813 by Maurice LeBlanc (best non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

CHAPTER XIH THE SEVEN SCOUNDRELS

WILL you see this gentleman, ma’am?” Dolores Kesselbach took the card from the footman and read:

“AndrŽ Beauny… No,” she said, “I don’t know him.”

“The gentleman seems very anxious to see you, ma’am. He says that you are expecting him.”

“Oh… possibly… Yes, bring him here.”

Since the events which had upset her life and pursued her with relentless animosity, Dolores, after staying at the H—tel Bristol had taken up her abode in a quiet house in the Rue des Vignes, down at Passy. A pretty garden lay at the back of the house and was surrounded by other leafy gardens. On days when attacks more painful than usual did not keep her from morning till night behind the closed shutters of her bedroom, she made her servants carry her under the trees, where she lay stretched at full length, a victim to melancholy, incapable of fighting against her hard fate.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel-path and the footman returned, followed by a young man, smart in appearance and very simply dressed, in the rather out-of-date fashion adopted by some of our painters, with a turn-down collar and a flowing necktie of white spots on a blue ground.

The footman withdrew.

“Your name is AndrŽ Beauny, I believe?” said Dolores.

“Yes, madame.”

“I have not the honor…”

“I beg your pardon, madame. Knowing that I was a friend of Mme. Ernemont, GeneviŽve’s grandmother, you wrote to her, at Garches, saying that you wished to speak to me. I have come.”

Dolores rose in her seat, very excitedly:

“Oh, you are…”

“Yes.”

She stammered:

“Really?… Is it you?… I do not recognize you.”

“You don’t recognize Prince Paul Sernine?”

“No… every thing is different… the forehead… the eyes… And that is not how the…”

“How the newspapers represented the prisoner at the Sante?” he said, with a smile. “And yet it is I, really.”

A long silence followed, during which they remained embarrassed and ill at ease.

At last, he asked:

“May I know the reason…?”

“Did not GeneviŽve tell you?…”

“I have not seen her… but her grandmother seemed to think that you required my services…”

“That’s right… that’s right…”

“And in what way…? I am so pleased…”

She hesitated a second and then whispered:

“I am afraid.”

“Afraid?” he cried.

“Yes,” she said, speaking in a low voice, ” I am afraid, afraid of everything, afraid of to-day and of tomorrow… and of the day after… afraid of life. I have suffered so much… I can bear no more.”

He looked at her with great pity in his eyes. The vague feeling that had always drawn him to this woman took a more precise character now that she was asking for his protection. He felt an eager need to devote himself to her, wholly, without hope of reward.

She continued:

“I am alone now, quite alone, with servants whom I have picked up on chance, and I am afraid… I feel that people are moving about me.”

“But with what object?”

“I do not know. But the enemy is hovering around and coming closer.”

“Have you seen him? Have you noticed anything?”

“Yes, the other day two men passed several times in the street and stopped in front of the house.”

“Can you describe them?”

“I saw one of them better than the other. He was tall and powerful, clean-shaven and wore a little black cloth jacket, cut quite short.”

“A waiter at a cafe, perhaps?”

“Yes, a head-waiter. I had him followed by one of my servants. He went down the Rue de la Pompe and entered a common-looking house. The ground-floor is occupied by a wine-shop: it is the first house in the street, on the left. Then, a night or two ago, I saw a shadow in the garden from my bedroom window.”

“Is that all?” { “Yes.”

He thought and then made a suggestion:

“Would you allow two of my men to sleep downstairs, in one of the ground-floor rooms?” ‘.*

“Two of your men?…” {

“Oh, you need not be afraid! They are decent men, old Charolais and his son,* and they don’t look in the least like what they are… You will be quite safe with them… As for me…”

He hesitated. He was waiting for her to ask him to come again. As she was silent, he said:

“As for me, it is better that I should not be seen here… Yes, it is better… for your sake. My men will let me know how things go on…”

He would have liked to say more and to remain and to sit down beside her and comfort her. But he had a feeling that they had said all that they had to say and that a single word more, on his side, would be an insult.

