One morning, he was lunching at an inn, within sight of Honfleur, the

old city of the estuary. Opposite him was sitting one of those heavy,

red-haired Norman horse-dealers who do the fairs of the district, whip

in hand and clad in a long smock-frock. After a moment, it seemed to

Beautrelet that the man was looking at him with a certain amount of

attention, as though he knew him or, at least, was trying to recognize

him.

“Pooh,” he thought, “there’s some mistake: I’ve never seen that

merchant before, nor he me.”

As a matter of fact, the man appeared to take no further interest in

him. He lit his pipe, called for coffee and brandy, smoked and drank.

When Beautrelet had finished his meal, he paid and rose to go. A group

of men entered just as he was about to leave and he had to stand for a

few seconds near the table at which the horse-dealer sat. He then heard

the man say in a low voice:

“Good-afternoon, M. Beautrelet.”

Without hesitation, Isidore sat down beside the man and said:

“Yes, that is my name—but who are you? How did you know me?”

“That’s not difficult—and yet I’ve only seen your portrait in the

papers. But you are so badly—what do you call it in French—so badly

made-up.”

He had a pronounced foreign accent and Beautrelet seemed to perceive,

as he looked at him, that he too wore a facial disguise that entirely

altered his features.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “Who are you?”

The stranger smiled:

“Don’t you recognize me?”

“No, I never saw you before.”

“Nor I you. But think. The papers print my portrait also—and pretty

often. Well, have you got it?”

“No.”

“Holmlock Shears.”

It was an amusing and, at the same time, a significant meeting. The boy

at once saw the full bearing of it. After an exchange of compliments,

he said to Shears:

“I suppose that you are here—because of ‘him’?”

“Yes.”

“So—so—you think we have a chance—in this direction.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Beautrelet’s delight at finding that Shears’s opinion agreed with his

own was not unmingled with other feelings. If the Englishman attained

his object, it meant that, at the very best, the two would share the

victory; and who could tell that Shears would not attain it first?

“Have you any proofs? Any clues?”

“Don’t be afraid,” grinned the Englishman, who understood his

uneasiness. “I am not treading on your heels. With you, it’s the

document, the pamphlet: things that do not inspire me with any great

confidence.”

“And with you?”

“With me, it’s something different.”

“Should I be indiscreet, if—?”

“Not at all. You remember the story of the coronet, the story of the

Duc de Charmerac?”[7]

[7] _Arsène Lupin_, play in four acts, by Maurice Leblanc and Francis

de Croisset.

“Yes.”

“You remember Victoire, Lupin’s old foster-mother, the one whom my good

friend Ganimard allowed to escape in a sham prison-van?”

“Yes.”

“I have found Victoire’s traces. She lives on a farm, not far from

National Road No. 25. National Road No. 25 is the road from the Havre

to Lille. Through Victoire I shall easily get at Lupin.”

“It will take long.”

“No matter! I have dropped all my cases. This is the only one I care

about. Between Lupin and me, it’s a fight—a fight to the death.”

He spoke these words with a sort of ferocity that betrayed all his

bitterness at the humiliations which he had undergone, all his fierce

hatred of the great enemy who had tricked him so cruelly.

“Go away, now,” he whispered, “we are observed. It’s dangerous. But

mark my words: on the day when Lupin and I meet face to face, it will

be—it will be tragic.”

Beautrelet felt quite reassured on leaving Shears: he need not fear

that the Englishman would gain on him. And here was one more proof

which this chance interview had brought him: the road from the Havre to

Lille passes through Dieppe! It is the great seaside road of the Caux

country, the coast road commanding the Channel cliffs! And it was on a

farm near this road that Victoire was installed, Victoire, that is to

say, Lupin, for one did not move without the other, the master without

the blindly devoted servant.

“I’m burning! I’m burning!” he repeated to himself. “Whenever

circumstances bring me a new element of information, it confirms my

supposition. On the one hand, I have the absolute certainty of the

banks of the Seine; on the other, the certainty of the National Road.

The two means of communication meet at the Havre, the town of Francis

I., the town of the secret. The boundaries are contracting. The Caux

country is not large; and, even so, I have only the western portion of

the Caux country to search.”

He set to work with renewed stubbornness:

“Anything that Lupin has found,” he kept on saying to himself, “there

is no reason for my not finding.”

Certainly, Lupin had some great advantage over him, perhaps a thorough

acquaintance with the country, a precise knowledge of the local

legends, or less than that, a memory: invaluable advantages these, for

he, Beautrelet, knew nothing, was totally ignorant of the country,

which he had first visited at the time of the Ambrumésy burglary and

then only rapidly, without lingering.

But what did it matter? Though he had to devote ten years of his life

to this investigation, he would carry it to a successful issue. Lupin

was there. He could see him, he could feel him there. He expected to

come upon him at the next turn of the road, on the skirt of the next

wood, outside the next village. And, though continually disappointed,

he seemed to find in each disappointment a fresh reason for persisting.

Often, he would fling himself on the slope by the roadside and plunge

into wild examination of the copy of the document which he always

carried on him, a copy, that is to say, with vowels taking the place of

the figures:

[Illustration]

Often, also, according to his habit, he would lie down flat on his

stomach in the tall grass and think for hours. He had time enough. The

future belonged to him.

With wonderful patience, he tramped from the Seine to the sea, and from

the sea to the Seine, going gradually farther, retracing his steps and

never quitting the ground until, theoretically speaking, there was not

a chance left of gathering the smallest particle upon it.

He studied and explored Montivilliers and Saint-Romani and Octeville

and Gonneville and Criquetot.

At night, he knocked at the peasants’ doors and asked for a lodging.

After dinner, they smoked together and chatted. He made them tell him

the stories which they told one another on the long winter nights. And

he never omitted to insinuate, slily:

“What about the Needle? The legend of the Hollow Needle? Don’t you know

that?”

“Upon my word, I don’t—never heard of it—”

“Just think—an old wives’ tale—something that has to do with a needle.

An enchanted needle, perhaps.—I don’t know—”

Nothing. No legend, no recollection. And the next morning he walked

blithely away again.

One day, he passed through the pretty village of Saint-Jouin, which

overlooks the sea, and descending among the chaos of rocks that have

slipped from cliffs, he climbed up to the tableland and went in the

direction of the dry valley of Bruneval, Cap d’Antifer and the little

creek of Belle-Plage. He was walking gaily and lightly, feeling a

little tired, perhaps, but glad to be alive, so glad, even, that he

forgot Lupin and the mystery of the Hollow Needle and Victoire and

Shears, and interested himself in the sight of nature: the blue sky,

the great emerald sea, all glittering in the sunshine.

Some straight slopes and remains of brick walls, in which he seemed to

recognize the vestiges of a Roman camp, interested him. Then his eyes

fell upon a sort of little castle, built in imitation of an ancient

fort, with cracked turrets and Gothic windows. It stood on a jagged,

rugged, rising promontory, almost detached from the cliff. A barred

gate, flanked by iron hand-rails and bristling spikes, guarded the

narrow passage.

Beautrelet succeeded in climbing over, not without some difficulty.

Over the pointed door, which was closed with an old rusty lock, he read

the words:

FORT DE FRÉFOSSÉ

He did not attempt to enter, but, turning to the right, after going

down a little slope, he embarked upon a path that ran along a ridge of

land furnished with a wooden handrail. Right at the end was a cave of

very small dimensions, forming a sort of watch-tower at the point of

the rock in which it was hollowed out, a rock falling abruptly into the

sea.

There was just room to stand up in the middle of the cave. Multitudes

of inscriptions crossed one another on the walls. An almost square

hole, cut in the stone, opened like a dormer window on the land side,

exactly opposite Fort Fréfossé, the crenellated top of which appeared

at thirty or forty yards’ distance.

Beautrelet threw off his knapsack and sat down. He had had a hard and

tiring day. He fell asleep for a little. Then the cool wind that blew

inside the cave woke him up. He sat for a few minutes without moving,

absent-minded, vague-eyed. He tried to reflect, to recapture his still

torpid thoughts. And, as he recovered his consciousness, he was on the

point of rising, when he received the impression that his eyes,

suddenly fixed, suddenly wide-open, saw—

A thrill shook him from head to foot. His hands clutched convulsively

and he felt the beads of perspiration forming at the roots of his hair:

“No, no,” he stammered. “It’s a dream, an hallucination. Let’s look:

it’s not possible!”

He plunged down on his knees and stooped over. Two huge letters, each

perhaps a foot long, appeared cut in relief in the granite of the

floor. Those two letters, clumsily, but plainly carved, with their

corners rounded and their surface smoothed by the wear and tear of

centuries, were a D and an F.

D and F! Oh, bewildering miracle! D and F: just two letters of the

document! Oh, Beautrelet had no need to consult it to bring before his

mind that group of letters in the fourth line, the line of the

measurements and indications! He knew them well! They were inscribed

for all time at the back of his pupils, encrusted for good and all in

the very substance of his brain!

He rose to his feet, went down the steep road, climbed back along the

old fort, hung on to the spikes of the rail again, in order to pass,

and walked briskly toward a shepherd whose flock was grazing some way

off on a dip in the tableland:

“That cave, over there—that cave—”

His lips trembled and he tried to find the words that would not come.

The shepherd looked at him in amazement. At last, Isidore repeated:

“Yes, that cave—over there—to the right of the fort. Has it a name?”

“Yes, I should think so. All the Étretat folk like to call it the

Demoiselles.”

“What?—What?—What’s that you say?”

“Why, of course—it’s the Chambre des Demoiselles.”

Isidore felt like flying at his throat, as though all the truth lived

in that man and he hoped to get it from him at one swoop, to tear it

from him.

The Demoiselles! One of the words, one of the only three known words of

the document!

A whirlwind of madness shook Beautrelet where he stood. And it rose all

around him, blew upon him like a tempestuous squall that came from the

sea, that came from the land, that came from every direction and

whipped him with great lashes of the truth.

He understood. The document appeared to him in its real sense. The

Chambre des Demoiselles—Étretat—

“That’s it,” he thought, his brain filled with light, “it must be that.

But why didn’t I guess earlier?”

He said to the shepherd, in a low voice:

“That will do—go away—you can go—thank you.”

