Maurice Leblanc

“ All Patrice’s fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in Siméon’s power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.
“Siméon’s son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this beats everything! Upon my word, you’re full of ideas, when you’re trying to save him! You old ruffian! Of course, it’s most convenient: don’t kill that man, he’s your father. He my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, Patrice Belval’s father! ”

“ I will not tell you either that I am a happy man now that life is opening radiantly before me, with Coralie free to love me. No, we won’t talk of it. But shall I confess to you that my happiness is still a little—what shall I say?—a little dim, a little timid? I no longer feel any doubt; but in spite of all, I don’t quite understand the truth, and, until I do understand it, the truth will cause me some anxiety. So tell me . . . explain to me . . . I want to know . . .”
“And yet the truth is so obvious!” cried Don Luis. “The most complex truths are always so simple! ”

“ We go running after the Belle Hélène. Of course, on the Belle Hélène there’s nothing: no Siméon, no bags of gold. ‘Run after the Chamois. We’ve transhipped it all on the Chamois.’ We run after the Chamois, to Rouen, to Le Hâvre, to the end of the world; and of course our pursuit is fruitless, for the Chamois does not exist. But we are convinced that she does exist and that she has escaped our search. And by this time the trick is played. The millions are gone, Siméon has disappeared and there is only one thing left for us to do, which is to resign ourselves and abandon our quest. ”

“ The direction in which Coralie’s eyes were turned, together with the strange manner in which they stared, revealed her secret resolve to him. She had caught sight of the dagger, lying on the floor where it had slipped from the colonel’s grasp.
Not for a second did Patrice believe that she meant to pick up that dagger with any other thought than to stab her husband. The intention of murder was so plainly written on her livid features that, even before she stirred a limb, Essarès was seized with a fit of terror and strained every muscle to break the bonds that hampered his movements. ”

“ You’re just a common scoundrel! . . . If what you say is true, why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the two of us?”
“I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times. All these tragedies have turned my head. My own Coralie’s death . . . and then my life in Essarès’ shadow . . . and then . . . and then, above all, the gold! . . . Did I really try to kill you both? I no longer remember. Or at least I remember a dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn’t it, as before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I’m like a man in the galleys. I have to do things against my will! ”

“ What you’ve resolved to do is a very good thing. As Captain Belval and I refuse to disgrace ourselves by killing you, you’ve decided to do the job yourself. We are touched; and we congratulate you. But you must behave with courage. No resistance, come! That’s right, that’s much more like it. Once more, my compliments. It’s very smart, your manner of getting out of it. You perceive that there’s no room for you on earth, that you’re standing in the way of Patrice and Coralie and that the best thing you can do is to retire. And you’re jolly well right! No love and no gold! No gold, Siméon! ”

“ And then a hoarse cry, which you hear at your end of the wire, and incoherent noises, the sound of an altercation. And then the lips gluing themselves to the instrument and stammering words at random: ‘Patrice, the amethyst pendant . . . Patrice, I should so much have liked . . . Patrice, Coralie!’ Then a loud scream . . . cries that grow weaker and weaker . . . silence, and that is all. Your father is dead, murdered. This time, Essarès Bey, who had failed before, in the lodge, took his revenge on his old rival. ”

“ Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees:
“Then come, do!” he said, modifying his tone. “Please come, because Coralie . . .”
“Yes, but that man . . .”
“Oh, Coralie first!”
“What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from us?”
“What does that matter!”
“Oh, don’t say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That’s the one thing! Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There’s only the gold, the bags of gold . . . I’d rather die . . . and let Coralie die . ”

“ Whether because he felt himself to be helpless or because he really understood that Don Luis was right and that his life was no longer worth living, Siméon offered hardly any resistance. The revolver rose to his forehead. The barrel touched his temple.
At the touch of the cold steel he gave a moan:
“Mercy!”
“No, no, no!” said Don Luis. “You mustn’t show yourself any mercy. And I won’t help you either. Perhaps, if you hadn’t killed my poor Ya-Bon, we might have put our heads together and sought for another ending. But, honestly, you inspire me with no more pity than you feel for yourself. ”

“ Captain Belval, you are the victim of an association of ideas which, I admit, is perfectly justifiable. Ever since yesterday you have been witnessing a series of tragic incidents; and your imagination naturally leads you to the most tragic solution, that of murder. Only—reflect—why should a murder have been committed? And by whom? By Bournef and his friends? With what object? They were crammed full with bank-notes; and, even admitting that the man called Grégoire recovered those millions from them, they would certainly not have got them back by killing M. Essarès. ”

“ For behaving a little treacherously and locking me into the studio of the lodge? You couldn’t help yourself: you were trying to assist your Coralie. For thinking me capable of keeping the treasure on the day when I discovered it? You couldn’t help that either: how could you imagine that Arsène Lupin would despise three hundred million francs?”
“Very well, no apologies,” said Patrice, laughing. “But all my thanks.”
“For what? For saving your life and saving Coralie’s? Don’t thank me. It’s a hobby of mine, saving people.”
Patrice took Don Luis’ hand and pressed it firmly. ”

