Part 13

--Certainly, that would not have been enough had not another event occurred, which gives to the one I have just told you its full meaning. There existed at the National Library a second copy of that Chronicle, and the two copies differed in certain details concerning the underground passage, such as the establishment of a profile and a scale, and various annotations, not printed, but written in ink and more or less faded. I knew these particulars, and I knew that the definitive plan could be reconstructed only by a minute comparison of the two maps. Now, on the day after my copy disappeared, that of the National Library was requested by a reader who carried it off, without it being possible to determine the conditions under which the theft was effected.

Exclamations greeted these words.

--This time, the matter becomes serious.

--Also, this time, said Devanne, the police were stirred, and there was a double investigation, which, moreover, had no result.

--Like all those of which Arsène Lupin is the object.

--Precisely. It was then that it occurred to me to ask the help of Herlock Sholmès, who answered me that he had the liveliest desire to come into contact with Arsène Lupin.

--What glory for Arsène Lupin! said Velmont! But, if our national thief, as you call him, nourishes no project upon Thibermesnil, will Herlock Sholmès have nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs?

--There is something else, and it will interest him keenly, the discovery of the underground passage.

--How, you told us that one of the entrances opened upon the countryside, the other in this very salon!

--Where? At what point in this salon? The line representing the underground passage on the maps does indeed end on one side at a small circle accompanied by these two capitals 'T. G.', which means no doubt, does it not, Tour Guillaume [Guillaume Tower]. But the tower is round, and who could determine at what point of the circle the drawing begins?

Devanne lit a second cigar and poured himself a glass of bénédictine. They pressed him with questions. He smiled, happy at the interest aroused. At last he pronounced:

--The secret is lost. No one in the world knows it. From father to son, says the legend, the mighty lords transmitted it on their deathbed, until the day when Geoffroy, last of the name, had his head cut off on the scaffold, the 7th of Thermidor, Year II, in his nineteenth year.

--But, for a century, people must have searched?

--They have searched, but in vain. Myself, when I had bought the château from the great-grand-nephew of the conventionnel Leribourg, I had excavations made. To what purpose? Consider that this tower, surrounded by water, is connected to the château only at one point, and that consequently the underground passage must pass beneath the old moats. The plan of the National Library moreover shows a series of four staircases comprising forty-eight steps, which suggests a depth of more than ten meters. And the scale, annexed to the other plan, fixes the distance at two hundred meters. In reality, the whole problem is here, between this floor, this ceiling, and these walls. Upon my word, I confess that I hesitate to demolish them.

--And one has no clue?

--None.

The Abbé Gélis objected:

--M. Devanne, we must take account of two quotations.

--Oh! cried Devanne laughing, the curé is a digger of archives, a great reader of memoirs, and everything touching Thibermesnil passions him. But the explanation he speaks of only serves to muddle things.

--But still?

--Do you insist?

--Enormously.

--You shall therefore know that it results from his readings that two kings of France had the word of the enigma.

--Two kings of France!

--Henri IV and Louis XVI.

--These are not the first comers. And how does M. the curé know?...

--Oh! it is quite simple, continued Devanne. The eve of the battle of Arques, King Henri IV came to sup and sleep in this château. At eleven in the evening, Louise de Tancarville, the prettiest lady of Normandy, was introduced to him by the underground passage with the complicity of Duke Edgard, who, on this occasion, delivered the family secret. This secret, Henri IV later confided to his minister Sully, who relates the anecdote in his 'Royales Oeconomies d'État' without accompanying it with any other comment than this incomprehensible phrase:

'The axe whirls in the quivering air, but the wing opens, and one goes even unto God.'

There was a silence, and Velmont sneered:

--That is not of a blinding clarity.

--Is it not? M. the curé would have it that Sully noted thereby the word of the enigma, without betraying the secret of the scribes to whom he dictated his memoirs.

--The hypothesis is ingenious.

--I grant it, but what is this axe that turns, and this bird that flies away?

--And what is it that goes even unto God?

--Mystery!

Velmont resumed:

--And this good Louis XVI, was it likewise to receive the visit of a lady that he had the underground passage opened to him?

