Memoirs of Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc (books like beach read TXT) 📗

Josine! Not a word more! What you are doing is in the highest degree vile and absurd. What’s the use of it?”

“The use of it?” she said sharply. “The time has come for the whole truth to be told. You have thrown us, her and me, into opposition. It is only fair that she and I should be on equal terms in our suffering.”

“You’re a perfect savage!” he murmured in a tone of despair.

But Josephine, turning again to Clarice, continued her explanation coldly: “Your father and his cousin de Bennetot kept an eye on the Widow Rousselin; and it is quite clear that she removed to Lillebonne by the instructions of Baron d’Etigues, for it must have been much easier to keep an eye on her there. Then, as the years went on, someone was found, more or less in the know, to carry out this task. This was you, Mademoiselle. The Widow Rousselin became so fond of you that, as far as she was concerned, there was no reason to fear any hostile action. For nothing in the world would she have betrayed the father of the little girl who from time to time came to play at her house. Evidently these visits were secret in order that no thread might link the present with the past, visits for which, sometimes, meetings in the neighborhood of the town were substituted⁠—at the old lighthouse or elsewhere. It was in the course of one of these visits that you saw in her house at Lillebonne the casket that Ralph and I were seeking; and the whim took you to take it away with you to La Haie d’Etigues. When, then, Ralph and I learned from the Widow Rousselin that the casket was in the possession of a person whose name she would not give, that this person had heaped benefits on her, and that they were to meet on a given day at the old lighthouse, we decided at once that it would be enough for us to come there, instead of the Widow Rousselin, to discover part of the truth. And as seen as we saw you appear we became at once convinced that the two murderers were none else but de Bennetot and the Baron d’Etigues; that is to say, the two men who, at a later date, tried to murder me.”

Clarice was weeping, her slender form shaken by great sobs. Ralph did not doubt that the crimes of her father were quite unknown to her, but also he did not doubt that these accusations of her enemy suddenly showed her in their true aspect a number of things which up to then had been obscure to her, and compelled her to consider her father a murderer. How heartrending it must be for her! Josephine had truly struck home. With what a frightful knowledge of evil was this executioner torturing her victim! With what a refinement a thousand times more cruel than the physical tortures inflicted on the Widow Rousselin by Leonard was Josine taking vengeance on the innocent Clarice!

“Yes,” she went on in somber accents, “a murderer.⁠ ⁠… His wealth, his château, his horses, all that he has are the fruits of crime. It is so, isn’t it, Beaumagnan? You can also bear witness to this fact, since by means of it obtained your hold over him. Master of a secret that you discovered in some way or other⁠—it does not matter how⁠—you made him act exactly as you bade him and profited by the first crime he had committed and the fact that you could bring it home to him, to compel him to serve you and to murder those who were in your way. I know something about that! What a set of ruffians you are!”

Her eyes sought the eyes of Ralph. He had the impression that she was trying to excuse her own crimes by bringing to light the crimes of Beaumagnan and his confederates.

But he said sternly: “And now? Have you finished? Or are you going on tearing this unfortunate child to pieces? What more do you want?”

“I want her to speak,” said Josephine.

“And if she speaks, will you let her go free?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then question her,” he said. “What is it you demand? The casket, the key-word inscribed on the inside of the lid? Is that what you want?”

But whether Clarice was willing to answer or not, whether she knew or did not know the truth she seemed incapable of speaking a word, or even of understanding the questions put to her.

Ralph pressed her: “Try to get the better of your grief, Clarice,” he said. “It’s the last trial; and all will be over. Answer, I beg you. There is nothing in what you are called on to tell which can possibly be against your conscience. You have taken no oath of secrecy. You are betraying no one. In that case⁠—”

His gentle, imploring voice was making the young girl feel easier in mind. He became conscious of it and asked: “What has become of that casket? Did you take it to La Haie d’Etigues?”

“Yes,” she murmured in a tone of exhaustion.

“Why?”

“It took my fancy⁠—it was just a whim.”

“Did your father see it?” he said quickly.

“Yes.”

“The same day?”

“No. Some days later.”

“Did he take it away from you?” he asked with a note of keener interest in his voice.

“Yes.”

“What reason did he give for doing so?”

“None at all.”

“But you had had time to examine it?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw an inscription inside the lid, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In old characters, wasn’t it? Roughly carved?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make it out?”

“Yes.”

“Easily?”

“No; but I did make it out.”

“And can you remember the inscription?”

She hesitated; then she said doubtfully: “Perhaps.⁠ ⁠… I don’t know.⁠ ⁠… They were Latin words.”

“Latin words? Try to remember them.”

Clarice hesitated again; then she said: “But ought I to? If it’s such an important secret, ought I to reveal it?”

“You may, Clarice. I assure you you may,” he said earnestly. “You may, because the secret belongs to no one. No one in the