The man, not knowing what to think, whistled to his dog and went.

Left alone, Beautrelet returned to the fort. He had almost passed it

when, suddenly, he dropped to the ground and lay cowering against a

piece of wall. And, wringing his hands, he thought:

“I must be mad! If ‘he’ were to see me! Or his accomplices! I’ve been

moving about for an hour—!”

He did not stir another limb.

The sun went down. Little by little, the night mingled with the day,

blurring the outline of things.

Then, with little imperceptible movements, flat on his stomach,

gliding, crawling, he crept along one of the points of the promontory

to the extreme edge of the cliff.

He reached it. Stretching out his hands, he pushed aside some tufts of

grass and his head appeared over the precipice.

Opposite him, almost level with the cliff, in the open sea rose an

enormous rock, over eighty yards high, a colossal obelisk, standing

straight on its granite base, which showed at the surface of the water,

and tapering toward the summit, like the giant tooth of a monster of

the deep. White with the dirty gray white of the cliff, the awful

monolith was streaked with horizontal lines marked by flint and

displaying the slow work of the centuries, which had heaped alternate

layers of lime and pebble-stone one atop of the other.

Here and there, a fissure, a break; and, wherever these occurred, a

scrap of earth, with grass and leaves.

And all this was mighty and solid and formidable, with the look of an

indestructible thing against which the furious assault of the waves and

storms could not prevail. And it was definite and permanent and grand,

despite the grandeur of the cliffy rampart that commanded it, despite

the immensity of the space in which it stood.

Beautrelet’s nails dug into the soil like the claws of an animal ready

to leap upon its prey. His eyes penetrated the wrinkled texture of the

rock, penetrated its skin, so it seemed to him, its very flesh. He

touched it, felt it, took cognizance and possession of it, absorbed and

assimilated it.

The horizon turned crimson with all the flames of the vanished sun; and

long, red clouds, set motionless in the sky, formed glorious

landscapes, fantastic lagoons, fiery plains, forests of gold, lakes of

blood, a whole glowing and peaceful phantasmagoria.

The blue of the sky grew darker. Venus shone with a marvelous

brightness; then other stars lit up, timid as yet.

And Beautrelet suddenly closed his eyes and convulsively pressed his

folded arms to his forehead. Over there—oh, he felt as though he would

die for joy, so great was the cruel emotion that wrung his heart!—over

there, almost at the top of the Needle of Étretat, a little below the

extreme point round which the sea-mews fluttered, a thread of smoke

came filtering through a crevice, as though from an invisible chimney,

a thread of smoke rose in slow spirals in the calm air of the twilight.

CHAPTER NINE

OPEN, SESAME!

The Étretat Needle was hollow!

Was it a natural phenomenon, an excavation produced by internal

cataclysms or by the imperceptible action of the rushing sea and the

soaking rain? Or was it a superhuman work executed by human beings,

Gauls, Celts, prehistoric men?

These, no doubt, were insoluble questions; and what did it matter? The

essence of the thing was contained in this fact: The Needle was hollow.

At forty or fifty yards from that imposing arch which is called the

Porte d’Aval and which shoots out from the top of the cliff, like the

colossal branch of a tree, to take root in the submerged rocks, stands

an immense limestone cone; and this cone is no more than the shell of a

pointed cap poised upon the empty waters!

A prodigious revelation! After Lupin, here was Beautrelet discovering

the key to the great riddle that had loomed over more than twenty

centuries! A key of supreme importance to whoever possessed it in the

days of old, in those distant times when hordes of barbarians rode

through and overran the old world! A magic key that opens the cyclopean

cavern to whole tribes fleeing before the enemy! A mysterious key that

guards the door of the most inviolable shelter! An enchanted key that

gives power and ensures preponderance!

Because he knows this key, Cæsar is able to subdue Gaul. Because they

know it, the Normans force their sway upon the country and, from there,

later, backed by that support, conquer the neighboring island, conquer

Sicily, conquer the East, conquer the new world!

Masters of the secret, the Kings of England lord it over France, humble

her, dismember her, have themselves crowned at Paris. They lose the

secret; and the rout begins.

Masters of the secret, the Kings of France push back and overstep the

narrow limits of their dominion, gradually founding a great nation and

radiating with glory and power. They forget it or know not how to use

it; and death, exile, ruin follow.

An invisible kingdom, in mid-water and at ten fathoms from land! An

unknown fortress, taller than the towers of Notre Dame and built upon a

granite foundation larger than a public square! What strength and what

security! From Paris to the sea, by the Seine. There, the Havre, the

new town, the necessary town. And, sixteen miles thence, the Hollow

Needle, the impregnable sanctuary!

It is a sanctuary and also a stupendous hiding-place. All the treasures

of the kings, increasing from century to century, all the gold of

France, all that they extort from the people, all that they snatch from

the clergy, all the booty gathered on the battle-fields of Europe lie

heaped up in the royal cave. Old Merovingian gold sous, glittering

crown-pieces, doubloons, ducats, florins, guineas; and the precious

stones and the diamonds; and all the jewels and all the ornaments:

everything is there. Who could discover it? Who could ever learn the

impenetrable secret of the Needle? Nobody.

And Lupin becomes that sort of really disproportionate being whom we

know, that miracle incapable of explanation so long as the truth

remains in the shadow. Infinite though the resources of his genius be,

they cannot suffice for the mad struggle which he maintains against

society. He needs other, more material resources. He needs a sure place

of retreat, he needs the certainty of impunity, the peace that allows

of the execution of his plans.

Without the Hollow Needle, Lupin is incomprehensible, a myth, a

character in a novel, having no connection with reality.

Master of the secret—and of such a secret!—he becomes simply a man like

another, but gifted with the power of wielding in a superior manner the

extraordinary weapon with which destiny has endowed him.

So the Needle was hollow.

It remained to discover how one obtained access to it.

From the sea, obviously. There must be, on the side of the offing, some

fissure where boats could land at certain hours of the tide.

But on the side of the land?

Beautrelet lay until ten o’clock at night hanging over the precipice,

with his eyes riveted on the shadowy mass formed by the pyramid,

thinking and pondering with all the concentrated effort of his mind.

Then he went down to Étretat, selected the cheapest hotel, dined, went

up to his room and unfolded the document.

It was the merest child’s play to him now to establish its exact

meaning. He at once saw that the three vowels of the word Étretat

occurred in the first line, in their proper order and at the necessary

intervals. This first line now read as follows:

_e . a . a .. etretat . a .._

What words could come before Étretat? Words, no doubt, that referred to

the position of the Needle with regard to the town. Now the Needle

stood on the left, on the west—He ransacked his memory and,

recollecting that westerly winds are called vents d’aval on the coast

and that the nearest porte was known as the Porte d’Aval, he wrote

down:

_“En aval d’Étretat . a ..”_

The second line was that containing the word _Demoiselles_ and, at once

seeing, in front of that word, the series of all the vowels that form

part of the words _la chambre des_, he noted the two phrases:

_“En aval d’Étretat. La Chambre des Demoiselles.”_

The third line gave him more trouble; and it was not until some groping

that, remembering the position, near the Chambre des Demoiselles, of

the Fort de Fréfossé, he ended by almost completely reconstructing the

document:

_“En aval d’Étretat. La Chambre des Demoiselles. Sous le Fort de

Fréfossé. L’Aiguille creuse.”_

These were the four great formulas, the essential and general formulas

which you had to know. By means of them, you turned _en aval_, that is

to say, below or west of Étretat, entered the Chambre des Demoiselles,

in all probability passed under Fort Fréfossé and thus arrived at the

Needle.

How? By means of the indications and measurements that constituted the

fourth line:

[Illustration]

These were evidently the more special formulas to enable you to find

the outlet through which you made your way and the road that led to the

Needle.

Beautrelet at once presumed—and his surmise was no more than the

logical consequence of the document—that, if there really was a direct

communication between the land and the obelisk of the Needle, the

underground passage must start from the Chambre des Demoiselles, pass

under Fort Fréfossé, descend perpendicularly the three hundred feet of

cliff and, by means of a tunnel contrived under the rocks of the sea,

end at the Hollow Needle.

Which was the entrance to the underground passage? Did not the two

letters D and F, so plainly cut, point to it and admit to it, with the

aid, perhaps, of some ingenious piece of mechanism?

The whole of the next morning, Isidore strolled about Étretat and

chatted with everybody he met, in order to try and pick up useful

information. At last, in the afternoon, he went up the cliff. Disguised

as a sailor, he had made himself still younger and, in a pair of

trousers too short for him and a fishing jersey, he looked a mere

scape-grace of twelve or thirteen.

As soon as he entered the cave, he knelt down before the letters. Here

a disappointment awaited him. It was no use his striking them, pushing

them, manipulating them in every way: they refused to move. And it was

not long, in fact, before he became aware that they were really unable

to move and that, therefore, they controlled no mechanism.

And yet—and yet they must mean something! Inquiries which he had made

in the village went to show that no one had ever been able to explain

their existence and that the Abbé Cochet, in his valuable little book

on Étretat,[8] had also tried in vain to solve this little puzzle. But

Isidore knew what the learned Norman archaeologist did not know,

namely, that the same two letters figured in the document, on the line

containing the indications. Was it a chance coincidence: Impossible.

Well, then—?

[8] _Les Origines d’Étretat_. The Abbé Cochet seems to conclude, in the

end, that the two letters are the initials of a passer-by. The

revelations now made prove the fallacy of the theory.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, an idea so reasonable, so simple that

he did not doubt its correctness for a second. Were not that D and that

F the initials of the two most important words in the document, the

words that represented—together with the Needle—the essential stations

on the road to be followed: the Chambre des _Demoiselles_ and Fort

_Fréfossé:_ D for Demoiselles, F for Fréfossé: the connection was too

remarkable to be a mere accidental fact.

In that case, the problem stood thus: the two letters D F represent the

relation that exists between the Chambre des Demoiselles and Fort

Fréfossé, the single letter D, which begins the line, represents the

Demoiselles, that is to say, the cave in which you have to begin by

taking up your position, and the single letter F, placed in the middle

of the line, represents Fréfossé, that is to say, the probable entrance

to the underground passage.

