The Confessions of Arsene Lupin/Chapter VIII
Lupin's marriage
“Monsieur Arsène Lupin has the honour to inform you of his
approaching marriage with Mademoiselle Angélique de
Sarzeau-Vendôme, Princesse de Bourbon-Condé, and to request the
pleasure of your company at the wedding, which will take place at
the church of Sainte-Clotilde....”
“The Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme has the honour to inform you of the
approaching marriage of his daughter Angélique, Princesse de
Bourbon-Condé, with Monsieur Arsène Lupin, and to request....”
Jean Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme could not finish reading the invitations which he held in his trembling hand. Pale with anger, his long, lean body shaking with tremors:
“There!” he gasped, handing the two communications to his daughter. “This is what our friends have received! This has been the talk of Paris since yesterday! What do you say to that dastardly insult, Angélique? What would your poor mother say to it, if she were alive?”
Angélique was tall and thin like her father, skinny and angular like him. She was thirty-three years of age, always dressed in black stuff, shy and retiring in manner, with a head too small in proportion to her height and narrowed on either side until the nose seemed to jut forth in protest against such parsimony. And yet it would be impossible to say that she was ugly, for her eyes were extremely beautiful, soft and grave, proud and a little sad: pathetic eyes which to see once was to remember.
She flushed with shame at hearing her father's words, which told her the scandal of which she was the victim. But, as she loved him, notwithstanding his harshness to her, his injustice and despotism, she said:
“Oh, I think it must be meant for a joke, father, to which we need pay no attention!”
“A joke? Why, every one is gossiping about it! A dozen papers have printed the confounded notice this morning, with satirical comments. They quote our pedigree, our ancestors, our illustrious dead. They pretend to take the thing seriously....”
“Still, no one could believe....”
“Of course not. But that doesn't prevent us from being the by-word of Paris.”
“It will all be forgotten by to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, my girl, people will remember that the name of Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme has been bandied about as it should not be. Oh, if I could find out the name of the scoundrel who has dared....”
At that moment, Hyacinthe, the duke's valet, came in and said that monsieur le duc was wanted on the telephone. Still fuming, he took down the receiver and growled:
“Well? Who is it? Yes, it's the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme speaking.”
A voice replied:
“I want to apologize to you, monsieur le duc, and to Mlle. Angélique. It's my secretary's fault.”
“Your secretary?”
“Yes, the invitations were only a rough draft which I meant to submit to you. Unfortunately my secretary thought....”
“But, tell me, monsieur, who are you?”
“What, monsieur le duc, don't you know my voice? The voice of your future son-in-law?”
“What!”
“Arsène Lupin.”
The duke dropped into a chair. His face was livid.
“Arsène Lupin ... it's he ... Arsène Lupin....”
Angélique gave a smile:
“You see, father, it's only a joke, a hoax.”
But the duke's rage broke out afresh and he began to walk up and down, moving his arms:
“I shall go to the police!... The fellow can't be allowed to make a fool of me in this way!... If there's any law left in the land, it must be stopped!”
Hyacinthe entered the room again. He brought two visiting-cards.
“Chotois? Lepetit? Don't know them.”
“They are both journalists, monsieur le duc.”
“What do they want?”
“They would like to speak to monsieur le duc with regard to ... the marriage....”
“Turn them out!” exclaimed the duke. “Kick them out! And tell the porter not to admit scum of that sort to my house in future.”
“Please, father ...” Angélique ventured to say.
“As for you, shut up! If you had consented to marry one of your cousins when I wanted you to this wouldn't have happened.”
The same evening, one of the two reporters printed, on the front page of his paper, a somewhat fanciful story of his expedition to the family mansion of the Sarzeau-Vendômes, in the Rue de Varennes, and expatiated pleasantly upon the old nobleman's wrathful protests.
The next morning, another newspaper published an interview with Arsène Lupin which was supposed to have taken place in a lobby at the Opera. Arsène Lupin retorted in a letter to the editor:
“I share my prospective father-in-law's indignation to the full.
The sending out of the invitations was a gross breach of etiquette
for which I am not responsible, but for which I wish to make a
public apology. Why, sir, the date of the marriage is not yet
fixed. My bride's father suggests early in May. She and I think
that six weeks is really too long to wait!...”