--I know not. All that may be said is that Louis XVI stayed in 1784 at Thibermesnil, and that the famous iron strongbox, found at the Louvre upon the denunciation of Gamain, contained a paper with these words written by him: 'Thibermesnil: 2-6-12.'

Horace Velmont burst out laughing:

--Victory! the shadows disperse more and more. Twice six makes twelve.

--Laugh as you will, Monsieur, said the abbé, it remains that these two quotations contain the solution, and that sooner or later someone will come who knows how to interpret them.

--Herlock Sholmès first, said Devanne... Unless Arsène Lupin anticipates him. What do you think of it, Velmont?

Velmont rose, placed his hand on Devanne's shoulder, and declared:

--I think that to the data furnished by your book and by that of the Library, there was lacking a piece of information of the highest importance, and that you have had the kindness to offer it to me. I thank you for it.

--So that?...

--So that now, the axe having whirled, the bird having fled, and twice six making twelve, I have only to set out.

--Without losing a minute.

--Without losing a second! must I not, this very night, that is to say before the arrival of Herlock Sholmès, burgle your château.

--It is true that you have only just the time. Will you have me take you?

--As far as Dieppe?

--As far as Dieppe. I shall profit by it to bring back myself M. and Mme d'Androl and a young girl, a friend of theirs, who arrive by the midnight train.

And addressing the officers, Devanne added:

--Besides, we shall all meet here tomorrow at luncheon, shall we not, Gentlemen? I count upon you, since this château is to be invested by your regiments and taken by assault at the stroke of eleven.

The invitation was accepted, they parted, and a moment later, a 20-30 Étoile d'or carried Devanne and Velmont away on the road to Dieppe. Devanne set the painter down before the casino, and went to the station.

At midnight his friends alighted from the train. At half past midnight, the automobile passed through the gates of Thibermesnil. At one o'clock, after a light supper served in the salon, each retired. Little by little all the lights went out. The great silence of the night enveloped the château.

* * *

But the moon thrust aside the clouds that veiled it, and, through two of the windows, filled the salon with white light. That lasted but a moment. Very quickly the moon hid behind the curtain of the hills. And it was darkness. The silence deepened with the thicker shadow. Scarcely, from time to time, did creakings of furniture disturb it, or the rustling of reeds upon the pond that bathes the old walls with its green waters.

The clock strung the infinite rosary of seconds. It struck two o'clock. Then, again, the seconds fell hasty and monotonous in the heavy peace of the night. Then three o'clock struck.

And suddenly something snapped, as does, at the passing of a train, the disk of a signal that opens and falls back. And a fine jet of light traversed the salon from side to side, like an arrow that would leave behind it a sparkling trail. It sprang from the central fluting of a pilaster against which, on the right, rests the pediment of the bookcase. It remained fixed at first upon the opposite panel in a dazzling circle, then it wandered hither and thither like an anxious gaze that scrutinizes the shadow, then it vanished to spring forth again, while a whole portion of the bookcase turned upon itself and uncovered a wide opening, vault-shaped.

A man entered who held in his hand an electric lantern. A second man and a third emerged bearing a coil of ropes and various instruments. The first inspected the room, listened, and said:

--Call the comrades.

Of these comrades, eight came by the underground passage, sturdy fellows, of energetic visage. And the removal began.

It was rapid. Arsène Lupin passed from one piece of furniture to another, examined it, and, according to its dimensions or its artistic value, spared it or ordered:

--Take it away!

And the object was taken away, swallowed by the gaping maw of the tunnel, sent into the bowels of the earth.

And thus were spirited away six Louis XV armchairs and six chairs, and Aubusson tapestries, and girandoles signed Gouthière, and two Fragonards, and a Nattier, and a bust by Houdon, and statuettes. Sometimes Lupin lingered before a magnificent sideboard or a superb painting and sighed:

--Too heavy, that one... too big... what a pity!

And he continued his expert appraisal.

In forty minutes, the salon was 'cleared out' according to Arsène's expression. And all this was accomplished in admirable order, without the least noise, as if all the objects handled by these men had been padded with thick cotton.

