813 by Maurice LeBlanc (best non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖
- Author: Maurice LeBlanc
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“Give it to me.”
“What can you do with it?”
“Everything. If you are not an artist, I am; and an enthusiastic artist, inexhaustible, indomitable, exuberant. If you have not the Promethean fire, I have! Where you failed, I shall succeed. Give me your life.”
“Words, promises!” cried the young man, whose features began to glow with animation. “Empty dreams! I know my own worthlessness! I know my cowardice, my despondency, my efforts that come to nothing, all my wretchedness. To begin life anew, I should need a will which I do not possess…”
“I possess mine.”
“Friends…”
“You shall have them.”
“Means…”
“I am providing you with means… and such means! You will only have to dip, as one would dip into a magic coffer.”
“But who are you?” cried the young man, wildly.
“To others, Prince Sernine… To you… what does it matter? I am more than a prince, more than a king, more than an emperor…”
“Who are you?… Who are you?” stammered BauprŽ.
“The Master… he who will and who can… he who acts… There are no bounds to my will, there is none to my power. I am richer than the richest man alive, for his fortune is mine… I am more powerful than the mightiest, for their might is at my service!”
He took the other’s head in his hands again and, looking deep into his eyes:
“Be rich, too… be mighty… I offer you happiness… and the joy of living… and peace for your poet’s brain… and fame and glory also… Do you accept?”
“Yes… yes…” whispered Gerard, dazzled and overmastered. “What am I to do?”
“Nothing.”
“But…”
“Nothing, I say. The whole scaffolding of my plans rests on you, but you do not count. You have no active part to play. You are, for the moment, but a silent actor, or not even that, but just a pawn which I move along the board.”
“What shall I do?”
“Nothing. Write poetry. You shall live as you please. You shall have money. You shall enjoy life. I will not even bother my head about you. I repeat, you play no part in my venture.”
“And who shall I be?”
Sernine stretched out his arm and pointed to the next room:
“You shall take that man’s place. You are that man!”
Gerard shuddered with revolt and disgust:
“Oh, no, he is dead!… And then… it is a crime!… No, I want a new life, made for me, thought out for me… an unknown name…”
“That man, I tell you!” cried Sernine, irresistible in his energy and authority. “You shall be that man and none other! That man, because his destiny is magnificent, because his name is illustrious, and because he hands down to you a thrice-venerable heritage of ancestral dignity and pride.”
“It is a crime!” moaned BauprŽ, faltering.
“You shall be that man!” spoke Sernine, with unparalleled vehemence. “You shall be that man! If not, you become BauprŽ again; and over BauprŽ I own rights of life and death. Choose.”
He drew his revolver, cocked it and took aim at the young man:
“Choose,” he repeated.
The expression of his face was implacable. Gerard was frightened and sank down on his bed sobbing:
“I wish to live!”
“You wish it firmly, irrevocably?”
“Yes, a thousand times yes! After the terrible thing which I attempted, death appals me… Anything… anything rather than death!… Anything!… Pain… hunger… illness… every torture, every shame… crime itself, if need be… but not death!”
He shivered with fever and agony, as though the great enemy were still prowling round him and as though he felt himself powerless to escape from its clutches. The prince redoubled his efforts and, in a fervent voice, holding him under him like a prey:
“I will ask nothing impossible of you, nothing wrong… If there is anything, I am responsible… No, no crime… a little pain at most… A little of your blood must flow. But what is that, compared with the dread of dying?”
“Pain is indifferent to me.”
“Then here and now!” shouted Sernine. “Here and now! Ten seconds of pain and that is all… Ten seconds and the other’s life is yours…”
He had seized him round the body and forced him down on a chair; and he now held the young man’s left hand flat on the table, with his five fingers spread out. He swiftly took a knife from his pocket, pressed the blade against the little finger, between the first and second joints, and commanded:
“Strike! Strike your own blow. One blow of the fist and that is all!”
He had taken Gerard’s right hand and was trying to bring it down upon the other like a hammer.
Gerard writhed and twisted, convulsed with horror. He understood:
“Never!” he stuttered. “Never!”
“Strike! One blow and it’s done! One blow and you will be like that man: no one will recognize you.”
“Tell me his name…”
“Strike first!”
“Never! Oh, what torture!… I beseech you… presently…”
“Now… I insist… you must…”
“No… no… I can’t do it…”
“Strike, you fool! It means fortune, fame, love ii
GŽrard raised his fist with a sudden movement.
“Love,” he said, “yes… for that, yes
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“You will love and be loved,” said Sernine. “Your betrothed awaits you. I have chosen her myself. She is the purest of the pure, the fairest of the fair. But you must win her. Strike!”
The lad’s arm stiffened for the fatal blow; but the instinct of self-preservation was too strong for him. His body was wrung with a superhuman effort. He suddenly released himself from Sernine’s hold and fled.
He rushed like a madman to the other room. A yell of terror escaped him, at the sight of the abominable vision, and he came back and fell on his knees before Sernine, beside the table.