That which gave a special piquancy to the affair and added immensely to the enjoyment of the friends of the family was the duke's well-known character: his pride and the uncompromising nature of his ideas and principles. Duc Jean was the last descendant of the Barons de Sarzeau, the most ancient family in Brittany; he was the lineal descendant of that Sarzeau who, upon marrying a Vendôme, refused to bear the new title which Louis XV forced upon him until after he had been imprisoned for ten years in the Bastille; and he had abandoned none of the prejudices of the old régime. In his youth, he followed the Comte de Chambord into exile. In his old age, he refused a seat in the Chamber on the pretext that a Sarzeau could only sit with his peers.
The incident stung him to the quick. Nothing could pacify him. He cursed Lupin in good round terms, threatened him with every sort of punishment and rounded on his daughter:
“There, if you had only married!... After all you had plenty of chances. Your three cousins, Mussy, d'Emboise and Caorches, are noblemen of good descent, allied to the best families, fairly well-off; and they are still anxious to marry you. Why do you refuse them? Ah, because miss is a dreamer, a sentimentalist; and because her cousins are too fat, or too thin, or too coarse for her....”
She was, in fact, a dreamer. Left to her own devices from childhood, she had read all the books of chivalry, all the colourless romances of olden-time that littered the ancestral presses; and she looked upon life as a fairy-tale in which the beauteous maidens are always happy, while the others wait till death for the bridegroom who does not come. Why should she marry one of her cousins when they were only after her money, the millions which she had inherited from her mother? She might as well remain an old maid and go on dreaming....
She answered, gently:
“You will end by making yourself ill, father. Forget this silly business.”
But how could he forget it? Every morning, some pin-prick renewed his wound. Three days running, Angélique received a wonderful sheaf of flowers, with Arsène Lupin's card peeping from it. The duke could not go to his club but a friend accosted him:
“That was a good one to-day!”
“What was?”
“Why, your son-in-law's latest! Haven't you seen it? Here, read it for yourself: 'M. Arsène Lupin is petitioning the Council of State for permission to add his wife's name to his own and to be known henceforth as Lupin de Sarzeau-Vendôme.'”
And, the next day, he read:
“As the young bride, by virtue of an unrepealed decree of Charles
X, bears the title and arms of the Bourbon-Condés, of whom she is
the heiress-of-line, the eldest son of the Lupins de
Sarzeau-Vendôme will be styled Prince de Bourbon-Condé.”
And, the day after, an advertisement.
“Exhibition of Mlle. de Sarzeau-Vendôme's trousseau at Messrs.
——'s Great Linen Warehouse. Each article marked with initials L.
S. V.”
Then an illustrated paper published a photographic scene: the duke, his daughter and his son-in-law sitting at a table playing three-handed auction-bridge.
And the date also was announced with a great flourish of trumpets: the 4th of May.
And particulars were given of the marriage-settlement. Lupin showed himself wonderfully disinterested. He was prepared to sign, the newspapers said, with his eyes closed, without knowing the figure of the dowry.
All these things drove the old duke crazy. His hatred of Lupin assumed morbid proportions. Much as it went against the grain, he called on the prefect of police, who advised him to be on his guard:
“We know the gentleman's ways; he is employing one of his favourite dodges. Forgive the expression, monsieur le duc, but he is 'nursing' you. Don't fall into the trap.”
“What dodge? What trap?” asked the duke, anxiously.
“He is trying to make you lose your head and to lead you, by intimidation, to do something which you would refuse to do in cold blood.”
“Still, M. Arsène Lupin can hardly hope that I will offer him my daughter's hand!”
“No, but he hopes that you will commit, to put it mildly, a blunder.”
“What blunder?”
“Exactly that blunder which he wants you to commit.”
“Then you think, monsieur le préfet ...?”
“I think the best thing you can do, monsieur le duc, is to go home, or, if all this excitement worries you, to run down to the country and stay there quietly, without upsetting yourself.”
This conversation only increased the old duke's fears. Lupin appeared to him in the light of a terrible person, who employed diabolical methods and kept accomplices in every sphere of society. Prudence was the watchword.