He then said to the last of them who was leaving, bearer of a cartel signed Boulle:

--No need to come back. It is understood, is it not, that as soon as the auto-truck is loaded, you make off to the barn at Roquefort.

--But you, boss?

--Leave me the motorcycle.

The man gone, he pushed back, hard against, the movable panel of the bookcase, then, after having erased the traces of the removal, effaced the marks of footsteps, he lifted a portière, and penetrated into a gallery that served as communication between the tower and the château. In the middle there was a display case, and it was because of this display case that Arsène Lupin had pursued his investigations.

It contained marvels, a unique collection of watches, snuffboxes, rings, chatelaines, miniatures of the prettiest work. With pincers he forced the lock, and it was an ineffable pleasure to him to seize these jewels of gold and silver, these little works of so precious and delicate an art.

He had, slung bandolier-style around his neck, a wide sack of cloth specially arranged for these windfalls. He filled it. And he filled also the pockets of his jacket, of his trousers, and of his waistcoat. And he was closing his left arm upon a pile of those pearl reticules so esteemed by our ancestors, and which present-day fashion seeks so passionately... when a slight noise struck his ear.

He listened: he was not mistaken, the noise grew distinct.

And suddenly he remembered: at the end of the gallery, an interior staircase led to an apartment, unoccupied until now, but which had been, since this evening, reserved for that young girl whom Devanne had gone to fetch at Dieppe, with his friends d'Androl.

With a rapid gesture, he pressed the spring of his lantern with his finger: it went out. He had scarcely gained the embrasure of a window when, at the top of the staircase, the door was opened and a faint gleam lit the gallery.

He had the sensation--for, half-hidden by a curtain, he saw nothing--that a person was descending the first steps with caution. He hoped she would go no further. She descended nevertheless and advanced several paces into the room. But she gave a cry. No doubt she had perceived the broken display case, three-quarters empty.

By the perfume, he recognized the presence of a woman. Her garments almost brushed the curtain that concealed him, and it seemed to him that he heard the heart of this woman beat, and that she too divined the presence of another being, behind her, in the shadow, within reach of her hand... He said to himself: 'She is afraid... she will go... it is impossible that she should not go.' She did not go. The candle that trembled in her hand grew steady. She turned, hesitated an instant, seemed to listen to the frightful silence, then, with a sudden movement, drew aside the curtain.

They saw each other.

Arsène murmured, overwhelmed:

--You... you... Mademoiselle.

It was Miss Nelly.

Miss Nelly! the passenger of the Transatlantic, she who had mingled her dreams with the dreams of the young man during that unforgettable crossing, she who had witnessed his arrest, and who, rather than betray him, had had that pretty gesture of throwing into the sea the kodak where he had hidden the jewels and the banknotes... Miss Nelly! the dear and smiling creature whose image had so often saddened or gladdened his long hours of prison!

The chance was so prodigious that threw them into each other's presence in this château and at this hour of the night, that they did not move and uttered not a word, stupefied, as if hypnotized by the fantastic apparition that they were to each other.

Tottering, broken with emotion, Miss Nelly had to sit down.

He remained standing facing her. And little by little, in the course of the interminable seconds that passed, he became conscious of the impression he must give at this instant, his arms laden with trinkets, his pockets swollen, and his sack filled to bursting. A great confusion invaded him, and he blushed to find himself there, in that ugly posture of the thief caught in the act. For her, henceforth, whatever might happen, he was the thief, he who puts his hand in others' pockets, he who picks locks and introduces himself furtively.

One of the watches rolled upon the carpet, another also. And other things still were about to slip from his arms, which he knew not how to hold. Then, deciding abruptly, he let fall upon the armchair a part of the objects, emptied his pockets and rid himself of his sack.

He felt more at ease before Nelly, and made a step toward her with the intention of speaking to her. But she made a gesture of recoil, then rose quickly, as if seized with fright, and precipitated herself toward the salon. The portière closed upon her, he rejoined her. She was there, speechless, trembling, and her eyes contemplated with terror the immense devastated room.

