’s

signature there were—there were two words, in black ink, underlined

with a flourish—two words:

ARSÈNE LUPIN.

All, in turns, took the sheet of paper and the same cry escaped from

the lips of all of them:

“Marie Antoinette!—Arsène Lupin!”

A great silence followed. That double signature: those two names

coupled together, discovered hidden in the book of hours; that relic in

which the poor queen’s desperate appeal had slumbered for more than a

century: that horrible date of the 16th of October, 1793, the day on

which the Royal head fell: all of this was most dismally and

disconcertingly tragic.

“Arsène Lupin!” stammered one of the voices, thus emphasizing the scare

that underlay the sight of that demoniacal name at the foot of the

hallowed page.

“Yes, Arsène Lupin,” repeated Beautrelet. “The Queen’s friend was

unable to understand her desperate dying appeal. He lived with the

keepsake in his possession which the woman whom he loved had sent him

and he never guessed the reason of that keepsake. Lupin discovered

everything, on the other hand—and took it.”

“Took what?”

“The document, of course! The document written by Louis XVI.; and it is

that which I held in my hands. The same appearance, the same shape, the

same red seals. I understand why Lupin would not leave me a document

which I could turn to account by merely examining the paper, the seals

and so on.”

“And then?”

“Well, then, since the document is genuine, since I have, with my own

eyes, seen the marks of the red seals, since Marie Antoinette herself

assures me, by these few words in her hand, that the whole story of the

pamphlet, as printed by M. Massiban, is correct, because a problem of

the Hollow Needle really exists, I am now certain to succeed.”

“But how? Whether genuine or not, the document is of no use to you if

you do not manage to decipher it, because Louis XVI. destroyed the book

that gave the explanation.”

“Yes, but the other copy, which King Louis XVI.’s captain of the guards

snatched from the flames, was not destroyed.”

“How do you know?”

“Prove the contrary.”

After uttering this defiance, Beautrelet was silent for a time and

then, slowly, with his eyes closed, as though trying to fix and sum up

his thoughts, he said:

“Possessing the secret, the captain of the guards begins by revealing

it bit by bit in the journal found by his descendant. Then comes

silence. The answer to the riddle is withheld. Why? Because the

temptation to make use of the secret creeps over him little by little

and he gives way to it. A proof? His murder. A further proof? The

magnificent jewel found upon him, which he must undoubtedly have taken

from some royal treasure the hiding-place of which, unknown to all,

would just constitute the mystery of the Hollow Needle. Lupin conveyed

as much to me; Lupin was not lying.”

“Then what conclusion do you draw, Beautrelet?”

“I draw this conclusion, my friends, that it be a good thing to

advertise this story as much as possible, so that people may know,

through all the papers, that we are looking for a book entitled _The

Treatise of the Needle_. It may be fished out from the back shelves of

some provincial library.”

The paragraph was drawn up forthwith; and Beautrelet set to work at

once, without even waiting for it to produce a result. A first scent

suggested itself: the murder was committed near Gaillon. He went there

that same day. Certainly, he did not hope to reconstruct a crime

perpetrated two hundred years ago. But, all the same, there are crimes

that leave traces in the memories, in the traditions of a countryside.

They are recorded in the local chronicles. One day, some provincial

archaeologist, some lover of old legends, some student of the minor

incidents of the life of the past makes them the subject of an article

in a newspaper or of a communication to the academy of his departmental

town.

Beautrelet saw three or four of these archaeologists. With one of them

in particular, an old notary, he examined the prison records, the

ledgers of the old bailiwicks and the parish registers. There was no

entry referring to the murder of a captain of the guards in the

seventeenth century.

He refused to be discouraged and continued his search in Paris, where

the magistrate’s examination might have taken place. His efforts came

to nothing.

But the thought of another track sent him off in a fresh direction. Was

there no chance of finding out the name of that captain whose

descendant served in the armies of the Republic and was quartered in

the Temple during the imprisonment of the Royal family? By dint of

patient working, he ended by making out a list in which two names at

least presented an almost complete resemblance: M. de Larbeyrie, under

Louis XIV., and Citizen Larbrie, under the Terror.

This already was an important point. He stated it with precision in a

note which he sent to the papers, asking for any information concerning

this Larbeyrie or his descendants.

It was M. Massiban, the Massiban of the pamphlet, the member of the

Institute, who replied to him:

SIR:

Allow me to call your attention to the following passage of

Voltaire, which I came upon in his manuscript of _Le Siècle de

Louis XIV_. (Chapter XXV: _Particularités et anecdotes du régne_).