Between these various signs, are two more: first, a sort of irregular

rectangle, marked with a stripe in the left bottom corner, and, next,

the figure 19, signs which obviously indicate to those inside the cave

the means of penetrating beneath the fort.

The shape of this rectangle puzzled Isidore. Was there around him, on

the walls of the cave, or at any rate within reach of his eyes, an

inscription, anything whatever, affecting a rectangular shape?

He looked for a long time and was on the point of abandoning that

particular scent when his eyes fell upon the little opening, pierced in

the rock, that acted as a window to the chamber.

Now the edges of this opening just formed a rectangle: corrugated,

uneven, clumsy, but still a rectangle; and Beautrelet at once saw that,

by placing his two feet on the D and the F carved in the stone

floor—and this explained the stroke that surmounted the two letters in

the document—he found himself at the exact height of the window!

He took up his position in this place and gazed out. The window looking

landward, as we know, he saw, first, the path that connected the cave

with the land, a path hung between two precipices; and, next, he caught

sight of the foot of the hillock on which the fort stood. To try and

see the fort, Beautrelet leaned over to the left and it was then that

he understood the meaning of the curved stripe, the comma that marked

the left bottom corner in the document: at the bottom on the left-hand

side of the window, a piece of flint projected and the end of it was

curved like a claw. It suggested a regular shooter’s mark. And, when a

man applied his eye to this mark, he saw cut out, on the slope of the

mound facing him, a restricted surface of land occupied almost entirely

by an old brick wall, a remnant of the original Fort Fréfossé or of the

old Roman _oppidum_ built on this spot.

Beautrelet ran to this piece of wall, which was, perhaps, ten yards

long. It was covered with grass and plants. There was no indication of

any kind visible. And yet that figure 19?

He returned to the cave, took from his pocket a ball of string and a

tape-measure, tied the string to the flint corner, fastened a pebble at

the nineteenth metre and flung it toward the land side. The pebble at

most reached the end of the path.

“Idiot that I am!” thought Beautrelet. “Who reckoned by metres in those

days? The figure 19 means 19 fathoms[9] or nothing!”

[9] The _toise_, or fathom, measured 1.949 metres.—_Translator’s Note_.

Having made the calculation, he ran out the twine, made a knot and felt

about on the piece of wall for the exact and necessarily one point at

which the knot, formed at 37 metres from the window of the Demoiselles,

should touch the Fréfossé wall. In a few moments, the point of contact

was established. With his free hand, he moved aside the leaves of

mullein that had grown in the interstices. A cry escaped him. The knot,

which he held pressed down with his fore-finger, was in the centre of a

little cross carved in relief on a brick. And the sign that followed on

the figure 19 in the document was a cross!

It needed all his will-power to control the excitement with which he

was overcome. Hurriedly, with convulsive fingers, he clutched the cross

and, pressing upon it, turned it as he would have turned the spokes of

a wheel. The brick heaved. He redoubled his effort; it moved no

further. Then, without turning, he pressed harder. He at once felt the

brick give way. And, suddenly, there was the click of a bolt that is

released, the sound of a lock opening and, on the right of the brick,

to the width of about a yard, the wall swung round on a pivot and

revealed the orifice of an underground passage.

Like a madman, Beautrelet seized the iron door in which the bricks were

sealed, pulled it back, violently and closed it. Astonishment, delight,

the fear of being surprised convulsed his face so as to render it

unrecognizable. He beheld the awful vision of all that had happened

there, in front of that door, during twenty centuries; of all those

people, initiated into the great secret, who had penetrated through

that issue: Celts, Gauls, Romans, Normans, Englishmen, Frenchmen,

barons, dukes, kings—and, after all of them, Arsène Lupin—and, after

Lupin, himself, Beautrelet. He felt that his brain was slipping away

from him. His eyelids fluttered. He fell fainting and rolled to the

bottom of the slope, to the very edge of the precipice.

His task was done, at least the task which he was able to accomplish

alone, with his unaided resources.

That evening, he wrote a long letter to the chief of the detective

service, giving a faithful account of the results of his investigations

and revealing the secret of the Hollow Needle. He asked for assistance

to complete his work and gave his address.

While waiting for the reply, he spent two consecutive nights in the

Chambre des Demoiselles. He spent them overcome with fear, his nerves

shaken with a terror which was increased by the sounds of the night. At

every moment, he thought he saw shadows approach in his direction.

People knew of his presence in the cave—they were coming—they were

murdering him!

His eyes, however, staring madly before them, sustained by all the

power of his will, clung to the piece of wall.

On the first night, nothing stirred; but, on the second, by the light

of the stars and a slender crescent-moon, he saw the door open and

figures emerge from the darkness: he counted two, three, four, five of

them.

It seemed to him that those five men were carrying fairly large loads.

He followed them for a little way. They cut straight across the fields

to the Havre road; and he heard the sound of a motor car driving away.

He retraced his steps, skirting a big farm. But, at the turn of the

road that ran beside it, he had only just time to scramble up a slope

and hide behind some trees. More men passed—four, five men—all carrying

packages. And, two minutes later, another motor snorted.

This time, he had not the strength to return to his post; and he went

back to bed.

When he woke and had finished dressing, the hotel waiter brought him a

letter. He opened it. It contained Ganimard’s card.

“At last!” cried Beautrelet, who, after so hard a campaign, was really

feeling the need of a comrade-in-arms.

He ran downstairs with outstretched hands. Ganimard took them, looked

at him for a moment and said:

“You’re a fine fellow, my lad!”

“Pooh!” he said. “Luck has served me.”

“There’s no such thing as luck with ‘him,’” declared the inspector, who

always spoke of Lupin in a solemn tone and without mentioning his name.

He sat down:

“So we’ve got him!”

“Just as we’ve had him twenty times over,” said Beautrelet, laughing.

“Yes, but to-day—”

“To-day, of course, the case is different. We know his retreat, his

stronghold, which means, when all is said, that Lupin is Lupin. He can

escape. The Étretat Needle cannot.”

“Why do you suppose that he will escape?” asked Ganimard, anxiously.

“Why do you suppose that he requires to escape?” replied Beautrelet.

“There is nothing to prove that he is in the Needle at present. Last

night, eleven of his men left it. He may be one of the eleven.”

Ganimard reflected:

“You are right. The great thing is the Hollow Needle. For the rest, let

us hope that chance will favor us. And now, let us talk.”

He resumed his serious voice, his self-important air and said:

“My dear Beautrelet, I have orders to recommend you to observe the most

absolute discretion in regard to this matter.”

“Orders from whom?” asked Beautrelet, jestingly. “The prefect of

police?”

“Higher than that.”

“The prime minister?”

“Higher.”

“Whew!”

Ganimard lowered his voice:

“Beautrelet, I was at the Élysée last night. They look upon this matter

as a state secret of the utmost gravity. There are serious reasons for

concealing the existence of this citadel—reasons of military strategy,

in particular. It might become a revictualling centre, a magazine for

new explosives, for lately-invented projectiles, for anything of that

sort: the secret arsenal of France, in fact.”

“But how can they hope to keep a secret like this? In the old days, one

man alone held it: the king. To-day, already, there are a good few of

us who know it, without counting Lupin’s gang.”

“Still, if we gained only ten years’, only five years’ silence! Those

five years may be—the saving of us.”

“But, in order to capture this citadel, this future arsenal, it will

have to be attacked, Lupin must be dislodged. And all this cannot be

done without noise.”

“Of course, people will guess something, but they won’t know. Besides,

we can but try.”

“All right. What’s your plan?”

“Here it is, in two words. To begin with, you are not Isidore

Beautrelet and there’s no question of Arsène Lupin either. You are and

you remain a small boy of Étretat, who, while strolling about the

place, caught some fellows coming out of an underground passage. This

makes you suspect the existence of a flight of steps which cuts through

the cliff from top to bottom.”

“Yes, there are several of those flights of steps along the coast. For

instance, to the right of Étretat, opposite Bénouville, they showed me

the Devil’s Staircase, which every bather knows. And I say nothing of

the three or four tunnels used by the fishermen.”

“So you will guide me and one-half of my men. I shall enter alone, or

accompanied, that remains to be seen. This much is certain, that the

attack must be delivered that way. If Lupin is not in the Needle, we

shall fix up a trap in which he will be caught sooner or later. If he

is there—”

“If he is there, he will escape from the Needle by the other side, the

side overlooking the sea.”

“In that case, he will at once be arrested by the other half of my

men.”

“Yes, but if, as I presume, you choose a moment when the sea is at low

ebb, leaving the base of the Needle uncovered, the chase will be

public, because it will take place before all the men and women fishing

for mussels, shrimps and shell-fish who swarm on the rocks round

about.”

“That is why I just mean to select the time when the sea is full.”

“In that case, he will make off in a boat.”

“Ah, but I shall have a dozen fishing-smacks, each of which will be

commanded by one of my men, and we shall collar him—”

“If he doesn’t slip through your dozen smacks, like a fish through the

meshes.”

“All right, then I’ll sink him.”

“The devil you will! Shall you have guns?”

“Why, of course! There’s a torpedo-boat at the Havre at this moment. A

telegram from me will bring her to the Needle at the appointed hour.”

“How proud Lupin will be! A torpedo-boat! Well, M. Ganimard, I see that

you have provided for everything. We have only to go ahead. When do we

deliver the assault?”

“To-morrow.”

“At night?”

“No, by daylight, at the flood-tide, as the clock strikes ten in the

morning.”

“Capital.”

Under his show of gaiety, Beautrelet concealed a real anguish of mind.

He did not sleep until the morning, but lay pondering over the most

impracticable schemes, one after the other.

Ganimard had left him in order to go to Yport, six or seven miles from

Étretat, where, for prudence’s sake, he had told his men to meet him,

and where he chartered twelve fishing smacks, with the ostensible

object of taking soundings along the coast.

At a quarter to ten, escorted by a body of twelve stalwart men, he met

Isidore at the foot of the road that goes up the cliff.

At ten o’clock exactly, they reached the skirt of wall. It was the

decisive moment.

At ten o’clock exactly.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Beautrelet?” jeered Ganimard. “You’re

quite green in the face!”