Immediately he said to her:

--At three o'clock, tomorrow, all will be put back in place... The furniture will be brought back...

She answered not, and he repeated:

--Tomorrow, at three o'clock, I pledge myself to it... Nothing in the world can prevent me from keeping my promise... Tomorrow, at three o'clock...

A long silence weighed upon them. He dared not break it, and the emotion of the young girl caused him a veritable suffering. Gently, without a word, he drew away from her.

And he thought:

--Let her go!... Let her feel free to go!... Let her not be afraid of me!...

But suddenly she started and stammered:

--Listen... footsteps... I hear someone walking...

He looked at her with astonishment. She seemed beside herself, as at the approach of a peril.

--I hear nothing, said he, and even if...

--What! but you must flee... quickly, flee...

--Flee... why?

--It must be... it must be... Ah! do not stay...

With a dash she ran to the entrance of the gallery and lent an ear. No, there was no one. Perhaps the noise came from outside?... She waited a second, then, reassured, turned back.

Arsène Lupin had disappeared.

* * *

At the very instant when Devanne ascertained the pillage of his château, he said to himself: it is Velmont who did the deed, and Velmont is none other than Arsène Lupin. Everything was thus explained, and nothing was explained otherwise. This idea moreover but grazed him, so unthinkable was it that Velmont should not be Velmont, that is to say the known painter, the club comrade of his cousin d'Estevan. And when the brigadier of gendarmerie, immediately warned, presented himself, Devanne did not even think to communicate this absurd supposition to him.

All the morning it was, at Thibermesnil, an indescribable coming and going. The gendarmes, the rural guard, the police commissioner of Dieppe, the inhabitants of the village, all this world bustled in the corridors, or in the park, or around the château. The approach of the troops on maneuver, the crackling of rifles, added to the picturesque of the scene.

The first searches furnished no clue. The windows not having been broken nor the doors forced, no doubt the removal had been effected by the secret exit. Yet, upon the carpet, no trace of steps, upon the walls, no unusual mark.

One thing only, unexpected, and which denoted well the fancy of Arsène Lupin: the famous Chronicle of the sixteenth century had resumed its former place, and, beside it, was found a similar book, which was none other than the stolen copy from the National Library.

At eleven o'clock, the officers arrived. Devanne welcomed them gaily--however much the loss of such artistic riches might cause him annoyance, his fortune permitted him to bear it without ill humor.--His friends d'Androl and Nelly came down.

The introductions made, it was noticed that a guest was missing, Horace Velmont. Would he not come?

His absence would have revived the suspicions of Georges Devanne. But at noon precisely, he entered. Devanne cried:

--Good! There you are!

--Am I not punctual?

--Yes, but you might not have been... after such an agitated night! for you know the news?

--What news?

--You have burgled the château.

--Come now!

--As I tell you. But offer first your arm to Miss Underdown, and let us sit at table... Mademoiselle, allow me...

He broke off, struck by the trouble of the young girl. Then, suddenly, remembering:

--It is true, by the way, you traveled with Arsène Lupin, formerly... before his arrest... The resemblance astonishes you, does it not?

She answered not. Before her, Velmont smiled. He inclined, she took his arm. He led her to her place and sat facing her.

During luncheon they spoke only of Arsène Lupin, of the furniture carried off, of the underground passage, of Herlock Sholmès. Only at the end of the meal, as they approached other subjects, Velmont joined the conversation. He was by turns amusing and grave, eloquent and witty. And all that he said, he seemed to say only to interest the young girl. Very absorbed, she did not appear to hear him.

They served coffee on the terrace that overlooks the courtyard of honor and the French garden on the side of the principal façade. In the middle of the lawn, the regimental band began to play, and the crowd of peasants and soldiers spread into the park alleys.

Meanwhile Nelly remembered Arsène Lupin's promise: 'At three o'clock all will be there, I pledge myself to it.'

At three o'clock! and the hands of the great clock that adorned the right wing marked two forty. She looked at them despite herself at every instant. And she looked also at Velmont who rocked peacefully in a comfortable rocking-chair.

