“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, over there, I acquired the habit of dispensing with the gendarmes. It is a rather summary way of doing justice, but it is the best way, believe me, and to-day, in the present case, it is the only way. Once the beast is killed, you and I will bury it in some corner, unseen and unknown.”
“And Angélique?”
“We will tell her later.”
“What will become of her?”
“She will be my wife, the wife of the real d’Emboise. I desert her to-morrow and return to Algeria. The divorce will be granted in two months’ time.”
The duke listened, pale and staring, with set jaws. He whispered:
“Are you sure that his accomplices on the yacht will not inform him of your escape?”
“Not before to-morrow.”
“So that ...?”
“So that inevitably, at nine o’clock this evening, Arsène Lupin, on his way to the Great Oak, will take the patrol-path that follows the old ramparts and skirts the ruins of the chapel. I shall be there, in the ruins.”
“I shall be there too,” said the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme, quietly, taking down a gun.
It was now five o’clock. The duke talked some time longer to his nephew, examined the weapons, loaded them with fresh cartridges. Then, when night came, he took d’Emboise through the dark passages to his bedroom and hid him in an adjoining closet.
Nothing further happened until dinner. The duke forced himself to keep calm during the meal. From time to time, he stole a glance at his son-in-law and was surprised at the likeness between him and the real d’Emboise. It was the same complexion, the same cast of features, the same cut of hair. Nevertheless, the look of the eye was different, keener in this case and brighter; and gradually the duke discovered minor details which had passed unperceived till then and which proved the fellow’s imposture.
The party broke up after dinner. It was eight o’clock. The duke went to his room and released his nephew. Ten minutes later, under cover of the darkness, they slipped into the ruins, gun in hand.
Meanwhile, Angélique, accompanied by her husband, had gone to the suite of rooms which she occupied on the ground-floor of a tower that flanked the left wing. Her husband stopped at the entrance to the rooms and said:
“I am going for a short stroll, Angélique. May I come to you here, when I return?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He left her and went up to the first floor, which had been assigned to him as his quarters. The moment he was alone, he locked the door, noiselessly opened a window that looked over the landscape and leant out. He saw a shadow at the foot of the tower, some hundred feet or more below him. He whistled and received a faint whistle in reply.
He then took from a cupboard a thick leather satchel, crammed with papers, wrapped it in a piece of black cloth and tied it up. Then he sat down at the table and wrote:
“Glad you got my message, for I think it unsafe to walk out of the castle with that large bundle of securities. Here they are. You will be in Paris, on your motor-cycle, in time to catch the morning train to Brussels, where you will hand over the bonds to Z.; and he will negotiate them at once.
“A. L.
“P. S. — As you pass by the Great Oak, tell our chaps that I’m coming. I have some instructions to give them. But everything is going well. No one here has the least suspicion.”
He fastened the letter to the parcel and lowered both through the window with a length of string:
“Good,” he said. “That’s all right. It’s a weight off my mind.”
He waited a few minutes longer, stalking up and down the room and smiling at the portraits of two gallant gentlemen hanging on the wall:
“Horace de Sarzeau-Vendôme, marshal of France.... And you, the Great Condé ... I salute you, my ancestors both. Lupin de Sarzeau-Vendôme will show himself worthy of you.”
At last, when the time came, he took his hat and went down. But, when he reached the ground-floor, Angélique burst from her rooms and exclaimed, with a distraught air:
“I say ... if you don’t mind ... I think you had better....”
And then, without saying more, she went in again, leaving a vision of irresponsible terror in her husband’s mind.
“She’s out of sorts,” he said to himself. “Marriage doesn’t suit her.”
He lit a cigarette and went out, without attaching importance to an incident that ought to have impressed him:
“Poor Angélique! This will all end in a divorce....”
The night outside was dark, with a cloudy sky.
The servants were closing the shutters of the castle. There was no light in the windows, it being the duke’s habit to go to bed soon after dinner.
Lupin passed the gate-keeper’s lodge and, as he put his foot on the drawbridge, said:
“Leave the gate open. I am going for a breath of air; I shall be back soon.”
The patrol-path was on the right and ran along one of the old ramparts, which used to surround the castle with a second and much larger enclosure, until it ended at an almost demolished postern-gate. The park, which skirted a hillock and afterward followed the side of a deep valley, was bordered on the left by thick coppices.
“What a wonderful place for an ambush!” he said. “A regular cut-throat spot!”
He stopped, thinking that he heard a noise. But no, it was a rustling of the leaves. And yet a stone went rattling down the slopes, bounding against the rugged projections of the rock. But, strange to say, nothing seemed to disquiet him. The crisp sea-breeze came blowing over the plains of the headland; and he eagerly filled his lungs with it:
“What a thing it is to be alive!” he thought. “Still young, a member of the old nobility, a multi-millionaire: what could a man want more?”
At a short distance, he saw against the darkness the yet darker outline of the chapel, the ruins of which towered above the path. A few drops of rain began to fall; and he heard a clock strike nine. He quickened his pace. There was a short descent; then the path rose again. And suddenly, he stopped once more.