The passage has been suppressed in all the printed editions:

“I have heard it said by the late M. de Caumartin, intendant of

finance, who was a friend of Chamillard the minister, that the King one

day left hurriedly in his carriage at the news that M. de Larbeyrie had

been murdered and robbed of some magnificent jewels. He seemed greatly

excited and repeated:

“‘All is lost—all is lost—’

“In the following year, the son of this Larbeyrie and his daughter, who

had married the Marquis de Vélines, were banished to their estates in

Provence and Brittany. We cannot doubt that there is something peculiar

in this.”

I, in my turn, will add that we can doubt it all the less inasmuch as

M. de Chamillard, according to Voltaire, _was the last minister who

possessed the strange secret of the Iron Mask_.

You will see for yourself, Sir, the profit that can be derived from

this passage and the evident link established between the two

adventures. As for myself, I will not venture to imagine any very exact

surmise as regards the conduct, the suspicions, and the apprehensions

of Louis XIV. in these circumstances; but, on the other hand, seeing

that M. de Larbeyrie left a son, who was probably the grandfather of

Larbrie the citizen-officer, and also a daughter, is it not permissible

to suppose that a part of the papers left by Larbeyrie came to the

daughter and that among these papers was the famous copy which the

captain of the guards saved from the flames?

I have consulted the Country-house Year-book. There is a Baron de

Vélines living not far from Rennes. Could he be a descendant of the

marquis? At any rate, I wrote to him yesterday, on chance, to ask if he

had not in his possession a little old book bearing on its title-page

the word _aiguille;_ and I am awaiting his reply.

It would give me the greatest pleasure to talk of all these matters

with you. If you can spare the time, come and see me.

I am, Sir, etc., etc.

P.S.—Of course, I shall not communicate these little discoveries to the

press. Now that you are near the goal, discretion is essential.

Beautrelet absolutely agreed. He even went further: to two journalists

who were worrying him that morning he gave the most fanciful

particulars as to his plans and his state of mind.

In the afternoon, he hurried round to see Massiban, who lived at 17,

Quai Voltaire. To his great surprise, he was told that M. Massiban had

gone out of town unexpectedly, leaving a note for him in case he should

call. Isidore opened it and read:

I have received a telegram which gives me some hope. So I am leaving

town and shall sleep at Rennes. You might take the evening train and,

without stopping at Rennes, go on to the little station of Vélines. We

would meet at the castle, which is two miles and a half from the

station.

The programme appealed to Beautrelet, and especially the idea that he

would reach the castle at almost the same time as Massiban, for he

feared some blunder on the part of that inexperienced man. He went back

to his friend and spent the rest of the day with him. In the evening,

he took the Brittany express and got out at Vélines as six o’clock in

the morning.

He did the two and a half miles, between bushy woods, on foot. He could

see the castle, perched on a height, from a distance: it was a hybrid

edifice, a mixture of the Renascence and Louis Philippe styles, but it

bore a stately air, nevertheless, with its four turrets and its

ivy-mantled draw-bridge.

Isidore felt his heart beat as he approached. Was he really nearing the

end of his race? Did the castle contain the key to the mystery?

He was not without fear. It all seemed too good to be true; and he

asked himself if he was not once more acting in obedience to some

infernal plan contrived by Lupin, if Massiban was not for instance, a

tool in the hands of his enemy. He burst out laughing:

“Tut, tut, I’m becoming absurd! One would really think that Lupin was

an infallible person who foresees everything, a sort of divine

omnipotence against whom nothing can prevail! Dash it all, Lupin makes

his mistakes; Lupin, too, is at the mercy of circumstances; Lupin has

an occasional slip! And it is just because of his slip in losing the

document that I am beginning to have the advantage of him. Everything

starts from that. And his efforts, when all is said, serve only to

repair the first blunder.”

And blithely, full of confidence, Beautrelet rang the bell.

“Yes, sir?” said the servant who opened the door.

“Can I see the Baron de Vélines?”

And he gave the man his card.

“Monsieur le baron is not up yet, but, if monsieur will wait—”

“Has not some one else been asking for him, a gentleman with a white

beard and a slight stoop?” asked Beautrelet, who knew Massiban’s

appearance from the photographs in the newspapers.

“Yes, the gentleman came about ten minutes ago; I showed him into the

drawing room. If monsieur will come this way—”

The interview between Massiban and Beautrelet was of the most cordial

character. Isidore thanked the old man for the first-rate information

which he owed to him and Massiban expressed his admiration for

Beautrelet in the warmest terms. Then they exchanged impressions on the

document, on their prospects of discovering the book; and Massiban

repeated what he had heard at Rennes regarding M. de Vélines. The baron

was a man of sixty, who had been left a widower many years ago and who

led a very retired life with his daughter, Gabrielle de Villemon. This

lady had just suffered a cruel blow through the loss of her husband and

her eldest son, both of whom had died as the result of a motor-car

accident.

