The Confessions of Arsène Lupin

by Maurice Leblanc

  A reaction followed which was all the greater inasmuch as the effort had been swift and violent. Yvonne staggered, leant against a chair and, losing all energy, let herself fall.

  The hours passed by, the dreary hours of winter evenings when nothing but the sound of carriages interrupts the silence of the street. The clock struck, pitilessly. In the half-sleep that numbed her limbs, Yvonne counted the strokes. She also heard certain noises, on different floors of the house, which told her that her husband had dined, that he was going up to his room, that he was going down again to his study. But all this seemed very shadowy to her; and her torpor was such that she did not even think of lying down on the sofa, in case he should come in …

  The twelve strokes of midnight … Then half-past twelve … then one … Yvonne thought of nothing, awaiting the events which were preparing and against which rebellion was useless. She pictured her son and herself as one pictures those beings who have suffered much and who suffer no more and who take each other in their loving arms. But a nightmare shattered this dream. For now those two beings were to be torn asunder; and she had the awful feeling, in her delirium, that she was crying and choking …

  She leapt from her seat. The key had turned in the lock. The count was coming, attracted by her cries. Yvonne glanced round for a weapon with which to defend herself. But the door was pushed back quickly and, astounded, as though the sight that presented itself before her eyes seemed to her the most inexplicable prodigy, she stammered:

  “You! … You! …”

  A man was walking up to her, in dress-clothes, with his opera-hat and cape under his arm, and this man, young, slender and elegant, she had recognized as Horace Velmont.

  “You!” she repeated.

  He said, with a bow:

  “I beg your pardon, madame, but I did not receive your letter until very late.”

  “Is it possible? Is it possible that this is you … that you were able to …?”

  He seemed greatly surprised:

  “Did I not promise to come in answer to your call?”

  “Yes … but …”

  “Well, here I am,” he said, with a smile.

  He examined the strips of canvas from which Yvonne had succeeded in freeing herself and nodded his head, while continuing his inspection:

  “So those are the means employed? The Comte d’Origny, I presume? … I also saw that he locked you in … But then the pneumatic letter? … Ah, through the window! … How careless of you not to close it!”

  He pushed both sides to. Yvonne took fright:

  “Suppose they hear!”

  “There is no one in the house. I have been over it.”

  “Still …”

  “Your husband went out ten minutes ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, it’s very simple! He was rung up by telephone and I awaited the result at the corner of this street and the boulevard. As I expected, the count came out hurriedly, followed by his man. I at once entered, with the aid of special keys.”

  He told this in the most natural way, just as one tells a meaningless anecdote in a drawing-room. But Yvonne, suddenly seized with fresh alarm, asked:

  “Then it’s not true? … His mother is not ill? … In that case, my husband will be coming back …”

  “Certainly, the count will see that a trick has been played on him and in three quarters of an hour at the latest …”

  “Let us go … I don’t want him to find me here … I must go to my son …”

  “One moment …”

  “One moment! … But don’t you know that they have taken him from me? … That they are hurting him, perhaps? …”

  With set face and feverish gestures, she tried to push Velmont back. He, with great gentleness, compelled her to sit down and, leaning over her in a respectful attitude, said, in a serious voice:

  “Listen, madame, and let us not waste time, when every minute is valuable. First of all, remember this: we met four times, six years ago … And, on the fourth occasion, when I was speaking to you, in the drawing-room of this house, with too much—what shall I say?—with too much feeling, you gave me to understand that my visits were no longer welcome. Since that day I have not seen you. And, nevertheless, in spite of all, your faith in me was such that you kept the card which I put between the pages of that book and, six years later, you send for me and none other. That faith in me I ask you to continue. You must obey me blindly. Just as I surmounted every obstacle to come to you, so I will save you, whatever the position may be.”

  Horace Velmont’s calmness, his masterful voice, with the friendly intonation, gradually quieted the countess. Though still very weak, she gained a fresh sense of ease and security in that man’s presence.

  “Have no fear,” he went on. “The Comtesse d’Origny lives at the other end of the Bois de Vincennes. Allowing that your husband finds a motor-cab, it is impossible for him to be back before a quarter-past three. Well, it is twenty-five to three now. I swear to take you away at three o’clock exactly and to take you to your son. But I will not go before I know everything.”

  “What am I to do?” she asked.

  “Answer me and very plainly. We have twenty minutes. It is enough. But it is not too much.”

  “Ask me what you want to know.”

  “Do you think that the count had any … any murderous intentions?”

  “No.”

  “Then it concerns your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is taking him away, I suppose, because he wants to divorce you and marry another woman, a former friend of yours, whom you have turned out of your house. Is that it? Oh, I entreat you, answer me frankly! These are facts of public notoriety; and your hesitation, your scruples, must all cease, now that the matter concerns your son. So your husband wished to marry another woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “The woman has no money. Your husband, on his side, has gambled away all his property and has no means beyond the allowance which he receives from his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny, and the income of a large fortune which your son inherited from two of your uncles. It is this fortune which your husband covets and which he would appropriate more easily if the child were placed in his hands. There is only one way: divorce. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what has prevented him until now is your refusal?”