And life, from that moment, became intolerable. The duke grew more crabbed and silent than ever and denied his door to all his old friends and even to Angélique's three suitors, her Cousins de Mussy, d'Emboise and de Caorches, who were none of them on speaking terms with the others, in consequence of their rivalry, and who were in the habit of calling, turn and turn about, every week.
For no earthly reason, he dismissed his butler and his coachman. But he dared not fill their places, for fear of engaging creatures of Arsène Lupin's; and his own man, Hyacinthe, in whom he had every confidence, having had him in his service for over forty years, had to take upon himself the laborious duties of the stables and the pantry.
“Come, father,” said Angélique, trying to make him listen to common-sense. “I really can't see what you are afraid of. No one can force me into this ridiculous marriage.”
“Well, of course, that's not what I'm afraid of.”
“What then, father?”
“How can I tell? An abduction! A burglary! An act of violence! There is no doubt that the villain is scheming something; and there is also no doubt that we are surrounded by spies.”
One afternoon, he received a newspaper in which the following paragraph was marked in red pencil:
“The signing of the marriage-contract is fixed for this evening, at the Sarzeau-Vendôme town-house. It will be quite a private ceremony and only a few privileged friends will be present to congratulate the happy pair. The witnesses to the contract on behalf of Mlle. de Sarzeau-Vendôme, the Prince de la Rochefoucauld-Limours and the Comte de Chartres, will be introduced by M. Arsène Lupin to the two gentlemen who have claimed the honour of acting as his groomsmen, namely, the prefect of police and the governor of the Santé Prison.”
Ten minutes later, the duke sent his servant Hyacinthe to the post with three express messages. At four o'clock, in Angélique's presence, he saw the three cousins: Mussy, fat, heavy, pasty-faced; d'Emboise, slender, fresh-coloured and shy: Caorches, short, thin and unhealthy-looking: all three, old bachelors by this time, lacking distinction in dress or appearance.
The meeting was a short one. The duke had worked out his whole plan of campaign, a defensive campaign, of which he set forth the first stage in explicit terms:
“Angélique and I will leave Paris to-night for our place in Brittany. I rely on you, my three nephews, to help us get away. You, d'Emboise, will come and fetch us in your car, with the hood up. You, Mussy, will bring your big motor and kindly see to the luggage with Hyacinthe, my man. You, Caorches, will go to the Gare d'Orléans and book our berths in the sleeping-car for Vannes by the 10.40 train. Is that settled?”
The rest of the day passed without incident. The duke, to avoid any accidental indiscretion, waited until after dinner to tell Hyacinthe to pack a trunk and a portmanteau. Hyacinthe was to accompany them, as well as Angélique's maid.
At nine o'clock, all the other servants went to bed, by their master's order. At ten minutes to ten, the duke, who was completing his preparations, heard the sound of a motor-horn. The porter opened the gates of the courtyard. The duke, standing at the window, recognized d'Emboise's landaulette:
“Tell him I shall be down presently,” he said to Hyacinthe, “and let mademoiselle know.”
In a few minutes, as Hyacinthe did not return, he left his room. But he was attacked on the landing by two masked men, who gagged and bound him before he could utter a cry. And one of the men said to him, in a low voice:
“Take this as a first warning, monsieur le duc. If you persist in leaving Paris and refusing your consent, it will be a more serious matter.”
And the same man said to his companion:
“Keep an eye on him. I will see to the young lady.”
By that time, two other confederates had secured the lady's maid; and Angélique, herself gagged, lay fainting on a couch in her boudoir.
She came to almost immediately, under the stimulus of a bottle of salts held to her nostrils; and, when she opened her eyes, she saw bending over her a young man, in evening-clothes, with a smiling and friendly face, who said:
“I implore your forgiveness, mademoiselle. All these happenings are a trifle sudden and this behaviour rather out of the way. But circumstances often compel us to deeds of which our conscience does not approve. Pray pardon me.”
He took her hand very gently and slipped a broad gold ring on the girl's finger, saying:
“There, now we are engaged. Never forget the man who gave you this ring. He entreats you not to run away from him ... and to stay in Paris and await the proofs of his devotion. Have faith in him.”
He said all this in so serious and respectful a voice, with so much authority and deference, that she had not the strength to resist. Their eyes met. He whispered:
“The exquisite purity of your eyes! It would be heavenly to live with those eyes upon one. Now close them....”
