LUPIN’S WAY
Sonia, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, in a reaction from her fears,
slipped back and sat down at the tea-table, panting quickly, struggling
to keep back the tears of relief. She did not see the Duke gallop up
the slope, dismount, and hand over his horse to the groom who came
running to him. There was still a mist in her eyes to blur his figure
as he came through the window.
“If it’s for me, plenty of tea, very little cream, and three lumps of
sugar,” he cried in a gay, ringing voice, and pulled out his watch.
“Five to the minute—that’s all right.” And he bent down, took
Germaine’s hand, and kissed it with an air of gallant devotion.
If he had indeed just fought a duel, there were no signs of it in his
bearing. His air, his voice, were entirely careless. He was a man whose
whole thought at the moment was fixed on his tea and his punctuality.
He drew a chair near the tea-table for Germaine; sat down himself; and
Sonia handed him a cup of tea with so shaky a hand that the spoon
clinked in the saucer.
“You’ve been fighting a duel?” said Germaine.
“What! You’ve heard already?” said the Duke in some surprise.
“I’ve heard,” said Germaine. “Why did you fight it?”
“You’re not wounded, your Grace?” said Sonia anxiously.
“Not a scratch,” said the Duke, smiling at her.
“Will you be so good as to get on with those wedding-cards, Sonia,”
said Germaine sharply; and Sonia went back to the writing-table.
Turning to the Duke, Germaine said, “Did you fight on my account?”
“Would you be pleased to know that I had fought on your account?” said
the Duke; and there was a faint mocking light in his eyes, far too
faint for the self-satisfied Germaine to perceive.
“Yes. But it isn’t true. You’ve been fighting about some woman,” said
Germaine petulantly.
“If I had been fighting about a woman, it could only be you,” said the
Duke.
“Yes, that is so. Of course. It could hardly be about Sonia, or my
maid,” said Germaine. “But what was the reason of the duel?”
“Oh, the reason of it was entirely childish,” said the Duke. “I was in
a bad temper; and De Relzières said something that annoyed me.”
“Then it wasn’t about me; and if it wasn’t about me, it wasn’t really
worth while fighting,” said Germaine in a tone of acute disappointment.
The mocking light deepened a little in the Duke’s eyes.
“Yes. But if I had been killed, everybody would have said, ‘The Duke of
Charmerace has been killed in a duel about Mademoiselle
Gournay-Martin.’ That would have sounded very fine indeed,” said the
Duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice.
“Now, don’t begin trying to annoy me again,” said Germaine pettishly.
“The last thing I should dream of, my dear girl,” said the Duke,
smiling.
“And De Relzières? Is he wounded?” said Germaine.
“Poor dear De Relzières: he won’t be out of bed for the next six
months,” said the Duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily.
“Good gracious!” cried Germaine.
“It will do poor dear De Relzières a world of good. He has a touch of
enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest,” said the
Duke.
Sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. Germaine
was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder Sonia could
watch the face of the Duke—an extraordinarily mobile face, changing
with every passing mood. Sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell
before them. But as soon as they turned away from her she was watching
him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face
in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic
scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race.
He finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and
said to Germaine, “It must be quite three days since I gave you
anything.”
He opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her.
“Oh, how nice!” she cried, taking it.
She took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. She showed it
to Sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the
effect. To tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. The
pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and
her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. Sonia saw this, and
so did the Duke. He looked at Sonia’s white throat. She met his eyes
and blushed. She knew that the same thought was in both their minds;
the pearls would have looked infinitely better there.
Germaine finished admiring herself; she was incapable even of
suspecting that so expensive a pendant could not suit her perfectly.
The Duke said idly: “Goodness! Are all those invitations to the
wedding?”
“That’s only down to the letter V,” said Germaine proudly.
“And there are twenty-five letters in the alphabet! You must be
inviting the whole world. You’ll have to have the Madeleine enlarged.
It won’t hold them all. There isn’t a church in Paris that will,” said
the Duke.
“Won’t it be a splendid marriage!” said Germaine. “There’ll be
something like a crush. There are sure to be accidents.”
“If I were you, I should have careful arrangements made,” said the
Duke.
“Oh, let people look after themselves. They’ll remember it better if
they’re crushed a little,” said Germaine.
There was a flicker of contemptuous wonder in the Duke’s eyes. But he
only shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Sonia, said, “Will you be
an angel and play me a little Grieg, Mademoiselle Kritchnoff? I heard
you playing yesterday. No one plays Grieg like you.”
“Excuse me, Jacques, but Mademoiselle Kritchnoff has her work to do,”
said Germaine tartly.
“Five minutes’ interval—just a morsel of Grieg, I beg,” said the Duke,
with an irresistible smile.