“ There were pieces of unfinished needlework, an embroidery-frame, a piece of tapestry with a needle hanging to it by a thread of wool. And there were also books signed “Patrice” and a box of cigars and a blotting-pad and an inkstand and penholders. And there were two small framed photographs, those of two children, Patrice and Coralie. And thus the life of long ago went on, not only the life of two lovers who loved each other with a violent and fleeting passion, but of two beings who dwell together in the calm assurance of a long existence spent in common. ”

“ Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round her neck was the terrible little red-silk cord. And yet Patrice did not experience that awful, numbing despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievable misfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie’s face had not the pallor of death.
He found that she was in fact breathing:
“She’s not dead. She’s not dead,” said Patrice to himself. “And she’s not going to die, I’m sure of it . . . nor Ya-Bon either. . . . They’ve failed this time.” ”

“ Siméon turned giddy and sank into a chair. Both of them, knowing the things of which Don Luis was capable, knew what he meant.
But Patrice wanted something more than a vague sentence that might just as easily be taken as a jest. He wanted a certainty.
“Wake her?” he asked, in a broken voice.
“Well, of course!” said Don Luis. “When you shout too loud, you wake people up.”
“Then she’s alive?”
“You can’t wake the dead, whatever people may say. You can only wake the living.”
“Coralie is alive! Coralie is alive!” Patrice repeated, in a sort of rapture that transfigured his features. ”

“ Patrice grew excited:
“He’s going away! You really ought to have collared him. Shall we ever find him again, the scoundrel? Shall we ever be able to take our revenge?”
Don Luis smiled:
“There you go, calling him a scoundrel, the man who watched over you for twenty years, who brought you and Little Mother Coralie together, who was your benefactor!”
“Oh, I don’t know! All this is so bewildering! I can’t help hating him. . . . The idea of his getting away maddens me. . . . I should like to torture him and yet . . .” ”

“ But, in Patrice Belval’s fevered brain, one idea jostled another. He suddenly stopped:
“Siméon may have gone back to the porter’s lodge! . . . And we sha’n’t be there! . . . Perhaps he will bring Coralie back!”
“No,” Don Luis declared, “he would have done that before now, if it could be done. No, it’s for us to go to him.”
“But where?”
“Well, of course, where all the fighting has been . . . where the gold lies. All the enemy’s operations are centered in that gold; and you may be sure that, even in retreat, he can’t get away from it. Besides, we know that he is not far from Berthou’s Wharf.” ”

“ Coralie, you imagine that it is the shame of your life here that keeps you away from me. You blush at having been that man’s wife; and this makes you feel troubled and anxious, as though you yourself had been guilty. But why should you? It was not your fault. Surely you know that I can guess the misery and hatred that must have passed between you and him and the constraint that was brought to bear upon you, by some machination, in order to force your consent to the marriage! No, Coralie, there is something else ”

“ And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:
“Where’s Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her? She must be dying!”
Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:
“Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . .”
He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice’s rage increased:
“Will you attend?” he shouted. “I won’t wait any longer! It’ll cost you your life if you don’t answer!” ”

“ If anything happens to me, it is certain that the woman you love will run the greatest dangers. Watch over her, Patrice; do not leave her for an instant unprotected. But I do not intend to let anything happen to me; and you shall both know the happiness which I have been preparing for you so long.
“My best love to you.”
“It’s not signed,” said Bournef, “but, I repeat, it’s in Siméon’s handwriting. As for the lady, she is obviously Mme. Essarès.”
“But what danger can she be running?” exclaimed Patrice, uneasily. “Essarès is dead, so there is nothing to fear.” ”

“ But we shall win. Everything will be cleared up. There will be no more mysteries, not even the mystery of the golden triangle. . . . Oh, I don’t say that I shall bring you a beautiful triangle of eighteen-carat gold! We mustn’t allow ourselves to be fascinated by words. It may be a geometrical arrangement of the bags of gold, a triangular pile . . . or else a hole in the ground dug in that shape. No matter, we shall have it! And the bags of gold shall be ours! And Patrice and Coralie shall appear before monsieur le maire and receive my blessing and live happily ever after! ”

“ Nor had Patrice Belval any doubt of it. The disaster was preparing. Essarès’ revenge was inevitably at hand. A man like him, a fighter as able as he appeared to be, does not so easily surrender four million francs if he has not some scheme at the back of his head. Patrice felt himself breathing heavily. His present excitement was more violent than any with which he had thrilled since the very beginning of the tragic scenes which he had been witnessing; and he saw that Coralie’s face was as anxious as his own. ”

