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
“Firmin! Firmin!” shouted the Duke. “A glass of water! Quick! Your master’s ill.”
He rushed to the side of the millionaire, who gasped: “Telephone! Telephone to the Prefecture of Police! Be quick!”
The Duke loosened his collar with deft fingers; tore a Van Loo fan from its case hanging on the wall, and fanned him furiously. Firmin came clumping into the room with a glass of water in his hand.
The drawing-room door opened, and Germaine and Sonia, alarmed by the Duke’s shout, hurried in.
“Quick! Your smelling-salts!” said the Duke.
Sonia ran across the hall, opened one of the drawers in the Oriental cabinet, and ran to the millionaire with a large bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. The Duke took it from her, and applied it to the millionaire’s nose. The millionaire sneezed thrice with terrific violence. The Duke snatched the glass from Firmin and dashed the water into his host’s purple face. The millionaire gasped and spluttered.
Germaine stood staring helplessly at her gasping sire.
“Whatever’s the matter?” she said.
“It’s this letter,” said the Duke. “A letter from Lupin.”
“I told you so—I said that Lupin was in the neighbourhood,” cried Germaine triumphantly.
“Firmin—where’s Firmin?” said the millionaire, dragging himself upright. He seemed to have recovered a great deal of his voice. “Oh, there you are!”
He jumped up, caught the gamekeeper by the shoulder, and shook him furiously.
“This letter. Where did it come from? Who brought it?” he roared.
“It was in the letter-box—the letter-box of the lodge at the bottom of the park. My wife found it there,” said Firmin, and he twisted out of the millionaire’s grasp.
“Just as it was three years ago,” roared the millionaire, with an air of desperation. “It’s exactly the same coup. Oh, what a catastrophe! What a catastrophe!”
He made as if to tear out his hair; then, remembering its scantiness, refrained.
“Now, come, it’s no use losing your head,” said the Duke, with quiet firmness. “If this letter isn’t a hoax—”
“Hoax?” bellowed the millionaire. “Was it a hoax three years ago?”
“Very good,” said the Duke. “But if this robbery with which you’re threatened is genuine, it’s just childish.”
“How?” said the millionaire.
“Look at the date of the letter—Sunday, September the third. This letter was written to-day.”
“Yes. Well, what of it?” said the millionaire.
“Look at the letter: ‘I shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your Paris house to-morrow morning’—to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, yes; ‘to-morrow morning’—what of it?” said the millionaire.
“One of two things,” said the Duke. “Either it’s a hoax, and we needn’t bother about it; or the threat is genuine, and we have the time to stop the robbery.”
“Of course we have. Whatever was I thinking of?” said the millionaire. And his anguish cleared from his face.
“For once in a way our dear Lupin’s fondness for warning people will have given him a painful jar,” said the Duke.
“Come on! let me get at the telephone,” cried the millionaire.
“But the telephone’s no good,” said Sonia quickly.
“No good! Why?” roared the millionaire, dashing heavily across the room to it.
“Look at the time,” said Sonia; “the telephone doesn’t work as late as this. It’s Sunday.”
The millionaire stopped dead.
“It’s true. It’s appalling,” he groaned.
“But that doesn’t matter. You can always telegraph,” said Germaine.
“But you can’t. It’s impossible,” said Sonia. “You can’t get a message through. It’s Sunday; and the telegraph offices shut at twelve o’clock.”
“Oh, what a Government!” groaned the millionaire. And he sank down gently on a chair beside the telephone, and mopped the beads of anguish from his brow. They looked at him, and they looked at one another, cudgelling their brains for yet another way of communicating with the Paris police.
“Hang it all!” said the Duke. “There must be some way out of the difficulty.”
“What way?” said the millionaire.
The Duke did not answer. He put his hands in his pockets and walked impatiently up and down the hall. Germaine sat down on a chair. Sonia put her hands on the back of a couch, and leaned forward, watching him. Firmin stood by the door, whither he had retired to be out of the reach of his excited master, with a look of perplexity on his stolid face. They all watched the Duke with the air of people waiting for an oracle to deliver its message. The millionaire kept mopping the beads of anguish from his brow. The more he thought of his impending loss, the more freely he perspired. Germaine’s maid, Irma, came to the door leading into the outer hall, which Firmin, according to his usual custom, had left open, and peered in wonder at the silent group.
“I have it!” cried the Duke at last. “There is a way out.”
“What is it?” said the millionaire, rising and coming to the middle of the hall.
“What time is it?” said the Duke, pulling out his watch.
The millionaire pulled out his watch. Germaine pulled out hers. Firmin, after a struggle, produced from some pocket difficult of access an object not unlike a silver turnip. There was a brisk dispute between Germaine and the millionaire about which of their watches was right. Firmin, whose watch apparently did not agree with the watch of either of them, made his deep voice heard above theirs. The Duke came to the conclusion that it must be a few minutes past seven.
“It’s seven or a few minutes past,” he said sharply. “Well, I’m going to take a car and hurry off to Paris. I ought to get there, bar accidents, between two and three in the morning, just in time to inform the police and catch the burglars in the very midst of their burglary. I’ll just get a few things together.”
So saying, he rushed out of the hall.
“Excellent! excellent!” said the millionaire. “Your young man is a man of resource, Germaine. It seems almost a pity that he’s a duke. He’d do wonders in the building trade. But I’m going to Paris too, and you’re coming with me. I couldn’t wait idly here, to save my life. And I can’t leave you here, either. This scoundrel may be going to make a simultaneous attempt on the chateau—not that there’s much here that I really value. There’s that statuette that moved, and the pane cut out of the window. I can’t leave you two girls with burglars in the house. After all, there’s the sixty horse-power and the thirty horse-power car—there’ll be lots of room for all of us.”
