The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
mother and child down there in the country; the illness of the mother,
the schemes of and inventions of the child to sell the precious stones in
order to save his mother’s life, or, at least, soothe her dying moments.
Her illness overcomes her. She dies. Years roll on. The child becomes
a man; and then--and now I will give my imagination a free rein--let
us suppose that the man feels a desire to return to the home of his
childhood, that he does so, and that he meets there certain people who
suspect and accuse his mother.... do you realize the sorrow and anguish
of such an interview in the very house wherein the original drama was
played?”
His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence,
and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess de Dreux a
bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at the same time, the
fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The count spoke at last, and
said:
“Who are you, monsieur?”
“I? The chevalier Floriani, whom you met at Palermo, and whom you have
been gracious enough to invite to your house on several occasions.”
“Then what does this story mean?”
“Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I am concerned. I
endeavor to depict the pleasure that Henriette’s son, if he still lives,
would have in telling you that he was the guilty party, and that he did
it because his mother was unhappy, as she was on the point of losing
the place of a.... servant, by which she lived, and because the child
suffered at sight of his mother’s sorrow.”
He spoke with suppressed emotion, rose partially and inclined toward
the countess. There could be no doubt that the chevalier Floriani was
Henriette’s son. His attitude and words proclaimed it. Besides, was it
not his obvious intention and desire to be recognized as such?
The count hesitated. What action would he take against the audacious
guest? Ring? Provoke a scandal? Unmask the man who had once robbed him?
But that was a long time ago! And who would believe that absurd story
about the guilty child? No; better far to accept the situation, and
pretend not to comprehend the true meaning of it. So the count, turning
to Floriani, exclaimed:
“Your story is very curious, very entertaining; I enjoyed it much. But
what do you think has become of this young man, this model son? I
hope he has not abandoned the career in which he made such a brilliant
début.”
“Oh! certainly not.”
“After such a début! To steal the Queen’s Necklace at six years of age;
the celebrated necklace that was coveted by Marie-Antoinette!”
“And to steal it,” remarked Floriani, falling in with the count’s mood,
“without costing him the slightest trouble, without anyone thinking to
examine the condition of the window, or to observe that the window-sill
was too clean--that window-sill which he had wiped in order to efface
the marks he had made in the thick dust. We must admit that it was
sufficient to turn the head of a boy at that age. It was all so easy. He
had simply to desire the thing, and reach out his hand to get it.”
“And he reached out his hand.”
“Both hands,” replied the chevalier, laughing.
His companions received a shock. What mystery surrounded the life of
the so-called Floriani? How wonderful must have been the life of that
adventurer, a thief at six years of age, and who, to-day, in search of
excitement or, at most, to gratify a feeling of resentment, had come to
brave his victim in her own house, audaciously, foolishly, and yet with
all the grace and delicacy of a courteous guest!
He arose and approached the countess to bid her adieu. She recoiled,
unconsciously. He smiled.
“Oh! Madame, you are afraid of me! Did I pursue my role of
parlor-magician a step too far?”
She controlled herself, and replied, with her accustomed ease:
“Not at all, monsieur. The legend of that dutiful son interested me very
much, and I am pleased to know that my necklace had such a brilliant
destiny. But do you not think that the son of that woman, that
Henriette, was the victim of hereditary influence in the choice of his
vocation?”
He shuddered, feeling the point, and replied:
“I am sure of it; and, moreover, his natural tendency to crime must have
been very strong or he would have been discouraged.”
“Why so?”
“Because, as you must know, the majority of the diamonds were false. The
only genuine stones were the few purchased from the English jeweler, the
others having been sold, one by one, to meet the cruel necessities of
life.”
“It was still the Queen’s Necklace, monsieur,” replied the countess,
haughtily, “and that is something that he, Henriette’s son, could not
appreciate.”
“He was able to appreciate, madame, that, whether true or false,
the necklace was nothing more that an object of parade, an emblem of
senseless pride.”
The count made a threatening gesture, but his wife stopped him.
“Monsieur,” she said, “if the man to whom you allude has the slightest
sense of honor---”
She stopped, intimidated by Floriani’s cool manner.
“If that man has the slightest sense of honor,” he repeated.
She felt that she would not gain anything by speaking to him in that
manner, and in spite of her anger and indignation, trembling as she was
from humiliated pride, she said to him, almost politely:
“Monsieur, the legend says that Rétaux de Villette, when in possession
of the Queen’s Necklace, did not disfigure the mounting. He understood
that the diamonds were simply the ornament, the accessory, and that
the mounting was the essential work, the creation of the artist, and
he respected it accordingly. Do you think that this man had the same
feeling?”
“I have no doubt that the mounting still exists. The child respected
it.”
“Well, monsieur, if you should happen to meet him, will you tell him
that he unjustly keeps possession of a relic that is the property and
pride of a certain family, and that, although the stones have
been removed, the Queen’s necklace still belongs to the house of
Dreux-Soubise. It belongs to us as much as our name or our honor.”
