“And is there no clew?”
“Not one.”
The Abbé Gélis objected.
“Monsieur Devanne, we have to reckon with two quotations…”
“Oh,” cried Devanne, laughing, “the rector is a great rum-mager of family papers, a great reader of memoirs, and he fondly loves everything that has to do with Thibermesnil. But the explanation to which he refers only serves to confuse matters.”
“But tell us what it is.”
“Do you really care to hear?”
“Immensely.”
“Well, you must know that, as the result of his reading, he has discovered that two kings of France held the key to the riddle.”
“Two kings of France?”
“Henry IV. and Louis XVI.”
“Two famous men. And how did the rector find out?”
“Oh, it’s very simple,” continued Devanne. “Two days before the battle of Arques, King Henry IV. came to sup and sleep in the castle, and on this occasion Duke Edgar confided the family secret to him. This secret Henry IV. revealed later to Sully, his minister, who tells the story in his Royales Œconomies d’Etat, without adding any comment besides this incomprehensible phrase: ‘La hache tournoie dans Vair qui frémit, tnais I’aile s’ouvre et Von va jusqu’ à Dieu.’”3
A silence followed, and Velmont sneered:
“It’s not as clear as daylight, is it?”
“That’s what I say. The rector maintains that Sully set down the key to the puzzle by means of those words, without betraying the secret to the scribes to whom he dictated his memoirs.”
“It’s an ingenious supposition.”
“True. But what is the axe that turns? What bird is it whose wing opens?”
“And who goes to God?”
“Goodness knows!”
“And what about our good King Louis XVI.?” asked Velmont.
“Louis XVI. stayed at Thibermesnil in 1784, and the famous Iron Cupboard discovered at the Louvre on the information of Gamain, the locksmith, contained a paper with these words written in the king’s hand: ‘Thibermesnil, 2-6-12.’ “
Horace Velmont laughed aloud.
“Victory! The darkness is dispelled. Twice six are twelve!”
“Laugh as you please, sir,” said the rector. “Those two quotations contain the solution for all that, and one of these days some one will come along who knows how to interpret them.”
“Sherlock Holmes, first of all,” said Devanne, “unless Arsène Lupin forestalls him. What do you think, Velmont?”
Velmont rose, laid his hand on Devanne’s shoulder, and declared:
“I think that the data supplied by your book and the copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale lacked just one link of the highest importance, and that you have been kind enough to supply it. I am much obliged to you.”
“Well?…”
“Well, now that the axe has turned and the bird flown, and that twice six are twelve, all I have to do is to set to work.”
“Without losing a minute?”
“Without losing a second! You see, I must rob your castle tonight, that is to say, before Sherlock Holmes arrives.”
“You’re quite right; you have only just got time. Would you like me to drive you?”
“To Dieppe?”
“Yes, I may as well fetch Monsieur and Madame d’Androl and a girl friend of theirs, who are arriving by the midnight train.”
Then, turning to the officers:
“We shall all meet here at lunch to-morrow, sha’n’t we, gentlemen? I rely upon you, for the castle is to be invested by your regiments and taken by assault at eleven in the morning.”
The invitation was accepted, the officers took their leave, and a minute later a powerful motor-car was carrying Devanne and Velmont along the Dieppe road. Devanne dropped the painter at the Casino, and went on to the station.
His friends arrived at midnight, and at half-past twelve the motor passed through the gates of Thibermesnil. At one o’clock, after a light supper served in the drawing-room, every one went to bed. The lights were extinguished one by one. The deep silence of the night enshrouded the castle.
But the moon pierced the clouds that veiled it, and, through two of the windows, filled the hall with the light of its white beams. This lasted for but a moment. Soon the moon was hidden behind the curtain of the hills, and all was darkness. The silence increased as the shadows thickened. At most it was disturbed, from time to time, by the creaking of the furniture or the rustling of the reeds in the pond which bathes the old walls with its green waters.
The clock told the endless beads of its seconds. It struck two. Then once more the seconds fell hastily and monotonously in the heavy stillness of the night. Then three struck.
And suddenly something gave a clash, like the arm of a railway-signal that drops as a train passes, and a thin streak of light crossed the hall from one end to the other, like an arrow, leaving a glittering track behind it. It issued from the central groove of a pilaster against which the pediment of the bookcase rests upon the right. It first lingered upon the opposite panel in a dazzling circle, next wandered on every side like a restless glance searching the darkness, and then faded away, only to appear once more, while the whole of one section of the bookcase turned upon its axis, and revealed a wide opening shaped like a vault.
A man entered, holding an electric lantern in his hand. Another man and a third emerged, carrying a coil of rope and different implements. The first man looked round the room, listened, and said:
“Call the pals.”
Eight of these pals came out of the underground passage— eight strapping fellows, with determined faces. And the removal began.
It did not take long. Arsène Lupin passed from one piece of furniture to another, examined it, and, according to its size or its artistic value, spared it or gave an order:
“Take it away.”
And the piece in question was removed, swallowed by the yawning mouth of the tunnel, and sent down into the bowels of the earth.
