Book: Arsene Lupin

E >> Edgar Jepson And Maurice Leblanc >> Arsene Lupin



This etext was produced by Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.






ARSENE LUPIN

BY

EDGAR JEPSON AND MAURICE LEBLANC

Frontispiece by H. Richard Boehm





CONTENTS

I. THE MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER
II. THE COMING OF THE CHAROLAIS
III. LUPIN'S WAY
IV. THE DUKE INTERVENES
V. A LETTER FROM LUPIN
VI. AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS
VII. THE THEFT OF THE MOTOR-CARS
VIII. THE DUKE ARRIVES
IX. M. FORMERY OPENS THE INQUIRY
X. GUERCHARD ASSISTS
XI. THE FAMILY ARRIVES
XII. THE THEFT OF THE PENDANT
XIII. LUPIN WIRES
XIV. GUERCHARD PICKS UP THE TRUE SCENT
XV. THE EXAMINATION OF SONIA
XVI. VICTOIRE'S SLIP
XVII. SONIA'S ESCAPE
XVIII. THE DUKE STAYS
XIX. THE DUKE GOES
XX. LUPIN COMES HOME
XXI. THE CUTTING OF THE TELEPHONE WIRES
XII. THE BARGAIN
XXIII. THE END OF THE DUEL






CHAPTER I

ARSENE LUPIN


Oriental or Renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the
pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor to
fill the hall with a rich glow of colour.

But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays
warmed to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at
a table in front of the long windows, which opened on to the
centuries-old turf of the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and
the most precious.

It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the
transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only
tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was
delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of
beauty would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear,
germander eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth,
with its rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he
would have been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested
on the beautiful face--the wistful melancholy of the Slav, deepened
by something of personal misfortune and suffering.

Her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands
of gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious
to the comb, strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold.

She was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her
left hand. When she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a
wedding-card. On each was printed:

"M. Gournay-Martin has the honour to inform
you of the marriage of his daughter
Germaine to the Duke of Charmerace."

She wrote steadily on, adding envelope after envelope to the pile
ready for the post, which rose in front of her. But now and again,
when the flushed and laughing girls who were playing lawn-tennis on
the terrace, raised their voices higher than usual as they called
the score, and distracted her attention from her work, her gaze
strayed through the open window and lingered on them wistfully; and
as her eyes came back to her task she sighed with so faint a
wistfulness that she hardly knew she sighed. Then a voice from the
terrace cried, "Sonia! Sonia!"

"Yes. Mlle. Germaine?" answered the writing girl.

"Tea! Order tea, will you?" cried the voice, a petulant voice,
rather harsh to the ear.

"Very well, Mlle. Germaine," said Sonia; and having finished
addressing the envelope under her pen, she laid it on the pile ready
to be posted, and, crossing the room to the old, wide fireplace, she
rang the bell.

She stood by the fireplace a moment, restoring to its place a rose
which had fallen from a vase on the mantelpiece; and her attitude,
as with arms upraised she arranged the flowers, displayed the
delightful line of a slender figure. As she let fall her arms to her
side, a footman entered the room.

"Will you please bring the tea, Alfred," she said in a charming
voice of that pure, bell-like tone which has been Nature's most
precious gift to but a few of the greatest actresses.

"For how many, miss?" said Alfred.

"For four--unless your master has come back."

"Oh, no; he's not back yet, miss. He went in the car to Rennes to
lunch; and it's a good many miles away. He won't be back for another
hour."

"And the Duke--he's not back from his ride yet, is he?"

"Not yet, miss," said Alfred, turning to go.

"One moment," said Sonia. "Have all of you got your things packed
for the journey to Paris? You will have to start soon, you know. Are
all the maids ready?"

"Well, all the men are ready, I know, miss. But about the maids,
miss, I can't say. They've been bustling about all day; but it takes
them longer than it does us."

"Tell them to hurry up; and be as quick as you can with the tea,
please," said Sonia.

Alfred went out of the room; Sonia went back to the writing-table.
She did not take up her pen; she took up one of the wedding-cards;
and her lips moved slowly as she read it in a pondering depression.

The petulant, imperious voice broke in upon her musing.

"Whatever are you doing, Sonia? Aren't you getting on with those
letters?" it cried angrily; and Germaine Gournay-Martin came through
the long window into the hall.

The heiress to the Gournay-Martin millions carried her tennis
racquet in her hand; and her rosy cheeks were flushed redder than
ever by the game. She was a pretty girl in a striking, high-
coloured, rather obvious way--the very foil to Sonia's delicate
beauty. Her lips were a little too thin, her eyes too shallow; and
together they gave her a rather hard air, in strongest contrast to
the gentle, sympathetic face of Sonia.