  “Yes, mine and that of my mother-in-law, whose religious feelings are opposed to divorce. The Comtesse d’Origny would only yield in case …”

  “In case …?”

  “In case they could prove me guilty of shameful conduct.”

  Velmont shrugged his shoulders:

  “Therefore he is powerless to do anything against you or against your son. Both from the legal point of view and from that of his own interests, he stumbles against an obstacle which is the most insurmountable of all: the virtue of an honest woman. And yet, in spite of everything, he suddenly shows fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, if a man like the count, after so many hesitations and in the face of so many difficulties, risks so doubtful an adventure, it must be because he thinks he has command of weapons …”

  “What weapons?”

  “I don’t know. But they exist … or else he would not have begun by taking away your son.”

  Yvonne gave way to her despair:

  “Oh, this is horrible! … How do I know what he may have done, what he may have invented?”

  “Try and think … Recall your memories … Tell me, in this desk which he has broken open, was there any sort of letter which he could possibly turn against you?”

  “No … only bills and addresses …”

  “And, in the words he used to you, in his threats, is there nothing that allows you to guess?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Still … still,” Velmont insisted, “there m
ust be something.” And he continued, “Has the count a particularly intimate friend … in whom he confides?”

  “No.”

  “Did anybody come to see him yesterday?”

  “No, nobody.”

  “Was he alone when he bound you and locked you in?”

  “At that moment, yes.”

  “But afterward?”

  “His man, Bernard, joined him near the door and I heard them talking about a working jeweller …”

  “Is that all?”

  “And about something that was to happen the next day, that is, to-day, at twelve o’clock, because the Comtesse d’Origny could not come earlier.”

  Velmont reflected:

  “Has that conversation any meaning that throws a light upon your husband’s plans?”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “Where are your jewels?”

  “My husband has sold them all.”

  “You have nothing at all left?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a ring?”

  “No,” she said, showing her hands, “none except this.”

  “Which is your wedding-ring?”

  “Which is my … wedding— …”

  She stopped, nonplussed. Velmont saw her flush as she stammered:

  “Could it be possible? … But no … no … he doesn’t know …”

  Velmont at once pressed her with questions and Yvonne stood silent, motionless, anxious-faced. At last, she replied, in a low voice:

  “This is not my wedding-ring. One day, long ago, it dropped from the mantelpiece in my bedroom, where I had put it a minute before and, hunt for it as I might, I could not find it again. So I ordered another, without saying anything about it … and this is the one, on my hand …”

  “Did the real ring bear the date of your wedding?”

  “Yes … the 23rd of October.”

  “And the second?”

  “This one has no date.”

  He perceived a slight hesitation in her and a confusion which, in point of fact, she did not try to conceal.

  “I implore you,” he exclaimed, “don’t hide anything from me … You see how far we have gone in a few minutes, with a little logic and calmness … Let us go on, I ask you as a favour.”

  “Are you sure,” she said, “that it is necessary?”

  “I am sure that the least detail is of importance and that we are nearly attaining our object. But we must hurry. This is a crucial moment.”

  “I have nothing to conceal,” she said, proudly raising her head. “It was the most wretched and the most dangerous period of my life. While suffering humiliation at home, outside I was surrounded with attentions, with temptations, with pitfalls, like any woman who is seen to be neglected by her husband. Then I remembered: before my marriage, a man had been in love with me. I had guessed his unspoken love; and he has died since. I had the name of that man engraved inside the ring; and I wore it as a talisman. There was no love in me, because I was the wife of another. But, in my secret heart, there was a memory, a sad dream, something sweet and gentle that protected me …”

  She had spoken slowly, without embarrassment, and Velmont did not doubt for a second that she was telling the absolute truth. He kept silent; and she, becoming anxious again, asked:

  “Do you suppose … that my husband …?”

  He took her hand and, while examining the plain gold ring, said:

  “The puzzle lies here. Your husband, I don’t know how, knows of the substitution of one ring for the other. His mother will be here at twelve o’clock. In the presence of witnesses, he will compel you to take off your ring; and, in this way, he will obtain the approval of his mother and, at the same time, will be able to obtain his divorce, because he will have the proof for which he was seeking.”

  “I am lost!” she moaned. “I am lost!”

  “On the contrary, you are saved! Give me that ring … and presently he will find another there, another which I will send you, to reach you before twelve, and which will bear the date of the 23rd of October. So …”

  He suddenly broke off. While he was speaking, Yvonne’s hand had turned ice-cold in his; and, raising his eyes, he saw that the young woman was pale, terribly pale:

  “What’s the matter? I beseech you …”

  She yielded to a fit of mad despair:

  “This is the matter, that I am lost! … This is the matter, that I can’t get the ring off! It has grown too small for me! … Do you understand? … It made no difference and I did not give it a thought … But to-day … this proof … this accusation … Oh, what torture! … Look … it forms part of my finger … it has grown into my flesh … and I can’t … I can’t …”

  She pulled at the ring, vainly, with all her might, at the risk of injuring herself. But the flesh swelled up around the ring; and the ring did not budge.