He withdrew. His accomplices followed suit. The car drove off, and the house in the Rue de Varennes remained still and silent until the moment when Angélique, regaining complete consciousness, called out for the servants.
They found the duke, Hyacinthe, the lady's maid and the porter and his wife all tightly bound. A few priceless ornaments had disappeared, as well as the duke's pocket-book and all his jewellery; tie pins, pearl studs, watch and so on.
The police were advised without delay. In the morning it appeared that, on the evening before, d'Emboise, when leaving his house in the motor-car, was stabbed by his own chauffeur and thrown, half-dead, into a deserted street. Mussy and Caorches had each received a telephone-message, purporting to come from the duke, countermanding their attendance.
Next week, without troubling further about the police investigation, without obeying the summons of the examining-magistrate, without even reading Arsène Lupin's letters to the papers on “the Varennes Flight,” the duke, his daughter and his valet stealthily took a slow train for Vannes and arrived one evening, at the old feudal castle that towers over the headland of Sarzeau. The duke at once organized a defence with the aid of the Breton peasants, true mediæval vassals to a man. On the fourth day, Mussy arrived; on the fifth, Caorches; and, on the seventh, d'Emboise, whose wound was not as severe as had been feared.
The duke waited two days longer before communicating to those about him what, now that his escape had succeeded in spite of Lupin, he called the second part of his plan. He did so, in the presence of the three cousins, by a dictatorial order to Angélique, expressed in these peremptory terms:
“All this bother is upsetting me terribly. I have entered on a struggle with this man whose daring you have seen for yourself; and the struggle is killing me. I want to end it at all costs. There is only one way of doing so, Angélique, and that is for you to release me from all responsibility by accepting the hand of one of your cousins. Before a month is out, you must be the wife of Mussy, Caorches or d'Emboise. You have a free choice. Make your decision.”
For four whole days Angélique wept and entreated her father, but in vain. She felt that he would be inflexible and that she must end by submitting to his wishes. She accepted:
“Whichever you please, father. I love none of them. So I may as well be unhappy with one as with the other.”
Thereupon a fresh discussion ensued, as the duke wanted to compel her to make her own choice. She stood firm. Reluctantly and for financial considerations, he named d'Emboise.
The banns were published without delay.
From that moment, the watch in and around the castle was increased twofold, all the more inasmuch as Lupin's silence and the sudden cessation of the campaign which he had been conducting in the press could not but alarm the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme. It was obvious that the enemy was getting ready to strike and would endeavour to oppose the marriage by one of his characteristic moves.
Nevertheless, nothing happened: nothing two days before the ceremony, nothing on the day before, nothing on the morning itself. The marriage took place in the mayor's office, followed by the religious celebration in church; and the thing was done.
Then and not till then, the duke breathed freely. Notwithstanding his daughter's sadness, notwithstanding the embarrassed silence of his son-in-law, who found the situation a little trying, he rubbed his hands with an air of pleasure, as though he had achieved a brilliant victory:
“Tell them to lower the drawbridge,” he said to Hyacinthe, “and to admit everybody. We have nothing more to fear from that scoundrel.”
After the wedding-breakfast, he had wine served out to the peasants and clinked glasses with them. They danced and sang.
At three o'clock, he returned to the ground-floor rooms. It was the hour for his afternoon nap. He walked to the guard-room at the end of the suite. But he had no sooner placed his foot on the threshold than he stopped suddenly and exclaimed:
“What are you doing here, d'Emboise? Is this a joke?”
D'Emboise was standing before him, dressed as a Breton fisherman, in a dirty jacket and breeches, torn, patched and many sizes too large for him.
The duke seemed dumbfounded. He stared with eyes of amazement at that face which he knew and which, at the same time, roused memories of a very distant past within his brain. Then he strode abruptly to one of the windows overlooking the castle-terrace and called:
“Angélique!”
“What is it, father?” she asked, coming forward.
“Where's your husband?”
“Over there, father,” said Angélique, pointing to d'Emboise, who was smoking a cigarette and reading, some way off.
The duke stumbled and fell into a chair, with a great shudder of fright:
“Oh, I shall go mad!”