The two friends with whom Germaine had been playing tennis followed
her into the hall: Jeanne Gautier, tall, sallow, dark, with a
somewhat malicious air; Marie Bullier, short, round, commonplace,
and sentimental.

They came to the table at which Sonia was at work; and pointing to
the pile of envelopes, Marie said, "Are these all wedding-cards?"

"Yes; and we've only got to the letter V," said Germaine, frowning
at Sonia.

"Princesse de Vernan--Duchesse de Vauvieuse--Marquess--Marchioness?
You've invited the whole Faubourg Saint-Germain," said Marie,
shuffling the pile of envelopes with an envious air.

"You'll know very few people at your wedding," said Jeanne, with a
spiteful little giggle.

"I beg your pardon, my dear," said Germaine boastfully. "Madame de
Relzieres, my fiance's cousin, gave an At Home the other day in my
honour. At it she introduced half Paris to me--the Paris I'm
destined to know, the Paris you'll see in my drawing-rooms."

"But we shall no longer be fit friends for you when you're the
Duchess of Charmerace," said Jeanne.

"Why?" said Germaine; and then she added quickly, "Above everything,
Sonia, don't forget Veauleglise, 33, University Street--33,
University Street."

"Veauleglise--33, University Street," said Sonia, taking a fresh
envelope, and beginning to address it.

"Wait--wait! don't close the envelope. I'm wondering whether
Veauleglise ought to have a cross, a double cross, or a triple
cross," said Germaine, with an air of extreme importance.

"What's that?" cried Marie and Jeanne together.

"A single cross means an invitation to the church, a double cross an
invitation to the marriage and the wedding-breakfast, and the triple
cross means an invitation to the marriage, the breakfast, and the
signing of the marriage-contract. What do you think the Duchess of
Veauleglise ought to have?"

"Don't ask me. I haven't the honour of knowing that great lady,"
cried Jeanne.

"Nor I," said Marie.

"Nor I," said Germaine. "But I have here the visiting-list of the
late Duchess of Charmerace, Jacques' mother. The two duchesses were
on excellent terms. Besides the Duchess of Veauleglise is rather
worn-out, but greatly admired for her piety. She goes to early
service three times a week."

"Then put three crosses," said Jeanne.

"I shouldn't," said Marie quickly. "In your place, my dear, I
shouldn't risk a slip. I should ask my fiance's advice. He knows
this world."

"Oh, goodness--my fiance! He doesn't care a rap about this kind of
thing. He has changed so in the last seven years. Seven years ago he
took nothing seriously. Why, he set off on an expedition to the
South Pole--just to show off. Oh, in those days he was truly a
duke."

"And to-day?" said Jeanne.

"Oh, to-day he's a regular slow-coach. Society gets on his nerves.
He's as sober as a judge," said Germaine.

"He's as gay as a lark," said Sonia, in sudden protest.

Germaine pouted at her, and said: "Oh, he's gay enough when he's
making fun of people. But apart from that he's as sober as a judge."

"Your father must be delighted with the change," said Jeanne.

"Naturally he's delighted. Why, he's lunching at Rennes to-day with
the Minister, with the sole object of getting Jacques decorated."

"Well; the Legion of Honour is a fine thing to have," said Marie.

"My dear! The Legion of Honour is all very well for middle-class
people, but it's quite out of place for a duke!" cried Germaine.

Alfred came in, bearing the tea-tray, and set it on a little table
near that at which Sonia was sitting.

Germaine, who was feeling too important to sit still, was walking up
and down the room. Suddenly she stopped short, and pointing to a
silver statuette which stood on the piano, she said, "What's this?
Why is this statuette here?"

"Why, when we came in, it was on the cabinet, in its usual place,"
said Sonia in some astonishment.

"Did you come into the hall while we were out in the garden,
Alfred?" said Germaine to the footman.

"No, miss," said Alfred.

"But some one must have come into it," Germaine persisted.

"I've not heard any one. I was in my pantry," said Alfred.

"It's very odd," said Germaine.

"It is odd," said Sonia. "Statuettes don't move about of
themselves."

All of them stared at the statuette as if they expected it to move
again forthwith, under their very eyes. Then Alfred put it back in
its usual place on one of the cabinets, and went out of the room.