Two fifty... two fifty-five... a sort of impatience, mingled with anguish, seized the young girl. Was it admissible that the miracle be accomplished, and that it be accomplished at the fixed minute, when the château, the courtyard, the countryside were filled with people, and when at this very moment the prosecutor of the Republic and the examining magistrate were pursuing their inquiry?

And yet... yet, Arsène Lupin had promised with such solemnity! This will be as he said, she thought, impressed by all that there was in this man of energy, of authority, and of certainty. And this no longer seemed to her a miracle, but a natural event that must produce itself by the force of things.

For a second, their glances crossed. She blushed and turned away her head.

Three o'clock... The first stroke sounded, the second, the third... Horace Velmont drew his watch, raised his eyes to the clock, then put his watch back in his pocket. A few seconds passed. And behold the crowd parted, around the lawn, giving passage to two carriages that had just passed through the park gate, each harnessed with two horses. They were those wagons that follow the regiments and carry the officers' chests and the soldiers' packs. They stopped before the perron. A quartermaster-sergeant leaped from one of the seats and asked for M. Devanne.

Devanne ran up and descended the steps. Beneath the tarpaulins, he saw, carefully arranged, well wrapped, his furniture, his paintings, his art objects.

To the questions put to him, the quartermaster answered by exhibiting the order he had received from the adjutant on duty, and which this adjutant had taken, in the morning, from the report. By this order, the second company of the fourth battalion was to see to it that the movable objects deposited at the crossroads of Halleux, in the forest of Arques, be carried at three o'clock to M. Georges Devanne, proprietor of the château of Thibermesnil. Signed: Colonel Beauvel.

--At the crossroads, added the sergeant, everything was ready, aligned on the grass, and under the guard... of the passersby. It seemed queer to me, but well! the order was categorical.

One of the officers examined the signature: it was perfectly imitated, but false.

The music had ceased to play, they emptied the wagons, they reinstated the furniture.

In the midst of this agitation, Nelly remained alone at the end of the terrace. She was grave and thoughtful, agitated by confused thoughts that she did not seek to formulate. Suddenly, she perceived Velmont approaching. She wished to avoid him, but the angle of the balustrade that borders the terrace enclosed her on two sides, and a line of large crates of shrubs, orange trees, oleanders and bamboos, left her no other retreat than the path by which the young man advanced. She did not move. A ray of sunlight trembled upon her golden hair, stirred by the frail leaves of a bamboo. Someone pronounced very low:

--I have kept my promise of this night.

Arsène Lupin was near her, and around them there was no one.

He repeated, his attitude hesitant, his voice timid:

--I have kept my promise of this night.

He awaited a word of thanks, a gesture at least that would prove the interest she took in this act. She was silent.

This contempt irritated Arsène Lupin, and, at the same time, he had the deep feeling of all that separated him from Nelly, now that she knew the truth. He would have liked to excuse himself, seek excuses, show his life in what it had of audacious and great. But, in advance, the words wounded him, and he felt the absurdity and the insolence of any explanation. Then he murmured sadly, invaded by a flood of memories:

--How far the past is! Do you recall the long hours upon the deck of the _Provence_. Ah! see... you had, as today, a rose in your hand, a pale rose like this one... I asked it of you... you seemed not to hear... However, after your departure, I found the rose... forgotten no doubt... I kept it...

She answered not yet. She seemed very far from him. He continued:

--In memory of those hours, think not of what you know. Let the past link to the present! Let me not be he whom you saw this night, but him of former times, and let your eyes look upon me, were it but a second, as they looked upon me... I beg you... Am I no longer the same?

She raised her eyes, as he asked, and looked at him. Then without a word, she placed her finger upon a ring that he wore on the index. One could see only the band, but the bezel, turned inward, was formed of a marvelous ruby.

Arsène Lupin blushed. This ring belonged to Georges Devanne.

He smiled with bitterness:

--You are right. What has been will always be. Arsène Lupin is and can be only Arsène Lupin, and between you and him, there cannot even be a memory... Forgive me... I should have understood that my mere presence near you is an outrage...

“Stories of the world, in your language.”