A hand had seized his.
He drew back, tried to release himself.
But some one stepped from the clump of trees against which he was brushing; and a voice said; “Ssh!... Not a word!...”
He recognized his wife, Angélique:
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She whispered, so low that he could hardly catch the words:
“They are lying in wait for you ... they are in there, in the ruins, with their guns....”
“Who?”
“Keep quiet.... Listen....”
They stood for a moment without stirring; then she said:
“They are not moving.... Perhaps they never heard me.... Let’s go back....”
“But....”
“Come with me.”
Her accent was so imperious that he obeyed without further question. But suddenly she took fright:
“Run!... They are coming!... I am sure of it!...”
True enough, they heard a sound of footsteps.
Then, swiftly, still holding him by the hand, she dragged him, with irresistible energy, along a shortcut, following its turns without hesitation in spite of the darkness and the brambles. And they very soon arrived at the drawbridge.
She put her arm in his. The gate-keeper touched his cap. They crossed the courtyard and entered the castle; and she led him to the corner tower in which both of them had their apartments:
“Come in here,” she said.
“To your rooms?”
“Yes.”
Two maids were sitting up for her. Their mistress ordered them to retire to their bedrooms, on the third floor.
Almost immediately after, there was a knock at the door of the outer room; and a voice called:
“Angélique!”
“Is that you, father?” she asked, suppressing her agitation.
“Yes. Is your husband here?”
“We have just come in.”
“Tell him I want to speak to him. Ask him to come to my room. It’s important.”
“Very well, father, I’ll send him to you.”
She listened for a few seconds, then returned to the boudoir where her husband was and said:
“I am sure my father is still there.”
He moved as though to go out:
“In that case, if he wants to speak to me....”
“My father is not alone,” she said, quickly, blocking his way.
“Who is with him?”
“His nephew, Jacques d’Emboise.”
There was a moment’s silence. He looked at her with a certain astonishment, failing quite to understand his wife’s attitude. But, without pausing to go into the matter:
“Ah, so that dear old d’Emboise is there?” he chuckled. “Then the fat’s in the fire? Unless, indeed....”
“My father knows everything,” she said. “I overheard a conversation between them just now. His nephew has read certain letters.... I hesitated at first about telling you.... Then I thought that my duty....”
He studied her afresh. But, at once conquered by the queerness of the situation, he burst out laughing:
“What? Don’t my friends on board ship burn my letters? And they have let their prisoner escape? The idiots! Oh, when you don’t see to everything yourself!... No matter, its distinctly humorous.... D’Emboise versus d’Emboise.... Oh, but suppose I were no longer recognized? Suppose d’Emboise himself were to confuse me with himself?”
He turned to a wash-hand-stand, took a towel, dipped it in the basin and soaped it and, in the twinkling of an eye, wiped the make-up from his face and altered the set of his hair:
“That’s it,” he said, showing himself to Angélique under the aspect in which she had seen him on the night of the burglary in Paris. “I feel more comfortable like this for a discussion with my father-in-law.”
“Where are you going?” she cried, flinging herself in front of the door.
“Why, to join the gentlemen.”
“You shall not pass!”
“Why not?”
“Suppose they kill you?”
“Kill me?”
“That’s what they mean to do, to kill you ... to hide your body somewhere.... Who would know of it?”
“Very well,” he said, “from their point of view, they are quite right. But, if I don’t go to them, they will come here. That door won’t stop them.... Nor you, I’m thinking. Therefore, it’s better to have done with it.”
“Follow me,” commanded Angélique.
She took up the lamp that lit the room, went into her bedroom, pushed aside the wardrobe, which slid easily on hidden castors, pulled back an old tapestry-hanging, and said:
“Here is a door that has not been used for years. My father believes the key to be lost. I have it here. Unlock the door with it. A staircase in the wall will take you to the bottom of the tower. You need only draw the bolts of another door and you will be free.”
He could hardly believe his ears. Suddenly, he grasped the meaning of Angélique’s whole behaviour. In front of that sad, plain, but wonderfully gentle face, he stood for a moment discountenanced, almost abashed. He no longer thought of laughing. A feeling of respect, mingled with remorse and kindness, overcame him.
“Why are you saving me?” he whispered.
“You are my husband.”
He protested:
“No, no ... I have stolen that title. The law will never recognize my marriage.”
“My father does not want a scandal,” she said.
“Just so,” he replied, sharply, “just so. I foresaw that; and that was why I had your cousin d’Emboise near at hand. Once I disappear, he becomes your husband. He is the man you have married in the eyes of men.”
“You are the man I have married in the eyes of the Church.”
“The Church! The Church! There are means of arranging matters with the Church.... Your marriage can be annulled.”
“On what pretext that we can admit?”
He remained silent, thinking over all those points which he had not considered, all those points which were trivial and absurd for him, but which were serious for her, and he repeated several times:
“This is terrible ... this is terrible.... I should have anticipated....”
