813 - Maurice LeBlanc (best short novels of all time TXT) 📗

hand and share alike.”

“What do you bring?”

“I?”

“Yes, you know what I’m worth; I’ve delivered my proofs. In the alliance which you are proposing, you know the figure, so to speak of my marriage-portion. What’s yours?”

“Steinweg.”

“That’s not much.”

“It’s immense. Through Steinweg, we learn the truth about Pierre Leduc. Through Steinweg, we get to know what the famous Kesselbach plan is all about.”

Sernine burst out laughing:

“And you need me for that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come, old chap, your offer is childish. You have Steinweg in your hands. If you wish for my collaboration, it is because you have not succeeded in making him speak. But for that fact, you would do without my services.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I refuse.”

The two men stood up to each other once more, violent and implacable.

“I refuse,” said Sernine. “Lupin requires nobody, in order to act. I am one of those who walk alone. If you were my equal, as you pretend, the idea of a partnership would never have entered your head. The man who has the stature of a leader commands. Union implies obedience. I do not obey.”

“You refuse? You refuse?” repeated Altenheim, turning pale under the insult.

“All that I can do for you, old chap, is to offer you a place in my band. You’ll be a private soldier, to begin with. Under my orders, you shall see how a general wins a battle… and how he pockets the booty, by himself and for himself. Does that suit you… Tommy?”

Altenheim was beside himself with fury. He gnashed his teeth:

“You are making a mistake, Lupin,” he mumbled, “you are making a mistake… I don’t want anybody either; and this business gives me no more difficulty than plenty of others which I have pulled off… What I said was said in order to effect our object more quickly and without inconveniencing each other.”

“You’re not inconveniencing me,” said Lupin, scornfully.

“Look here! If we don’t combine, only one of us will succeed.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“And he will only succeed by passing over the other’s body. Are you prepared for that sort of duel, Lupin? A duel to the death, do you understand?… The knife is a method which you despise; but suppose you received one, Lupin, right in the throat?”

“Aha! So, when all is said, that’s what you propose?”

“No, I am not very fond of shedding blood… Look at my fists: I strike… and my man falls… I have special blows of my own… But the other one kills… remember… the little wound in the throat… Ah, Lupin, beware of him, beware of that one!… He is terrible, he is implacable… Nothing stops him.”

He spoke these words in a low voice and with such excitement that Sernine shuddered at the hideous thought of the unknown murderer:

“Baron,” he sneered “one would think you were afraid of your accomplice!”

“I am afraid for the others, for those who bar our road, for you, Lupin. Accept, or you are lost. I shall act myself, if necessary. The goal is too near… I have my hand on it… Get out of my way, Lupin!”

He was all energy and exasperated will. He spoke forcibly and so brutally that he seemed ready to strike his enemy then and there.

Sernine shrugged his shoulders:

“Lord, how hungry I am!” he said, yawning. “What a time to lunch at!”

The door opened.

“Lunch is served, sir,” said the butler.

“Ah, that’s good hearing!”

In the doorway, Altenheim caught Sernine by the arm and, disregarding the servant’s presence:

“If you take my advice… accept. This is a serious moment in your life… and you will do better, I swear to you, you will do better… to accept…”

“Caviare!” cried Sernine. “Now, that’s too sweet of you… You remembered that you were entertaining a Russian prince!”

They sat down facing each other, with the baron’s greyhound, a large animal with long, silver hair, between them.

“Let me introduce Sirius, my most faithful friend.”

“A fellow-countryman,” said Sernine. “I shall never forget the one which the Tsar was good enough to give me when I had the honor to save his life.”

“Ah, you had that honor… a terrorist conspiracy, no doubt?”

“Yes, a conspiracy got up by myself. You must know, this dog—it’s name, by the way, was Sebastopol…”

The lunch continued merrily. Altenheim had recovered his good humor and the two men vied with each other in wit and politeness. Sernine told anecdotes which the baron capped with others; and it was a succession of stories of hunting, sport and travel, in which the oldest names in Europe were constantly cropping up: Spanish grandees, English lords, Hungarian magyars, Austrain archdukes.

“Ah,” said Sernine, “what a fine profession is ours! It brings us into touch with all the best people. Here, Sinus, a bit of this truffled chicken!”

The dog did not take his eyes off him, and snapped at everything that Sernine gave it.

“A glass of Chambertin, prince?”

“With pleasure, baron.”

“I can recommend it. It comes from King Leopold’s cellar.”

“A present?”

“Yes, a present I made myself.”

“It’s delicious… What a bouquet!… With this pate de foie gras, it’s simply wonderful!… I must congratulate you, baron; you have a first-rate chef.”

“My chef is a woman-cook, prince. I bribed her with untold gold to leave Levraud, the socialist deputy. I say, try this hot chocolate-ice; and let me call your special attention to the little dry cakes that go with it. They’re an invention of genius, those cakes.”

