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“Madness!” he cried. “My argument is false … How can I expect such a concurrence of circumstances? There will be some little fact that will destroy all … the inevitable grain of sand …”

Steinweg’s death and the disappearance of the documents which the old man was to make over to him did not trouble him greatly. The documents he could have done without in case of need; and, with the few words which Steinweg had told him, he was able, by dint of guess-work and his native genius, to reconstruct what the Emperor’s letters contained and to draw up the plan of battle that would lead to victory. But he thought of Holmlock Shears, who was over there now, in the very centre of the battlefield, and who was seeking and who would find the letters, thus demolishing the edifice so patiently built up.

And he thought of “the other one,” the implacable enemy, lurking round the prison, hidden in the prison, perhaps, who guessed his most secret plans even before they were hatched in the mystery of his thought.

The 17th of August! … The 18th of August! … The 19th! … Two more days … Two centuries rather! Oh, the interminable minutes! …

Lupin, usually so calm, so entirely master of himself, so ingenious at providing matter for his own amusement, was feverish, exultant and depressed by turns, powerless against the enemy, mistrusting everything and everybody, morose.

The 20th of August! …

He would have wished to act and he could not. Whatever he did, it was impossible for him to hasten the hour of the catastrophe. This catastrophe would take place or would not take place; but Lupin would not know for certain until the last hour of the last day was spent to the last minute. Then—and then alone—he would know of the definite failure of his scheme.

“The inevitable failure,” he kept on repeating to himself. “Success depends upon circumstances far too subtle and can be obtained only by methods far too psychological … There is no doubt that I am deceiving myself as to the value and the range of my weapons … And yet …”

Hope returned to him. He weighed his chances. They suddenly seemed to him real and formidable. The fact was going to happen as he had foreseen it happening and for the very reasons which he had expected. It was inevitable …

Yes, inevitable. Unless, indeed, Shears discovered the hiding-place …

And again he thought of Shears; and again an immense sense of discouragement overwhelmed him.

The last day …

He woke late, after a night of bad dreams.

He saw nobody that day, neither the examining magistrate nor his counsel.

The afternoon dragged along slowly and dismally, and the evening came, the murky evening of the cells … He was in a fever. His heart beat in his chest like the clapper of a bell.

And the minutes passed, irretrievably …

At nine o’clock, nothing. At ten o’clock, nothing.

With all his nerves tense as the string of a bow, he listened to the vague prison sounds, tried to catch through those inexorable walls all that might trickle in from the life outside.

Oh, how he would have liked to stay the march of time and to give destiny a little more leisure!

But what was the good? Was everything not finished? …

“Oh,” he cried, “I am going mad! If all this were only over … that would be better. I can begin again, differently … I shall try something else … but I can’t go on like this, I can’t go on …”

He held his head in his hands, pressing it with all his might, locking himself within himself and concentrating his whole mind upon one subject, as though he wished to provoke, as though he wished to create the formidable, stupefying, inadmissible event to which he had attached his independence and his fortune:

“It must happen,” he muttered, “it must; and it must, not because I wish it, but because it is logical. And it shall happen … it shall happen …”

He beat his skull with his fists; and delirious words rose to his lips …

The key grated in the lock. In his frenzy, he had not heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; and now, suddenly, a ray of light penetrated into his cell and the door opened.

Three men entered.

Lupin had not a moment of surprise.

The unheard-of miracle was being worked; and this at once seemed to him natural and normal, in perfect agreement with truth and justice.

But a rush of pride flooded his whole being. At this minute he really received a clear sensation of his own strength and intelligence …

“Shall I switch on the light?” asked one of the three men, in whom Lupin recognized the governor of the prison.

“No,” replied the taller of his companions, speaking in a foreign accent. “This lantern will do.”

“Shall I go?”

“Act according to your duty, sir,” said the same individual.

“My instructions from the prefect of police are to comply entirely with your wishes.”

“In that case, sir, it would be preferable that you should withdraw.”

M. Borély went away, leaving the door half open, and remained outside, within call.

The visitor exchanged a few words with the one who had not yet spoken; and Lupin vainly tried to distinguish his features in the shade. He saw only two dark forms, clad in wide motoring-cloaks and wearing caps with the flaps lowered.

“Are you Arsène Lupin?” asked the man, turning the light of the lantern full on his face.

He smiled:

“Yes, I am the person known as Arsène Lupin, at present a prisoner in the Santé, cell 14, second division.”

“Was it you,” continued the visitor, “who published in the 
Grand Journal
 a series of more or less fanciful notes, in which there is a question of a so-called collection of letters …?”

Lupin interrupted him.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but, before pursuing this conversation, the object of which, between ourselves, is none too clear to me, I should be much obliged if you would tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking.”

“Absolutely unnecessary,” replied the stranger.

“Absolutely essential,” declared Lupin.

“Why?”

“For reasons of politeness, sir. You know my name and I do not know yours; this implies a disregard of good form which I cannot suffer.”

The stranger lost patience:

“The mere fact that the governor of the prison brought us here shows …”

“That M. Borély does not know his manners,” said Lupin. “M. Borély should have introduced us to each other. We are equals here, sir: it is no case of a superior and an inferior, of a prisoner and a visitor who condescends to come and see him. There are two men here; and one of those two men has a hat on his head, which he ought not to have.”

“Now look here …”

“Take the lesson as you please, sir,” said Lupin.

The stranger came closer to him and tried to speak.

“The hat first,” said Lupin, “the hat …”

“You shall listen to me!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Matters were becoming virulent, stupidly. The second stranger, the one who had kept silent, placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said, in German:

“Leave him to me.”

“Why, it was understood …”

“Hush … and go away!”

“Leaving you alone?”

“Yes.”