“Monsieur le baron begs the gentlemen to be good enough to come

upstairs.”

The servant led the way to the first floor, to a large, bare-walled

room, very simply furnished with desks, pigeon-holes and tables covered

with papers and account-books.

The baron received them very affably and with the volubility often

displayed by people who live too much alone. They had great difficulty

in explaining the object of their visit.

“Oh, yes, I know, you wrote to me about it, M. Massiban. It has

something to do with a book about a needle, hasn’t it, a book which is

supposed to have come down to me from my ancestors?”

“Just so.”

“I may as well tell you that my ancestors and I have fallen out. They

had funny ideas in those days. I belong to my own time. I have broken

with the past.”

“Yes,” said Beautrelet, impatiently, “but have you no recollection of

having seen the book?—”

“Certainly, I said so in my telegram,” he exclaimed, addressing M.

Massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room and

looking out of the tall windows. “Certainly—or, at least, my daughter

thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books that lumber

up the library, upstairs—for I don’t care about reading myself—I don’t

even read the papers. My daughter does, sometimes, but only when there

is nothing the matter with Georges, her remaining son! As for me, as

long as my tenants pay their rents and my leases are kept up—! You see

my account-books: I live in them, gentlemen; and I confess that I know

absolutely nothing whatever about that story of which you wrote to me

in your letter, M. Massiban—”

Isidore Beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted him

bluntly:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book—”

“My daughter has looked for it. She looked for it all day yesterday.”

“Well?”

“Well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. When you arrived—”

“And where is it?”

“Where is it? Why, she put it on that table—there it is—over there—”

Isidore gave a bound. At one end of the table, on a muddled heap of

papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. He banged his fist down

upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it—and also a

little as though he himself dared not take it up.

“Well!” cried Massiban, greatly excited.

“I have it—here it is—we’re there at last!”

“But the title—are you sure?—”

“Why, of course: look!”

“Are you convinced? Have we mastered the secret at last?”

“The front page—what does the front page say?”

“Read: _The Whole Truth now first exhibited. One hundred copies printed

by myself for the instruction of the Court_.”

“That’s it, that’s it,” muttered Massiban, in a hoarse voice. “It’s the

copy snatched from the flames! It’s the very book which Louis XIV.

condemned.”

They turned over the pages. The first part set forth the explanations

given by Captain de Larbeyrie in his journal.

“Get on, get on!” said Beautrelet, who was in a hurry to come to the

solution.

“Get on? What do you mean? Not at all! We know that the Man with the

Iron Mask was imprisoned because he knew and wished to divulge the

secret of the Royal house of France. But how did he know it? And why

did he wish to divulge it? Lastly, who was that strange personage? A

half-brother of Louis XIV., as Voltaire maintained, or Mattioli, the

Italian minister, as the modern critics declare? Hang it, those are

questions of the very first interest!”

“Later, later,” protested Beautrelet, feverishly turning the pages, as

though he feared that the book would fly out of his hands before he had

solved the riddle.

“But—” said Massiban, who doted on historical details.

“We have plenty of time—afterward—let’s see the explanation first—”

Suddenly Beautrelet stopped. The document! In the middle of a left-hand

page, his eyes saw the five mysterious lines of dots and figures! He

made sure, with a glance, that the text was identical with that which

he had studied so long; the same arrangement of the signs, the same

intervals that permitted of the isolation of the word _demoiselles_ and

the separation of the two words _aiguille_ and _creuse_.

A short note preceded it:

All the necessary indications, it appears, were reduced by King Louis

XIII. into a little table which I transcribe below.

Here followed the table of dots and figures.

Then came the explanation of the document itself. Beautrelet read, in a

broken voice:

As will be seen, this table, even after we have changed the figures

into vowels, affords no light. One might say that, in order to decipher

the puzzle, we must first know it. It is, at most, a clue given to

those who know the paths of the labyrinth.

Let us take this clue and proceed. I will guide you.

The fourth line first. The fourth line contains measurements and

indications. By complying with the indications and noting the

measurements set down, we inevitably attain our object, on

condition, be it understood, that we know where we are and whither

we are going, in a word, that we are enlightened as to the real

meaning of the Hollow Needle. This is what we may learn from the

first three lines. The first is so conceived to revenge myself on

the King; I had warned him, for that matter—

Beautrelet stopped, nonplussed.

“What? What is it?” said Massiban.

“The words don’t make sense.”

“No more they do,” replied Massiban. “‘The first is so conceived to

revenge myself on the King—’ What can that mean?”

