Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  “It must happen,” he muttered, “it must; and it must, not because I wish it, but because it is logical. And it shall happen . . . it shall happen. . . .”

  He beat his skull with his fists; and delirious words rose to his lips. . . .

  The key grated in the lock. In his frenzy, he had not heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; and now, suddenly, a ray of light penetrated into his cell and the door opened.

  Three men entered.

  Lupin had not a moment of surprise.

  The unheard-of miracle was being worked; and this at once seemed to him natural and normal, in perfect agreement with truth and justice.

  But a rush of pride flooded his whole being. At this minute he really received a clear sensation of his own strength and intelligence. . . .

  “Shall I switch on the light?” asked one of the three men, in whom Lupin recognized the governor of the prison.

  “No,” replied the taller of his companions, speaking in a foreign accent. “This lantern will do.”

  “Shall I go?”

  “Act according to your duty, sir,” said the same individual.

  “My instructions from the prefect of police are to comply entirely with your wishes.”

  “In that case, sir, it would be preferable that you should withdraw.”

  M. Borély went away, leaving the door half open, and remained outside, within call.

  The visitor exchanged a few words with the one who had not yet spoken; and Lupin vainly tried to distinguish his features in the shade. He saw only two dark forms, clad in wide motoring-cloaks and wearing caps with the flaps lowered.

  “Are you Arsène Lupin?” asked the man, turning the light of the lantern full on his face.

  He smiled:

  “Yes, I am the person known as Arsène Lupin, at present a prisoner in the Santé, cell 14, second division.”

  “Was it you,” continued the visitor, “who published in the Grand Journal a series of more or less fanciful notes, in which there is a question of a so-called collection of letters . . . ?”

  Lupin interrupted him.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but, before pursuing this conversation, the object of which, between ourselves, is none too clear to me, I should be much obliged if you would tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking.”

  “Absolutely unnecessary,” replied the stranger.

  “Absolutely essential,” declared Lupin.

  “Why?”

  “For reasons of politeness, sir. You know my name and I do not know yours; this implies a disregard of good form which I cannot suffer.”

  The stranger lost patience:

  “The mere fact that the governor of the prison brought us here shows . . .”

  “That M. Borély does not know his manners,” said Lupin. “M. Borély should have introduced us to each other. We are equals here, sir: it is no case of a superior and an inferior, of a prisoner and a visitor who condescends to come and see him. There are two men here; and one of those two men has a hat on his head, which he ought not to have.”

  “Now look here . . .”

  “Take the lesson as you please, sir,” said Lupin.

  The stranger came closer to him and tried to speak.

  “The hat first,” said Lupin, “the hat. . . .”

  “You shall listen to me!”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Matters were becoming virulent, stupidly. The second stranger, the one who had kept silent, placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said, in German:

  “Leave him to me.”

  “Why, it was understood . . .”

  “Hush . . . and go away!”

  “Leaving you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the door?”

  “Shut it and walk away.”

  “But this man . . . you know who he is. . . . Arsène Lupin. . . .”

  “Go away!”

  The other went out, cursing under his breath.

  “Pull the door!” cried the second visitor. “Harder than that. . . . Altogether! . . . That’s right. . . .”

  Then he turned, took the lantern and raised it slowly:

  “Shall I tell you who I am?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Lupin.

  “And why?”

  “Because I know.”

  “Ah!”

  “You are the visitor I was expecting.”

  “I?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  CHAPTER XI. CHARLEMAGNE

  “SILENCE!” SAID THE stranger, sharply. “Don’t use that word.”

  “Then what shall I call Your . . .”

  “Call me nothing.”

  They were both silent; and this moment of respite was not one of those which go before the struggle of two adversaries ready for the fray. The stranger strode to and fro with the air of a master accustomed to command and to be obeyed. Lupin stood motionless. He had abandoned his usual provocative attitude and his sarcastic smile. He waited, gravely and deferentially. But, down in the depths of his being, he revelled, eagerly, madly, in the marvellous situation in which he found himself placed: here, in his cell, he, a prisoner; he, the adventurer; he, the swindler, the burglar; he, Arsène Lupin . . . face to face with that demi-god of the modern world, that formidable entity, the heir of Cæsar and of Charlemagne.

  He was intoxicated for a moment with the sense of his own power. The tears came to his eyes when he thought of his triumph. . . .

  The stranger stood still.

  And at once, with the very first sentence, they came to the immediate point:

  “To-morrow is the 22nd of August. The letters are to be published to-morrow, are they not?”

  “To-night, in two hours from now, my friends are to hand in to the Grand Journal, not the letters themselves, but an exact list of the letters, with the Grand-duke Hermann’s annotations.”

  “That list shall not be handed in.”

  “It shall not be.”

  “You will give it to me.”

  “It shall be placed in the hands of Your . . . in your hands.”

