The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
a movement of simulated awkwardness, she let the camera fall into the
water between the vessel and the pier. Then she walked down the gangway,
and was quickly lost to sight in the crowd. She had passed out of my
life forever.
For a moment, I stood motionless. Then, to Ganimard’s great
astonishment, I muttered:
“What a pity that I am not an honest man!”
Such was the story of his arrest as narrated to me by Arsène Lupin
himself. The various incidents, which I shall record in writing at a
later day, have established between us certain ties.... shall I say of
friendship? Yes, I venture to believe that Arsène Lupin honors me with
his friendship, and that it is through friendship that he occasionally
calls on me, and brings, into the silence of my library, his youthful
exuberance of spirits, the contagion of his enthusiasm, and the mirth of
a man for whom destiny has naught but favors and smiles.
His portrait? How can I describe him? I have seen him twenty times and
each time he was a different person; even he himself said to me on one
occasion: “I no longer know who I am. I cannot recognize myself in the
mirror.” Certainly, he was a great actor, and possessed a marvelous
faculty for disguising himself. Without the slightest effort, he could
adopt the voice, gestures and mannerisms of another person.
“Why,” said he, “why should I retain a definite form and feature? Why
not avoid the danger of a personality that is ever the same? My actions
will serve to identify me.”
Then he added, with a touch of pride:
“So much the better if no one can ever say with absolute certainty:
There is Arsène Lupin! The essential point is that the public may be
able to refer to my work and say, without fear of mistake: Arsène Lupin
did that!”
II. Arsène Lupin in Prison
There is no tourist worthy of the name who does not know the banks of
the Seine, and has not noticed, in passing, the little feudal castle of
the Malaquis, built upon a rock in the centre of the river. An arched
bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm waters of the
great river play peacefully amongst the reeds, and the wagtails flutter
over the moist crests of the stones.
The history of the Malaquis castle is stormy like its name, harsh like
its outlines. It has passed through a long series of combats, sieges,
assaults, rapines and massacres. A recital of the crimes that have been
committed there would cause the stoutest heart to tremble. There are
many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of
a famous subterranean tunnel that formerly led to the abbey of Jumieges
and to the manor of Agnes Sorel, mistress of Charles VII.
In that ancient habitation of heroes and brigands, the Baron Nathan
Cahorn now lived; or Baron Satan as he was formerly called on the
Bourse, where he had acquired a fortune with incredible rapidity. The
lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to sell
the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable
collection of furniture, pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron
lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters
the place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he possessed,
his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures
that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.
Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the
treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with
so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could not say that
the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them--his
bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a
lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge
and at the entrance to the court of honor are closed and barred. At
the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the
castle.
One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the
gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself
who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as
minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and
twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many
years. The man laughed, as he said:
“It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap
and blouse.”
“One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.
The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:
“And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new.”
“Something new?”
“Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”
Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron
never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately
aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an
evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb
the tranquility of his retreat?
“You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”
He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had
disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to
and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge
and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this
heading: Prison de la Santé, Paris. He looked at the signature: _Arsène
Lupin_. Then he read:
“Monsieur le Baron:
“There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe
de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond
measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your
smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the
Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire
gueridon signed ‘Jacob,’ and the Renaissance chest. In the salon
to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.
“For the present, I will content myself with those articles that
can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack
them carefully and ship them to me, charges prepaid, to the
station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be
obliged to remove them myself during the night of 27 September;
but, under those circumstances, I shall not content myself with
the articles above mentioned.
“Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and
believe me to be your humble servant,
“Arsène Lupin.”
“P. S.--Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you
paid thirty thousand francs for it, it is only a copy, the
original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras,
during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.
“I do not care for the Louis XV chatelaine, as I doubt its
authenticity.”
That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other
signature, he would have been greatly alarmed--but signed by Arsène
Lupin!
As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history
of recent crimes, and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of
the mysterious burglar. Of course, he knew that Lupin had been arrested
in America by his enemy Ganimard and was at present incarcerated in the
Prison de la Santé. But he knew also that any miracle might be expected
from Arsène Lupin. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the
location of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming
aspect. How could he have acquired that information concerning things
that no one had ever seen?
The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the
castle, its steep rocky pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water,
and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there was no danger. No one in
the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that contained his
priceless treasures.
No one, perhaps, but Arsène Lupin! For him, gates, walls and drawbridges
did not exist. What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most
careful precautions, if Arsène Lupin had decided to effect an entrance?
That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He
enclosed the threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.
The reply came at once to the effect that Arsène Lupin was in custody in
the Prison de la Santé, under close surveillance, with no opportunity
to write such a letter, which was, no doubt, the work of some imposter.
But, as an act of precaution, the Procurer had submitted the letter
to an expert in handwriting, who declared that, in spite of certain
resemblances, the writing was not that of the prisoner.
But the words “in spite of certain resemblances” caught the attention of
the baron; in them, he read the possibility of a doubt which appeared to
him quite sufficient to warrant the intervention of the law. His fears
increased. He read Lupin’s letter over and over again. “I shall be
obliged to remove them myself.” And then there was the fixed date: the
night of 27 September.
To confide in his servants was a proceeding repugnant to his nature; but
now, for the first time in many years, he experienced the necessity of
seeking counsel with some one. Abandoned by the legal official of
his own district, and feeling unable to defend himself with his own
resources, he was on the point of going to Paris to engage the services
of a detective.
Two days passed; on the third day, he was filled with hope and joy as
he read the following item in the ‘Reveil de Caudebec’, a newspaper
published in a neighboring town:
“We have the pleasure of entertaining in our city, at the present time,
the veteran detective Mon. Ganimard who acquired a world-wide reputation
by his clever capture of Arsène Lupin. He has come here for rest and
recreation, and, being an enthusiastic fisherman, he threatens to
capture all the fish in our river.”
Ganimard! Ah, here is the assistance desired by Baron Cahorn! Who could
baffle the schemes of Arsène Lupin better than Ganimard, the patient and
astute detective? He was the man for the place.
The baron did not hesitate. The town of Caudebec was only six kilometers
from the castle, a short distance to a man whose step was accelerated by
the hope of safety.
After several fruitless attempts to ascertain the detective’s address,
the baron visited the office of the ‘Reveil,’ situated on the quai.
There he found the writer of the article who, approaching the window,
exclaimed:
“Ganimard? Why, you are sure to see him somewhere on the quai with his
fishing-pole. I met him there and chanced to read his name engraved on
his rod. Ah, there he is now, under the trees.”
“That little man, wearing a straw hat?”
“Exactly. He is a gruff fellow, with little to say.”
Five minutes later, the baron approached the celebrated Ganimard,
introduced himself, and sought to commence a conversation, but that
was a failure. Then he broached the real object of his interview,
and briefly stated his case. The other listened, motionless, with his
attention riveted on his fishing-rod. When the baron had finished his
story, the fisherman turned, with an air of profound pity, and said:
“Monsieur, it is not customary for thieves to warn people they are about
to rob. Arsène Lupin, especially, would not commit such a folly.”
“But---”
“Monsieur, if I had the least doubt, believe me, the pleasure of
again capturing Arsène Lupin would place me at your disposal. But,
unfortunately, that young man is already under lock and key.”
“He may have escaped.”
“No one ever escaped from the Santé.”
“But, he---”
“He, no more than any other.”
“Yet---”
“Well, if he escapes, so much the better. I will catch him again.
Meanwhile, you go home and sleep soundly. That will do for the present.
You frighten the fish.”
The conversation was ended. The baron returned to the castle, reassured