“Damn!” yelled Beautrelet.

“Well?”

“Torn! Two pages! The next two pages! Look at the marks!”

He trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment. Massiban bent

forward.

“It is true—there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders’

guards. The marks seem pretty fresh. They’ve not been cut, but torn

out—torn out with violence. Look, all the pages at the end of the book

have been rumpled.”

“But who can have done it? Who?” moaned Isidore, wringing his hands. “A

servant? An accomplice?”

“All the same, it may date back to a few months since,” observed

Massiban.

“Even so—even so—some one must have hunted out and taken the book—Tell

me, monsieur,” cried Beautrelet, addressing the baron, “is there no one

whom you suspect?”

“We might ask my daughter.”

“Yes—yes—that’s it—perhaps she will know.”

M. de Vélines rang for the footman. A few minutes later, Mme. de

Villemon entered. She was a young woman, with a sad and resigned face.

Beautrelet at once asked her:

“You found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?”

“Yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded.”

“And you read it?”

“Yes, last night.”

“When you read it, were those two pages missing? Try and remember: the

two pages following this table of figures and dots?”

“No, certainly not,” she said, greatly astonished. “There was no page

missing at all.”

“Still, somebody has torn—”

“But the book did not leave my room last night.”

“And this morning?”

“This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban’s

arrival was announced.”

“Then—?”

“Well, I don’t understand—unless—but no.”

“What?”

“Georges—my son—this morning—Georges was playing with the book.”

She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the

baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every direction.

At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But those three

people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that

he began to yell aloud.

Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned. It

was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful

impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water

trickling through his fingers.

He made an effort to recover himself, took Mme. de Villemon’s arm, and,

followed by the baron and Massiban, led her back to the drawing room

and said:

“The book is incomplete. Very well. There are two pages torn out; but

you read them, did you not, madame?”

“Yes.”

“You know what they contained?”

“Yes.”

“Could you repeat it to us?”

“Certainly. I read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but those

two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were so very

interesting.”

“Well, then, speak madame, speak, I implore you! Those revelations are

of exceptional importance. Speak, I beg of you: minutes lost are never

recovered. The Hollow Needle—”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. The Hollow Needle means—”

At that moment, a footman entered the room:

“A letter for madame.”

“Oh, but the postman has passed!”

“A boy brought it.”

Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her

heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint.

The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and,

without troubling to apologize, read:

Not a word! If you say a word, your son will never wake again.

“My son—my son!” she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance

of the threatened child.

Beautrelet reassured her:

“It is not serious—it’s a joke. Come, who could be interested?”

“Unless,” suggested Massiban, “it was Arsène Lupin.”

Beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. He knew quite well, of

course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and determined;

and that was just why he wanted to tear from Mme. de Villemon the

decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from her on the spot,

that very moment:

“I beseech you, madame, compose yourself. We are all here. There is not

the least danger.”

Would she speak? He thought so, he hoped so. She stammered out a few

syllables. But the door opened again. This time, the nurse entered. She

seemed distraught:

“M. Georges—madame—M. Georges—!”

Suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. Quicker than any of

them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the

staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. There lay little

Georges, motionless, on a wicker chair.

“Well, what is it? He’s asleep!—”

“He fell asleep suddenly, madame,” said the nurse. “I tried to prevent

him, to carry him to his room. But he was fast asleep and his hands—his

hands were cold.”

“Cold!” gasped the mother. “Yes—it’s true. Oh dear, oh dear—_if he only

wakes up!_”

Beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of his

revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced the

weapon and fired at Massiban.

Massiban, as though he were watching the boy’s movements, had avoided

the shot, so to speak, in advance. But already Beautrelet had sprung

upon him, shouting to the servants:

“Help! It’s Lupin!”

Massiban, under the weight of the impact, fell back into one of the

wicker chairs. In a few seconds, he rose, leaving Beautrelet stunned,

choking; and, holding the young man’s revolver in his hands:

“Good!—that’s all right!—don’t stir—you’ll be like that for two or

three minutes—no more. But, upon my word, you took your time to

recognize me! Was my make-up as old Massiban so good as all that?”

He was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a

formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three petrified

footmen and the dumbfounded baron:

“Isidore, you’ve missed the chance of a lifetime. If you hadn’t told

them I was Lupin, they’d have jumped on me. And, with fellows like

that, what would have become of me, by Jove, with four to one against

me?”

He walked up to them:

“Come, my lads, don’t be afraid—I shan’t hurt you. Wouldn’t you like a

sugar-stick apiece to screw your courage up? Oh, you, by the way, hand

me back my hundred-franc note, will you? Yes, yes, I know you! You’re

the one I bribed just now to give the letter to your mistress. Come

hurry, you faithless servant.”