  “Likewise, all the letters?”

  “Likewise, all the letters.”

  “Without any of them being photographed?”

  “Without any of them being photographed.”

  The stranger spoke in a very calm voice, containing not the least accent of entreaty nor the least inflection of authority. He neither ordered nor requested; he stated the inevitable actions of Arsène Lupin. Things would happen as he said. And they would happen, whatever Arsène Lupin’s demands should be, at whatever price he might value the performance of those actions. The conditions were accepted beforehand.

  “By Jove,” said Lupin to himself, “that’s jolly clever of him! If he leaves it to my generosity, I am a ruined man!”

  The very way in which the conversation opened, the frankness of the words employed, the charm of voice and manner all pleased him infinitely.

  He pulled himself together, lest he should relent and abandon all the advantages which he had conquered so fiercely.

  And the stranger continued:

  “Have you read the letters?”

  “No.”

  “But some one you know has read them?”

  “No.”

  “In that case . . .”

  “I have the grand-duke’s list and his notes. Moreover, I know the hiding-place where he put all his papers.”

  “Why did you not take them before this?”

  “I did not know the secret of the hiding-place until I came here. My friends are on the way there now.”

  “The castle is guarded. It is occupied by two hundred of my most trusty men.”

  “Ten thousand would not be sufficient.”

  After a minute’s reflection, the visitor asked:

  “How do you know the secret?”

  “I guessed it.”

  “But you had other elements of information which the pap
ers did not publish?”

  “No, none at all.”

  “And yet I had the castle searched for four days.”

  “Holmlock Shears looked in the wrong place.”

  “Ah!” said the stranger to himself. “It’s an odd thing, an odd thing! . . .” And, to Lupin, “You are sure that your supposition is correct?”

  “It is not a supposition: it is a certainty.”

  “So much the better,” muttered the visitor. “There will be no rest until those papers cease to exist.”

  And, placing himself in front of Arsène Lupin:

  “How much?”

  “What?” said Lupin, taken aback.

  “How much for the papers? How much do you ask to reveal the secret?”

  He waited for Lupin to name a figure. He suggested one himself:

  “Fifty thousand? . . . A hundred thousand?”

  And, when Lupin did not reply, he said, with a little hesitation:

  “More? Two hundred thousand? Very well! I agree.”

  Lupin smiled and, in a low voice, said:

  “It is a handsome figure. But is it not likely that some sovereign, let us say, the King of England, would give as much as a million? In all sincerity?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And that those letters are priceless to the Emperor, that they are worth two million quite as easily as two hundred thousand francs . . . three million as easily as two?”

  “I think so.”

  “And, if necessary, the Emperor would give that three million francs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it will not be difficult to come to an arrangement.”

  “On that basis?” cried the stranger, not without some alarm.

  Lupin smiled again:

  “On that basis, no. . . . I am not looking for money. I want something else, something that is worth more to me than any number of millions.”

  “What is that?”

  “My liberty.”

  “What! Your liberty. . . . But I can do nothing. . . . That concerns your country . . . the law. . . . I have no power.”

  Lupin went up to him and, lowering his voice still more:

  “You have every power, Sire. . . . My liberty is not such an exceptional event that they are likely to refuse you.”

  “Then I should have to ask for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Of Valenglay, the prime minister.”

  “But M. Valenglay himself can do no more than I.”

  “He can open the doors of this prison for me.”

  “It would cause a public outcry.”

  “When I say, open . . . half-open would be enough . . . We should counterfeit an escape. . . . The public so thoroughly expects it that it would not so much as ask for an explanation.”

  “Very well . . . but M. Valenglay will never consent. . . .”

  “He will consent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you will express the wish.”

  “My wishes are not commands . . . to him!”

  “No . . . but an opportunity of making himself agreeable to the Emperor by fulfilling them. And Valenglay is too shrewd a politician. . . .”

  “Nonsense! Do you imagine that the French government will commit so illegal an act for the sole pleasure of making itself agreeable to me?”

  “That pleasure will not be the sole one.”

  “What will be the other?”

  “The pleasure of serving France by accepting the proposal which will accompany the request for my release.”

  “I am to make a proposal? I?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “What proposal?”

  “I do not know, but it seems to me that there is always a favorable ground on which to come to an understanding . . . there are possibilities of agreement. . . .”

  The stranger looked at him, without grasping his meaning. Lupin leant forward and, as though seeking his words, as though putting an imaginary case, said:

  “Let me suppose that two great countries are divided by some insignificant question . . . that they have different points of view on a matter of secondary importance . . . a colonial matter, for instance, in which their self-esteem is at stake rather than their interest. . . . Is it inconceivable that the ruler of one of those countries might come of his own accord to treat this matter in a new spirit of conciliation . . . and give the necessary instructions . . . so that . . .”