“All right,” said Germaine grudgingly. “But I’ve something important to
talk to you about.”
“By Jove! So have I. I was forgetting. I’ve the last photograph I took
of you and Mademoiselle Sonia.” Germaine frowned and shrugged her
shoulders. “With your light frocks in the open air, you look like two
big flowers,” said the Duke.
“You call that important!” cried Germaine.
“It’s very important—like all trifles,” said the Duke, smiling. “Look!
isn’t it nice?” And he took a photograph from his pocket, and held it
out to her.
“Nice? It’s shocking! We’re making the most appalling faces,” said
Germaine, looking at the photograph in his hand.
“Well, perhaps you ARE making faces,” said the Duke seriously,
considering the photograph with grave earnestness. “But they’re not
appalling faces—not by any means. You shall be judge, Mademoiselle
Sonia. The faces—well, we won’t talk about the faces—but the outlines.
Look at the movement of your scarf.” And he handed the photograph to
Sonia.
“Jacques!” said Germaine impatiently.
“Oh, yes, you’ve something important to tell me. What is it?” said the
Duke, with an air of resignation; and he took the photograph from Sonia
and put it carefully back in his pocket.
“Victoire has telephoned from Paris to say that we’ve had a paper-knife
and a Louis Seize inkstand given us,” said Germaine.
“Hurrah!” cried the Duke in a sudden shout that made them both jump.
“And a pearl necklace,” said Germaine.
“Hurrah!” cried the Duke.
“You’re perfectly childish,” said Germaine pettishly. “I tell you we’ve
been given a paper-knife, and you shout ‘hurrah!’ I say we’ve been
given a pearl necklace, and you shout ‘hurrah!’ You can’t have the
slightest sense of values.”
“I beg your pardon. This pearl necklace is from one of your father’s
friends, isn’t it?” said the Duke.
“Yes; why?” said Germaine.
“But the inkstand and the paper-knife must be from the Faubourg
Saint-Germain, and well on the shabby side?” said the Duke.
“Yes; well?”
“Well then, my dear girl, what are you complaining about? They balance;
the equilibrium is restored. You can’t have everything,” said the Duke;
and he laughed mischievously.
Germaine flushed, and bit her lip; her eyes sparkled.
“You don’t care a rap about me,” she said stormily.
“But I find you adorable,” said the Duke.
“You keep annoying me,” said Germaine pettishly. “And you do it on
purpose. I think it’s in very bad taste. I shall end by taking a
dislike to you—I know I shall.”
“Wait till we’re married for that, my dear girl,” said the Duke; and he
laughed again, with a blithe, boyish cheerfulness, which deepened the
angry flush in Germaine’s cheeks.
“Can’t you be serious about anything?” she cried.
“I am the most serious man in Europe,” said the Duke.
Germaine went to the window and stared out of it sulkily.
The Duke walked up and down the hall, looking at the pictures of some
of his ancestors—somewhat grotesque persons—with humorous appreciation.
Between addressing the envelopes Sonia kept glancing at him. Once he
caught her eye, and smiled at her. Germaine’s back was eloquent of her
displeasure. The Duke stopped at a gap in the line of pictures in which
there hung a strip of old tapestry.
“I can never understand why you have left all these ancestors of mine
staring from the walls and have taken away the quite admirable and
interesting portrait of myself,” he said carelessly.
Germaine turned sharply from the window; Sonia stopped in the middle of
addressing an envelope; and both the girls stared at him in
astonishment.
“There certainly was a portrait of me where that tapestry hangs. What
have you done with it?” said the Duke.
“You’re making fun of us again,” said Germaine.
“Surely your Grace knows what happened,” said Sonia.
“We wrote all the details to you and sent you all the papers three
years ago. Didn’t you get them?” said Germaine.
“Not a detail or a newspaper. Three years ago I was in the
neighbourhood of the South Pole, and lost at that,” said the Duke.
“But it was most dramatic, my dear Jacques. All Paris was talking of
it,” said Germaine. “Your portrait was stolen.”
“Stolen? Who stole it?” said the Duke.
Germaine crossed the hall quickly to the gap in the line of pictures.
“I’ll show you,” she said.
She drew aside the piece of tapestry, and in the middle of the panel
over which the portrait of the Duke had hung he saw written in chalk
the words:
ARSÈNE LUPIN
“What do you think of that autograph?” said Germaine.
“‘Arsène Lupin?’” said the Duke in a tone of some bewilderment.
“He left his signature. It seems that he always does so,” said Sonia in
an explanatory tone.
“But who is he?” said the Duke.
“Arsène Lupin? Surely you know who Arsène Lupin is?” said Germaine
impatiently.
“I haven’t the slightest notion,” said the Duke.