Sonia poured out the tea; and over it they babbled about the coming
marriage, the frocks they would wear at it, and the presents
Germaine had already received. That reminded her to ask Sonia if any
one had yet telephoned from her father's house in Paris; and Sonia
said that no one had.

"That's very annoying," said Germaine. "It shows that nobody has
sent me a present to-day."

Pouting, she shrugged her shoulders with an air of a spoiled child,
which sat but poorly on a well-developed young woman of twenty-
three.

"It's Sunday. The shops don't deliver things on Sunday," said Sonia
gently.

But Germaine still pouted like a spoiled child.

"Isn't your beautiful Duke coming to have tea with us?" said Jeanne
a little anxiously.

"Oh, yes; I'm expecting him at half-past four. He had to go for a
ride with the two Du Buits. They're coming to tea here, too," said
Germaine.

"Gone for a ride with the two Du Buits? But when?" cried Marie
quickly.

"This afternoon."

"He can't be," said Marie. "My brother went to the Du Buits' house
after lunch, to see Andre and Georges. They went for a drive this
morning, and won't be back till late to-night."

"Well, but--but why did the Duke tell me so?" said Germaine,
knitting her brow with a puzzled air.

"If I were you, I should inquire into this thoroughly. Dukes--well,
we know what dukes are--it will be just as well to keep an eye on
him," said Jeanne maliciously.

Germaine flushed quickly; and her eyes flashed. "Thank you. I have
every confidence in Jacques. I am absolutely sure of him," she said
angrily.

"Oh, well--if you're sure, it's all right," said Jeanne.

The ringing of the telephone-bell made a fortunate diversion.

Germaine rushed to it, clapped the receiver to her ear, and cried:
"Hello, is that you, Pierre? . . . Oh, it's Victoire, is it? . . .
Ah, some presents have come, have they? . . . Well, well, what are
they? . . . What! a paper-knife--another paper-knife! . . . Another
Louis XVI. inkstand--oh, bother! . . . Who are they from? . . . Oh,
from the Countess Rudolph and the Baron de Valery." Her voice rose
high, thrilling with pride.

Then she turned her face to her friends, with the receiver still at
her ear, and cried: "Oh, girls, a pearl necklace too! A large one!
The pearls are big ones!"

"How jolly!" said Marie.

"Who sent it?" said Germaine, turning to the telephone again. "Oh, a
friend of papa's," she added in a tone of disappointment. "Never
mind, after all it's a pearl necklace. You'll be sure and lock the
doors carefully, Victoire, won't you? And lock up the necklace in
the secret cupboard. . . . Yes; thanks very much, Victoire. I shall
see you to-morrow."

She hung up the receiver, and came away from the telephone frowning.

"It's preposterous!" she said pettishly. "Papa's friends and
relations give me marvellous presents, and all the swells send me
paper-knives. It's all Jacques' fault. He's above all this kind of
thing. The Faubourg Saint-Germain hardly knows that we're engaged."

"He doesn't go about advertising it," said Jeanne, smiling.

"You're joking, but all the same what you say is true," said
Germaine. "That's exactly what his cousin Madame de Relzieres said
to me the other day at the At Home she gave in my honour--wasn't it,
Sonia?" And she walked to the window, and, turning her back on them,
stared out of it.

"She HAS got her mouth full of that At Home," said Jeanne to Marie
in a low voice.

There was an awkward silence. Marie broke it:

"Speaking of Madame de Relzieres, do you know that she is on pins
and needles with anxiety? Her son is fighting a duel to-day," she
said.

"With whom?" said Sonia.

"No one knows. She got hold of a letter from the seconds," said
Marie.

"My mind is quite at rest about Relzieres," said Germaine. "He's a
first-class swordsman. No one could beat him."

Sonia did not seem to share her freedom from anxiety. Her forehead
was puckered in little lines of perplexity, as if she were puzzling
out some problem; and there was a look of something very like fear
in her gentle eyes.

"Wasn't Relzieres a great friend of your fiance at one time?" said
Jeanne.

"A great friend? I should think he was," said Germaine. "Why, it was
through Relzieres that we got to know Jacques."

"Where was that?" said Marie.

"Here--in this very chateau," said Germaine.

"Actually in his own house?" said Marie, in some surprise.

"Yes; actually here. Isn't life funny?" said Germaine. "If, a few
months after his father's death, Jacques had not found himself hard-
up, and obliged to dispose of this chateau, to raise the money for
his expedition to the South Pole; and if papa and I had not wanted
an historic chateau; and lastly, if papa had not suffered from
rheumatism, I should not be calling myself in a month from now the
Duchess of Charmerace."