And thus were juggled away six Louis XV. armchairs and as many occasional chairs, a number of Aubusson tapestries, some candelabra signed by Gouthiere, two Fragonards and a Nattier, a bust by Houdon, and some statuettes. At times Arsène Lupin would stop before a magnificent oak chest or a splendid picture and sigh:
“That’s too heavy… Too big… What a pity!”
And he would continue his expert survey.
In forty minutes the hall was “cleared,” to use Arsène’s expression. And all this was accomplished in an admirably orderly manner, without the least noise, as though all the objects which the men were handling had been wrapped in thick wadding.
To the last man who was leaving, carrying a clock signed by Boule, he said:
“You need not come back. You understand, don’t you, that as soon as the motor-van is loaded you’re to make for the barn at Roquefort?”
“What about yourself, governor?”
“Leave me the motor-cycle.”
When the man had gone he pushed the movable section of the bookcase back into its place, and, after clearing away the traces of the removal and the footmarks, he raised a curtain and entered a gallery which served as a communication between the tower and the castle. Half-way down the gallery stood a glass case, and it was because of this case that Arsène Lupin had continued his investigations.
It contained marvels: an unique collection of watches, snuff-boxes, rings, chatelaines, miniatures of the most exquisite workmanship. He forced the lock with a jimmy, and it was an unspeakable pleasure to him to finger those gems of gold and silver, those precious and dainty little works of art.
Hanging round his neck was a large canvas bag specially contrived to hold these windfalls. He filled it. He also filled the pockets of his jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. And he was stuffing under his left arm a heap of those pearl reticules beloved of our ancestors and so eagerly sought after by our present fashion… when a slight sound fell upon his ear.
He listened; he was not mistaken; the noise became clearer.
And suddenly he remembered. At the end of the gallery an inner staircase led to a room which had been hitherto unoccupied, but which had been allotted that evening to the young girl whom Devanne had gone to meet at Dieppe with his friends the d’Androls.
With a quick movement he pressed the spring of his lantern and extinguished it. He had just time to hide in the recess of a window when the door at the top of the staircase opened and the gallery was lit by a faint gleam.
He had a feeling—for, half-hidden behind a curtain, he could not see—that a figure was cautiously descending the top stairs. He hoped that it would come no farther. It continued, however, and took several steps into the gallery. But it gave a cry. It must have caught sight of the broken case, three-quarters emptied of its contents.
By the scent he recognized the presence of a woman. Her dress almost touched the curtain that concealed him, and he seemed to hear her heart beating, while she must needs herself perceive the presence of another person behind her in the dark, within reach of her hand. He said to himself:
“She’s frightened… she’ll go back… she is bound to go back.”
She did not go back. The candle shaking in her hand became steadier. She turned round, hesitated for a moment, appeared to be listening to the alarming silence, and then, with a sudden movement, pulled back the curtain.
Their eyes met.
Arsène murmured, in confusion:
“You… you… Miss Underdown!”
It was Nellie Underdown, the passenger on the Provence, the girl who had mingled her dreams with his during that never-to-be-forgotten crossing, who had witnessed his arrest, and who, rather than betray him, had generously flung into the sea the kodak in which he had hidden the stolen jewels and banknotes!… It was Nellie Underdown, the dear, sweet girl whose image had so often saddened or gladdened his long hours spent in prison!
So extraordinary was their chance meeting in this castle and at that hour of the night that they did not stir, did not utter a word, dumfounded and, as it were, hypnotized by the fantastic apparition which each of them presented to the other’s eyes.
Nellie, shattered with emotion, staggered to a seat.
He remained standing in front of her. And gradually, as the interminable seconds passed, he became aware of the impression which he must be making at that moment, with his arms loaded with curiosities, his pockets stuffed, his bag filled to bursting. A great sense of confusion mastered him, and he blushed to find himself there in the mean plight of a robber caught in the act. To her henceforth, come what might, he was the thief, the man who puts his hand into other men’s pockets, the man who picks locks and enters doors by stealth.
One of the watches rolled upon the carpet, followed by another. And more things came slipping from under his arms, which were unable to retain them. Then, quickly making up his mind, he dropped a part of his booty into a chair, emptied his pockets, and took off his bag.
He now felt easier in Nellie’s presence, and took a step towards her, with the intention of speaking to her. But she made a movement of recoil and rose quickly, as though seized with fright, and ran to the guard-room. The curtain fell behind her. He followed her. She stood there, trembling and speechless, and her eyes gazed in terror upon the great devastated hall.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he said:
“At three o’clock to-morrow everything shall be restored to its place…. The things shall be brought back.”
She did not reply; and he repeated:
“At three o’clock to-morrow, I give you my solemn pledge…. No power on earth shall prevent me from keeping my promise…. At three o’clock to-morrow.”
A long silence weighed upon them both. He dared not break it, and the girl’s emotion made him suffer in every nerve. Softly, without a word, he moved away.