“Oh, come! No one is as South-Pole as all that!” cried Germaine. “You
don’t know who Lupin is? The most whimsical, the most audacious, and
the most genial thief in France. For the last ten years he has kept the
police at bay. He has baffled Ganimard, Holmlock Shears, the great
English detective, and even Guerchard, whom everybody says is the
greatest detective we’ve had in France since Vidocq. In fact, he’s our
national robber. Do you mean to say you don’t know him?”
“Not even enough to ask him to lunch at a restaurant,” said the Duke
flippantly. “What’s he like?”
“Like? Nobody has the slightest idea. He has a thousand disguises. He
has dined two evenings running at the English Embassy.”
“But if nobody knows him, how did they learn that?” said the Duke, with
a puzzled air.
“Because the second evening, about ten o’clock, they noticed that one
of the guests had disappeared, and with him all the jewels of the
ambassadress.”
“All of them?” said the Duke.
“Yes; and Lupin left his card behind him with these words scribbled on
it:”
“‘This is not a robbery; it is a restitution. You took the Wallace
collection from us.’”
“But it was a hoax, wasn’t it?” said the Duke.
“No, your Grace; and he has done better than that. You remember the
affair of the Daray Bank—the savings bank for poor people?” said Sonia,
her gentle face glowing with a sudden enthusiastic animation.
“Let’s see,” said the Duke. “Wasn’t that the financier who doubled his
fortune at the expense of a heap of poor wretches and ruined two
thousand people?”
“Yes; that’s the man,” said Sonia. “And Lupin stripped Daray’s house
and took from him everything he had in his strong-box. He didn’t leave
him a sou of the money. And then, when he’d taken it from him, he
distributed it among all the poor wretches whom Daray had ruined.”
“But this isn’t a thief you’re talking about—it’s a philanthropist,”
said the Duke.
“A fine sort of philanthropist!” broke in Germaine in a peevish tone.
“There was a lot of philanthropy about his robbing papa, wasn’t there?”
“Well,” said the Duke, with an air of profound reflection, “if you come
to think of it, that robbery was not worthy of this national hero. My
portrait, if you except the charm and beauty of the face itself, is not
worth much.”
“If you think he was satisfied with your portrait, you’re very much
mistaken. All my father’s collections were robbed,” said Germaine.
“Your father’s collections?” said the Duke. “But they’re better guarded
than the Bank of France. Your father is as careful of them as the apple
of his eye.”
“That’s exactly it—he was too careful of them. That’s why Lupin
succeeded.”
“This is very interesting,” said the Duke; and he sat down on a couch
before the gap in the pictures, to go into the matter more at his ease.
“I suppose he had accomplices in the house itself?”
“Yes, one accomplice,” said Germaine.
“Who was that?” asked the Duke.
“Papa!” said Germaine.
“Oh, come! what on earth do you mean?” said the Duke. “You’re getting
quite incomprehensible, my dear girl.”
“Well, I’ll make it clear to you. One morning papa received a
letter—but wait. Sonia, get me the Lupin papers out of the bureau.”
Sonia rose from the writing-table, and went to a bureau, an admirable
example of the work of the great English maker, Chippendale. It stood
on the other side of the hall between an Oriental cabinet and a
sixteenth-century Italian cabinet—for all the world as if it were
standing in a crowded curiosity shop—with the natural effect that the
three pieces, by their mere incongruity, took something each from the
beauty of the other. Sonia raised the flap of the bureau, and taking
from one of the drawers a small portfolio, turned over the papers in it
and handed a letter to the Duke.
“This is the envelope,” she said. “It’s addressed to M. Gournay-Martin,
Collector, at the château de Charmerace, Ile-et-Vilaine.”
The Duke opened the envelope and took out a letter.
“It’s an odd handwriting,” he said.
“Read it—carefully,” said Germaine.
It was an uncommon handwriting. The letters of it were small, but
perfectly formed. It looked the handwriting of a man who knew exactly
what he wanted to say, and liked to say it with extreme precision. The
letter ran:
“DEAR SIR,”
“Please forgive my writing to you without our having been introduced to
one another; but I flatter myself that you know me, at any rate, by
name.”
“There is in the drawing-room next your hall a Gainsborough of
admirable quality which affords me infinite pleasure. Your Goyas in the
same drawing-room are also to my liking, as well as your Van Dyck. In
the further drawing-room I note the Renaissance cabinets—a marvellous
pair—the Flemish tapestry, the Fragonard, the clock signed Boulle, and
various other objects of less importance. But above all I have set my
heart on that coronet which you bought at the sale of the Marquise de
Ferronaye, and which was formerly worn by the unfortunate Princesse de
Lamballe. I take the greatest interest in this coronet: in the first
place, on account of the charming and tragic memories which it calls up
in the mind of a poet passionately fond of history, and in the second
place—though it is hardly worth while talking about that kind of
thing—on account of its intrinsic value. I reckon indeed that the
stones in your coronet are, at the very lowest, worth half a million
francs.”