  “So that I might leave Morocco to France?” said the stranger, with a burst of laughter.

  The idea which Lupin was suggesting struck him as the most comical thing that he had ever heard; and he laughed heartily. The disparity was so great between the object aimed at and the means proposed!

  “Of course, of course!” he resumed, with a vain attempt to recover his seriousness. “Of course, it’s a very original idea: the whole of modern politics upset so that Arsène Lupin may be free! . . . The plans of the Empire destroyed so that Arsène Lupin may continue his exploits! . . . Why not ask me for Alsace and Lorraine at once?”

  “I did think of it, Sire,” replied Lupin, calmly. The stranger’s merriment increased:

  “Splendid! And you let me off?”

  “This time, yes.”

  Lupin had crossed his arms. He, too, was amusing himself by exaggerating the part which he was playing; and he continued, with affected seriousness:

  “A series of circumstances might one day arise which would put in my hands the power of demanding and obtaining that restitution. When that day comes, I shall certainly not fail to do so. For the moment, the weapons at my disposal oblige me to be more modest. Peace in Morocco will satisfy me.”

  “Just that?”

  “Just that.”

  “Morocco against your liberty!”

  “Nothing more . . . or, rather — for we must not lose sight entirely of the main object of this conversation — or, rather, a little good will on the part of one of the countries in question . . . and, in exchange, the surrender of the letters which are in my power.”

  “Those letters, those letters!” muttered the stranger irritably. “After all, perhaps they are not so valuable. . . .”

  “There are some in your own hand, Sire; and you considered them valuable enough to come to this cell. . . .”

  “Well, what does it matter?”

  “But there are others of which you do not know the authorship and about which I can give you a few particulars.”

  “Oh, indeed!” said the stranger, rather anxiously.

  Lupin hesitated.

  “Speak, speak plainly,” said the stranger. “Say what you have in your mind.”

  In the profound silence of the cell, Lupin declared, with a certain solemnity:

  “Twenty years ago a draft treaty was prepared between Germany, Great Britain, and France.”

  “That’s not true! It’s impossible! Who could have done such a thing?”

  “The Emperor’s father and the Queen of England, his grandmother, both acting under the influence of the Empress Frederick.”

  “Impossible! I repeat, it is impossible!”

  “The correspondence is in the hiding-place at Veldenz Castle; and I alone know the secret of the hiding-place.”

  The stranger walked up and down with an agitated step. Then he stopped short:

  “Is the text of the treaty included in that correspondence?”

  “Yes, Sire. It is in your father’s own hand.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “By that treaty, France and Great Britain granted and promised Germany an immense colonial empire, the empire which she does not at present possess and which has become a necessity to her, in these times, to ensure her greatness.”

  “And what did England demand as a set-off against that empire?”

  “The limitation of the German fleet.”

  “And France?”

  “Alsace and Lorraine.”

  The Emperor leant against the table
in silent thought. Lupin continued:

  “Everything was ready. The cabinets of Paris and London had been sounded and had consented. The thing was practically done. The great treaty of alliance was on the point of being concluded. It would have laid the foundations of a definite and universal peace. The death of your father destroyed that sublime dream. But I ask Your Imperial Majesty, what will your people think, what will the world think, when it knows that Frederick III., one of the heroes of 1870, a German, a pure and loyal German, respected by all, generally admired for his nobility of character, agreed to the restitution of Alsace-Lorraine and therefore considered that restitution just?”

  He was silent for an instant leaving the problem to fix itself in its precise terms before the Emperor’s conscience, before his conscience as a man, a son and a sovereign. Then he concluded:

  “Your Imperial Majesty yourself must know whether you wish or do not wish history to record the existence of that treaty. As for me, Sire, you can see that my humble personality counts for very little in the discussion.”

  A long pause followed upon Lupin’s words. He waited, with his soul torn with anguish. His whole destiny was at stake, in this minute which he had conceived and, in a manner, produced with such effort and such stubbornness, an historic minute, born of his brain, in which “his humble personality,” for all that he might say, weighed heavily upon the fate of empires and the peace of the world.

  Opposite him, in the shadow, Cæsar stood meditating.

  What answer would he make? What solution would he give to the problem?

  He walked across the cell for a few moments, which to Lupin seemed interminable. Then he stopped and asked:

  “Are there any other conditions?”

  “Yes, Sire, but they are insignificant.”

  “Name them.”

  “I have found the son of the Grand-duke of Zweibrucken-Veldenz. The grand-duchy must be restored to him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He loves a young girl, who loves him in her turn. She is the fairest and the most virtuous of her sex. He must marry her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That is all.”

  “There is nothing more?”

  “Nothing. Your majesty need only have this letter delivered to the editor of the Grand Journal, who will then destroy, unread, the article which he may now receive at any moment.”