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

wing. They rushed in that direction. It was one of the officers’ wives, who beckoned to them at the end of a passage and told them that the girl must be in her lodging.

“How do you know?” asked Lupin.

“I wanted to go to my room. The door was shut and I could not get in.”

Lupin tried and found the door locked:

“The window!” he cried. “There must be a window!”

He went outside, took the count’s sword and smashed the panes. Then, helped up by two men, he hung on to the wall, passed his arm through the broken glass, turned the latch and stumbled into the room.

He saw Isilda huddled before the fireplace, almost in the midst of the flames:

“The little beast!” he said. “She has thrown it into the fire!”

He pushed her back savagely, tried to take the book and burnt his hands in the attempt. Then, with the tongs, he pulled it out of the grate and threw the table doth over it to stifle the blaze.

But it was too late. The pages of the old manuscript, all burnt up, were falling into ashes.

Lupin gazed at her in silence. The count said:

“One would think that she knew what she was doing.”

“No, she does not know. Only, her grandfather must have entrusted her with that book as a sort of treasure, a treasure which no one was ever to set eyes on, and, with her stupid instinct, she preferred to throw it into the fire rather than part with it.”

“Well then…”

“Well then what?”

“You won’t find the hiding-place.”

“Aha, my dear count, so you did, for a moment, look upon my success as possible? And Lupin does not strike you as quite a charlatan? Make your mind easy, Waldemar: Lupin has more than one string to his bow. I shall succeed.”

“Before twelve o’clock tomorrow?”

“Before twelve o’clock tonight. But, for the moment, I am starving with hunger. And, if your kindness would go so far…”

He was taken to the sergeants’ mess and a substantial meal prepared for him, while the count went to make his report to the Emperor.

Twenty minutes later, Waldemar returned and they sat down and dined together, opposite each other, silent and pensive.

“Waldemar, a good cigar would be a treat… I thank you… Ah, this one crackles as a self-respecting Havana should!”

He lit his cigar and, after a minute or two:

“You can smoke, count; I don’t mind in the least; in fact, I rather like it.”

An hour passed. Waldemar dozed and, from time to time, swallowed a glass of brandy to wake himself up.

Soldiers passed in and out, waiting on them.

“Coffee,” asked Lupin.

They brought him some coffee.

“What bad stuff!” he grumbled. “If that’s what Caesar drinks!… Give me another cup all the same, Waldemar. We may have a long night before us. Oh, what vile coffee!”

He lit a second cigar and did not say another word. Ten minutes passed. He continued not to move or speak.

Suddenly, Waldemar sprang to his feet and said to Lupin, angrily:

“Hi! Stand up, there!”

Lupin was whistling a tune at the moment. He kept on whistling, peacefully.

“Stand up, I say!”

Lupin turned round. His Imperial Majesty had just entered. Lupin rose from his chair.

“How far are we?” asked the Emperor.

“I think, Sire, that I shall be able to satisfy Your Imperial Majesty soon.”

“What? Do you know…”

“The hiding-place? Very nearly, Sire… A few details still escape me… but everything will be cleared up, once we are on the spot: I have no doubt of it.”

“Are we to stay here?”

“No, Sire, I will beg you to go with me to the Renascence palace. But we have plenty of time; and, if Your Imperial Majesty will permit me, I should like first to think over two or three points.”

Without waiting for the reply, he sat down, to Waldemar’s great indignation.

In a few minutes, the Emperor, who had walked away and was talking to the count, came up to him:

“Are you ready now, M. Lupin?”

Lupin kept silence. A fresh question. His head fell on his chest.

“But he’s asleep; I really believe that he’s asleep!”

Waldemar, beside himself with rage, shook him violently by the shoulder. Lupin fell from his chair, sank to the floor, gave two or three convulsive movements and then lay quite still.

“What’s the matter with him?” exclaimed the Emperor. “He’s not dead, I hope!”

He took a lamp and bent over him:

“How pale he is! A face like wax!… Look, Waldemar… Feel his heart… He’s alive, is he not?”

“Yes, Sire,” said the count, after a moment, “the heart is beating quite regularly.”

“Then what is it? I don’t understand… What happened?”

“Shall I go and fetch the doctor?”

“Yes, run…”

The doctor found Lupin in the same state, lying inert and quiet. He had him put on a bed, subjected him to a long examination and asked what he had had to eat.

“Do you suspect a case of poisoning, doctor?”

“No, Sire, there are no traces of poisoning. But Iam thinking… what’s on that tray and in that cup?”

“Coffee,” said the count.

“For you?”

“No, for him. I did not have any.”

The doctor poured out some coffee, tasted it and said:

“I was right. He has been put to sleep with a narcotic.”

“But by whom?” cried the Emperor, angrily. “Look here, Waldemar; it’s exasperating, the way things happen in this place!”

“Sire?…”

“Well, yes, I’ve had enough of it!… I am really beginning to believe that the man’s right and that there is some one in the castle… That French money, that narcotic…”

“If any one had got into this enclosure, Sire, it would be known by this time… We’ve been hunting in every direction for three hours.”