“I beg you, my dear sir, to have these different objects properly
packed up, and to forward them, addressed to me, carriage paid, to the
Batignolles Station. Failing this, I shall Proceed to remove them
myself on the night of Thursday, August 7th.”
“Please pardon the slight trouble to which I am putting you, and
believe me,”
“Yours very sincerely,”
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
“P.S.—It occurs to me that the pictures have not glass before them. It
would be as well to repair this omission before forwarding them to me,
and I am sure that you will take this extra trouble cheerfully. I am
aware, of course, that some of the best judges declare that a picture
loses some of its quality when seen through glass. But it preserves
them, and we should always be ready and willing to sacrifice a portion
of our own pleasure for the benefit of posterity. France demands it of
us.—A. L.”
The Duke laughed, and said, “Really, this is extraordinarily funny. It
must have made your father laugh.”
“Laugh?” said Germaine. “You should have seen his face. He took it
seriously enough, I can tell you.”
“Not to the point of forwarding the things to Batignolles, I hope,”
said the Duke.
“No, but to the point of being driven wild,” said Germaine. “And since
the police had always been baffled by Lupin, he had the brilliant idea
of trying what soldiers could do. The Commandant at Rennes is a great
friend of papa’s; and papa went to him, and told him about Lupin’s
letter and what he feared. The colonel laughed at him; but he offered
him a corporal and six soldiers to guard his collection, on the night
of the seventh. It was arranged that they should come from Rennes by
the last train so that the burglars should have no warning of their
coming. Well, they came, seven picked men—men who had seen service in
Tonquin. We gave them supper; and then the corporal posted them in the
hall and the two drawing-rooms where the pictures and things were. At
eleven we all went to bed, after promising the corporal that, in the
event of any fight with the burglars, we would not stir from our rooms.
I can tell you I felt awfully nervous. I couldn’t get to sleep for ages
and ages. Then, when I did, I did not wake till morning. The night had
passed absolutely quietly. Nothing out of the common had happened.
There had not been the slightest noise. I awoke Sonia and my father. We
dressed as quickly as we could, and rushed down to the drawing-room.”
She paused dramatically.
“Well?” said the Duke.
“Well, it was done.”
“What was done?” said the Duke.
“Everything,” said Germaine. “Pictures had gone, tapestries had gone,
cabinets had gone, and the clock had gone.”
“And the coronet too?” said the Duke.
“Oh, no. That was at the Bank of France. And it was doubtless to make
up for not getting it that Lupin stole your portrait. At any rate he
didn’t say that he was going to steal it in his letter.”
“But, come! this is incredible. Had he hypnotized the corporal and the
six soldiers? Or had he murdered them all?” said the Duke.
“Corporal? There wasn’t any corporal, and there weren’t any soldiers.
The corporal was Lupin, and the soldiers were part of his gang,” said
Germaine.
“I don’t understand,” said the Duke. “The colonel promised your father
a corporal and six men. Didn’t they come?”
“They came to the railway station all right,” said Germaine. “But you
know the little inn half-way between the railway station and the
château? They stopped to drink there, and at eleven o’clock next
morning one of the villagers found all seven of them, along with the
footman who was guiding them to the château, sleeping like logs in the
little wood half a mile from the inn. Of course the innkeeper could not
explain when their wine was drugged. He could only tell us that a
motorist, who had stopped at the inn to get some supper, had called the
soldiers in and insisted on standing them drinks. They had seemed a
little fuddled before they left the inn, and the motorist had insisted
on driving them to the château in his car. When the drug took effect he
simply carried them out of it one by one, and laid them in the wood to
sleep it off.”
“Lupin seems to have made a thorough job of it, anyhow,” said the Duke.
“I should think so,” said Germaine. “Guerchard was sent down from
Paris; but he could not find a single clue. It was not for want of
trying, for he hates Lupin. It’s a regular fight between them, and so
far Lupin has scored every point.”
“He must be as clever as they make ’em,” said the Duke.
“He is,” said Germaine. “And do you know, I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if he’s in the neighbourhood now.”
“What on earth do you mean?” said the Duke.
“I’m not joking,” said Germaine. “Odd things are happening. Some one
has been changing the place of things. That silver statuette now—it was
on the cabinet, and we found it moved to the piano. Yet nobody had
touched it. And look at this window. Some one has broken a pane in it
just at the height of the fastening.”
“The deuce they have!” said the Duke.