The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar
posture. Then five drops of atropine in the eyes to make them haggard
and wild, and the trick is done.”
“I do not understand how you deceived the guards.”
“The change was progressive. The evolution was so gradual that they
failed to notice it.”
“But Baudru Désiré?”
“Baudru exists. He is a poor, harmless fellow whom
I met last year; and, really, he bears a certain resemblance to me.
Considering my arrest as a possible event, I took charge of Baudru and
studied the points wherein we differed in appearance with a view to
correct them in my own person. My friends caused him to remain at the
Dépôt overnight, and to leave there next day about the same hour as I
did--a coincidence easily arranged. Of course, it was necessary to have
a record of his detention at the Dépôt in order to establish the fact
that such a person was a reality; otherwise, the police would have
sought elsewhere to find out my identity. But, in offering to them this
excellent Baudru, it was inevitable, you understand, inevitable that
they would seize upon him, and, despite the insurmountable difficulties
of a substitution, they would prefer to believe in a substitution than
confess their ignorance.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Ganimard.
“And then,” exclaimed Arsène Lupin, “I held in my hands a trump-card: an
anxious public watching and waiting for my escape. And that is the fatal
error into which you fell, you and the others, in the course of that
fascinating game pending between me and the officers of the law wherein
the stake was my liberty. And you supposed that I was playing to the
gallery; that I was intoxicated with my success. I, Arsène Lupin, guilty
of such weakness! Oh, no! And, no longer ago than the Cahorn affair, you
said: “When Arsène Lupin cries from the housetops that he will escape,
he has some object in view.” But, sapristi, you must understand that
in order to escape I must create, in advance, a public belief in
that escape, a belief amounting to an article of faith, an absolute
conviction, a reality as glittering as the sun. And I did create that
belief that Arsène Lupin would escape, that Arsène Lupin would not be
present at his trial. And when you gave your evidence and said: “That
man is not Arsène Lupin,” everybody was prepared to believe you. Had one
person doubted it, had any one uttered this simple restriction: Suppose
it is Arsène Lupin?--from that moment, I was lost. If anyone had
scrutinized my face, not imbued with the idea that I was not Arsène
Lupin, as you and the others did at my trial, but with the idea that I
might be Arsène Lupin; then, despite all my precautions, I should have
been recognized. But I had no fear. Logically, psychologically, no once
could entertain the idea that I was Arsène Lupin.”
He grasped Ganimard’s hand.
“Come, Ganimard, confess that on the Wednesday after our conversation in
the prison de la Santé, you expected me at your house at four o’clock,
exactly as I said I would go.”
“And your prison-van?” said Ganimard, evading the question.
“A bluff! Some of my friends secured that old unused van and wished
to make the attempt. But I considered it impractical without the
concurrence of a number of unusual circumstances. However, I found
it useful to carry out that attempted escape and give it the widest
publicity. An audaciously planned escape, though not completed, gave to
the succeeding one the character of reality simply by anticipation.”
“So that the cigar....”
“Hollowed by myself, as well as the knife.”
“And the letters?”
“Written by me.”
“And the mysterious correspondent?”
“Did not exist.”
Ganimard reflected a moment, then said:
“When the anthropological service had Baudru’s case under consideration,
why did they not perceive that his measurements coincided with those of
Arsène Lupin?”
“My measurements are not in existence.”
“Indeed!”
“At least, they are false. I have given considerable attention to
that question. In the first place, the Bertillon system records the
visible marks of identification--and you have seen that they are not
infallible--and, after that, the measurements of the head, the
fingers, the ears, etc. Of course, such measurements are more or less
infallible.”
“Absolutely.”
“No; but it costs money to get around them. Before we left America, one
of the employees of the service there accepted so much money to insert
false figures in my measurements. Consequently, Baudru’s measurements
should not agree with those of Arsène Lupin.”
After a short silence, Ganimard asked:
“What are you going to do now?”
“Now,” replied Lupin, “I am going to take a rest, enjoy the best of food
and drink and gradually recover my former healthy condition. It is all
very well to become Baudru or some other person, on occasion, and to
change your personality as you do your shirt, but you soon grow weary of
the change. I feel exactly as I imagine the man who lost his shadow must
have felt, and I shall be glad to be Arsène Lupin once more.”
He walked to and fro for a few minutes, then, stopping in front of
Ganimard, he said:
“You have nothing more to say, I suppose?”
“Yes. I should like to know if you intend to reveal the true state of
facts connected with your escape. The mistake that I made---”
“Oh! no one will ever know that it was Arsène Lupin who was discharged.
It is to my own interest to surround myself with mystery, and therefore
I shall permit my escape to retain its almost miraculous character. So,
have no fear on that score, my dear friend. I shall say nothing. And
now, good-bye. I am going out to dinner this evening, and have only
sufficient time to dress.”
“I thought you wanted a rest.”
“Ah! there are duties to society that one cannot avoid. To-morrow, I
shall rest.”
“Where do you dine to-night?”
“With the British Ambassador!”