  “Oh!” she cried, seized with an idea that terrified her. “I remember … the other night … a nightmare I had … It seemed to me that some one entered my room and caught hold of my hand … And I could not wake up … It was he! It was he! He had put me to sleep, I was sure of it … and he was looking at the ring … And presently he will pull it off before his mother’s eyes … Ah, I understand everything: that working jeweller! … He will cut it from my hand to-morrow … You see, you see … I am lost! …”

  She hid her face in her hands and began to weep. But, amid the silence, the clock struck once … and twice … and yet once more. And Yvonne drew herself up with a jerk:

  “There he is!” she cried. “He is coming! … It is three o’clock! … Let us go! …”

  She grabbed at her cloak and ran to the door … Velmont barred the way and, in a masterful tone:

  “You shall not go!”

  “My son … I want to see him, to take him back …”

  “You don’t even know where he is!”

  “I want to go.”

  “You shall not go! … It would be madness …”

  He took her by the wrists. She tried to release herself; and Velmont had to employ a little force to overcome her resistance. In the end, he succeeded in getting her back to the sofa, then in laying her at full length and, at once, without heeding her lamentations, he took the canvas strips and fastened her wrists and ankles:

  “Yes,” he said, “It would be madness! Who would have set you free? Who would have opened that door for you? An accomplice? What an argument against you and what a pretty use your husband would make of it with his mother! … And, besides, what’s the good? To run away means accepting divorce … and what might that not lead to? … You must stay here …”

  She sobbed:

  “I’m frightened … I’m frightened … this ring burns me … Break it … Take it away … Don’t let him find it!”

  “And if it is not found on your finger, who will have broken it? Again an accomplice … No, you must face the music … and face it boldly, for I answer for everything … Believe me … I answer for everything … If I have to tackle the Comtesse d’Origny bodily and thus delay the interview … If I had to come myself before noon … it is the real wedding-ring that shall be taken from your finger—that I swear!—and your son shall be restored to you.”

  Swayed and subdued, Yvonne instinctively held out her hands to the bonds. When he stood up, she was bound as she had been before.

  He looked round the room to make sure that no trace of his visit remained. Then he stooped over the countess again and whispered:

  “Think of your son and, whatever happens, fear nothing … I am watching over you.”

  She heard him open and shut the door of the boudoir and, a few minutes later, the hall-door.

  At half-past three, a motor-cab drew up. The door downstairs was slammed again; and, almost immediately after, Yvonne saw her husband hurry in, with a furious look in his eyes. He ran up to her, felt to see if she was still fastened and, snatching her hand, examined the ring. Yvonne fainted …

  She could not tell, when she woke,
how long she had slept. But the broad light of day was filling the boudoir; and she perceived, at the first movement which she made, that her bonds were cut. Then she turned her head and saw her husband standing beside her, looking at her:

  “My son … my son …” she moaned. “I want my son …”

  He replied, in a voice of which she felt the jeering insolence:

  “Our son is in a safe place. And, for the moment, it’s a question not of him, but of you. We are face to face with each other, probably for the last time, and the explanation between us will be a very serious one. I must warn you that it will take place before my mother. Have you any objection?”

  Yvonne tried to hide her agitation and answered:

  “None at all.”

  “Can I send for her?”

  “Yes. Leave me, in the meantime. I shall be ready when she comes.”

  “My mother is here.”

  “Your mother is here?” cried Yvonne, in dismay, remembering Horace Velmont’s promise.

  “What is there to astonish you in that?”

  “And is it now … is it at once that you want to …?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? … Why not this evening? … Why not to-morrow?”

  “To-day and now,” declared the count. “A rather curious incident happened in the course of last night, an incident which I cannot account for and which decided me to hasten the explanation. Don’t you want something to eat first?”

  “No … no …”

  “Then I will go and fetch my mother.”

  He turned to Yvonne’s bedroom. Yvonne glanced at the clock. It marked twenty-five minutes to eleven!

  “Ah!” she said, with a shiver of fright.

  Twenty-five minutes to eleven! Horace Velmont would not save her and nobody in the world and nothing in the world would save her, for there was no miracle that could place the wedding-ring upon her finger.

  The count, returning with the Comtesse d’Origny, asked her to sit down. She was a tall, lank, angular woman, who had always displayed a hostile feeling to Yvonne. She did not even bid her daughter-in-law good-morning, showing that her mind was made up as regards the accusation:

  “I don’t think,” she said, “that we need speak at length. In two words, my son maintains …”