Then he made her a very low bow and went away.

He went up the garden, walking quickly, in his haste to be outside and master his emotion. The footman was waiting for him at the hall-door. As he passed out into the street, somebody rang, a young woman.

He gave a start:

“GeneviŽve!”

She fixed a pair of astonished eyes upon him and at once recognized him, although bewildered by the extreme youthfulness of his appearance; and this gave her such a shock that she staggered and had to lean against the door for support. He had taken off his hat and was looking at her without daring to put out his hand. Would she put out hers? He was no longer Prince Sernine: he was ArsŽne Lupin. And she knew that he was ArsŽne Lupin and that he had just come out of prison.

*See ArsŽne Lupin, by Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc.

It was raining outside. She gave her umbrella to the footman and said:

“Please open it and put it somewhere to dry.”

Then she walked straight in.

“My poor old chap!” said Lupin to himself, as he walked away. “What a series of blows for a sensitive and highly-strung creature like yourself! You must keep a watch on your heart or… Ah, what next? Here are my eyes beginning to water now! That’s a bad sign. M. Lupin: you’re growing old!”

He gave a tap on the shoulder to a young man who was crossing the Chaussee de la Muette and going toward the Rue des Vignes. The young man stopped, stared at him and said:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I don’t think I have the honor…”

“Think again, my dear M. Leduc. Or has your memory quite gone? Don’t you remember Versailles? And the little room at the H—tel des Trois-Empereurs?”

The young man bounded backwards:

“You!”

“Why, yes, I! Prince Sernine, or rather Lupin, since you know my real name! Did you think that Lupin had departed this life?… Oh, yes, I see, prison… You were hoping… Get out, you baby!” He patted him gently on the shoulder. “There, there, young fellow, don’t be frightened: you have still a few nice quiet days left to write your poems in. The time has not yet come. Write your verses… poet!”

Then he gripped Leduc’s arm violently and, looking him full in the face, said:

“But the time is drawing near… poet! Don’t forget that you belong to me, body and soul. And prepare to play your part. It will be a hard and magnificent part. And, as I live, I believe you’re the man to play it!”

He burst out laughing, turned on one foot and left young Leduc astounded.

A little further, at the corner of the Rue de la Pompe, stood the wine-shop of which Mrs. Kesselbach had spoken to him. He went in and had a long talk with the proprietor.

Then he took a taxi and drove to the Grand Hotel, where he was staying under the name of AndrŽ Beauny, and found the brothers Doudeville waiting for him.

Lupin, though used to that sort of pleasure, nevertheless enjoyed the marks of admiration and devotion with which his friends overwhelmed him:

“But, governor, tell us… what happened? We’re accustomed to all sorts of wonders with you; but still, there are limits… So you are free? And here you are, in the heart of Paris, scarcely disguised…!”

“Have a cigar,” said Lupin.

“Thank you, no.”

“You’re wrong, Doudeville. These are worth smoking. I have them from a great connoisseur, who is good enough to call himself my friend.”

“Oh, may one ask…?”

“The Kaiser! Come, don’t look so flabbergasted, the two of you! And tell me things: I haven’t seen the papers. What effect did my escape have on the public ?”

“Tremendous, governor!”

“What was the police version?”

“Your flight took place at Garches, during an attempt to reenact the murder of Altenheim. Unfortunately, the journalists have proved that it was impossible.”

“After that?”

“After that, a general fluster. People wondering, laughing and enjoying themselves like mad.”

“Weber?”

“Weber is badly let in.”

“Apart from that, no news at the detective-office? Nothing discovered about the murderer? No clue to help us to establish Altenheim’s identity?”

“No.”

“What fools they are! And to think that we pay millions a year to keep those people. If this sort of thing goes on, I shall refuse to pay my rates. Take a seat and a pen. I will dictate a letter which you must hand in