IV. The Mysterious Traveller
The evening before, I had sent my automobile to Rouen by the highway.
I was to travel to Rouen by rail, on my way to visit some friends that
live on the banks of the Seine.
At Paris, a few minutes before the train started, seven gentlemen
entered my compartment; five of them were smoking. No matter that the
journey was a short one, the thought of traveling with such a company
was not agreeable to me, especially as the car was built on the old
model, without a corridor. I picked up my overcoat, my newspapers and my
time-table, and sought refuge in a neighboring compartment.
It was occupied by a lady, who, at sight of me, made a gesture of
annoyance that did not escape my notice, and she leaned toward a
gentleman who was standing on the step and was, no doubt, her husband.
The gentleman scrutinized me closely, and, apparently, my appearance did
not displease him, for he smiled as he spoke to his wife with the air
of one who reassures a frightened child. She smiled also, and gave me a
friendly glance as if she now understood that I was one of those gallant
men with whom a woman can remain shut up for two hours in a little box,
six feet square, and have nothing to fear.
Her husband said to her:
“I have an important appointment, my dear, and cannot wait any longer.
Adieu.”
He kissed her affectionately and went away. His wife threw him a few
kisses and waved her handkerchief. The whistle sounded, and the train
started.
At that precise moment, and despite the protests of the guards, the door
was opened, and a man rushed into our compartment. My companion, who
was standing and arranging her luggage, uttered a cry of terror and fell
upon the seat. I am not a coward--far from it--but I confess that such
intrusions at the last minute are always disconcerting. They have a
suspicious, unnatural aspect.
However, the appearance of the new arrival greatly modified the
unfavorable impression produced by his precipitant action. He was
correctly and elegantly dressed, wore a tasteful cravat, correct gloves,
and his face was refined and intelligent. But, where the devil had I
seen that face before? Because, beyond all possible doubt, I had seen
it. And yet the memory of it was so vague and indistinct that I felt it
would be useless to try to recall it at that time.
Then, directing my attention to the lady, I was amazed at the pallor
and anxiety I saw in her face. She was looking at her neighbor--they
occupied seats on the same side of the compartment--with an expression
of intense alarm, and I perceived that one of her trembling hands was
slowly gliding toward a little traveling bag that was lying on the seat
about twenty inches from her. She finished by seizing it and nervously
drawing it to her. Our eyes met, and I read in hers so much anxiety and
fear that I could not refrain from speaking to her:
“Are you ill, madame? Shall I open the window?”
Her only reply was a gesture indicating that she was afraid of our
companion. I smiled, as her husband had done, shrugged my shoulders, and
explained to her, in pantomime, that she had nothing to fear, that I
was there, and, besides, the gentleman appeared to be a very harmless
individual. At that moment, he turned toward us, scrutinized both of us
from head to foot, then settled down in his corner and paid us no more
attention.
After a short silence, the lady, as if she had mustered all her energy
to perform a desperate act, said to me, in an almost inaudible voice:
“Do you know who is on our train?”
“Who?”
“He.... he....I assure you....”
“Who is he?”
“Arsène Lupin!”
She had not taken her eyes off our companion, and it was to him rather
than to me that she uttered the syllables of that disquieting name.
He drew his hat over his face. Was that to conceal his agitation or,
simply, to arrange himself for sleep? Then I said to her:
“Yesterday, through contumacy, Arsène Lupin was sentenced to twenty
years’ imprisonment at hard labor. Therefore it is improbable that he
would be so imprudent, to-day, as to show himself in public. Moreover,
the newspapers have announced his appearance in Turkey since his escape
from the Santé.”
“But he is on this train at the present moment,” the lady proclaimed,
with the obvious intention of being heard by our companion; “my husband
is one of the directors in the penitentiary service, and it was the
stationmaster himself who told us that a search was being made for
Arsène Lupin.”
“They may have been mistaken---”
“No; he was seen in the waiting-room. He bought a first-class ticket for
Rouen.”
“He has disappeared. The guard at the waiting-room door did not see him
pass, and it is supposed that he had got into the express that leaves
ten minutes after us.”
“In that case, they will be sure to catch him.”
“Unless, at the last moment, he leaped from that train to come here,
into our train.... which is quite probable.... which is almost certain.”
“If so, he will be arrested just the same; for the employees and guards
would no doubt observe his passage from one train to the other, and,
when we arrive at Rouen, they will arrest him there.”
“Him--never! He will find some means of escape.”
“In that case, I wish him ‘bon voyage.’”
“But, in the meantime, think what he may do!”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He may do anything.”
She was greatly agitated, and, truly, the situation justified, to some
extent, her nervous excitement. I was impelled to say to her:
“Of course, there are many strange coincidences, but you need have no
fear. Admitting that Arsène Lupin is on this train, he will not commit
any indiscretion; he will be only too happy to escape the peril that
already threatens him.”
My words did not reassure her, but she remained silent for a time. I
unfolded my newspapers and read reports of Arsène Lupin’s trial, but, as
they contained nothing that was new to me, I was not greatly interested.