He took the blue bank-note which the servant handed him and tore it

into tiny shreds:

“The price of treachery! It burns my fingers.”

He took off his hat and, bowing very low before Mme. de Villemon:

“Will you forgive me, madame? The accidents of life—of mine

especially—often drive one to acts of cruelty for which I am the first

to blush. But have no fear for your son: it’s a mere prick, a little

puncture in the arm which I gave him while we were questioning him. In

an hour, at the most, you won’t know that it happened. Once more, all

my apologies. But I had to make sure of your silence.” He bowed again,

thanked M. de Vélines for his kind hospitality, took his cane, lit a

cigarette, offered one to the baron, gave a circular sweep with his hat

and, in a patronizing tone, said to Beautrelet:

“Good-bye, baby.”

And he walked away quietly, puffing the smoke of his cigarette into the

servants’ faces.

Beautrelet waited for a few minutes. Mme. de Villemon, now calmer, was

watching by her son. He went up to her, with the intention of making

one last appeal to her. Their eyes met. He said nothing. He had

understood that she would never speak now, whatever happened. There,

once more, in that mother’s brain, the secret of the Hollow Needle lay

buried as deeply as in the night of the past.

Then he gave up and went away.

It was half-past ten. There was a train at eleven-fifty. He slowly

followed the avenue in the park and turned into the road that led to

the station.

“Well, what do you say to that?”

It was Massiban, or rather Lupin, who appeared out of the wood

adjoining the road.

“Was it pretty well contrived, or was it not? Is your old friend great

on the tight-rope, or is he not? I’m sure that you haven’t got over it,

eh, and that you’re asking yourself whether the so-called Massiban,

member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres, ever existed.

But, of course, he exists. I’ll even show him to you, if you’re good.

But, first, let me give you back your revolver. You’re looking to see

if it’s loaded? Certainly, my lad. There are five charges left, one of

which would be enough to send me _ad patres_.—Well, so you’re putting

it in your pocket? Quite right. I prefer that to what you did up

there.—A nasty little impulse, that, of yours!—Still, you’re young, you

suddenly see—in a flash!—that you’ve once more been done by that

confounded Lupin and that he is standing there in front of you, at

three steps from you—and bang! You fire!—I’m not angry with you, bless

your little heart! To prove it, I offer you a seat in my 100 h.p. car.

Will that suit you?”

He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

The contrast was delicious between the venerable appearance of this

elderly Massiban and the schoolboy ways and accent which Lupin was

putting on. Beautrelet could not help laughing.

“He’s laughed! He’s laughed!” cried Lupin, jumping for joy. “You see,

baby, what you fall short in is the power of smiling; you’re a trifle

serious for your age. You’re a very likeable boy, you have a charming

candor and simplicity—but you have no sense of humor.” He placed

himself in front of him. “Look here, bet you I make you cry! Do you

know how I was able to follow up all your inquiry, how I knew of the

letter Massiban wrote you and his appointment to meet you this morning

at the Château de Vélines? Through the prattle of your friend, the one

you’re staying with. You confide in that idiot and he loses no time,

but goes and tells everything to his best girl. And his best girl has

no secrets for Lupin.—What did I tell you? I’ve made you feel, anyhow;

your eyes are quite wet!—Friendship betrayed: that upsets you, eh? Upon

my word, you’re wonderful! I could take you in my arms and hug you! You

always wear that look of astonishment which goes straight to my

heart.—I shall never forget the other evening at Gaillon, when you

consulted me.—Yes, I was the old notary!—But why don’t you laugh,

youngster? As I said, you have no sense of a joke. Look here, what you

want is—what shall I call it?—imagination, imaginative impulse. Now,

I’m full of imaginative impulse.”

A motor was heard panting not far off. Lupin seized Beautrelet roughly

by the arm and in a cold voice, looking him straight in the eyes:

“You’re going to keep quiet now, aren’t you? You can see there’s

nothing to be done. Then what’s the use of wasting your time and

energy? There are plenty of highway robbers in the world. Run after

them and let me be—if not!—It’s settled, isn’t it?”

He shook him as though to enforce his will upon him. Then he grinned:

“Fool that I am! You leave me alone? You’re not one of those who let

go! Oh, I don’t know what restrains me! In half a dozen turns of the

wrist, I could have you bound and gagged—and, in two hours, safe under

lock and key, for some months to come. And then I could twist my thumbs

in all security, withdraw to the peaceful retreat prepared for me by my

ancestors, the Kings of France, and enjoy the treasures which they have

been good enough to accumulate for me. But no, it is doomed that I must

go on blundering to the end. I can’t help it, we all have our

weaknesses—and I have one for you. Besides, it’s not done yet. From now

until you put your finger into the hollow of the Needle, a good deal of

water will flow under the bridges. Dash it all, it took me ten days!

