Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (english reading book TXT) 📖
- Author: Maurice Leblanc
Book online «Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (english reading book TXT) 📖». Author Maurice Leblanc
The two girls rose, went to a table set against the wall beyond the window, and began turning over the papers with which it was loaded in the search for the photograph. They had barely turned their backs, when the hand of young Charolais shot out as swiftly as the tongue of a lizard catching a fly, closed round the silver statuette on the top of the cabinet beside him, and flashed it into his jacket pocket.
Charolais was watching the two girls; one would have said that he had eyes for nothing else, yet, without moving a muscle of his face, set in its perpetual beaming smile, he hissed in an angry whisper, “Drop it, you idiot! Put it back!”
The young man scowled askance at him.
“Curse you! Put it back!” hissed Charolais.
The young man’s arm shot out with the same quickness, and the statuette stood in its place.
There was just the faintest sigh of relief from Charolais, as Germaine turned and came to him with the photograph in her hand. She gave it to him.
“Ah, here we are,” he said, putting on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. “A hundred horse-power car. Well, well, this is something to talk over. What’s the least you’ll take for it?”
“I have nothing to do with this kind of thing,” cried Germaine. “You must see my father. He will be back from Rennes soon. Then you can settle the matter with him.”
M. Charolais rose, and said: “Very good. We will go now, and come back presently. I’m sorry to have intruded on you, young ladies—taking up your time like this—”
“Not at all—not at all,” murmured Germaine politely.
“Good-bye—good-bye,” said M. Charolais; and he and his son went to the door, and bowed themselves out.
“What creatures!” said Germaine, going to the window, as the door closed behind the two visitors. “All the same, if they do buy the hundred horse-power, papa will be awfully pleased. It is odd about that pane. I wonder how it happened. It’s odd too that Jacques hasn’t come back yet. He told me that he would be here between half-past four and five.”
“And the Du Buits have not come either,” said Sonia. “But it’s hardly five yet.”
“Yes; that’s so. The Du Buits have not come either. What on earth are you wasting your time for?” she added sharply, raising her voice. “Just finish addressing those letters while you’re waiting.”
“They’re nearly finished,” said Sonia.
“Nearly isn’t quite. Get on with them, can’t you!” snapped Germaine.
Sonia went back to the writing-table; just the slightest deepening of the faint pink roses in her cheeks marked her sense of Germaine’s rudeness. After three years as companion to Germaine Gournay-Martin, she was well inured to millionaire manners; they had almost lost the power to move her.
Germaine dropped into a chair for twenty seconds; then flung out of it.
“Ten minutes to five!” she cried. “Jacques is late. It’s the first time I’ve ever known him late.”
She went to the window, and looked across the wide stretch of meadow-land and woodland on which the chateau, set on the very crown of the ridge, looked down. The road, running with the irritating straightness of so many of the roads of France, was visible for a full three miles. It was empty.
“Perhaps the Duke went to the Chateau de Relzieres to see his cousin—though I fancy that at bottom the Duke does not care very much for the Baron de Relzieres. They always look as though they detested one another,” said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the letter she was addressing.
“You’ve noticed that, have you?” said Germaine. “Now, as far as Jacques is concerned—he’s—he’s so indifferent. None the less, when we were at the Relzieres on Thursday, I caught him quarrelling with Paul de Relzieres.”
“Quarrelling?” said Sonia sharply, with a sudden uneasiness in air and eyes and voice.
“Yes; quarrelling. And they said good-bye to one another in the oddest way.”
“But surely they shook hands?” said Sonia.
“Not a bit of it. They bowed as if each of them had swallowed a poker.”
“Why—then—then—” said Sonia, starting up with a frightened air; and her voice stuck in her throat.
“Then what?” said Germaine, a little startled by her panic-stricken face.
“The duel! Monsieur de Relzieres’ duel!” cried Sonia.
“What? You don’t think it was with Jacques?”
“I don’t know—but this quarrel—the Duke’s manner this morning—the Du Buits’ drive—” said Sonia.
“Of course—of course! It’s quite possible—in fact it’s certain!” cried Germaine.
“It’s horrible!” gasped Sonia. “Consider—just consider! Suppose something happened to him. Suppose the Duke—”
“It’s me the Duke’s fighting about!” cried Germaine proudly, with a little skipping jump of triumphant joy.
Sonia stared through her without seeing her. Her face was a dead white—fear had chilled the lustre from her skin; her breath panted through her parted lips; and her dilated eyes seemed to look on some dreadful picture.
Germaine pirouetted about the hall at the very height of triumph. To have a Duke fighting a duel about her was far beyond the wildest dreams of snobbishness. She chuckled again and again, and once she clapped her hands and laughed aloud.
“He’s fighting a swordsman of the first class—an invincible swordsman—you said so yourself,” Sonia muttered in a tone of anguish. “And there’s nothing to be done—nothing.”
She pressed her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a hideous vision.
Germaine did not hear her; she was staring at herself in a mirror, and bridling to her own image.
Sonia tottered to the window and stared down at the road along which must come the tidings of weal or irremediable woe. She kept passing her hand over her eyes as if to clear their vision.
Suddenly she started, and bent forward, rigid, all her being concentrated in the effort to see.
Then she cried: “Mademoiselle Germaine! Look! Look!”
“What is it?” said Germaine, coming to her side.
“A horseman! Look! There!” said Sonia, waving a hand towards the road.