“The shape is charming, in any case,” said Sernine, helping himself. “If they taste as good as they look… Here, Sinus, you’re sure to like this. Locusta herself could not have done better.”

He took one of the cakes and gave it to the dog. Sirius swallowed it at a gulp, stood motionless for two or three seconds, as though dazed, then turned in a circle and fell to the floor dead.

Sernine started back from his chair, lest one of the footmen should fall upon him unawares. Then he burst out laughing:

“Look here, baron, next time you want to poison one of your friends, try to steady your voice and to keep your hands from shaking… Otherwise, people suspect you… But I thought you disliked murder?”

“With the knife, yes,” said Altenheim, quite unperturbed. “But I have always had a wish to poison some one. I wanted to see what it was like.”

“By Jove, old chap, you choose your subjects well! A Russian prince!”

He walked up to Altenheim and, in a confidential tone, said:

“Do you know what would have happened if you had succeeded, that is to say, if my friends had not seen me return at three o’clock at the latest? Well, at half-past three the prefect of police would have known exactly all that there was to know about the so-called Baron Altenheim; and the said baron would have been copped before the day was out and clapped into jail.”

“Pooh!” said Altenheim. “Prison one escapes from… whereas one does not come back from the kingdom where I was sending you.”

“True, but you would have to send me there first; and that’s not so easy.”

“I only wanted a mouthful of one of those cakes.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Try.”

“One thing’s certain, my lad: you haven’t the stuff yet which great adventurers are made of; and I doubt if you’ll ever have it, considering the sort of traps you lay for me. A man who thinks himself worthy of leading the life which you and I have the honor to lead must also be fit to lead it, and, for that, must be prepared for every eventuality: he must even be prepared not to die if some ragamuffin or other tries to poison him… An undaunted soul in an unassailable body: that is the ideal which he must set before himself… and attain. Try away, old chap. As for me, I am undaunted and unassailable. Remember King Mithridates!”

He went back to his chair:

“Let’s finish our lunch. But as I like proving the virtues to which I lay claim, and as, on the other hand, I don’t want to hurt your cook’s feelings, just pass me that plate of cakes.”

He took one of them, broke it in two and held out one half to the baron:

“Eat that!”

The other gave a movement of recoil.

“Funk!” said Sernine.

And, before the wondering eyes of the baron and his satellites, he began to eat the first and then the second half of the cake, quietly, conscientiously, as a man eats a dainty of which he would hate to miss the smallest morsel.

They met again.

That same evening, Prince Sernine invited Baron Altenheim to dinner at the Cabaret Vatel, with a party consisting of a poet, a musician, a financier and two pretty actresses, members of the Theatre Francais.

The next day, they lunched together in the Bois and, at night, they met at the Opera.

They saw each other every day for a week. One would have thought that they could not do without each other and that they were united by a great friendship, built up of mutual confidence, sympathy and esteem.

They had a capital time, drinking good wine, smoking excellent cigars, and laughing like two madmen.

In reality, they were watching each other fiercely. Mortal enemies, separated by a merciless hatred, each feeling sure of winning and longing for victory with an unbridled will, they waited for the propitious moment: Altenheim to do away with Sernine; and Sernine to hurl Atlenheim into the pit which he was digging for him.

Each knew that the catastrophe could not be long delayed. One or other of them must meet with his doom; and it was a question of hours, or, at most, of days.

It was an exciting tragedy, and one of which a man like Sernine was bound to relish the strange and powerful zest. To know your adversary and to live by his side; to feel that death is waiting for you at the least false step, at the least act of thoughtlessness: what a joy, what a delight!

One evening, they were alone together in the garden of the Rue Cambon Club, to which Altenheim also belonged. It was the hour before dusk, in the month of June, at which men begin to dine before the members come in for the evening’s card-play. They were strolling round a little lawn, along which ran a wall lined with shrubs. Beyond the shrubs was a small door. Suddenly, while Altenheim was speaking, Sernine received the impression that his voice became less steady, that it was almost trembling. He watched him out of the corner of his eye. Altenheim had his hand in the pocket of his jacket; and Sernine saiv that hand, through the cloth, dutch the handle of a dagger, hesitating, wavering, resolute and weak by turns.

O exquisite moment! Was he going to strike? Which would gain the day: the timid instinct that dare not, or the conscious will, intense upon the act of killing?

His chest flung out, his arms behind his back, Sernine waited, with alternate thrills of pleasure and of pain. The baron had ceased talking; and they now walked on in silence, side by side.

“Well, why don’t you strike?” cried the prince, impatiently. He had stopped and, turning to his companion: “Strike!” he said. “This is the time or never. There is no one to see you. You can slip out through that little door; the key happens to be hanging on the wall; and good-bye, baron… unseen and unknown!… But, of course, all this was arranged… you brought me here… And you’re hesitating! Why on earth don’t you strike?”

He looked him straight in the eyes. The