Me! Lupin! You will want ten years, at least! There’s that much

distance between us, after all!”

The motor arrived, an immense closed car. Lupin opened the door and

Beautrelet gave a cry. There was a man inside and that man was Lupin,

or rather Massiban. Suddenly understanding, he burst out laughing.

Lupin said:

“Don’t be afraid, he’s sound asleep. I promised that you should see

him. Do you grasp the situation now? At midnight, I knew of your

appointment at the castle. At seven in the morning, I was there. When

Massiban passed, I had only to collect him—give him a tiny prick with a

needle—and the thing—was done. Sleep old chap, sleep away. We’ll set

you down on the slope. That’s it—there—capital—right in the sun, then

you won’t catch cold—good! And our hat in our hand.—Spare a copper,

kind gentleman!—Oh. my dear old Massiban, so you were after Arsène

Lupin!”

It was really a huge joke to see the two Massibans face to face, one

asleep with his head on his chest, the other seriously occupied in

paying him every sort of attention and respect:

“Pity a poor blind man! There, Massiban, here’s two sous and my

visiting-card. And now, my lads, off we go at the fourth speed. Do you

hear, driver? You’ve got to do seventy-five miles an hour. Jump in,

Isidore. There’s a full sitting of the Institute to-day, and Massiban

is to read a little paper, on I don’t know what, at half-past three.

Well, he’ll read them his little paper. I’ll dish them up a complete

Massiban, more real than the real one, with my own ideas, on the

lacustrine inscriptions. I don’t have an opportunity of lecturing at

the Institute ever day!—Faster, chauffeur: we’re only doing seventy-one

and a half!—Are you afraid? Remember you’re with Lupin!—Ah, Isidore,

and then people say that life is monotonous! Why, life’s an adorable

thing, my boy; only one has to know—and I know—. Wasn’t it enough to

make a man jump out of his skin for joy, just now, at the castle, when

you were chattering with old Vélines and I, up against the window, was

tearing out the pages of the historic book? And then, when you were

questioning the Dame de Villemon about the Hollow Needle! Would she

speak? Yes, she would—no, she wouldn’t—yes—no. It gave me gooseflesh, I

assure you.—If she spoke, I should have to build up my life anew, the

whole scaffolding was destroyed.—Would the footman come in time?

Yes—no—there he is.—But Beautrelet will unmask me! Never! He’s too much

of a flat! Yes, though—no—there, he’s done it—no, he hasn’t—yes—he’s

eyeing me—that’s it—he’s feeling for his revolver!—Oh, the delight of

it!—Isidore, you’re talking too much, you’ll hurt yourself!—Let’s have

a snooze, shall we?—I’m dying of sleep.—Good night.”

Beautrelet looked at him. He seemed almost asleep already. He slept.

The motor-car, darting through space, rushed toward a horizon that was

constantly reached and as constantly retreated. There was no impression

of towns, villages, fields or forests; simply space, space devoured,

swallowed up.

Beautrelet looked at his traveling companion, for a long time, with

eager curiosity and also with a keen wish to fathom his real character

through the mask that covered it. And he thought of the circumstances

that confined them, like that, together, in the close contact of that

motor car. But, after the excitement and disappointment of the morning,

tired in his turn, he too fell asleep.

When he woke, Lupin was reading. Beautrelet leant over to see the title

of the book. It was the _Epistolæ ad Lucilium_ of Seneca the

philosopher.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FROM CÆSAR TO LUPIN

Dash it all, it took me ten days! Me! Lupin!

You will want ten years, at least!—

These words, uttered by Lupin after leaving the Château de Vélines, had

no little influence on Beautrelet’s conduct.

Though very calm in the main and invariably master of himself, Lupin,

nevertheless, was subject to moments of exaltation, of a more or less

romantic expansiveness, at once theatrical and good-humored, when he

allowed certain admissions to escape him, certain imprudent speeches

which a boy like Beautrelet could easily turn to profit.

Rightly or wrongly, Beautrelet read one of these involuntary admissions

into that phrase. He was entitled to conclude that, if Lupin drew a

comparison between his own efforts and Beautrelet’s in pursuit of the

truth about the Hollow Needle, it was because the two of them possessed

identical means of attaining their object, because Lupin had no

elements of success different from those possessed by his adversary.

The chances were alike. Now, with the same chances, the same elements

of success, the same means, ten days had been enough for Lupin.