And he thought to himself:
“She must go!… She must feel that she is free to go!… She must not be afraid of me!…”
But suddenly she started, and stammered:
“Hark!… Footsteps!… I hear some one coming…”
He looked at her with surprise. She appeared distraught, as though at the approach of danger.
“I hear nothing,” he said, “and, even so…”
“Why, you must fly!… Quick, fly!…”
“Fly… why?”
“You must!… you must!… Ah, don’t stay!”
She rushed to the entrance to the gallery and listened. No, there was no one there. Perhaps the sound had come from the outside…. She waited a second, and then, reassured, turned round.
Arsène Lupin had disappeared.
Devanne’s first thought, on ascertaining that his castle had been pillaged, found expression in the words which he spoke to himself:
“This is Velmont’s work, and Velmont is none other than Arèsene Lupin.”
All was explained by this means, and nothing could be explained by any other. And yet the idea only just passed through his mind, for it seemed almost impossible that Velmont should not be Velmont—that is to say, the well-known painter, the club friend of his cousin d’Estavan. And when the sergeant of gendarmes had been sent for and arrived, Devanne did not even think of telling him of this absurd conjecture.
The whole of that morning was spent, at Thibermesnil, in an indescribable hubbub. The gendarmes, the rural police, the commissary of police from Dieppe, the inhabitants of the village thronged the passages, the park, the approaches to the castle. The arrival of the troops taking part in the manoeuvres and the crack of the rifles added to the picturesqueness of the scene.
The early investigations furnished no clew. The windows had not been broken nor the doors smashed in. There was no doubt but that the removal had been effected through the secret outlet. And yet there was no trace of footsteps on the carpet, no unusual mark upon the walls.
There was one unexpected thing, however, which clearly pointed to the fanciful methods of Arsène Lupin: the famous sixteenth-century chronicle had been restored to its old place in the bookcase, and beside it stood a similar volume, which was none other than the copy stolen from the Bibliothèque Nationale.
The officers arrived at eleven. Devanne received them gayly; however annoyed he might feel at the loss of his artistic treasures, his fortune was large enough to enable him to bear it without showing ill-humor. His friends the d’Androls and Nellie came down from their rooms, and the officers were introduced.
One of the guests was missing: Horace Velmont. Was he not coming? He walked in upon the stroke of twelve, and Devanne exclaimed:
“Good! There you are at last!”
“Am I late?”
“No, but you might have been… after such an exciting night! You have heard the news, I suppose?”
“What news?”
“You robbed the castle last night.”
“Nonsense!”
“I tell you, you did. But give your arm to Miss Underdown, and let us go in to lunch… Miss Underdown, let me introduce…”
He stopped, struck by the confusion on the girl’s features. Then, seized with a sudden recollection, he said:
“By the way, of course, you once travelled on the same ship with Arsène Lupin… before his arrest… You are surprised by the likeness, are you not?”
She did not reply. Velmont stood before her, smiling. He bowed; she took his arm. He led her to her place, and sat down opposite to her….
During lunch they talked of nothing but Arsène Lupin, the stolen furniture, the underground passage, and Sherlock Holmes. Not until the end of the meal, when other subjects were broached, did Velmont join in the conversation. He was amusing and serious, eloquent and witty, by turns. And whatever he said he appeared to say with the sole object of interesting Nellie. She, wholly engrossed in her own thoughts, seemed not to hear him.
Coffee was served on the terrace overlooking the court-yard and the French garden in front of the castle. The
regimental band played on the lawn, and a crowd of peasants and soldiers strolled about the walks in the park.
Nellie was thinking of Arsène Lupin’s promise:
“At three o’clock everything will be there. I give you my solemn pledge.”
At three o’clock! And the hands of the great clock in the right wing pointed to twenty to three. In spite of herself, she kept on looking at it. And she also looked at Velmont, who was swinging peacefully in a comfortable rocking-chair.
Ten minutes to three… five minutes to three… A sort of impatience, mingled with a sense of exquisite pain, racked the young girl’s mind. Was it possible for the miracle to be accomplished and to be accomplished at the fixed time, when the castle, the court-yard, and the country around were filled with people, and when, at that very moment, the public prosecutor and the examining magistrate were pursuing their investigations?
And still… still, Arsène Lupin had given such a solemn promise!
“It will happen just as he said,” she thought, impressed by all the man’s energy, authority, and certainty.
And it seemed to her no longer a miracle, but a natural event that was bound to take place in the ordinary course of things.
For a second their eyes met. She blushed, and turned away her head.
Three o’clock…. the first stroke rang out, the second, the third…. Horace Velmont took out his watch, glanced up at the clock, and put his watch back in his pocket. A few seconds elapsed. And then the crowd opened out around the lawn to make way for two carriages that had just passed through the park gates, each drawn by two horses. They were two of those regimental wagons which carry the cooking-utensils of the officers’ mess and the soldiers’ kits. They stopped in front of the steps. A quarter-master sergeant jumped down from the box of the first wagon and asked for M. Devanne.
Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-thief (Penguin Classics) Page 13