But the man in the fisherman's garb knelt down before him and said:
“Look at me, uncle. You know me, don't you? I'm your nephew, the one who used to play here in the old days, the one whom you called Jacquot.... Just think a minute.... Here, look at this scar....”
“Yes, yes,” stammered the duke, “I recognize you. It's Jacques. But the other one....”
He put his hands to his head:
“And yet, no, it can't be ... Explain yourself.... I don't understand.... I don't want to understand....”
There was a pause, during which the newcomer shut the window and closed the door leading to the next room. Then he came up to the old duke, touched him gently on the shoulder, to wake him from his torpor, and without further preface, as though to cut short any explanation that was not absolutely necessary, spoke as follows:
“Four years ago, that is to say, in the eleventh year of my voluntary exile, when I settled in the extreme south of Algeria, I made the acquaintance, in the course of a hunting-expedition arranged by a big Arab chief, of a man whose geniality, whose charm of manner, whose consummate prowess, whose indomitable pluck, whose combined humour and depth of mind fascinated me in the highest degree. The Comte d'Andrésy spent six weeks as my guest. After he left, we kept up a correspondence at regular intervals. I also often saw his name in the papers, in the society and sporting columns. He was to come back and I was preparing to receive him, three months ago, when, one evening as I was out riding, my two Arab attendants flung themselves upon me, bound me, blindfolded me and took me, travelling day and night, for a week, along deserted roads, to a bay on the coast, where five men awaited them. I was at once carried on board a small steam-yacht, which weighed anchor without delay. There was nothing to tell me who the men were nor what their object was in kidnapping me. They had locked me into a narrow cabin, secured by a massive door and lighted by a port-hole protected by two iron cross-bars. Every morning, a hand was inserted through a hatch between the next cabin and my own and placed on my bunk two or three pounds of bread, a good helping of food and a flagon of wine and removed the remains of yesterday's meals, which I put there for the purpose. From time to time, at night, the yacht stopped and I heard the sound of the boat rowing to some harbour and then returning, doubtless with provisions. Then we set out once more, without hurrying, as though on a cruise of people of our class, who travel for pleasure and are not pressed for time. Sometimes, standing on a chair, I would see the coastline, through my port-hole, too indistinctly, however, to locate it. And this lasted for weeks. One morning, in the ninth week, I perceived that the hatch had been left unfastened and I pushed it open. The cabin was empty at the time. With an effort, I was able to take a nail-file from a dressing-table. Two weeks after that, by dint of patient perseverance, I had succeeded in filing through the bars of my port-hole and I could have escaped that way, only, though I am a good swimmer, I soon grow tired. I had therefore to choose a moment when the yacht was not too far from the land. It was not until yesterday that, perched on my chair, I caught sight of the coast; and, in the evening, at sunset, I recognized, to my astonishment, the outlines of the Château de Sarzeau, with its pointed turrets and its square keep. I wondered if this was the goal of my mysterious voyage. All night long, we cruised in the offing. The same all day yesterday. At last, this morning, we put in at a distance which I considered favourable, all the more so as we were steaming through rocks under cover of which I could swim unobserved. But, just as I was about to make my escape, I noticed that the shutter of the hatch, which they thought they had closed, had once more opened of itself and was flapping against the partition. I again pushed it ajar from curiosity. Within arm's length was a little cupboard which I managed to open and in which my hand, groping at random, laid hold of a bundle of papers. This consisted of letters, letters containing instructions addressed to the pirates who held me prisoner. An hour later, when I wriggled through the port-hole and slipped into the sea, I knew all: the reasons for my abduction, the means employed, the object in view and the infamous scheme plotted during the last three months against the Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme and his daughter. Unfortunately, it was too late. I was obliged, in order not to be seen from the yacht, to crouch in the cleft of a rock and did not reach land until mid-day. By the time that I had been to a fisherman's cabin, exchanged my clothes for his and come on here, it was three o'clock. On my arrival. I learnt that Angélique's marriage was celebrated this morning.”
The old duke had not spoken a word. With his eyes riveted on the stranger's, he was listening in ever-increasing dismay. At times, the thought of the warnings given him by the prefect of police returned to his mind:
“They're nursing you, monsieur le duc, they are nursing you.”
