The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
room, with a nervous step and a feverish eye that were unusual to him.
“After all,” I said to him, “it was your most successful venture.”
Without making a direct reply, he said:
“There are some impenetrable secrets connected with that affair; some
obscure points that escape my comprehension. For instance: What
caused their flight? Why did they not take advantage of the help I
unconsciously gave them? It would have been so simple to say: ‘The
hundred millions were in the safe. They are no longer there, because
they have been stolen.’”
“They lost their nerve.”
“Yes, that is it--they lost their nerve...On the other hand, it is
true---”
“What is true?”
“Oh! nothing.”
What was the meaning of Lupin’s reticence? It was quite obvious that he
had not told me everything; there was something he was loath to tell.
His conduct puzzled me. It must indeed be a very serious matter to cause
such a man as Arsène Lupin even a momentary hesitation. I threw out a
few questions at random.
“Have you seen them since?”
“No.”
“And have you never experienced the slightest degree of pity for those
unfortunate people?”
“I!” he exclaimed, with a start.
His sudden excitement astonished me. Had I touched him on a sore spot? I
continued:
“Of course. If you had not left them alone, they might have been able to
face the danger, or, at least, made their escape with full pockets.”
“What do you mean?” he said, indignantly. “I suppose you have an idea
that my soul should be filled with remorse?”
“Call it remorse or regrets--anything you like---”
“They are not worth it.”
“Have you no regrets or remorse for having stolen their fortune?”
“What fortune?”
“The packages of bonds you took from their safe.”
“Oh! I stole their bonds, did I? I deprived them of a portion of their
wealth? Is that my crime? Ah! my dear boy, you do not know the truth.
You never imagined that those bonds were not worth the paper they were
written on. Those bonds were false--they were counterfeit--every one of
them--do you understand? THEY WERE COUNTERFEIT!”
I looked at him, astounded.
“Counterfeit! The four or five millions?”
“Yes, counterfeit!” he exclaimed, in a fit of rage. “Only so many scraps
of paper! I couldn’t raise a sou on the whole of them! And you ask me if
I have any remorse. _They_ are the ones who should have remorse and pity.
They played me for a simpleton; and I fell into their trap. I was their
latest victim, their most stupid gull!”
He was affected by genuine anger--the result of malice and wounded
pride. He continued:
“From start to finish, I got the worst of it. Do you know the part I
played in that affair, or rather the part they made me play? That of
André Brawford! Yes, my boy, that is the truth, and I never suspected
it. It was not until afterwards, on reading the newspapers, that the
light finally dawned in my stupid brain. Whilst I was posing as his
“saviour,” as the gentleman who had risked his life to rescue Mon.
Imbert from the clutches of an assassin, they were passing me off as
Brawford. Wasn’t that splendid? That eccentric individual who had a
room on the second floor, that barbarian that was exhibited only at a
distance, was Brawford, and Brawford was I! Thanks to me, and to the
confidence that I inspired under the name of Brawford, they were enabled
to borrow money from the bankers and other money-lenders. Ha! what an
experience for a novice! And I swear to you that I shall profit by the
lesson!”
He stopped, seized my arm, and said to me, in a tone of exasperation:
“My dear fellow, at this very moment, Gervaise Imbert owes me fifteen
hundred francs.”
I could not refrain from laughter, his rage was so grotesque. He was
making a mountain out of a molehill. In a moment, he laughed himself,
and said:
“Yes, my boy, fifteen hundred francs. You must know that I had not
received one sou of my promised salary, and, more than that, she had
borrowed from me the sum of fifteen hundred francs. All my youthful
savings! And do you know why? To devote the money to charity! I am
giving you a straight story. She wanted it for some poor people she was
assisting--unknown to her husband. And my hard-earned money was wormed
out of me by that silly pretense! Isn’t it amusing, hein? Arsène Lupin
done out of fifteen hundred francs by the fair lady from whom he stole
four millions in counterfeit bonds! And what a vast amount of time and
patience and cunning I expended to achieve that result! It was the first
time in my life that I was played for a fool, and I frankly confess that
I was fooled that time to the queen’s taste!”
VIII. The Black Pearl
A violent ringing of the bell awakened the concierge of number nine,
avenue Hoche. She pulled the doorstring, grumbling:
“I thought everybody was in. It must be three o’clock!”
“Perhaps it is some one for the doctor,” muttered her husband.
At that moment, a voice inquired:
“Doctor Harel .... what floor?”
“Third floor, left. But the doctor won’t go out at night.”
“He must go to-night.”
The visitor entered the vestibule, ascended to the first floor, the
second, the third, and, without stopping at the doctor’s door, he
continued to the fifth floor. There, he tried two keys. One of them
fitted the lock.
“Ah! good!” he murmured, “that simplifies the business wonderfully.
But before I commence work I had better arrange for my retreat. Let me
see.... have I had sufficient time to rouse the doctor and be dismissed
by him? Not yet.... a few minutes more.”