And, suddenly, seized with an idea, he clapped his hands and cried:
“There, I have it! I’m hand in glove with one of the chief figures at the Vatican. The Pope never refuses me anything. I shall obtain an audience and I have no doubt that the Holy Father, moved by my entreaties....”
His plan was so humorous and his delight so artless that Angélique could not help smiling; and she said:
“I am your wife in the eyes of God.”
She gave him a look that showed neither scorn nor animosity, nor even anger; and he realized that she omitted to see in him the outlaw and the evil-doer and remembered only the man who was her husband and to whom the priest had bound her until the hour of death.
He took a step toward her and observed her more attentively. She did not lower her eyes at first. But she blushed. And never had he seen so pathetic a face, marked with such modesty and such dignity. He said to her, as on that first evening in Paris:
“Oh, your eyes ... the calm and sadness of your eyes ... the beauty of your eyes!”
She dropped her head and stammered:
“Go away ... go ...”
In the presence of her confusion, he received a quick intuition of the deeper feelings that stirred her, unknown to herself. To that spinster soul, of which he recognized the romantic power of imagination, the unsatisfied yearnings, the poring over old-world books, he suddenly represented, in that exceptional moment and in consequence of the unconventional circumstances of their meetings, somebody special, a Byronic hero, a chivalrous brigand of romance. One evening, in spite of all obstacles, he, the world-famed adventurer, already ennobled in song and story and exalted by his own audacity, had come to her and slipped the magic ring upon her finger: a mystic and passionate betrothal, as in the days of the Corsair and Hernani.... Greatly moved and touched, he was on the verge of giving way to an enthusiastic impulse and exclaiming:
“Let us go away together!... Let us fly!... You are my bride ... my wife.... Share my dangers, my sorrows and my joys.... It will be a strange and vigorous, a proud and magnificent life....”
But Angélique’s eyes were raised to his again; and they were so pure and so noble that he blushed in his turn. This was not the woman to whom such words could be addressed.
He whispered:
“Forgive me.... I am a contemptible wretch.... I have wrecked your life....”
“No,” she replied, softly. “On the contrary, you have shown me where my real life lies.”
He was about to ask her to explain. But she had opened the door and was pointing the way to him. Nothing more could be spoken between them. He went out without a word, bowing very low as he passed.
A month later, Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme, Princesse de Bourbon-Condé, lawful wife of Arsène Lupin, took the veil and, under the name of Sister Marie-Auguste, buried herself within the walls of the Visitation Convent.
On the day of the ceremony, the mother superior of the convent received a heavy sealed envelope containing a letter with the following words:
“For Sister Marie-Auguste’s poor.”
Enclosed with the letter were five hundred bank-notes of a thousand francs each.
THE INVISIBLE PRISONER
ONE DAY, AT about four o’clock, as evening was drawing in, Farmer Goussot, with his four sons, returned from a day’s shooting. They were stalwart men, all five of them, long of limb, broad-chested, with faces tanned by sun and wind. And all five displayed, planted on an enormous neck and shoulders, the same small head with the low forehead, thin lips, beaked nose and hard and repellent cast of countenance. They were feared and disliked by all around them. They were a
money-grubbing, crafty family; and their word was not to be trusted.
On reaching the old barbican-wall that surrounds the Héberville property, the farmer opened a narrow, massive door, putting the big key back in his pocket after his sons had passed in. And he walked behind them, along the path that led through the orchards. Here and there stood great trees, stripped by the autumn winds, and clumps of pines, the last survivors of the ancient park now covered by old Goussot’s farm.
One of the sons said:
“I hope mother has lit a log or two.”
“There’s smoke coming from the chimney,” said the father.
The outhouses and the homestead showed at the end of a lawn; and, above them, the village church, whose steeple seemed to prick the clouds that trailed along the sky.
“All the guns unloaded?” asked old Goussot.
“Mine isn’t,” said the eldest. “I slipped in a bullet to blow a kestrel’s head off....”
He was the one who was proudest of his skill. And he said to his brothers:
“Look at that bough, at the top of the cherry tree. See me snap it off.”
On the bough sat a scarecrow, which had been there since spring and which protected the leafless branches with its idiot arms.
He raised his gun and fired.
The figure came tumbling down with large, comic gestures, and was caught on a big, lower branch, where it remained lying stiff on its stomach, with a great top hat on its head of rags and its hay-stuffed legs swaying from right to left above some water that flowed past the cherry tree through a wooden trough.
They all laughed. The father approved:
“A fine shot, my lad. Besides, the old boy was beginning to annoy me. I couldn’t take my eyes from my plate at meals without catching sight of that oaf....”
They went a few steps farther. They were not more than thirty yards from the house, when the father stopped suddenly and said:
“Hullo! What’s up?”
The sons also had stopped and stood listening. One of them said, under his breath:
“It comes from the house ... from the linen-room....”
And another spluttered:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 159
