The Crystal Stopper - Maurice Leblanc (best ereader for epub .txt) 📗

of which Lupin speaks with the greatest horror. He retained just enough consciousness and had sufficiently lucid moments to realize the position exactly. But he was not able to coordinate his ideas, to follow a line of argument nor to instruct or forbid his friends to adopt this or that line of conduct.

Often, when he emerged from his torpor, he found his hand in Clarisse’s and, in that half-slumbering condition in which a fever keeps you, he would address strange words to her, words of love and passion, imploring her and thanking her and blessing her for all the light and joy which she had brought into his darkness.

Then, growing calmer and not fully understanding what he had said, he tried to jest:

“I have been delirious, have I not? What a heap of nonsense I must have talked!”

But Lupin felt by Clarisse’s silence that he could safely talk as much nonsense as ever his fever suggested to him. She did not hear. The care and attention which she lavished on the patient, her devotion, her vigilance, her alarm at the least relapse: all this was meant not for him, but for the possible saviour of Gilbert. She anxiously watched the progress of his convalescence. How soon would he be fit to resume the campaign? Was it not madness to linger by his side, when every day carried away a little hope?

Lupin never ceased repeating to himself, with the inward belief that, by so doing, he could influence the course of his illness:

“I will get well⁠ ⁠… I will get well⁠ ⁠…”

And he lay for days on end without moving, so as not to disturb the dressing of his wound nor increase the excitement of his nerves in the smallest degree.

He also strove not to think of Daubrecq. But the image of his dire adversary haunted him; and he reconstituted the various phases of the escape, the descent of the cliff.⁠ ⁠… One day, struck by a terrible memory, he exclaimed:

“The list! The list of the Twenty-Seven! Daubrecq must have it by now⁠ ⁠… or else d’Albufex. It was on the table!”

Clarisse reassured him:

“No one can have taken it,” she declared. “The Growler was in Paris that same day, with a note from me for Prasville, entreating him to redouble his watch in the Square Lamartine, so that no one should enter, especially d’Albufex⁠ ⁠…”

“But Daubrecq?”

“He is wounded. He cannot have gone home.”

“Ah, well,” he said, “that’s all right!⁠ ⁠… But you too were wounded⁠ ⁠…”

“A mere scratch on the shoulder.”

Lupin was easier in his mind after these revelations. Nevertheless, he was pursued by stubborn notions which he was unable either to drive from his brain or to put into words. Above all, he thought incessantly of that name of “Marie” which Daubrecq’s sufferings had drawn from him. What did the name refer to? Was it the title of one of the books on the shelves, or a part of the title? Would the book in question supply the key to the mystery? Or was it the combination word of a safe? Was it a series of letters written somewhere: on a wall, on a paper, on a wooden panel, on the mount of a drawing, on an invoice?

These questions, to which he was unable to find a reply, obsessed and exhausted him.

One morning Arsène Lupin woke feeling a great deal better. The wound was closed, the temperature almost normal. The doctor, a personal friend, who came every day from Paris, promised that he might get up two days later. And, on that day, in the absence of his accomplices and of Mme. Mergy, all three of whom had left two days before, in quest of information, he had himself moved to the open window.

He felt life return to him with the sunlight, with the balmy air that announced the approach of spring. He recovered the concatenation of his ideas; and facts once more took their place in his brain in their logical sequence and in accordance with their relations one to the other.

In the evening he received a telegram from Clarisse to say that things were going badly and that she, the Growler and the Masher were all staying in Paris. He was much disturbed by this wire and had a less quiet night. What could the news be that had given rise to Clarisse’s telegram?

But, the next day, she arrived in his room looking very pale, her eyes red with weeping, and, utterly worn out, dropped into a chair:

“The appeal has been rejected,” she stammered.

He mastered his emotion and asked, in a voice of surprise:

“Were you relying on that?”

“No, no,” she said, “but, all the same⁠ ⁠… one hopes in spite of one’s self.”

“Was it rejected yesterday?”

“A week ago. The Masher kept it from me; and I have not dared to read the papers lately.”

“There is always the commutation of sentence,” he suggested.

“The commutation? Do you imagine that they will commute the sentence of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices?”

She ejaculated the words with a violence and a bitterness which he pretended not to notice; and he said:

“Vaucheray perhaps not⁠ ⁠… But they will take pity on Gilbert, on his youth⁠ ⁠…”

“They will do nothing of the sort.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen his counsel.”

“You have seen his counsel! And you told him⁠ ⁠…”

“I told him that I was Gilbert’s mother and I asked him whether, by proclaiming my son’s identity, we could not influence the result⁠ ⁠… or at least delay it.”

“You would do that?” he whispered. “You would admit⁠ ⁠…”

“Gilbert’s life comes before everything. What do I care about my name! What do I care about my husband’s name!”

“And your little Jacques?” he objected. “Have you the right to ruin Jacques, to make him the brother of a man condemned to death?”

She hung her head. And he resumed:

“What did the counsel say?”

“He said that an act of that sort would not help Gilbert in the remotest degree. And, in spite of all his protests, I could see that, as far as he was concerned, he had no illusions left and that the pardoning commission