"Now what on earth has your father's rheumatism got to do with your
being Duchess of Charmerace?" cried Jeanne.

"Everything," said Germaine. "Papa was afraid that this chateau was
damp. To prove to papa that he had nothing to fear, Jacques, en
grand seigneur, offered him his hospitality, here, at Charmerace,
for three weeks."

"That was truly ducal," said Marie.

"But he is always like that," said Sonia.

"Oh, he's all right in that way, little as he cares about society,"
said Germaine. "Well, by a miracle my father got cured of his
rheumatism here. Jacques fell in love with me; papa made up his mind
to buy the chateau; and I demanded the hand of Jacques in marriage."

"You did? But you were only sixteen then," said Marie, with some
surprise.

"Yes; but even at sixteen a girl ought to know that a duke is a
duke. I did," said Germaine. "Then since Jacques was setting out for
the South Pole, and papa considered me much too young to get
married, I promised Jacques to wait for his return."

"Why, it was everything that's romantic!" cried Marie.

"Romantic? Oh, yes," said Germaine; and she pouted. "But between
ourselves, if I'd known that he was going to stay all that time at
the South Pole--"

"That's true," broke in Marie. "To go away for three years and stay
away seven--at the end of the world."

"All Germaine's beautiful youth," said Jeanne, with her malicious
smile.

"Thanks!" said Germaine tartly.

"Well, you ARE twenty-three. It's the flower of one's age," said
Jeanne.

"Not quite twenty-three," said Germaine hastily. "And look at the
wretched luck I've had. The Duke falls ill and is treated at
Montevideo. As soon as he recovers, since he's the most obstinate
person in the world, he resolves to go on with the expedition. He
sets out; and for an age, without a word of warning, there's no more
news of him--no news of any kind. For six months, you know, we
believed him dead."

"Dead? Oh, how unhappy you must have been!" said Sonia.

"Oh, don't speak of it! For six months I daren't put on a light
frock," said Germaine, turning to her.

"A lot she must have cared for him," whispered Jeanne to Marie.

"Fortunately, one fine day, the letters began again. Three months
ago a telegram informed us that he was coming back; and at last the
Duke returned," said Germaine, with a theatrical air.

"The Duke returned," cried Jeanne, mimicking her.

"Never mind. Fancy waiting nearly seven years for one's fiance. That
was constancy," said Sonia.

"Oh, you're a sentimentalist, Mlle. Kritchnoff," said Jeanne, in a
tone of mockery. "It was the influence of the castle."

"What do you mean?" said Germaine.

"Oh, to own the castle of Charmerace and call oneself Mlle. Gournay-
Martin--it's not worth doing. One MUST become a duchess," said
Jeanne.

"Yes, yes; and for all this wonderful constancy, seven years of it,
Germaine was on the point of becoming engaged to another man," said
Marie, smiling.

"And he a mere baron," said Jeanne, laughing.

"What? Is that true?" said Sonia.

"Didn't you know, Mlle. Kritchnoff? She nearly became engaged to the
Duke's cousin, the Baron de Relzieres. It was not nearly so grand."

"Oh, it's all very well to laugh at me; but being the cousin and
heir of the Duke, Relzieres would have assumed the title, and I
should have been Duchess just the same," said Germaine triumphantly.

"Evidently that was all that mattered," said Jeanne. "Well, dear, I
must be off. We've promised to run in to see the Comtesse de
Grosjean. You know the Comtesse de Grosjean?"

She spoke with an air of careless pride, and rose to go.

"Only by name. Papa used to know her husband on the Stock Exchange
when he was still called simply M. Grosjean. For his part, papa
preferred to keep his name intact," said Germaine, with quiet pride.

"Intact? That's one way of looking at it. Well, then, I'll see you
in Paris. You still intend to start to-morrow?" said Jeanne.

"Yes; to-morrow morning," said Germaine.

Jeanne and Marie slipped on their dust-coats to the accompaniment of
chattering and kissing, and went out of the room.

As she closed the door on them, Germaine turned to Sonia, and said:
"I do hate those two girls! They're such horrible snobs."

"Oh, they're good-natured enough," said Sonia.

"Good-natured? Why, you idiot, they're just bursting with envy of
me--bursting!" said Germaine. "Well, they've every reason to be,"
she added confidently, surveying herself in a Venetian mirror with a
petted child's self-content.




CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF THE CHAROLAIS


Sonia went back to her table, and once more began putting wedding-
cards in their envelopes and addressing them. Germaine moved
restlessly about the room, fidgeting with the bric-a-brac on the
cabinets, shifting the pieces about, interrupting Sonia to ask
whether she preferred this arrangement or that, throwing herself
into a chair to read a magazine, getting up in a couple of minutes
to straighten a picture on the wall, throwing out all the while idle
questions not worth answering. Ninety-nine human beings would have
been irritated to exasperation by her fidgeting; Sonia endured it
with a perfect patience. Five times Germaine asked her whether she
should wear her heliotrope or her pink gown at a forthcoming dinner
at Madame de Relzieres'. Five times Sonia said, without the
slightest variation in her tone, "I think you look better in the
pink." And all the while the pile of addressed envelopes rose
steadily.

Presently the door opened, and Alfred stood on the threshold.

"Two gentlemen have called to see you, miss," he said.

"Ah, the two Du Buits," cried Germaine.

"They didn't give their names, miss."

"A gentleman in the prime of life and a younger one?" said Germaine.

"Yes, miss."

"I thought so. Show them in."

"Yes, miss. And have you any orders for me to give Victoire when we
get to Paris?" said Alfred.

"No. Are you starting soon?"

"Yes, miss. We're all going by the seven o'clock train. It's a long
way from here to Paris; we shall only reach it at nine in the
morning. That will give us just time to get the house ready for you
by the time you get there to-morrow evening," said Alfred.

"Is everything packed?"

"Yes, miss--everything. The cart has already taken the heavy luggage
to the station. All you'll have to do is to see after your bags."

"That's all right. Show M. du Buit and his brother in," said
Germaine.

She moved to a chair near the window, and disposed herself in an
attitude of studied, and obviously studied, grace.

As she leant her head at a charming angle back against the tall back
of the chair, her eyes fell on the window, and they opened wide.

"Why, whatever's this?" she cried, pointing to it.

"Whatever's what?" said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the
envelope she was addressing.

"Why, the window. Look! one of the panes has been taken out. It
looks as if it had been cut."

"So it has--just at the level of the fastening," said Sonia. And the
two girls stared at the gap.

"Haven't you noticed it before?" said Germaine.

"No; the broken glass must have fallen outside," said Sonia.

The noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the
window. Two figures were advancing towards them--a short, round,
tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes,
which seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of
any other human being. Behind him came a slim young man, dark and
grave. For all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that
they were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. The
son seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his
mother's nose, thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started
thin from the brow, but ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an
exhaustive acquaintance with the vintages of the world.

Germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some surprise and
uncertainty: these were not her friends, the Du Buits.

The elder man, advancing with a smiling bonhomie, bowed, and said in
an adenoid voice, ingratiating of tone: "I'm M. Charolais, young
ladies--M. Charolais--retired brewer--chevalier of the Legion of
Honour--landowner at Rennes. Let me introduce my son." The young man
bowed awkwardly. "We came from Rennes this morning, and we lunched
at Kerlor's farm."

"Shall I order tea for them?" whispered Sonia.

"Gracious, no!" said Germaine sharply under her breath; then,
louder, she said to M. Charolais, "And what is your object in
calling?"

"We asked to see your father," said M. Charolais, smiling with broad
amiability, while his eyes danced across her face, avoiding any
meeting with hers. "The footman told us that M. Gournay-Martin was
out, but that his daughter was at home. And we were unable, quite
unable, to deny ourselves the pleasure of meeting you." With that he
sat down; and his son followed his example.

Sonia and Germaine, taken aback, looked at one another in some
perplexity.

"What a fine chateau, papa!" said the young man.

"Yes, my boy; it's a very fine chateau," said M. Charolais, looking
round the hall with appreciative but greedy eyes.

There was a pause.

"It's a very fine chateau, young ladies," said M. Charolais.

"Yes; but excuse me, what is it you have called about?" said
Germaine.

M. Charolais crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, thrust his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and said: "Well, we've
come about the advertisement we saw in the RENNES ADVERTISER, that
M. Gournay-Martin wanted to get rid of a motor-car; and my son is
always saying to me, 'I should like a motor-car which rushes the
hills, papa.' He means a sixty horse-power."

"We've got a sixty horse-power; but it's not for sale. My father is
even using it himself to-day," said Germaine.

"Perhaps it's the car we saw in the stable-yard," said M. Charolais.

"No; that's a thirty to forty horse-power. It belongs to me. But if
your son really loves rushing hills, as you say, we have a hundred
horse-power car which my father wants to get rid of. Wait; where's
the photograph of it, Sonia? It ought to be here somewhere."

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.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.