“Still, I didn’t make the coffee, I assure you… And, unless you did…”

“Oh, Sire!”

“Well, then, hunt about… search… You have two hundred men at your disposal; and the out-houses are not so large as all that! For, after all, the ruffian is prowling round here, round these buildings… near the kitchen… somewhere or other! Go and bustle about!”

The fat Waldemar bustled about all night, conscientiously, because it was the master’s order, but without conviction, because it was impossible for a stranger to hide among ruins which were so well-watched. And, as a matter of fact, the event proved that he was right: the investigations were fruitless; and no one was able to discover the mysterious hand that had prepared the narcotic drink.

Lupin spent the night lifeless on his bed. In the morning, the doctor, who had not left his side, told a messenger of the Emperor’s that he was still asleep.

At nine o’clock, however, he made his first movement, a sort of effort to wake up.

Later on, he stammered:

“What tune is it?”

“Twenty-five to ten.”

He made a fresh effort; and it was evident that, in the midst of his torpor, his whole being was intent upon returning to life.

A clock struck ten.

He started and said:

“Let them carry me; let them carry me to the palace.”

With the doctor’s approval, Waldemar called his men and sent word to the Emperor. They laid Lupin on a stretcher and set out for the palace.

“The first floor,” he muttered.

They carried him up.

“At the end of the corridor,” he said. “The last room on the left.”

They carried him to the last room, which was the twelfth, and gave him a chair, on which he sat down, exhausted.

The Emperor arrived: Lupin did not stir, sat looking, unconscious, with no expression in his eyes.

Then, in a few minutes, he seemed to wake, looked round him, at the walls, the ceilings, the people, and said:

“A narcotic, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“Have they found… the man?”

“No.”

He seemed to be meditating and several times jerked his head with a thoughtful air: but they soon saw that he was asleep.

The Emperor went up to Waldemar:

“Order your car round.”

“Oh?… But then, Sire… ?”

“Well, what? I am beginning to think that he is taking us in and that all this is merely play-acting, to gain time.”

“Possibly… yes…” said Waldemar, agreeing.

“It’s quite obvious! He is making the most of certain curious coincidences, but he knows nothing; and his story about gold coins and his narcotic are so many inventions! If we lend ourselves to his little game any longer, he’ll slip out of your fingers. Your car, Waldemar.”

The count gave his orders and returned. Lupin had not woke up. The Emperor, who was looking round the room, said to Waldemar:

“This is the Minerva room, is it not?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“But then why is there an ‘N’ in two places?”

There were, in fact, two “N’s,” one over the chimney-piece, the other over an old dilapidated clock fitted into the wall and displaying a complicated set of works, with weights hanging lifeless at the end of their cords.

“The two ‘N’s’…” said Waldemar.

The Emperor did not listen to the answer. Lupin had moved again, opening his eyes and uttering indistinct syllables. He stood up, walked across the room and fell down from sheer weakness.

Then came the struggle, the desperate struggle of his brain, his nerves, his will against that hideous, paralyzing torpor, the struggle of a dying man against death, the struggle of life against extinction. And the sight was one of infinite sadness.

“He is suffering,” muttered Waldemar.

“Or at least, he is pretending to suffer,” declared the Emperor, ” and pretending very cleverly at that. What an actor!”

Lupin stammered:

“An injection, doctor, an injection of caffeine… at once…”

“May I, Sire?” asked the doctor.

“Certainly… Until twelve o’clock, do all that he asks. He has my promise.”

“How many minutes… before twelve o’clock?” asked Lupin.

“Forty,” said somebody.

“Forty?… I shall do it… I am sure to do it… I’ve got to do it…” He took his head in his two hands. ” Oh, if I had my brain, the real brain, the brain that thinks! It would be a matter of a second! There is only one dark spot left… but I cannot… my thoughts escape me… I can’t grasp it… it’s awful.”

His shoulders shook. Was he crying?

They heard him repeating:

“813… 813…” And, in a lower voice, “813… an ‘8’… a ‘i’… a ‘3’… yes, of course… But why?… That’s not enough…”

The Emperor muttered:

“He impresses me. I find it difficult to believe that a man can play a part like that…”

Half-past eleven struck… a quarter to twelve…

Lupin remained motionless, with his fists glued to his temples.

The Emperor waited, with his eyes fixed on a chronometer which Waldemar held in his hand.

Ten minutes more… five minutes more…

“Is the car there, Waldemar?… Are your men ready?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“At the last stroke of twelve, then…”

“But…”

“At the last stroke of twelve, Waldemar.”

There was really something tragic about the scene, that sort of grandeur and solemnity which the hours assume at the approach of a possible miracle, when it seems as though the voice of fate itself were about to find utterance.

The Emperor did not conceal his anguish. This fantastic adventurer who was called ArsŽne Lupin and whose amazing life he knew, this man troubled him… and, although he was resolved to make an end of all this dubious story, he could not help waiting… and hoping.

Two minutes more… one minute more…

Then they counted by seconds.

Lupin seemed asleep.

“Come, get ready,” said the Emperor to the count.

The count went up to Lupin and placed his hand on his shoulder.

The silvery chime of