“Strike!” said the prince, again spreading out the lad’s fingers and fixing the blade of the knife.
What followed was done mechanically. With an automatic movement, with haggard eyes and a livid face, the young man raised his fist and struck:
“Ah!” he cried, with a moan of pain.
A small piece of flesh was separated from the little finger. Blood flowed. For the third time, Gerard fainted.
Sernine looked at him for a second or two and said, gently:
“Poor little chap!… There, I’ll reward you for what you’ve done; and a hundred times over. I always pay generously.”
He went downstairs and found the doctor waiting below:
“It’s done. Go upstairs, you, and make a little cut in his right cheek, similar to Pierre Leduc’s. The two scars must be exactly alike. I shall come back for you in an hour.” “Where are you going?”
“To take the air. My heart feels anyhow.”
Outside he drew a long breath and lit another cigarette:
“A good day’s work,” he muttered. “A little overcrowded, a little tiring, but fruitful, really fruitful. I am Dolores Kesselbach’s friend. I am GeneviŽve’s friend. I have manufactured a new Pierre Leduc, a very presentable one and entirely at my disposal. Lastly, I have found GeneviŽve a husband of the sort that you don’t find by the dozen. Now my task is done. I have only to gather the fruit of my efforts. It’s your turn to work, M. Lenormand. I, for my part, am ready.” And he added, thinking of the poor mutilated lad whom he had dazzled with his promises, “Only—for there is an ‘ only’—I have not the slightest notion who this Pierre Leduc was, whose place I have magnanimously awarded to that good young man. And that’s very annoying… For when all is said, there’s nothing to prove to me that Pierre Leduc was not the son of a pork-butcher!…”
ON THE morning of the 31st of May, all the newspapers reminded their readers that Lupin, in a letter addressed to M. Lenormand, had announced the escape of the messenger Jerome for that date. And one of them summed up the situation, as it then stood, in very able terms:
“The horrible carnage at the Palace Hotel took place as far back as the 17th of April. What has been discovered since? Nothing.
“There were three clues: the cigarette-case, the initials L and M and the parcel of clothes left behind in the office of the hotel. What advantage has been taken of these clues? None.
“It appears that the police suspect one of the visitors who was staying on the first floor and who disappeared in a doubtful manner. Have they found him? Have they established his identity? No.
“The tragedy, therefore, remains as mysterious as at the beginning, the gloom is impenetrable.
“To complete the picture, we are told that dissension prevails between the prefect of police and his subordinate, M. Lenormand, and that the latter, finding himself less vigorously supported by the prime minister, virtually sent in his resignation several days ago. According to our information, the conduct of the Kesselbach case is now in the hands of the deputy-chief of the detective-service, M. Weber, a personal enemy of M. Lenormand’s.
“In short, disorder and confusion reign; and this in the face of Lupin, who stands for method, energy and steadfastness of mind.
“What conclusion do we draw from these facts? Briefly, this: Lupin will release his accomplice to-day, the 3ist of May, as he foretold.”
This conclusion, which was echoed in all the other newspapers, was also the conclusion at which the general public had arrived. And we must take it that the threat was not considered devoid of importance in high places, for the prefect of police and, in the absence of M. Lenonnand, who was said to be unwell, the deputy-chief of the detective-service, M. Weber, had adopted the most stringent measures, both at the Palais de Justice and at the Sant£ Prison, where the prisoner was confined.
They did not dare, for sheer reasons of shame, to suspend on that particular day the examinations conducted daily by M. Formerie; but, from the prison to the Boulevard du Palais, a regular mobilization of police-forces guarded the streets along the line.
To the intense astonishment of one and all, the 3ist of May passed and the threatened escape did not take place.
One thing did happen, an attempt to execute the plan, as was betrayed by a block of tramway-cars, omnibuses and drays along the road taken by the prison-van and the unaccountable breaking of one of the wheels of the van itself. But the attempt assumed no more definite form.
Lupin, therefore, had met with a cheJt. The public felt almost disappointed and the police triumphed loudly.
On the next day, Saturday, an incredible rumour spread through the Palais and the newspaper-offices: Jerome the messenger had disappeared.
Was it possible? Although the special editions confirmed the news, people refused to believe it. But, at six o’clock, a note published by the Dtpeche du Soir made it official:
“We have received the following communication signed by ArsŽne Lupin. The special stamp affixed to it , in accordance with the circular which Lupin recently sent to the press, guarantees the genuineness of the document:
“‘To the Editor of the Depeche du Soir.
“‘Pray make my apologies to the public for not keeping my word yesterday. I remembered, at the last moment, that the 3ist of May fell on a Friday! Could I set my friend at liberty on a Friday? I did not think it right to assume that responsibility.
“‘I must also apologize for not on this occasion explaining, with my customary frankness, how this little event was managed. My process is so ingenious and so simple that I fear lest, if I revealed it, every criminal should be inspired by it. How surprised people will be on the day when I am
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