“It’s as well you can’t see yourself, Ganimard,” the boy retorted. “One

would think your last hour had come!”

They both had to sit down and Ganimard swallowed a few mouthfuls of

rum.

“It’s not funk,” he said, “but, by Jove, this is an exciting business!

Each time that I’m on the point of catching him, it takes me like that

in the pit of the stomach. A dram of rum?”

“No.”

“And if you drop behind?”

“That will mean that I’m dead.”

“B-r-r-r-r! However, we’ll see. And now, open, sesame! No danger of our

being observed, I suppose?”

“No. The Needle is not so high as the cliff, and, besides, there’s a

bend in the ground where we are.”

Beautrelet went to the wall and pressed upon the brick. The bolt was

released and the underground passage came in sight.

By the gleam of the lanterns which they lit, they saw that it was cut

in the shape of a vault and that both the vaulting and the floor itself

were entirely covered with bricks.

They walked for a few seconds and, suddenly, a staircase appeared.

Beautrelet counted forty-five brick steps, which the slow action of

many footsteps had worn away in the middle.

“Blow!” said Ganimard, holding his head and stopping suddenly, as

though he had knocked against something.

“What is it?”

“A door.”

“Bother!” muttered Beautrelet, looking at it. “And not an easy one to

break down either. It’s just a solid block of iron.”

“We are done,” said Ganimard. “There’s not even a lock to it.”

“Exactly. That’s what gives me hope.”

“Why?”

“A door is made to open; and, as this one has no lock, that means that

there is a secret way of opening it.”

“And, as we don’t know the secret—”

“I shall know it in a minute.”

“How?”

“By means of the document. The fourth line has no other object but to

solve each difficulty as and when it crops up. And the solution is

comparatively easy, because it’s not written with a view to throwing

searchers off the scent, but to assisting them.”

“Comparatively easy! I don’t agree with you,” cried Ganimard, who had

unfolded the document. “The number 44 and a triangle with a dot in it:

that doesn’t tell us much!”

“Yes, yes, it does! Look at the door. You see it’s strengthened, at

each corner, with a triangular slab of iron; and the slabs are fixed

with big nails. Take the left-hand bottom slab and work the nail in the

corner: I’ll lay ten to one we’ve hit the mark.”

“You’ve lost your bet,” said Ganimard, after trying.

“Then the figure 44 must mean—”

In a low voice, reflecting as he spoke, Beautrelet continued:

“Let me see—Ganimard and I are both standing on the bottom step of the

staircase—there are 45. Why 45, when the figure in the document is 44?

A coincidence? No. In all this business, there is no such thing as a

coincidence, at least not an involuntary one. Ganimard, be so good as

to move one step higher up. That’s it, don’t leave this forty-fourth

step. And now I will work the iron nail. And the trick’s done, or I’ll

eat my boots!”

The heavy door turned on its hinges. A fairly spacious cavern appeared

before their eyes.

“We must be exactly under Fort Fréfossé,” said Beautrelet. “We have

passed through the different earthy layers by now. There will be no

more brick. We are in the heart of the solid limestone.”

The room was dimly lit by a shaft of daylight that came from the other

end. Going up to it, they saw that it was a fissure in the cliff,

contrived in a projecting wall and forming a sort of observatory. In

front of them, at a distance of fifty yards, the impressive mass of the

Needle loomed from the waves. On the right, quite close, was the arched

buttress of the Porte d’Aval and, on the left, very far away, closing

the graceful curve of a large inlet, another rocky gateway, more

imposing still, was cut out of the cliff; the Manneporte,[10] which was

so wide and tall that a three-master could have passed through it with

all sail set. Behind and everywhere, the sea.

[10] _Magna porta_.

“I don’t see our little fleet,” said Beautrelet.

“I know,” said Ganimard. “The Porte d’Aval hides the whole of the coast

of Étretat and Yport. But look, over there, in the offing, that black

line, level with the water—”

“Well?”

“That’s our fleet of war, Torpedo-boat No. 25. With her there, Lupin is

welcome to break loose—if he wants to study the landscape at the bottom

of the sea.”

A baluster marked the entrance to the staircase, near the fissure. They

started on their way down. From time to time, a little window pierced

the wall of the cliff; and, each time, they caught sight of the Needle,

whose mass seemed to them to grow more and more colossal.

A little before reaching high-water level, the windows ceased and all

was dark.

Isidore counted the steps aloud. At the three hundred and fifty-eight,

they emerged into a wider passage, which was barred by another iron

door strengthened with slabs and nails.

“We know all about this,” said Beautrelet. “The document gives us 357

and a triangle dotted on the right. We have only to repeat the

performance.”

The second door obeyed like the first. A long, a very long tunnel

appeared, lit up at intervals by the gleam of a lantern swung from the

vault. The walls oozed moisture and drops of water fell to the ground,

so that, to make walking easier a regular pavement of planks had been

laid from end to end.

“We are passing under the sea,” said Beautrelet. “Are you coming,

Ganimard?”

Without replying, the inspector ventured into the tunnel, followed the

wooden foot-plank and stopped before a lantern, which he took down.

“The utensils may date back to the Middle Ages, but the lighting is

modern,” he said. “Our friends use incandescent mantles.”

He continued his way. The tunnel ended in another and a larger cave,

with, on the opposite side, the first steps of a staircase that led

upward.

“It’s the ascent of the Needle beginning,” said Ganimard. “This is more

serious.”

But one of his men called him:

“There’s another flight here, sir, on the left.”

And, immediately afterward, they discovered a third, on the right.

“The deuce!” muttered the inspector. “This complicates matters. If we

go by this way, they’ll make tracks by that.”

“Shall we separate?” asked Beautrelet.

“No, no—that would mean weakening ourselves. It would be better for one

of us to go ahead and scout.”

“I will, if you like—”

“Very well, Beautrelet, you go. I will remain with my men—then there

will be no fear of anything. There may be other roads through the cliff

than that by which we came and several roads also through the Needle.

But it is certain that, between the cliff and the Needle, there is no

communication except the tunnel. Therefore they must pass through this

cave. And so I shall stay here till you come back. Go ahead,

Beautrelet, and be prudent: at the least alarm, scoot back again.”

Isidore disappeared briskly up the middle staircase. At the thirtieth

step, a door, an ordinary wooden door, stopped him. He seized the

handle turned it. The door was not locked.

He entered a room that seemed to him very low owing to its immense

size. Lit by powerful lamps and supported by squat pillars, with long

vistas showing between them, it had nearly the same dimensions as the

Needle itself. It was crammed with packing cases and miscellaneous

objects—pieces of furniture, oak settees, chests, credence-tables,

strong-boxes—a whole confused heap of the kind which one sees in the

basement of an old curiosity shop.

On his right and left, Beautrelet perceived the wells of two

staircases, the same, no doubt, that started from the cave below. He

could easily have gone down, therefore, and told Ganimard. But a new

flight of stairs led upward in front of him and he had the curiosity to

pursue his investigations alone.

Thirty more steps. A door and then a room, not quite so large as the

last, Beautrelet thought. And again, opposite him, an ascending flight

of stairs.

Thirty steps more. A door. A smaller room.

Beautrelet grasped the plan of the works executed inside the Needle. It

was a series or rooms placed one above the other and, therefore,

gradually decreasing in size. They all served as store-rooms.

In the fourth, there was no lamp. A little light filtered in through

clefts in the walls and Beautrelet saw the sea some thirty feet below

him.

At that moment, he felt himself so far from Ganimard that a certain

anguish began to take hold of him and he had to master his nerves lest

he should take to his heels. No danger threatened him, however, and the

silence around him was even so great that he asked himself whether the

whole Needle had not been abandoned by Lupin and his confederates.

“I shall not go beyond the next floor,” he said to himself.

Thirty stairs again and a door. This door was lighter in construction

and modern in appearance. He pushed it open gently, quite prepared for

flight. There was no one there. But the room differed from the others

in its purpose. There were hangings on the walls, rugs on the floor.

Two magnificent sideboards, laden with gold and silver plate, stood

facing each other. The little windows contrived in the deep, narrow

cleft were furnished with glass panes.

In the middle of the room was a richly-decked table, with a lace-edged

cloth, dishes of fruits and cakes, champagne in decanters and flowers,

heaps of flowers.

Three places were laid around the table.

Beautrelet walked up. On the napkins were cards with the names of the

party. He read first:

“Arsène Lupin.”

“Mme. Arsène Lupin.”

He took up the third card and started back with surprise. It bore his

own name:

“Isidore Beautrelet!”

CHAPTER TEN

THE TREASURES OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE

A curtain was drawn back.

“Good morning, my dear Beautrelet, you’re a little late. Lunch was

fixed for twelve. However, it’s only a few minutes—but what’s the

matter? Don’t you know me? Have I changed so much?”

In the course of his fight with Lupin, Beautrelet had met with many

surprises and he was still prepared, at the moment of the final

catastrophe, to experience any number of further emotions; but the

shock which he received this time was utterly unexpected. It was not

astonishment, but stupefaction, terror. The man who stood before him,

the man whom the brutal force of events compelled him to look upon as

Arsène Lupin, was—Valméras! Valméras, the owner of the Château de

l’Aiguille! Valméras, the very man to whom he had applied for

assistance against Arsène Lupin! Valméras, his companion on the

expedition to Crozant! Valméras, the plucky friend who had made

Raymonde’s escape possible by felling one of Lupin’s accomplices, or

pretending to fell him, in the dusk of the great hall! And Valméras was

Lupin!

“You—you—So it’s you!” he stammered.

“Why not?” exclaimed Lupin. “Did you think that you knew me for good

and all because you had seen me in the guise of a clergyman or under

the features of M. Massiban? Alas, when a man selects the position in

society which I occupy, he must needs make use of his little social

gifts! If Lupin were not able to change himself, at will, into a

minister of the Church of England or a member of the Academy of

Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres, it would be a bad lookout for Lupin!

Now Lupin, the real Lupin, is here before you, Beautrelet! Take a good

look at him.”

“But then—if it’s you—then—Mademoiselle—”

“Yes, Beautrelet, as you say—”

He again drew back the hanging, beckoned and announced:

“Mme. Arsène Lupin.”