“But the door?”

“Shut it and walk away.”

“But this man … you know who he is … Arsène Lupin …”

“Go away!”

The other went out, cursing under his breath.

“Pull the door!” cried the second visitor. “Harder than that … Altogether! … That’s right …”

Then he turned, took the lantern and raised it slowly:

“Shall I tell you who I am?” he asked.

“No,” replied Lupin.

“And why?”

“Because I know.”

“Ah!”

“You are the visitor I was expecting.”

“I?”

“Yes, Sire.”

CHAPTER XI

CHARLEMAGNE

“SILENCE!” SAID THE STRANGER,
sharply. “Don’t use that word.”

“Then what shall I call Your …”

“Call me nothing.”

They were both silent; and this moment of respite was not one of those which go before the struggle of two adversaries ready for the fray. The stranger strode to and fro with the air of a master accustomed to command and to be obeyed. Lupin stood motionless. He had abandoned his usual provocative attitude and his sarcastic smile. He waited, gravely and deferentially. But, down in the depths of his being, he revelled, eagerly, madly, in the marvellous situation in which he found himself placed: here, in his cell, he, a prisoner; he, the adventurer; he, the swindler, the burglar; he, Arsène Lupin … face to face with that demi-god of the modern world, that formidable entity, the heir of Cæsar and of Charlemagne.

He was intoxicated for a moment with the sense of his own power. The tears came to his eyes when he thought of his triumph …

The stranger stood still.

And at once, with the very first sentence, they came to the immediate point:

“To-morrow is the 22nd of August. The letters are to be published to-morrow, are they not?”

“To-night, in two hours from now, my friends are to hand in to the 
Grand Journal
, not the letters themselves, but an exact list of the letters, with the Grand-duke Hermann’s annotations.”

“That list shall not be handed in.”

“It shall not be.”

“You will give it to me.”

“It shall be placed in the hands of Your … in your hands.”

“Likewise, all the letters?”

“Likewise, all the letters.”

“Without any of them being photographed?”

“Without any of them being photographed.”

The stranger spoke in a very calm voice, containing not the least accent of entreaty nor the least inflection of authority. He neither ordered nor requested; he stated the inevitable actions of Arsène Lupin. Things would happen as he said. And they would happen, whatever Arsène Lupin’s demands should be, at whatever price he might value the performance of those actions. The conditions were accepted beforehand.

“By Jove,” said Lupin to himself, “that’s jolly clever of him! If he leaves it to my generosity, I am a ruined man!”

The very way in which the conversation opened, the frankness of the words employed, the charm of voice and manner all pleased him infinitely.

He pulled himself together, lest he should relent and abandon all the advantages which he had conquered so fiercely.

And the stranger continued:

“Have you read the letters?”

“No.”

“But some one you know has read them?”

“No.”

“In that case …”

“I have the grand-duke’s list and his notes. Moreover, I know the hiding-place where he put all his papers.”

“Why did you not take them before this?”

“I did not know the secret of the hiding-place until I came here. My friends are on the way there now.”

“The castle is guarded. It is occupied by two hundred of my most trusty men.”

“Ten thousand would not be sufficient.”

After a minute’s reflection, the visitor asked:

“How do you know the secret?”

“I guessed it.”

“But you had other elements of information which the papers did not publish?”

“No, none at all.”

“And yet I had the castle searched for four days.”

“Holmlock Shears looked in the wrong place.”

“Ah!” said the stranger to himself. “It’s an odd thing, an odd thing! …” And, to Lupin, “You are sure that your supposition is correct?”

“It is not a supposition: it is a certainty.”

“So much the better,” muttered the visitor. “There will be no rest until those papers cease to exist.”

And, placing himself in front of Arsène Lupin:

“How much?”

“What?” said Lupin, taken aback.

“How much for the papers? How much do you ask to reveal the secret?”

He waited for Lupin to name a figure. He suggested one himself:

“Fifty thousand? … A hundred thousand?”

And, when Lupin did not reply, he said, with a little hesitation:

“More? Two hundred thousand? Very well! I agree.”

Lupin smiled and, in a low voice, said:

“It is a handsome figure. But is it not likely that some sovereign, let us say, the King of England, would give as much as a million? In all sincerity?”

“I believe so.”

“And that those letters are priceless to the Emperor, that they are worth two million quite as easily as two hundred thousand francs … three million as easily as two?”

“I think so.”

“And, if necessary, the Emperor would give that three million francs?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will not be difficult to come to an arrangement.”

“On that basis?” cried the stranger, not without some alarm.

Lupin smiled again:

“On that basis, no … I am not looking for money. I want something else, something that is worth more to me than any number of millions.”

“What is that?”

“My liberty.”

“What! Your liberty … But I can do nothing … That concerns your country … the law … I have no power.”

Lupin went up to him and, lowering his voice still more:

“You have every power, Sire … My liberty is not such an exceptional event that they are likely to refuse you.”

“Then I should have to ask for it?”

“Yes.”

“Of whom?”

“Of Valenglay, the prime minister.”

“But M. Valenglay himself can do no more than I.”

“He can open the doors of this prison for me.”

“It would cause a public outcry.”

“When I say, open … half-open would be enough … We should counterfeit an escape … The public so thoroughly expects it that it would not so much as ask for an explanation.”

“Very well … but M. Valenglay will never consent …”

“He will consent.”

“Why?”

“Because you will express the wish.”

“My wishes are not commands … to him!”

“No … but an opportunity of making himself agreeable to the Emperor by fulfilling them. And Valenglay is too shrewd a politician …”

“Nonsense! Do you imagine that the French government will commit so illegal an act for the sole pleasure of making itself agreeable to me?”

“That pleasure will not be the sole one.”

“What will be the other?”