The Confessions of Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📗

“But, hang it all, the proof of what?” cried Farmer Goussot, irritably.

The stranger took a shotgun from the rack.

“Is it loaded?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the youngest of the brothers. “I use it to kill the sparrows with, for fun. It’s small shot.”

“Capital! A peppering where it won’t hurt him will do the trick.”

His face suddenly assumed a masterful look. He gripped the farmer by the arm and rapped out, in an imperious tone:

“Listen to me, Farmer Goussot. I’m not here to do policeman’s work; and I won’t have the poor beggar locked up at any price. Four weeks of starvation and fright is good enough for anybody. So you’ve got to swear to me, you and your sons, that you’ll let him off without hurting him.”

“He must hand over the money!”

“Well, of course. Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

The gentleman walked back to the doorsill, at the entrance to the orchard. He took a quick aim, pointing his gun a little in the air, in the direction of the cherry tree which overhung the spring. He fired. A hoarse cry rang from the tree; and the scarecrow which had been straddling the main branch for a month past came tumbling to the ground, only to jump up at once and make off as fast as its legs could carry it.

There was a moment’s amazement, followed by outcries. The sons darted in pursuit and were not long in coming up with the runaway, hampered as he was by his rags and weakened by privation. But the stranger was already protecting him against their wrath:

“Hands off there! This man belongs to me. I won’t have him touched.⁠ ⁠… I hope I haven’t stung you up too much, Trainard?”

Standing on his straw legs wrapped round with strips of tattered cloth, with his arms and his whole body clad in the same materials, his head swathed in linen, tightly packed like a sausage, the old chap still had the stiff appearance of a lay-figure. And the whole effect was so ludicrous and so unexpected that the onlookers screamed with laughter.

The stranger unbound his head; and they saw a veiled mask of tangled grey beard encroaching on every side upon a skeleton face lit up by two eyes burning with fever.

The laughter was louder than ever.

“The money! The six notes!” roared the farmer.

The stranger kept him at a distance:

“One moment⁠ ⁠… we’ll give you that back, shan’t we, Trainard?”

And, taking his knife and cutting away the straw and cloth, he jested, cheerily:

“You poor old beggar, what a guy you look! But how on earth did you manage to pull off that trick? You must be confoundedly clever, or else you had the devil’s own luck.⁠ ⁠… So, on the first night, you used the breathing-time they left you to rig yourself in these togs! Not a bad idea. Who could ever suspect a scarecrow?⁠ ⁠… They were so accustomed to seeing it stuck up in its tree! But, poor old daddy, how uncomfortable you must have felt, lying flat up there on your stomach, with your arms and legs dangling down! All day long, like that! The deuce of an attitude! And how you must have been put to it, when you ventured to move a limb, eh? And how you must have funked going to sleep!⁠ ⁠… And then you had to eat! And drink! And you heard the sentry and felt the barrel of his gun within a yard of your nose! Brrrr!⁠ ⁠… But the trickiest of all, you know, was your bit of straw!⁠ ⁠… Upon my word, when I think that, without a sound, without a movement so to speak, you had to fish out lengths of straw from your toggery, fix them end to end, let your apparatus down to the water and suck up the heavenly moisture drop by drop.⁠ ⁠… Upon my word, one could scream with admiration.⁠ ⁠… Well done, Trainard.⁠ ⁠…” And he added, between his teeth, “Only you’re in a very unappetizing state, my man. Haven’t you washed yourself all this month, you old pig? After all, you had as much water as you wanted!⁠ ⁠… Here, you people, I hand him over to you. I’m going to wash my hands, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Farmer Goussot and his four sons grabbed at the prey which he was abandoning to them:

“Now then, come along, fork out the money.”

Dazed as he was, the tramp still managed to simulate astonishment.

“Don’t put on that idiot look,” growled the farmer. “Come on. Out with the six notes.⁠ ⁠…”

“What?⁠ ⁠… What do you want of me?” stammered old Trainard.

“The money⁠ ⁠… on the nail.⁠ ⁠…”

“What money?”

“The banknotes.”

“The banknotes?”

“Oh, I’m getting sick of you! Here, lads.⁠ ⁠…”

They laid the old fellow flat, tore off the rags that composed his clothes, felt and searched him all over.

There was nothing on him.

“You thief and you robber!” yelled old Goussot. “What have you done with it?”

The old beggar seemed more dazed than ever. Too cunning to confess, he kept on whining:

“What do you want of me?⁠ ⁠… Money? I haven’t three sous to call my own.⁠ ⁠…”

But his eyes, wide with wonder, remained fixed upon his clothes; and he himself seemed not to understand.

The Goussots’ rage could no longer be restrained. They rained blows upon him, which did not improve matters. But the farmer was convinced that Trainard had hidden the money before turning himself into the scarecrow:

“Where have you put it, you scum? Out with it! In what part of the orchard have you hidden it?”

“The money?” repeated the tramp with a stupid look.

“Yes, the money! The money which you’ve buried somewhere.⁠ ⁠… Oh, if we don’t find it, your goose is cooked!⁠ ⁠… We have witnesses, haven’t we?⁠ ⁠… All of you, friends, eh? And then the gentleman.⁠ ⁠…”

He turned, with the intention of addressing the stranger, in the direction of the spring, which was thirty or forty steps to the left. And he was quite surprised not to see him washing his hands there:

“Has he gone?” he asked.

Someone answered:

“No, he lit a cigarette and went for a stroll in the