“Yes; and isn’t he galloping!” said Germaine.
“It’s he! It’s the Duke!” cried Sonia.
“Do you think so?” said Germaine doubtfully.
“I’m sure of it—sure!”
“Well, he gets here just in time for tea,” said Germaine in a tone of extreme satisfaction. “He knows that I hate to be kept waiting. He said to me, ‘I shall be back by five at the latest.’ And here he is.”
“It’s impossible,” said Sonia. “He has to go all the way round the park. There’s no direct road; the brook is between us.”
“All the same, he’s coming in a straight line,” said Germaine.
It was true. The horseman had left the road and was galloping across the meadows straight for the brook. In twenty seconds he reached its treacherous bank, and as he set his horse at it, Sonia covered her eyes.
“He’s over!” said Germaine. “My father gave three hundred guineas for that horse.”
LUPIN’S WAY
Sonia, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, in a reaction from her fears, slipped back and sat down at the tea-table, panting quickly, struggling to keep back the tears of relief. She did not see the Duke gallop up the slope, dismount, and hand over his horse to the groom who came running to him. There was still a mist in her eyes to blur his figure as he came through the window.
“If it’s for me, plenty of tea, very little cream, and three lumps of sugar,” he cried in a gay, ringing voice, and pulled out his watch. “Five to the minute—that’s all right.” And he bent down, took Germaine’s hand, and kissed it with an air of gallant devotion.
If he had indeed just fought a duel, there were no signs of it in his bearing. His air, his voice, were entirely careless. He was a man whose whole thought at the moment was fixed on his tea and his punctuality.
He drew a chair near the tea-table for Germaine; sat down himself; and Sonia handed him a cup of tea with so shaky a hand that the spoon clinked in the saucer.
“You’ve been fighting a duel?” said Germaine.
“What! You’ve heard already?” said the Duke in some surprise.
“I’ve heard,” said Germaine. “Why did you fight it?”
“You’re not wounded, your Grace?” said Sonia anxiously.
“Not a scratch,” said the Duke, smiling at her.
“Will you be so good as to get on with those wedding-cards, Sonia,” said Germaine sharply; and Sonia went back to the writing-table.
Turning to the Duke, Germaine said, “Did you fight on my account?”
“Would you be pleased to know that I had fought on your account?” said the Duke; and there was a faint mocking light in his eyes, far too faint for the self-satisfied Germaine to perceive.
“Yes. But it isn’t true. You’ve been fighting about some woman,” said Germaine petulantly.
“If I had been fighting about a woman, it could only be you,” said the Duke.
“Yes, that is so. Of course. It could hardly be about Sonia, or my maid,” said Germaine. “But what was the reason of the duel?”
“Oh, the reason of it was entirely childish,” said the Duke. “I was in a bad temper; and De Relzieres said something that annoyed me.”
“Then it wasn’t about me; and if it wasn’t about me, it wasn’t really worth while fighting,” said Germaine in a tone of acute disappointment.
The mocking light deepened a little in the Duke’s eyes.
“Yes. But if I had been killed, everybody would have said, ‘The Duke of Charmerace has been killed in a duel about Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin.’ That would have sounded very fine indeed,” said the Duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice.
“Now, don’t begin trying to annoy me again,” said Germaine pettishly.
“The last thing I should dream of, my dear girl,” said the Duke, smiling.
“And De Relzieres? Is he wounded?” said Germaine.
“Poor dear De Relzieres: he won’t be out of bed for the next six months,” said the Duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily.
“Good gracious!” cried Germaine.
“It will do poor dear De Relzieres a world of good. He has a touch of enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest,” said the Duke.
Sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. Germaine was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder Sonia could watch the face of the Duke—an extraordinarily mobile face, changing with every passing mood. Sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell before them. But as soon as they turned away from her she was watching him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race.
He finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and said to Germaine, “It must be quite three days since I gave you anything.”
He opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her.
“Oh, how nice!” she cried, taking it.
She took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. She showed it to Sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the effect. To tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. The pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. Sonia saw this, and so did the Duke. He looked at Sonia’s white throat. She met his eyes and blushed. She knew that the same thought was in both their minds; the pearls would have looked infinitely better there.
Germaine finished admiring herself; she was incapable even of suspecting that so expensive a pendant could not suit her perfectly.
The Duke said idly: “Goodness! Are all those invitations to the wedding?”
“That’s only down to the letter V,” said Germaine proudly.
“And there are twenty-five letters in the alphabet! You must be inviting the whole world. You’ll have to have the Madeleine enlarged. It won’t hold them all. There isn’t a church in Paris that will,” said the Duke.
“Won’t it be a splendid marriage!” said Germaine. “There’ll be something like a crush. There are sure to be accidents.”
“If I were you, I should have careful arrangements made,” said the Duke.
“Oh, let people look after themselves. They’ll remember it better if they’re crushed a little,” said Germaine.
There was a flicker of contemptuous wonder in the Duke’s eyes. But he only shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Sonia, said, “Will you be an angel and play me a little Grieg, Mademoiselle Kritchnoff? I heard you playing yesterday. No one plays Grieg like you.”
“Excuse me, Jacques, but Mademoiselle Kritchnoff has her work to do,” said Germaine tartly.
“Five minutes’ interval—just a morsel of Grieg, I beg,” said the Duke, with an irresistible smile.
“All right,” said Germaine grudgingly. “But I’ve something important to talk to you
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