“Ah,” murmured the lad, confounded in spite of everything, “Mlle. de

Saint-Véran!”

“No, no,” protested Lupin. “Mme. Arsène Lupin, or rather, if you

prefer, Mme. Louis Valméras, my wedded wife, married to me in

accordance with the strictest forms of law; and all thanks to you, my

dear Beautrelet.”

He held out his hand to him.

“All my acknowledgements—and no ill will on your side, I trust?”

Strange to say, Beautrelet felt no ill will at all, no sense of

humiliation, no bitterness. He realized so strongly the immense

superiority of his adversary that he did not blush at being beaten by

him. He pressed the offered hand.

“Luncheon is served, ma’am.”

A butler had placed a tray of dishes on the table.

“You must excuse us, Beautrelet: my chef is away and we can only give

you a cold lunch.”

Beautrelet felt very little inclined to eat. He sat down, however, and

was enormously interested in Lupin’s attitude. How much exactly did he

know? Was he aware of the danger he was running? Was he ignorant of the

presence of Ganimard and his men?

And Lupin continued:

“Yes, thanks to you, my dear friend. Certainly, Raymonde and I loved

each other from the first. Just so, my boy—Raymonde’s abduction, her

imprisonment, were mere humbug: we loved each other. But neither she

nor I, when we were free to love, would allow a casual bond at the

mercy of chance, to be formed between us. The position, therefore, was

hopeless for Lupin. Fortunately, it ceased to be so if I resumed my

identity as the Louis Valméras that I had been from a child. It was

then that I conceived the idea, as you refused to relinquish your quest

and had found the Château de l’Aiguille, of profiting by your

obstinacy.”

“And my silliness.”

“Pooh! Any one would have been caught as you were!”

“So you were really able to succeed because I screened you and assisted

you?”

“Of course! How could any one suspect Valméras of being Lupin, when

Valméras was Beautrelet’s friend and after Valméras had snatched from

Lupin’s clutches the girl whom Lupin loved? And how charming it was!

Such delightful memories! The expedition to Crozant! The bouquets we

found! My pretended love letter to Raymonde! And, later, the

precautions which I, Valméras, had to take against myself, Lupin,

before my marriage! And the night of your great banquet, Beautrelet,

when you fainted in my arms! Oh, what memories!”

There was a pause. Beautrelet watched Raymonde. She had listened to

Lupin without saying a word and looked at him with eyes in which he

read love, passion and something else besides, something which the lad

could not define, a sort of anxious embarrassment and a vague sadness.

But Lupin turned his eyes upon her and she gave him an affectionate

smile. Their hands met over the table.

“What do you say to the way I have arranged my little home,

Beautrelet?” cried Lupin. “There’s a style about it, isn’t there? I

don’t pretend that it’s as comfortable as it might be. And yet, some

have been quite satisfied with it; and not the least of mankind,

either!—Look at the list of distinguished people who have owned the

Needle in their time and who thought it an honor to leave a mark of

their sojourn.”

On the walls, one below the other, were carved the following names:

JULIUS CÆSAR

CHARLEMAGNE ROLLO

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

RICHARD CŒUR-DE-LEON

LOUIS XI.

FRANCIS I.

HENRY IV.

LOUIS XIV.

ARSÈNE LUPIN

“Whose name will figure after ours?” he continued. “Alas, the list is

closed! From Cæsar to Lupin—and there it ends. Soon the nameless mob

will come to visit the strange citadel. And to think that, but for

Lupin, all this would have remained for ever unknown to men! Ah

Beautrelet, what a feeling of pride was mine on the day when I first

set foot on this abandoned soil. To have found the lost secret and

become its master, its sole master! To inherit such an inheritance! To

live in the Needle, after all those kings!—”

He was interrupted by a gesture of his wife’s. She seemed greatly

agitated.

“There is a noise,” she said. “Underneath us.—You can hear it.”

“It’s the lapping of the water,” said Lupin.

“No, indeed it’s not. I know the sound of the waves. This is something

different.”

“What would you have it be, darling?” said Lupin, smiling. “I invited

no one to lunch except Beautrelet.” And, addressing the servant,

“Charolais, did you lock the staircase doors behind the gentleman?”

“Yes, sir, and fastened the bolts.”

Lupin rose:

“Come, Raymonde, don’t shake like that. Why, you’re quite pale!”

He spoke a few words to her in an undertone, as also to the servant,

drew back the curtain and sent them both out of the room.

The noise below grew more distinct. It was a series of dull blows,

repeated at intervals. Beautrelet thought:

“Ganimard has lost patience and is breaking down the doors.”

Lupin resumed the thread of his conversation, speaking very calmly and

as though he had really not heard:

“By Jove, the Needle was badly damaged when I succeeded in discovering

it! One could see that no one had possessed the secret for more than a

century, since Louis XVI. and the Revolution. The tunnel was

threatening to fall in. The stairs were in a shocking state. The water

was trickling in from the sea. I had to prop up and strengthen and

rebuild the whole thing.”

Beautrelet could not help asking:

“When you arrived, was it empty?”

“Very nearly. The kings did not use the Needle, as I have done, as a

warehouse.”

“As a place of refuge, then?”

“Yes, no doubt, in times of invasion and during the civil wars. But its

real destination was to be—how shall I put it?—the strong-room or the

bank of the kings of France.”

The sound of blows increased, more distinctly now. Ganimard must have

broken down the first door and was attacking the second. There was a

short silence and then more blows, nearer still. It was the third door.

Two remained.

Through one of the windows, Beautrelet saw a number of fishing-smacks

sailing round the Needle and, not far away, floating on the waters like

a great black fish, the torpedo-boat.

“What a row!” exclaimed Lupin. “One can’t hear one’s self speak! Let’s

go upstairs, shall we? It may interest you to look over the Needle.”

They climbed to the floor above, which was protected, like the others,

by a door which Lupin locked behind him.

“My picture gallery,” he said.

The walls were covered with canvases on which Beautrelet recognized the

most famous signatures. There were Raphael’s _Madonna of the Agnus

Dei_, Andrea del Sarto’s _Portrait of Lucrezia Fede_, Titian’s

_Salome_, Botticelli’s _Madonna and Angels_ and numbers of Tintorettos,

Carpaccios, Rembrandts, Velasquez.

“What fine copies!” said Beautrelet, approvingly.

Lupin looked at him with an air of stupefaction:

“What! Copies! You must be mad! The copies are in Madrid, my dear

fellow, in Florence, Venice, Munich, Amsterdam.”

“Then these—”

“Are the original pictures, my lad, patiently collected in all the

museums of Europe, where I have replaced them, like an honest man, with

first-rate copies.”

“But some day or other—”

“Some day or other, the fraud will be discovered? Well, they will find

my signature on each canvas—at the back—and they will know that it was

I who have endowed my country with the original masterpieces. After

all, I have only done what Napoleon did in Italy.—Oh, look, Beautrelet:

here are M. de Gesvres’s four Rubenses!—”

The knocking continued within the hollow of the Needle without ceasing.

“I can’t stand this!” said Lupin. “Let’s go higher.”

A fresh staircase. A fresh door.

“The tapestry-room,” Lupin announced.

The tapestries were not hung on the walls, but rolled, tied up with

cord, ticketed; and, in addition, there were parcels of old fabrics

which Lupin unfolded: wonderful brocades, admirable velvets, soft,

faded silks, church vestments woven with silver and gold—

They went higher still and Beautrelet saw the room containing the

clocks and other time-pieces, the book-room—oh, the splendid bindings,

the precious, undiscoverable volumes, the unique copies stolen from the

great public libraries—the lace-room, the knicknack-room.

And each time the circumference of the room grew smaller.

And each time, now, the sound of knocking was more distant. Ganimard

was losing ground.

“This is the last room,” said Lupin. “The treasury.”

This one was quite different. It was round also, but very high and

conical in shape. It occupied the top of the edifice and its floor must

have been fifteen or twenty yards below the extreme point of the

Needle.

On the cliff side there was no window. But on the side of the sea,

whence there were no indiscreet eyes to fear, two glazed openings

admitted plenty of light.

The ground was covered with a parqueted flooring of rare wood, forming

concentric patterns. Against the walls stood glass cases and a few

pictures.

“The pearls of my collection,” said Lupin. “All that you have seen so

far is for sale. Things come and things go. That’s business. But here,

in this sanctuary, everything is sacred. There is nothing here but

choice, essential pieces, the best of the best, priceless things. Look

at these jewels, Beautrelet: Chaldean amulets, Egyptian necklaces,

Celtic bracelets, Arab chains. Look at these statuettes, Beautrelet, at

this Greek Venus, this Corinthian Apollo. Look at these Tanagras,

Beautrelet: all the real Tanagras are here. Outside this glass case,

there is not a single genuine Tanagra statuette in the whole wide

world. What a delicious thing to be able to say!—Beautrelet, do you

remember Thomas and his gang of church-pillagers in the South—agents of

mine, by the way? Well, here is the Ambazac reliquary, the real one,

Beautrelet! Do you remember the Louvre scandal, the tiara which was

admitted to be false, invented and manufactured by a modern artist?

Here is the tiara of Saitapharnes, the real one, Beautrelet! Look,

Beautrelet, look with all your eyes: here is the marvel of marvels, the

supreme masterpiece, the work of no mortal brain; here is Leonardo’s

_Gioconda_, the real one! Kneel, Beautrelet, kneel; all womankind

stands before you in this picture.”

There was a long silence between them. Below, the sound of blows drew

nearer. Two or three doors, no more, separated them from Ganimard. In

the offing, they saw the black back of the torpedo-boat and the

fishing-smacks cruising to and fro.

The boy asked:

“And the treasure?”

“Ah, my little man, that’s what interests you most! None of those

masterpieces of human art can compete with the contemplation of the

treasure as a matter of curiosity, eh?—And the whole crowd will be like

you!—Come, you shall be satisfied.”

He stamped his foot, and, in so doing, made one of the discs composing

the floor-pattern turn right over. Then, lifting it as though it were

the lid of a box, he uncovered a sort of large round bowl, dug in the

thickness of the rock. It was empty.

A little farther, he went through the same performance. Another large

bowl appeared. It was also empty.

He did this three times over again. The three other bowls were empty.