What were those elements, those means, those chances? They were

reduced, when all was said, to a knowledge of the pamphlet published in

1815, a pamphlet which Lupin, no doubt, like Massiban, had found by

accident and thanks to which he had succeeded in discovering the

indispensable document in Marie Antoinette’s book of hours.

Therefore, the pamphlet and the document were the only two fundamental

facts upon which Lupin had relied. With these he had built up the whole

edifice. He had had no extraneous aid. The study of the pamphlet and

the study of the document—full stop—that was all.

Well, could not Beautrelet confine himself to the same ground? What was

the use of an impossible struggle? What was the use of those vain

investigations, in which, even supposing that he avoided the pitfalls

that were multiplied under his feet, he was sure, in the end, to

achieve the poorest of results?

His decision was clear and immediate; and, in adopting it, he had the

happy instinct that he was on the right path. He began by leaving his

Janson-de-Sailly schoolfellow, without indulging in useless

recriminations, and, taking his portmanteau with him, went and

installed himself, after much hunting about, in a small hotel situated

in the very heart of Paris. This hotel he did not leave for days. At

most, he took his meals at the _table d’hôte_. The rest of the time,

locked in his room, with the window-curtains close-drawn, he spent in

thinking.

“Ten days,” Arsène Lupin had said.

Beautrelet, striving to forget all that he had done and to remember

only the elements of the pamphlet and the document, aspired eagerly to

keep within the limit of those ten days. However the tenth day passed

and the eleventh and the twelfth; but, on the thirteenth day, a gleam

lit up his brain and, very soon, with the bewildering rapidity of those

ideas which develop in us like miraculous plants, the truth emerged,

blossomed, gathered strength. On the evening of the thirteenth day, he

certainly did not know the answer to the problem, but he knew, to a

certainty, one of the methods which Lupin had, beyond a doubt,

employed.

It was a very simple method, hinging on this one question: Is there a

link of any sort uniting all the more or less important historic events

with which the pamphlet connects the mystery of the Hollow Needle?

The great diversity of these events made the question difficult to

answer. Still, the profound examination to which Beautrelet applied

himself ended by pointing to one essential characteristic which was

common to them all. Each one of them, without exception, had happened

within the boundaries of the old kingdom of Neustria, which correspond

very nearly with those of our present-day Normandy. All the heroes of

the fantastic adventure are Norman, or become Norman, or play their

part in the Norman country.

What a fascinating procession through the ages! What a rousing

spectacle was that of all those barons, dukes and kings, starting from

such widely opposite points to meet in this particular corner of the

world! Beautrelet turned the pages of history at haphazard: it was

Rolf, or Rou, or Rollo, first Duke of _Normandy_, who was master of the

secret of the Needle, according to the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte!

It was William the Conqueror, Duke of _Normandy_ and King of England,

whose bannerstaff was pierced like a needle!

It was at _Rouen_ that the English burnt Joan of Arc, mistress of the

secret!

And right at the beginning of the adventure, who is that chief of the

Caleti who pays his ransom to Cæsar with the secret of the Needle but

the chief of the men of the Caux country, which lies in the very heart

of _Normandy?_

The supposition becomes more definite. The field narrows. Rouen, the

banks of the Seine, the Caux country: it really seems as though all

roads lead in that direction. Two kings of France are mentioned more

particularly, after the secret is lost by the Dukes of Normandy and

their heirs, the kings of England, and becomes the royal secret of

France; and these two are King Henry IV., who laid siege to Rouen and

won the battle of Arques, near Dieppe, and Francis I., who founded the

Havre and uttered that suggestive phrase:

“The kings of France carry secrets that often decide the fate of

towns!”

Rouen, Dieppe, the Havre: the three angles of the triangle, the three

large towns that occupy the three points. In the centre, the Caux

country.

The seventeenth century arrives. Louis XIV. burns the book in which a

person unknown reveals the truth. Captain de Larbeyrie masters a copy,

profits by the secret thus obtained, steals a certain number of jewels

and dies by the hand of highway murderers. Now at which spot is the

ambush laid? At Gaillon! At Gaillon, a little town on the road leading

from Havre, Rouen or Dieppe to Paris!

A year later, Louis XIV. buys a domain and builds the Château de

l’Aiguille. Where does he select his site? In the Midlands of France,

with the result that the curious are thrown off the scent and do not

hunt about in Normandy.

Rouen, Dieppe, the Havre—the Cauchois triangle—everything lies there.

On one side, the sea; on another, the Seine: on the third, the two

valleys that lead from Rouen to Dieppe.