At the end of ten minutes, he descended the stairs, grumbling noisily
about the doctor. The concierge opened the door for him and heard it
click behind him. But the door did not lock, as the man had quickly
inserted a piece of iron in the lock in such a manner that the bolt
could not enter. Then, quietly, he entered the house again, unknown to
the concierge. In case of alarm, his retreat was assured. Noiselessly,
he ascended to the fifth floor once more. In the antechamber, by the
light of his electric lantern, he placed his hat and overcoat on one
of the chairs, took a seat on another, and covered his heavy shoes with
felt slippers.
“Ouf! Here I am--and how simple it was! I wonder why more people do not
adopt the profitable and pleasant occupation of burglar. With a little
care and reflection, it becomes a most delightful profession. Not too
quiet and monotonous, of course, as it would then become wearisome.”
He unfolded a detailed plan of the apartment.
“Let me commence by locating myself. Here, I see the vestibule in which
I am sitting. On the street front, the drawing-room, the boudoir and
dining-room. Useless to waste any time there, as it appears that the
countess has a deplorable taste.... not a bibelot of any value!...Now,
let’s get down to business!... Ah! here is a corridor; it must lead to
the bed chambers. At a distance of three metres, I should come to the
door of the wardrobe-closet which connects with the chamber of the
countess.” He folded his plan, extinguished his lantern, and proceeded
down the corridor, counting his distance, thus:
“One metre.... two metres.... three metres....Here is the door....Mon
Dieu, how easy it is! Only a small, simple bolt now separates me from
the chamber, and I know that the bolt is located exactly one metre,
forty-three centimeters, from the floor. So that, thanks to a small
incision I am about to make, I can soon get rid of the bolt.”
He drew from his pocket the necessary instruments. Then the following
idea occurred to him:
“Suppose, by chance, the door is not bolted. I will try it first.”
He turned the knob, and the door opened.
“My brave Lupin, surely fortune favors you....What’s to be done now?
You know the situation of the rooms; you know the place in which the
countess hides the black pearl. Therefore, in order to secure the black
pearl, you have simply to be more silent than silence, more invisible
than darkness itself.”
Arsène Lupin was employed fully a half-hour in opening the second
door--a glass door that led to the countess’ bedchamber. But he
accomplished it with so much skill and precaution, that even had
the countess been awake, she would not have heard the slightest sound.
According to the plan of the rooms, that he holds, he has merely to pass
around a reclining chair and, beyond that, a small table close to the
bed. On the table, there was a box of letter-paper, and the black pearl
was concealed in that box. He stooped and crept cautiously over the
carpet, following the outlines of the reclining-chair. When he reached
the extremity of it, he stopped in order to repress the throbbing of
his heart. Although he was not moved by any sense of fear, he found it
impossible to overcome the nervous anxiety that one usually feels in the
midst of profound silence. That circumstance astonished him, because he
had passed through many more solemn moments without the slightest trace
of emotion. No danger threatened him. Then why did his heart throb like
an alarm-bell? Was it that sleeping woman who affected him? Was it the
proximity of another pulsating heart?
He listened, and thought he could discern the rhythmical breathing of a
person asleep. It gave him confidence, like the presence of a friend.
He sought and found the armchair; then, by slow, cautious movements,
advanced toward the table, feeling ahead of him with outstretched arm.
His right had touched one of the feet of the table. Ah! now, he had
simply to rise, take the pearl, and escape. That was fortunate, as his
heart was leaping in his breast like a wild beast, and made so much
noise that he feared it would waken the countess. By a powerful effort
of the will, he subdued the wild throbbing of his heart, and was about
to rise from the floor when his left hand encountered, lying on the
floor, an object which he recognized as a candlestick--an overturned
candlestick. A moment later, his hand encountered another object:
a clock--one of those small traveling clocks, covered with
leather.-------
Well! What had happened? He could not understand. That candlestick, that
clock; why were those articles not in their accustomed places? Ah! what
had happened in the dread silence of the night?
Suddenly a cry escaped him. He had touched--oh! some strange,
unutterable thing! “No! no!” he thought, “it cannot be. It is some
fantasy of my excited brain.” For twenty seconds, thirty seconds, he
remained motionless, terrified, his forehead bathed with perspiration,
and his fingers still retained the sensation of that dreadful contact.
Making a desperate effort, he ventured to extend his arm again. Once
more, his hand encountered that strange, unutterable thing. He felt
it. He must feel it and find out what it is. He found that it was hair,
human hair, and a human face; and that face was cold, almost icy.
However frightful the circumstances may be, a man like Arsène Lupin
controls himself and commands the situation as soon as he learns what it
is. So, Arsène Lupin quickly brought his lantern into use. A woman
was lying before him, covered with blood. Her neck and shoulders
were covered with gaping wounds. He leaned over her and made a closer
examination. She was dead.
“Dead! Dead!” he repeated, with a bewildered air.
He stared at those fixed eyes, that grim mouth, that livid flesh,
and that blood--all that blood which had flowed over the carpet and
congealed there in thick, black spots. He arose and turned on the
electric lights. Then he beheld all the marks of a desperate struggle.
The bed was in a state of great disorder. On the floor, the candlestick,
and the clock, with the hands pointing to twenty minutes after eleven;
then, further away, an overturned chair; and, everywhere, there was
blood, spots of blood and pools of blood.