“Eh,” grinned Lupin. “What a disappointment! Under Louis XI., under

Henry IV., under Richelieu, the five bowls were full. But think of

Louis XIV., the folly of Versailles, the wars, the great disasters of

the reign! And think of Louis XV., the spendthrift king, with his

Pompadour and his Du Barry! How they must have drawn on the treasure in

those days! With what thieving claws they must have scratched at the

stone. You see, there’s nothing left.”

He stopped.

“Yes, Beautrelet, there is something—the sixth hiding-place! This one

was intangible. Not one of them dared touch it. It was the very last

resource, the nest-egg, the something put by for a rainy day. Look,

Beautrelet!”

He stooped and lifted up the lid. An iron box filled the bowl. Lupin

took from his pocket a key with a complicated bit and wards and opened

the box.

A dazzling sight presented itself. Every sort of precious stone

sparkled there, every color gleamed, the blue of the sapphires, the red

of the rubies, the green of the emeralds, the yellow of the topazes.

“Look, look, little Beautrelet! They have squandered all the cash, all

the gold, all the silver, all the crown pieces and all the ducats and

all the doubloons; but the chest with the jewels has remained intact.

Look at the settings. They belong to every period, to every century, to

every country. The dowries of the queens are here. Each brought her

share: Margaret of Scotland and Charlotte of Savoy; duchesses of

Austria: Éléonore, Elisabeth, Marie-Thérèse, Mary of England and

Catherine de Médicis; and all the arch—Marie Antoinette. Look at those

pearls, Beautrelet! And those diamonds: look at the size of the

diamonds! Not one of them but is worthy of an empress! The Pitt Diamond

is no finer!”

He rose to his feet and held up his hand as one taking an oath:

“Beautrelet, you shall tell the world that Lupin has not taken a single

one of the stones that were in the royal chest, not a single one, I

swear it on my honor! I had no right to. They are the fortune of

France.”

Below them, Ganimard was making all speed. It was easy to judge by the

reverberation of the blows that his men were attacking the last door

but one, the door that gave access to the knicknack-room.

“Let us leave the chest open,” said Lupin, “and all the cavities, too,

all those little empty graves.”

He went round the room, examined some of the glass cases, gazed at some

of the pictures and, as he walked, said, pensively:

“How sad it is to leave all this! What a wrench! The happiest hours of

my life have been spent here, alone, in the presence of these objects

which I loved. And my eyes will never behold them again and my hands

will never touch them again—”

His drawn face bore such an expression of lassitude upon it that

Beautrelet felt a vague sort of pity for him. Sorrow in that man must

assume larger proportions than in another, even as joy did, or pride,

or humiliation. He was now standing by the window, and, with his finger

pointing to the horizon, said:

“What is sadder still is that I must abandon that, all that! How

beautiful it is! The boundless sea—the sky.—On either side, the cliffs

of Étretat with their three natural archways: the Porte d’Armont, the

Porte d’Aval, the Manneporte—so many triumphal arches for the master.

And the master was I! I was the king of the story, the king of

fairyland, the king of the Hollow Needle! A strange and supernatural

kingdom! From Cæsar to Lupin: what a destiny!” He burst out laughing.

“King of fairyland! Why not say King of Yvetot at once? What nonsense!

King of the world, yes, that’s more like it! From this topmost point of

the Needle, I ruled the globe! I held it in my claws like a prey! Lift

the tiara of Saitapharnes, Beautrelet.—You see those two telephones?

The one on the right communicates with Paris: a private line; the one

on the left with London: a private line. Through London, I am in touch

with America, Asia, Australia, South Africa. In all those continents, I

have my offices, my agents, my jackals, my scouts! I drive an

international trade. I hold the great market in art and antiquities,

the world’s fair! Ah, Beautrelet, there are moments when my power turns

my head! I feel intoxicated with strength and authority.”

The door gave way below. They heard Ganimard and his men running about

and searching.

After a moment, Lupin continued, in a low voice:

“And now it’s over. A little girl crossed my path, a girl with soft

hair and wistful eyes and an honest, yes, an honest soul—and it’s over.

I myself am demolishing the mighty edifice.—All the rest seems absurd

and childish to me—nothing counts but her hair—and her wistful eyes—and

her honest little soul—”

The men came up the staircase. A blow shook the door, the last door—

Lupin seized the boy sharply by the arm:

“Do you understand, Beautrelet, why I let you have things your own way

when I could have crushed you, time after time, weeks ago? Do you

understand how you succeeded in getting as far as this? Do you

understand that I had given each of my men his share of the plunder

when you met them the other night on the cliff? You do understand,

don’t you? The Hollow Needle is the great adventure. As long as it

belongs to me, I remain the great adventurer. Once the Needle is

recaptured, it means that the past and I are parted and that the future

begins, a future of peace and happiness, in which I shall have no

occasion to blush when Raymonde’s eyes are turned upon me, a future—”

He turned furiously toward the door:

“Stop that noise, Ganimard, will you? I haven’t finished my speech!”

The blows came faster. It was like the sound of a beam that was being

hurled against the door. Beautrelet, mad with curiosity, stood in front

of Lupin and awaited events, without understanding what Lupin was doing

or contemplating. To give up the Needle was all very well; but why was

he giving up himself? What was his plan? Did he hope to escape from

Ganimard? And, on the other hand, where was Raymonde?

Lupin, meantime, was murmuring, dreamily:

“An honest man.—Arsène Lupin an honest man—no more robbery—leading the

life of everybody else.—And why not? There is no reason why I should

not meet with the same success.—But do stop that now, Ganimard! Don’t

you know, you ass, that I’m uttering historic words and that Beautrelet

is taking them in for the benefit of posterity?” He laughed. “I am

wasting my time. Ganimard will never grasp the use of my historic

words.”

He took a piece of red chalk, put a pair of steps to the wall and

wrote, in large letters:

Arsène Lupin gives and bequeaths to France all the treasures contained

in the Hollow Needle, on the sole condition that these treasures be

housed at the Musée du Louvre in rooms which shall be known as the

Arsène Lupin Rooms.

“Now,” he said, “my conscience is at ease. France and I are quits.”

The attackers were striking with all their might. One of the panels

burst in two. A hand was put through and fumbled for the lock.

“Thunder!” said Lupin. “That idiot of a Ganimard is capable of

effecting his purpose for once in his life.”

He rushed to the lock and removed the key.

“Sold, old chap!—The door’s tough.—I have plenty of time—Beautrelet, I

must say good-bye. And thank you!—For really you could have complicated

the attack—but you’re so tactful!”

While speaking, he moved toward a large triptych by Van der Weyden,

representing the Wise Men of the East. He shut the right-hand panel

and, in so doing, exposed a little door concealed behind it and seized

the handle.

“Good luck to your hunting, Ganimard! And kind regards at home!”

A pistol-shot resounded. Lupin jumped back: “Ah, you rascal, full in

the heart! Have you been taking lessons? You’ve done for the Wise Man!

Full in the heart! Smashed to smithereens, like a pipe at the fair!—”

“Lupin, surrender!” roared Ganimard, with his eyes glittering and his

revolver showing through the broken panel of the door. “Surrender, I

say!”

“Did the old guard surrender?”

“If you stir a limb, I’ll blow your brains out!”

“Nonsense! You can’t get me here!”

As a matter of fact, Lupin had moved away; and, though Ganimard was

able to fire straight in front of him through the breach in the door,

he could not fire, still less take aim, on the side where Lupin stood.

Lupin’s position was a terrible one for all that, because the outlet on

which he was relying, the little door behind the triptych, opened right

in front of Ganimard. To try to escape meant to expose himself to the

detective’s fire; and there were five bullets left in the revolver.

“By Jove,” he said, laughing, “there’s a slump in my shares this

afternoon! You’ve done a nice thing. Lupin, old fellow: you wanted a

last sensation and you’ve gone a bit too far. You shouldn’t have talked

so much.”

He flattened himself against the wall. A further portion of the panel

had given way under the men’s pressure and Ganimard was less hampered

in his movements. Three yards, no more, separated the two antagonists.

But Lupin was protected by a glass case with a gilt-wood framework.

“Why don’t you help, Beautrelet?” cried the old detective, gnashing his

teeth with rage. “Why don’t you shoot him, instead of staring at him

like that?”

Isidore, in fact, had not budged, had remained, till that moment, an

eager, but passive spectator. He would have liked to fling himself into

the contest with all his strength and to bring down the prey which he

held at his mercy. He was prevented by some inexplicable sentiment.

But Ganimard’s appeal for assistance shook him. His hand closed on the

butt of his revolver:

“If I take part in it,” he thought, “Lupin is lost. And I have the

right—it’s my duty.”

Their eyes met. Lupin’s were calm, watchful, almost inquisitive, as

though, in the awful danger that threatened him, he were interested

only in the moral problem that held the young man in its clutches.

Would Isidore decide to give the finishing stroke to the defeated

enemy?

The door cracked from top to bottom.

“Help, Beautrelet, we’ve got him!” Ganimard bellowed.

Isidore raised his revolver.

What happened was so quick that he knew of it, so to speak, only by the

result. He saw Lupin bob down and run along the wall, skimming the door

right under the weapon which Ganimard was vainly brandishing; and he

felt himself suddenly flung to the ground, picked up the next moment

and lifted by an invincible force.

Lupin held him in the air, like a living shield, behind which he hid

himself.

“Ten to one that I escape, Ganimard! Lupin, you see, has never quite

exhausted his resources—”

He had taken a couple of brisk steps backward to the triptych. Holding

Beautrelet with one hand flat against his chest, with the other he

cleared the passage and closed the little door behind them.

A steep staircase appeared before their eyes.

“Come along,” said Lupin, pushing Beautrelet before him. “The land

forces are beaten—let us turn our attention to the French fleet.—After

Waterloo, Trafalgar.—You’re having some fun for your money, eh, my

lad?—Oh, how good: listen to them knocking at the triptych now!—It’s

too late, my children.—But hurry along, Beautrelet!”