He said, in a hollow voice:
“Speak on ... finish your story.... All this is ghastly.... I don't understand it yet ... and I feel nervous....”
The stranger resumed:
“I am sorry to say, the story is easily pieced together and is summed up in a few sentences. It is like this: the Comte d'Andrésy remembered several things from his stay with me and from the confidences which I was foolish enough to make to him. First of all, I was your nephew and yet you had seen comparatively little of me, because I left Sarzeau when I was quite a child, and since then our intercourse was limited to the few weeks which I spent here, fifteen years ago, when I proposed for the hand of my Cousin Angélique; secondly, having broken with the past, I received no letters; lastly, there was a certain physical resemblance between d'Andrésy and myself which could be accentuated to such an extent as to become striking. His scheme was built up on those three points. He bribed my Arab servants to give him warning in case I left Algeria. Then he went back to Paris, bearing my name and made up to look exactly like me, came to see you, was invited to your house once a fortnight and lived under my name, which thus became one of the many aliases beneath which he conceals his real identity. Three months ago, when 'the apple was ripe,' as he says in his letters, he began the attack by a series of communications to the press; and, at the same time, fearing no doubt that some newspaper would tell me in Algeria the part that was being played under my name in Paris, he had me assaulted by my servants and kidnapped by his confederates. I need not explain any more in so far as you are concerned, uncle.”
The Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme was shaken with a fit of nervous trembling. The awful truth to which he refused to open his eyes appeared to him in its nakedness and assumed the hateful countenance of the enemy. He clutched his nephew's hands and said to him, fiercely, despairingly:
“It's Lupin, is it not?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“And it's to him ... it's to him that I have given my daughter!”
“Yes, uncle, to him, who has stolen my name of Jacques d'Emboise from me and stolen your daughter from you. Angélique is the wedded wife of Arsène Lupin; and that in accordance with your orders. This letter in his handwriting bears witness to it. He has upset your whole life, thrown you off your balance, besieging your hours of waking and your nights of dreaming, rifling your town-house, until the moment when, seized with terror, you took refuge here, where, thinking that you would escape his artifices and his rapacity, you told your daughter to choose one of her three cousins, Mussy, d'Emboise or Caorches, as her husband.
“But why did she select that one rather than the others?”
“It was you who selected him, uncle.”
“At random ... because he had the biggest income....”
“No, not at random, but on the insidious, persistent and very clever advice of your servant Hyacinthe.”
The duke gave a start:
“What! Is Hyacinthe an accomplice?”
“No, not of Arsène Lupin, but of the man whom he believes to be d'Emboise and who promised to give him a hundred thousand francs within a week after the marriage.”
“Oh, the villain!... He planned everything, foresaw everything....”
“Foresaw everything, uncle, down to shamming an attempt upon his life so as to avert suspicion, down to shamming a wound received in your service.”
“But with what object? Why all these dastardly tricks?”
“Angélique has a fortune of eleven million francs. Your solicitor in Paris was to hand the securities next week to the counterfeit d'Emboise, who had only to realize them forthwith and disappear. But, this very morning, you yourself were to hand your son-in-law, as a personal wedding-present, five hundred thousand francs' worth of bearer-stock, which he has arranged to deliver to one of his accomplices at nine o'clock this evening, outside the castle, near the Great Oak, so that they may be negotiated to-morrow morning in Brussels.”
The Duc de Sarzeau-Vendôme had risen from his seat and was stamping furiously up and down the room:
“At nine o'clock this evening?” he said. “We'll see about that.... We'll see about that.... I'll have the gendarmes here before then....”
“Arsène Lupin laughs at gendarmes.”
“Let's telegraph to Paris.”
“Yes, but how about the five hundred thousand francs?... And, still worse, uncle, the scandal?... Think of this: your daughter, Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme, married to that swindler, that thief.... No, no, it would never do....”
“What then?”
“What?...”
The nephew now rose and, stepping to a gun-rack, took down a rifle and laid it on the table, in front of the duke:
“Away in Algeria, uncle, on the verge of the desert, when we find ourselves face to face with a wild beast, we do not send for the gendarmes. We take our rifle and we shoot the wild beast. Otherwise, the beast would tear us to pieces with its claws.”
“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.