The chevalier replied, simply:
“I shall tell him, madame.”
He bowed to her, saluted the count and the other guests, and departed.
* * * * *
Four days later, the countess de Dreux found upon the table in her
chamber a red leather case bearing the cardinal’s arms. She opened it,
and found the Queen’s Necklace.
But as all things must, in the life of a man who strives for unity and
logic, converge toward the same goal--and as a little advertising never
does any harm--on the following day, the _Echo de France_ published
these sensational lines:
“The Queen’s Necklace, the famous historical jewelry stolen from
the family of Dreux-Soubise, has been recovered by Arsène Lupin, who
hastened to restore it to its rightful owner. We cannot too highly
commend such a delicate and chivalrous act.”
VI. The Seven of Hearts
I am frequently asked this question: “How did you make the acquaintance
of Arsène Lupin?”
My connection with Arsène Lupin was well known. The details that I
gather concerning that mysterious man, the irrefutable facts that I
present, the new evidence that I produce, the interpretation that I
place on certain acts of which the public has seen only the exterior
manifestations without being able to discover the secret reasons or
the invisible mechanism, all establish, if not an intimacy, at least
amicable relations and regular confidences.
But how did I make his acquaintance? Why was I selected to be his
historiographer? Why I, and not some one else?
The answer is simple: chance alone presided over my choice; my merit was
not considered. It was chance that put me in his way. It was by chance
that I was participant in one of his strangest and most mysterious
adventures; and by chance that I was an actor in a drama of which he was
the marvelous stage director; an obscure and intricate drama, bristling
with such thrilling events that I feel a certain embarrassment in
undertaking to describe it.
The first act takes place during that memorable night of 22 June, of
which so much has already been said. And, for my part, I attribute the
anomalous conduct of which I was guilty on that occasion to the unusual
frame of mind in which I found myself on my return home. I had dined
with some friends at the Cascade restaurant, and, the entire evening,
whilst we smoked and the orchestra played melancholy waltzes, we talked
only of crimes and thefts, and dark and frightful intrigues. That is
always a poor overture to a night’s sleep.
The Saint-Martins went away in an automobile. Jean Daspry--that
delightful, heedless Daspry who, six months later, was killed in such a
tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco--Jean Daspry and I returned
on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in front of
the little house in which I had lived for a year at Neuilly, on the
boulevard Maillot, he said to me:
“Are you afraid?”
“What an idea!”
“But this house is so isolated.... no neighbors.... vacant lots....Really,
I am not a coward, and yet---”
“Well, you are very cheering, I must say.”
“Oh! I say that as I would say anything else. The Saint-Martins have
impressed me with their stories of brigands and thieves.”
We shook hands and said good-night. I took out my key and opened the
door.
“Well, that is good,” I murmured, “Antoine has forgotten to light a
candle.”
Then I recalled the fact that Antoine was away; I had given him a
short leave of absence. Forthwith, I was disagreeably oppressed by the
darkness and silence of the night. I ascended the stairs on tiptoe,
and reached my room as quickly as possible; then, contrary to my usual
habit, I turned the key and pushed the bolt.
The light of my candle restored my courage. Yet I was careful to take my
revolver from its case--a large, powerful weapon--and place it beside
my bed. That precaution completed my reassurance. I laid down and, as
usual, took a book from my night-table to read myself to sleep. Then I
received a great surprise. Instead of the paper-knife with which I had
marked my place on the preceding, I found an envelope, closed with
five seals of red wax. I seized it eagerly. It was addressed to me, and
marked: “Urgent.”
A letter! A letter addressed to me! Who could have put it in that place?
Nervously, I tore open the envelope, and read:
“From the moment you open this letter, whatever happens, whatever you
may hear, do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise you are doomed.”
I am not a coward, and, quite as well as another, I can face real
danger, or smile at the visionary perils of imagination. But, let me
repeat, I was in an anomalous condition of mind, with my nerves set on
edge by the events of the evening. Besides, was there not, in my present
situation, something startling and mysterious, calculated to disturb the
most courageous spirit?
My feverish fingers clutched the sheet of paper, and I read and re-read
those threatening words: “Do not move, do not utter one cry. Otherwise,
you are doomed.”
“Nonsense!” I thought. “It is a joke; the work of some cheerful idiot.”
I was about to laugh--a good loud laugh. Who prevented me? What haunting
fear compressed my throat?
At least, I would blow out the candle. No, I could not do it. “Do not
move, or you are doomed,” were the words he had written.
These auto-suggestions are frequently more imperious than the most
positive realities; but why should I struggle against them? I had simply
to close my eyes. I did so.
At that moment, I heard a slight noise, followed by crackling sounds,
proceeding from a large room used by me as a library. A small room or
antechamber was situated between the library and my bedchamber.