The staircase, dug out in the wall of the Needle, dug in its very

crust, turned round and round the pyramid, encircling it like the

spiral of a tobogganslide. Each hurrying the other, they clattered down

the treads, taking two or three at a bound. Here and there, a ray of

light trickled through a fissure; and Beautrelet carried away the

vision of the fishing-smacks hovering a few dozen fathoms off, and of

the black torpedo-boat.

They went down and down, Isidore in silence, Lupin still bubbling over

with merriment:

“I should like to know what Ganimard is doing? Is he tumbling down the

other staircases to bar the entrance to the tunnel against me? No, he’s

not such a fool as that. He must have left four men there—and four men

are sufficient—” He stopped. “Listen—they’re shouting up above. That’s

it, they’ve opened the window and are calling to their fleet.—Why,

look, the men are busy on board the smacks—they’re exchanging

signals.—The torpedo-boat is moving.—Dear old torpedo-boat! I know you,

you’re from the Havre.—Guns’ crews to the guns!—Hullo, there’s the

commander!—How are you, Duguay-Trouin?”

He put his arm through a cleft and waved his handkerchief. Then he

continued his way downstairs:

“The enemy’s fleet have set all sail,” he said. “We shall be boarded

before we know where we are. Heavens, what fun!”

They heard the sound of voices below them. They were just then

approaching the level of the sea and they emerged, almost at once, into

a large cave into which two lanterns were moving about in the dark.

A woman’s figure appeared and threw itself on Lupin’s neck:

“Quick, quick, I was so nervous about you. What have you been

doing?—But you’re not alone!—”

Lupin reassured her:

“It’s our friend Beautrelet.—Just think, Beautrelet had the tact—but

I’ll talk about that later—there’s no time now.—Charolais are you

there? That’s right!—And the boat?”

“The boat’s ready, sir,” Charolais replied,

“Fire away,” said Lupin.

In a moment, the noise of a motor crackled and Beautrelet, whose eyes

were gradually becoming used to the gloom, ended by perceiving that

they were on a sort of quay, at the edge of the water, and that a boat

was floating before them.

“A motor boat,” said Lupin, completing Beautrelet’s observations. “This

knocks you all of a heap, eh, Isidore, old chap?—You don’t

understand.—Still, you have only to think.—As the water before your

eyes is no other than the water of the sea, which filters into this

excavation each high tide, the result is that I have a safe little

private roadstead all to myself.”

“But it’s closed,” Beautrelet protested. “No one can get in or out.”

“Yes, I can,” said Lupin; “and I’m going to prove it to you.”

He began by handing Raymonde in. Then he came back to fetch Beautrelet.

The lad hesitated.

“Are you afraid?” asked Lupin.

“What of?”

“Of being sunk by the torpedo-boat.”

“No.”

“Then you’re considering whether it’s not your duty to stay with

Ganimard, law and order, society and morality, instead of going off

with Lupin, shame, infamy and disgrace.”

“Exactly.”

“Unfortunately, my boy, you have no choice. For the moment, they must

believe the two of us dead—and leave me the peace to which a

prospective honest man is entitled. Later on, when I have given you

your liberty, you can talk as much as you please—I shall have nothing

more to fear.”

By the way in which Lupin clutched his arm, Beautrelet felt that all

resistance was useless. Besides, why resist? Had he not discovered and

handed over the Hollow Needle? What did he care about the rest? Had he

not the right to humor the irresistible sympathy with which, in spite

of everything, this man inspired him?

The feeling was so clear in him that he was half inclined to say to

Lupin:

“Look here, you’re running another, a more serious danger; Holmlock

Shears is on your track.”

“Come along!” said Lupin, before Isidore had made up his mind to speak.

He obeyed and let Lupin lead him to the boat, the shape of which struck

him as peculiar and its appearance quite unexpected.

Once on deck, they went down a little steep staircase, or rather a

ladder hooked on to a trap door, which closed above their heads. At the

foot of the ladder, brightly lit by a lamp, was a very small saloon,

where Raymonde was waiting for them and where the three had just room

to sit down.

Lupin took the mouthpiece of a speaking tube from a hook and gave the

order:

“Let her go, Charolais!”

Isidore had the unpleasant sensation which one feels when going down in

a lift: the sensation of the ground vanishing beneath you, the

impression of emptiness, space. This time, it was the water retreating;

and space opened out, slowly.

“We’re sinking, eh?” grinned Lupin. “Don’t be afraid—we’ve only to pass

from the upper cave where we were to another little cave, situated

right at the bottom and half open to the sea, which can be entered at

low tide. All the shellfish-catchers know it. Ah, ten seconds’ wait!

We’re going through the passage and it’s very narrow, just the size of

the submarine.”

“But,” asked Beautrelet, “how is it that the fishermen who enter the

lower cave don’t know that it’s open at the top and that it

communicates with another from which a staircase starts and runs

through the Needle? The facts are at the disposal of the first-comer.”

“Wrong, Beautrelet! The top of the little public cave is closed, at low

tide, by a movable platform, painted the color of the rock, which the

sea, when it rises, shifts and carries up with it and, when it goes

down, fastens firmly over the little cave. That is why I am able to

pass at high tide. A clever notion, what? It’s an idea of my own. True,

neither Cæsar nor Louis XIV., nor, in short, any of my distinguished

predecessors could have had it, because they did not possess

submarines. They were satisfied with the staircase, which then ran all

the way down to the little bottom cave. I did away with the last treads

of the staircase and invented the trick of the movable ceiling: it’s a

present I’m making to France—Raymonde, my love, put out the lamp beside

you—we shan’t want it now—on the contrary—”

A pale light, which seemed to be of the same color as the water, met

them as they left the cave and made its way into the cabin through the

two portholes and through a thick glass skylight that projected above

the planking of the deck and allowed the passengers to inspect the

upper layers of the sea. And, suddenly, a shadow glided over their

heads.

“The attack is about to take place. The fleet is investing the Needle.

But, hollow as the Needle is, I don’t see how they propose to enter

it.”

He took up the speaking tube:

“Don’t leave the bottom, Charolais. Where are we going? Why, I told

you: to Port-Lupin. And at full speed, do you hear? We want water to

land by—there’s a lady with us.”

They skimmed over the rocky bed. The seaweed stood up on end like a

heavy, dark vegetation and the deep currents made it wave gracefully,

stretching and billowing like floating hair.

Another shadow, a longer one.

“That’s the torpedo-boat,” said Lupin. “We shall hear the roar of the

guns presently. What will Duguay-Trouin do? Bombard the Needle? Think

of what we’re missing, Beautrelet, by not being present at the meeting

of Duguay-Trouin and Ganimard! The juncture of the land and naval

forces! Hi, Charolais, don’t go to sleep, my man!”

They were moving very fast, for all that. The rocks had been succeeded

by sand-fields and then, almost at once, they saw more rocks, which

marked the eastern extremity of Étretat, the Porte d’Amont. Fish fled

at their approach. One of them, bolder than the rest, fastened on to a

porthole and looked at the occupants of the saloon with its great,

fixed, staring eyes.

“That’s better,” cried Lupin. “We’re going now. What do you think of my

cockle-shell, Beautrelet? Not so bad, is she? Do you remember the story

of the Seven of Hearts,[11] the wretched end of Lacombe, the engineer,

and how, after punishing his murderers, I presented the State with his

papers and his plans for the construction of a new submarine: one more

gift to France? Well, among the plans, I kept those of a submersible

motor boat and that is how you come to have the honor of sailing in my

company.”

[11] _The Exploits of Arsène Lupin_. By Maurice Leblanc. VI: _The Seven

of Hearts_.

He called to Charolais:

“Take us up, Charolais—there’s no danger now—”

They shot up to the surface and the glass skylight emerged above the

water.

They were a mile from the coast, out of sight, therefore, and

Beautrelet was now able to realize more fully at what a headlong pace

they were traveling. First Fécamp passed before them, then all the

Norman seaside places: Saint-Pierre, the Petits—Dalles, Veulettes,

Saint-Valery, Veules, Quiberville. Lupin kept on jesting and Isidore

never wearied of watching and listening to him, amazed as he was at the

man’s spirits, at his gaiety, his mischievous ways, his careless chaff,

his delight in life.

He also noticed Raymonde. The young woman sat silent, nestling up

against the man she loved. She had taken his hands between her own and

kept on raising her eyes to him; and Beautrelet constantly observed

that her hands were twitching and that the wistful sadness of her eyes

increased. And, each time, it was like a dumb and sorrowful reply to

Lupin’s sallies. One would have thought that his frivolous words, his

sarcastic outlook on life, caused her physical pain.

“Hush!” she whispered. “It’s defying destiny to laugh—so many

misfortunes can reach us still!”

Opposite Dieppe, they had to dive lest they should be seen by the

fishing-craft. And twenty minutes later, they shot at an angle toward

the coast and the boat entered a little submarine harbor formed by a

regular gap between the rocks, drew up beside a jetty and rose gently

to the surface.

Lupin announced:

“Port-Lupin!”

The spot, situated at sixteen miles from Dieppe and twelve from the

Tréport and protected, moreover, by the two landslips of cliff, was

absolutely deserted. A fine sand carpeted the rounded slope of the tiny

beach.

“Jump on shore, Beautrelet—Raymonde, give me your hand. You, Charolais,

go back to the Needle, see what happens between Ganimard and

Duguay-Trouin and come back and tell me at the end of the day. The

thing interests me tremendously.”

Beautrelet asked himself with a certain curiosity how they were going

to get out of this hemmed-in creek which was called Port-Lupin, when,

at the foot of the cliff, he saw the uprights of an iron ladder.

“Isidore,” said Lupin, “if you knew your geography and your history,

you would know that we are at the bottom of the gorge of Parfonval, in

the parish of Biville. More than a century ago, on the night of the

twenty-third of August, 1803, Georges Cadoudal and six accomplices, who

had landed in France with the intention of kidnapping the first consul,

Bonaparte, scrambled up to the top by the road which I will show you.

Since then, this road has been demolished by landslips. But Louis

Valméras, better known by the name of Arsène Lupin, had it restored at

his own expense and bought the farm of the Neuvillette, where the

conspirators spent the first night and where, retired from business and

withdrawing from the affairs of this world, he means to lead the life

of a respectable country squire with his wife and his mother by his

side. The gentleman-burglar is dead! Long live the gentleman-farmer!”