A light flashed across Beautrelet’s mind. That extent of ground, that

country of the high tablelands which run from the cliffs of the Seine

to the cliffs of the Channel almost invariably constituted the field of

operations of Arsène Lupin. For ten years, it was just this district

which he parcelled out for his purposes, as though he had his haunt in

the very centre of the region with which, the legend of the Hollow

Needle was most closely connected.

The affair of Baron Cahorn?[3] Or the banks of the Seine, between Rouen

and the Havre.

[3] _The Seven of Hearts_, by Maurice Leblanc. II; _Arsène Lupin in

Prison._

The Thibermenil case?[4] At the other end of the tableland, between

Rouen and Dieppe.

[4] _The Seven of Hearts_. IX: _Holmlock Shears Arrives Too Late_.

The Gruchet, Montigny, Crasville burglaries? In the midst of the Caux

country.

Where was Lupin going when he was attacked and bound hand and foot, in

his compartment by Pierre Onfrey, the Auteuil murderer?[5] To Rouen.

[5] _The Seven of Hearts_. IV: _The Mysterious Railway-passenger_.

Where was Holmlock Shears, Lupin’s prisoner, put on board ship?[6] Near

the Havre.

[6] _Arsène Lupin versus Holmlock Shears_, by Maurice Leblanc, Chapter

V: _Kidnapped_.

And what was the scene of the whole of the present tragedy? Ambrumésy,

on the road between the Havre and Dieppe.

Rouen, Dieppe, the Havre: always the Cauchois triangle.

And so, a few years earlier, possessing the pamphlet and knowing the

hiding-place in which Marie Antoinette had concealed the document,

Arsène Lupin had ended by laying his hand on the famous book of hours.

Once in possession of the document, he took the field, “found” and

settled down as in a conquered country.

Beautrelet took the field.

He set out in genuine excitement, thinking of the same journey which

Lupin had taken, of the same hopes with which he must have throbbed

when he thus went in search of the tremendous secret which was to arm

him with so great a power. Would his, Beautrelet’s efforts have the

same victorious results?

He left Rouen early in the morning, on foot, with his face very much

disguised and his bag at the end of a stick on his shoulder, like an

apprentice doing his round of France. He walked straight to Duclair,

where he lunched. On leaving this town, he followed the Seine and

practically did not lose sight of it again. His instinct, strengthened,

moreover, by numerous influences, always brought him back to the

sinuous banks of the stately river. When the Château du Malaquis was

robbed, the objects stolen from Baron Cahorn’s collection were sent by

way of the Seine. The old carvings removed from the chapel at Ambrumésy

were carried to the Seine bank. He pictured the whole fleet of pinnaces

performing a regular service between Rouen and the Havre and draining

the works of art and treasures from a countryside to dispatch them

thence to the land of millionaires.

“I’m burning! I’m burning!” muttered the boy, gasping under the truth,

which came to him in a mighty series of shocks and took away his

breath.

The checks encountered on the first few days, did not discourage him.

He had a firm and profound belief in the correctness of the supposition

that was guiding him. It was bold, perhaps, and extravagant; no matter:

it was worthy of the adversary pursued. The supposition was on a level

with the prodigious reality that bore the name of Lupin. With a man

like that, of what good could it be to look elsewhere than in the

domain of the enormous, the exaggerated, the superhuman?

Jumièges, the Mailleraye, Saint-Wandrille, Caudebec, Tancarville,

Quillebeuf were places filled with his memories. How often he must have

contemplated the glory of their Gothic steeples or the splendor of

their immense ruins!

But the Havre, the neighborhood of the Havre drew Isidore like a

beacon-fire.

“The kings of France carry secrets that often decide the fate of

towns!”

Cryptic words which, suddenly, for Beautrelet, shone bright with

clearness! Was this not an exact statement of the reasons that

determined Francis I. to create a town on this spot and was not the

fate of the Havre-de-Grâce linked with the very secret of the Needle?

“That’s it, that’s it,” stammered Beautrelet, excitedly. “The old

Norman estuary, one of the essential points, one of the original

centres around which our French nationality was formed, is completed by

those two forces, one in full view, alive, known to all, the new port

commanding the ocean and opening on the world; the other dim and

obscure, unknown and all the more alarming, inasmuch as it is invisible

and impalpable. A whole side of the history of France and of the royal

house is explained by the Needle, even as it explains the whole story

of Arsène Lupin. The same sources of energy and power supply and renew

the fortunes of kings and of the adventurer.”

Beautrelet ferreted and snuffed from village to village, from the river

to the sea, with his nose in the wind, his ears pricked, trying to

compel the inanimate things to surrender their deep meaning. Ought this

hill-slope to be questioned? Or that forest? Or the houses of this

hamlet? Or was it among the insignificant phrases spoken by that

peasant yonder that he might hope to gather the one little illuminating

word?