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 Caesar 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 Etretat, 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, 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.”
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 Fecamp 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 Treport 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 Valmeras, 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 — Cesarine — 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 Cesarine 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 Cesarine. 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, Cesarine 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. Valmeras caught him as he was just going away.”
“Well?”
“He told her that he was looking for Louis Valmeras, 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 Valmeras 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—”
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, V
ictoire. 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 82