After the ladder came a sort of gully, an abrupt ravine hollowed out,

apparently, by the rains, at the end of which they laid hold of a

makeshift staircase furnished with a hand-rail. As Lupin explained,

this hand-rail had been placed where it was in the stead of the

_estamperche_, a long rope fastened to stakes, by which the people of

the country, in the old days, used to help themselves down when going

to the beach.

After a painful climb of half an hour, they emerged on the tableland,

not far from one of those little cabins, dug out of the soil itself,

which serve as shelters for the excisemen. And, as it happened, two

minutes later, at a turn in the path, one of these custom-house

officials appeared.

He drew himself up and saluted.

Lupin asked:

“Any news, Gomel?”

“No, governor.”

“You’ve met no one at all suspicious-looking?”

“No, governor—only—”

“What?”

“My wife—who does dressmaking at the Neuvillette—”

“Yes, I know—Césarine—my mother spoke of her. Well?”

“It seems a sailor was prowling about the village this morning.”

“What sort of face had he?”

“Not a natural face—a sort of Englishman’s face.”

“Ah!” said Lupin, in a tone preoccupied. “And you have given Césarine

orders—”

“To keep her eyes open. Yes, governor.”

“Very well. Keep a lookout for Charolais’s return in two or three hours

from now. If there’s anything, I shall be at the farm.”

He walked on and said to Beautrelet:

“This makes me uneasy—is it Shears? Ah, if it’s he, in his present

state of exasperation, I have everything to fear!”

He hesitated a moment: “I wonder if we hadn’t better turn back. Yes, I

have a nasty presentiment of evil.”

Gently undulating plains stretched before them as far as the eye could

see. A little to the left, a series of handsome avenues of trees led to

the farm of the Neuvillette, the buildings of which were now in view.

It was the retreat which he had prepared, the haven of rest which he

had promised Raymonde. Was he, for the sake of an absurd idea, to

renounce happiness at the very moment when it seemed within his reach?

He took Isidore by the arm and, calling his attention to Raymonde, who

was walking in front of them:

“Look at her. When she walks, her figure has a little swing at the

waist which I cannot see without quivering. But everything in her gives

me that thrill of emotion and love: her movements and her repose, her

silence and the sound of her voice. I tell you, the mere fact that I am

walking in the track of her footsteps makes me feel in the seventh

heaven. Ah, Beautrelet, will she ever forget that I was once Lupin?

Shall I ever be able to wipe out from her memory the past which she

loathes and detests?” He mastered himself and, with obstinate

assurance. “She will forget!” he declared. “She will forget, because I

have made every sacrifice for her sake. I have sacrificed the

inviolable sanctuary of the Hollow Needle, I have sacrificed my

treasures, my power, my pride—I will sacrifice everything—I don’t want

to be anything more—but just a man in love—and an honest man, because

she can only love an honest man. After all, why should I not be honest?

It is no more degrading than anything else!”

The quip escaped him, so to speak, unawares. His voice remained serious

and free of all chaff. And he muttered, with restrained violence:

“Ah, Beautrelet, you see, of all the unbridled joys which I have tasted

in my adventurous life, there is not one that equals the joy with which

her look fills me when she is pleased with me. I feel quite weak then,

and I should like to cry—” Was he crying? Beautrelet had an intuition

that his eyes were wet with tears. Tears in Lupin’s eyes!—Tears of

love!

They were nearing an old gate that served as an entrance to the farm.

Lupin stopped for a moment and stammered:

“Why am I afraid?—I feel a sort of weight on my chest. Is the adventure

of the Hollow Needle not over? Has destiny not accepted the issue which

I selected?”

Raymonde turned round, looking very anxious.

“Here comes Césarine. She’s running.”

The exciseman’s wife was hurrying from the farm as fast as she could.

Lupin rushed up to her:

“What is it? What has happened? Speak!”

Choking, quite out of breath, Césarine stuttered:

“A man—I saw a man this morning!

“A man—I saw a man in the sitting-room.”

“The Englishman of this morning?”

“Yes—but in a different disguise.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. He saw your mother. Mme. Valméras caught him as he was just going

away.”

“Well?”

“He told her that he was looking for Louis Valméras, that he was a

friend of yours.”

“Then?”

“The madame said that her son had gone abroad—for years.”

“And he went away?”

“No, he made signs through the window that overlooks the plain—as if he

were calling to some one.”

Lupin seemed to hesitate. A loud cry tore the air. Raymonde moaned:

“It’s your mother—I recognize—”

He flung himself upon her and, dragging her away, in a burst of fierce

passion:

“Come—let us fly—you first.”

But, suddenly, he stopped, distraught, overcome:

“No, I can’t do it—it’s too awful. Forgive me—Raymonde—that poor woman

down there—Stay here. Beautrelet, don’t leave her.”

He darted along the slope that surrounds the farm, turned and followed

it, at a run, till he came to the gate that opens on the plain.

Raymonde, whom Beautrelet had been unable to hold back, arrived almost

as soon as he did; and Beautrelet, hiding behind the trees, saw, in the

lonely walk that led from the farm to the gate, three men, of whom one,

the tallest, went ahead, while the two others were holding by the arms

a woman who tried to resist and who uttered moans of pain.

The daylight was beginning to fade. Nevertheless, Beautrelet recognized

Holmlock Shears. The woman seemed of a certain age. Her livid features

were set in a frame of white hair.

They all four came up.

They reached the gate. Shears opened one of the folding leaves.

Then Lupin strode forward and stood in front of him.

The encounter appeared all the more terrible inasmuch as it was silent,

almost solemn.

For long moments, the two enemies took each other’s measure with their

eyes. An equal hatred distorted the features of both of them. Neither

moved.

Then Lupin spoke, in a voice of terrifying calmness:

“Tell your men to leave that woman alone.”

“No.”

It was as though both of them feared to engage in the supreme struggle,

as though both were collecting all their strength. And there were no

words wasted this time, no insults, no bantering challenges. Silence, a

deathlike silence.

Mad with anguish, Raymonde awaited the issue of the duel. Beautrelet

had caught her arms and was holding her motionless.

After a second, Lupin repeated:

“Order your men to leave that woman alone.”

“No.”

Lupin said:

“Listen, Shears—”

But he interrupted himself, realizing the silliness of the words. In

the face of that colossus of pride and will-power which called itself

Holmlock Shears, of what use were threats?

Resolved upon the worst, suddenly he put his hand to his jacket pocket.

The Englishman anticipated his movement and, leaping upon his prisoner,

thrust the barrel of his revolver within two inches of her temple:

“If you stir a limb, I fire!”

At the same time his two satellites drew their weapons and aimed them

at Lupin.

Lupin drew himself up, stifled the rage within him and, coolly, with

his hands in his pockets and his breast exposed to the enemy, began

once more:

“Shears, for the third time, let that woman be—”

The Englishman sneered:

“I have no right to touch her, I suppose? Come, come, enough of this

humbug! Your name isn’t Valméras any more than it’s Lupin: you stole

the name just as you stole the name of Charmerace. And the woman whom

you pass off as your mother is Victoire, your old accomplice, the one

who brought you up—”[12]

[12] _Arsène Lupin_, play in four acts, by Maurice Leblanc and Francis

de Croisset.

Shears made a mistake. Carried away by his longing for revenge, he

glanced across at Raymonde, whom these revelations filled with horror.

Lupin took advantage of his imprudence. With a sudden movement, he

fired.

“Damnation!” bellowed Shears, whose arm, pierced by a bullet, fell to

his side. And, addressing his men, “Shoot, you two! Shoot him down!”

But already Lupin was upon them: and not two seconds had elapsed before

the one on the right was sprawling on the ground, with his chest

smashed, while the other, with his jaw broken, fell back against the

gate.

“Hurry up, Victoire. Tie them down. And now, Mr. Englishman, it’s you

and I.”

He ducked with an oath:

“Ah, you scoundrel!”

Shears had picked up his revolver with his left hand and was taking aim

at him.

A shot—a cry of distress—Raymonde had flung herself between the two

men, facing the Englishman. She staggered back, brought her hand to her

neck, drew herself up, spun round on her heels and fell at Lupin’s

feet.

“Raymonde!—Raymonde!”

He threw himself upon her, took her in his arms and pressed her to him.

“Dead—” he said.

There was a moment of stupefaction. Shears seemed confounded by his own

act. Victoire stammered:

“My poor boy—my poor boy—”

Beautrelet went up to the young woman and stooped to examine her. Lupin

repeated:

“Dead—dead—”

He said it in a reflective tone, as though he did not yet understand.

But his face became hollow, suddenly transformed, ravaged by grief. And

then he was seized with a sort of madness, made senseless gestures,

wrung his hands, stamped his feet, like a child that suffers more than

it is able to bear.

“You villain!” he cried, suddenly, in an access of hatred.

And, flinging Shears back with a formidable blow, he took him by the

throat and dug his twitching fingers into his flesh.

The Englishman gasped, without even struggling.

“My boy—my boy—” said Victoire, in a voice of entreaty.

Beautrelet ran up. But Lupin had already let go and stood sobbing

beside his enemy stretched upon the ground.

O pitiful sight! Beautrelet never forgot its tragic horror, he who knew

all Lupin’s love for Raymonde and all that the great adventurer had

sacrificed of his own being to bring a smile to the face of his

well-beloved.

Night began to cover the field of battle with a shroud of darkness. The

three Englishmen lay bound and gagged in the tall grass. Distant songs

broke the vast silence of the plain. It was the farm-hands returning

from their work.

Lupin drew himself up. He listened to the monotonous voices. Then he

glanced at the happy homestead of the Neuvillette, where he had hoped

to live peacefully with Raymonde. Then he looked at her, the poor,

loving victim, whom love had killed and who, all white, was sleeping

her last, eternal sleep.

The men were coming nearer, however.

Then Lupin bent down, took the dead woman in his powerful arms, lifted

the corpse with a single effort and, bent in two, stretched it across

his back:

“Let us go, Victoire.”

“Let us go, dear.”

“Good-bye, Beautrelet,” he said.

And, bearing his precious and awful burden followed by his old servant,

silent and fierce he turned toward the sea and plunged into the

darkness of the night.

THE END