“Oh, but it’s nonsense, papa; we shall get there before the servants,” said Germaine pettishly. “Think of arriving at an empty house in the dead of night.”
“Nonsense!” said the millionaire. “Hurry off and get ready. Your bag ought to be packed. Where are my keys? Sonia, where are my keys—the keys of the Paris house?”
“They’re in the bureau,” said Sonia.
“Well, see that I don’t go without them. Now hurry up. Firmin, go and tell Jean that we shall want both cars. I will drive one, the Duke the other. Jean must stay with you and help guard the chateau.”
So saying he bustled out of the hall, driving the two girls before him.
AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS
Hardly had the door closed behind the millionaire when the head of M. Charolais appeared at one of the windows opening on to the terrace. He looked round the empty hall, whistled softly, and stepped inside. Inside of ten seconds his three sons came in through the windows, and with them came Jean, the millionaire’s chauffeur.
“Take the door into the outer hall, Jean,” said M. Charolais, in a low voice. “Bernard, take that door into the drawing-room. Pierre and Louis, help me go through the drawers. The whole family is going to Paris, and if we’re not quick we shan’t get the cars.”
“That comes of this silly fondness for warning people of a coup,” growled Jean, as he hurried to the door of the outer hall. “It would have been so simple to rob the Paris house without sending that infernal letter. It was sure to knock them all silly.”
“What harm can the letter do, you fool?” said M. Charolais. “It’s Sunday. We want them knocked silly for to-morrow, to get hold of the coronet. Oh, to get hold of that coronet! It must be in Paris. I’ve been ransacking this chateau for hours.”
Jean opened the door of the outer hall half an inch, and glued his eyes to it. Bernard had done the same with the door opening into the drawing-room. M. Charolais, Pierre, and Louis were opening drawers, ransacking them, and shutting them with infinite quickness and noiselessly.
“Bureau! Which is the bureau? The place is stuffed with bureaux!” growled M. Charolais. “I must have those keys.”
“That plain thing with the brass handles in the middle on the left—that’s a bureau,” said Bernard softly.
“Why didn’t you say so?” growled M. Charolais.
He dashed to it, and tried it. It was locked.
“Locked, of course! Just my luck! Come and get it open, Pierre. Be smart!”
The son he had described as an engineer came quickly to the bureau, fitting together as he came the two halves of a small jemmy. He fitted it into the top of the flap. There was a crunch, and the old lock gave. He opened the flap, and he and M. Charolais pulled open drawer after drawer.
“Quick! Here’s that fat old fool!” said Jean, in a hoarse, hissing whisper.
He moved down the hall, blowing out one of the lamps as he passed it. In the seventh drawer lay a bunch of keys. M. Charolais snatched it up, glanced at it, took a bunch of keys from his own pocket, put it in the drawer, closed it, closed the flap, and rushed to the window. Jean and his sons were already out on the terrace.
M. Charolais was still a yard from the window when the door into the outer hall opened and in came M. Gournay-Martin.
He caught a glimpse of a back vanishing through the window, and bellowed: “Hi! A man! A burglar! Firmin! Firmin!”
He ran blundering down the hall, tangled his feet in the fragments of the broken chair, and came sprawling a thundering cropper, which knocked every breath of wind out of his capacious body. He lay flat on his face for a couple of minutes, his broad back wriggling convulsively—a pathetic sight!—in the painful effort to get his breath back. Then he sat up, and with perfect frankness burst into tears. He sobbed and blubbered, like a small child that has hurt itself, for three or four minutes. Then, having recovered his magnificent voice, he bellowed furiously: “Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!”
Then he rose painfully to his feet, and stood staring at the open windows.
Presently he roared again: “Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!”
He kept looking at the window with terrified eyes, as though he expected somebody to step in and cut his throat from ear to ear.
“Firmin! Firmin! Charmerace! Charmerace!” he bellowed again.
The Duke came quietly into the hall, dressed in a heavy motor-coat, his motor-cap on his head, and carrying a kit-bag in his hand.
“Did I hear you call?” he said.
“Call?” said the millionaire. “I shouted. The burglars are here already. I’ve just seen one of them. He was bolting through the middle window.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows.
“Nerves,” he said gently—“nerves.”
“Nerves be hanged!” said the millionaire. “I tell you I saw him as plainly as I see you.”
“Well, you can’t see me at all, seeing that you’re lighting an acre and a half of hall with a single lamp,” said the Duke, still in a tone of utter incredulity.
“It’s that fool Firmin! He ought to have lighted six. Firmin! Firmin!” bellowed the millionaire.
They listened for the sonorous clumping of the promoted gamekeeper’s boots, but they did not hear it. Evidently Firmin was still giving his master’s instructions about the cars to Jean.
“Well, we may as well shut the windows, anyhow,” said the Duke, proceeding to do so. “If you think Firmin would be any good, you might post him in this hall with a gun to-night. There could be no harm in putting a charge of small shot into the legs of these ruffians. He has only to get one of them, and the others will go for their lives. Yet I don’t like leaving you and Germaine in this big house with only Firmin to look after you.”
“I shouldn’t like it myself, and I’m not going to chance it,” growled the millionaire. “We’re going to motor to Paris along with you, and leave Jean to help Firmin fight these burglars. Firmin’s all right—he’s an old soldier. He fought in ’70. Not that I’ve much belief in soldiers against this cursed Lupin, after the way he dealt with that corporal and his men three years ago.”
“I’m glad you’re coming to Paris,” said the Duke. “It’ll be a weight off my mind. I’d better drive the limousine, and you take the landaulet.”
“That won’t do,”
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