“ The golden triangle? There are problems which we solve more or less by accident, without trying. We are guided to a right solution by external events, among which we choose unconsciously, feeling our way in the dark, examining this one, thrusting aside that one and suddenly beholding the object aimed at. . . . Well, this morning, after taking you to the tombs and burying you under the stone, Essarès Bey came back to me. Believing me to be locked into the studio, he had the pretty thought to turn on the gas-meter and then went off to the quay above Berthou’s Wharf. ”

“ They stopped, exhausted. A low hiss was heard somewhere in the room, the faint hiss that issues from a badly-closed gas-jet. They listened and perceived that it came from above. The torture was beginning.
“It will last half an hour, or an hour at most,” Patrice whispered.
Coralie had recovered her self-consciousness:
“We shall be brave,” she said.
“Oh, if I were alone! But you, you, my poor Coralie!”
“It is painless,” she murmured.
“You are bound to suffer, you, so weak!”
“One suffers less, the weaker one is. Besides, I know that we sha’n’t suffer, Patrice.” ”

“ Well, I wonder if I am a match for such adversaries. To think that here’s one who has the cheek to come back to the house while it is being watched by the police, to put up a ladder, to listen no doubt to my conversation with M. Masseron and afterwards to what I said to Little Mother Coralie and, lastly, to send a couple of bullets whizzing past our ears! What do you say? Am I the man for the job? And could all the French police, overworked as they are, give me the indispensable assistance? ”

“ He was descending into the abyss.
“Come along now, show yourself a man. Don’t forget either that you are dead already. Remember, you can’t appear in this world again without falling into the hands of the police. And, of course, I’m there to inform them in case of need. That means prison and the scaffold. The scaffold, my poor fellow, the icy dawn, the knife . . .”
It was over. Essarès was sinking into the depths of darkness. Everything whirled around him. Don Luis’ will penetrated him and annihilated his own.
For one moment he turned to Patrice and tried to implore his aid. ”

“ Old Siméon had listened without speaking, with his head still half wrapped up, showing only his bristly gray beard and his eyes hidden behind their yellow spectacles. But at this point of the story he gave a little chuckle, came up to Patrice and said in his ear:
“There’s something to fear . . . to fear! . . . Mme. Coralie. . . . Make her go away at once . . . make her go away. . . . If not, it’ll be the worse for her. . . .”
Patrice shuddered and tried to question him, but could learn nothing more. Besides, the old man did not remain. A policeman came to fetch him and took him to the library. ”

“ Siméon continued, raising his voice still louder. “Lost! There’s nothing to be done! And you will not find even her body in the bowels of the earth, where I buried her with the bags of gold. Under the tombstone? No, not such a fool! No, Patrice, you will never find her. The gold is stifling her. She’s dead! Coralie is dead! Oh, the delight of throwing that in your face! The anguish you must be feeling! Coralie is dead! Coralie is dead!”
“Don’t shout so, you’ll wake her,” said Don Luis, calmly.
The brief sentence was followed by a sort of stupor which paralyzed the two adversaries. ”

“ We are walled up in this tomb, buried alive and condemned to torture without being able to defend ourselves. My revolver lies there, upon the table. What is the use of it? The enemy does not attack us. He has time on his side, unrelenting time which kills of its own strength, by the mere fact that it is time. Who can rescue us? Who will save my darling Coralie? ”

“ Then, because the war has deprived me of a leg, or an arm, or even both legs or both arms, I have no longer the right to love a woman save at the risk of meeting with a rebuff or imagining that she pities me? Pity! But we don’t want the woman to pity us, nor to make an effort to love us, nor even to think that she is doing a charity because she treats us kindly. ”

“ They were Coralie Essarès’ name and yours. . . . And for this, for all that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and with the dead woman’s daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his wits about him, believe me, sir!”
Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards the porter:
“Proofs, proofs, proofs!” he insisted, in a stifled voice. “Give me proofs at once! There’s some one dying at this moment by that scoundrel’s criminal intentions, there’s a woman at the point of death. Give me proofs!” ”

“ This wretch still stands between you and your Coralie.”
Essarès had not even glanced into the next room, as though he knew that there could be no doubt about Don Luis’ word. He sat shivering in his chair, cowering, weak and helpless.
“You don’t seem comfortable,” said Don Luis. “What’s worrying you? You’re frightened, perhaps? What for? I promise you that we will do nothing except by mutual consent and until we are all of the same opinion. That ought to cheer you up. We’ll be your judges, the three of us, here and now. Captain Patrice Belval, Arsène Lupin and old Siméon will form the court. ”

“ Patrice did not move. He stood gazing at the foul brute who had done him so many injuries. His whole being seethed with hatred. Nevertheless, he replied:
“I will not kill that man.”
“I agree, captain. Your scruples do you honor. You have not the right to kill a man whom you know to be the husband of the woman you love. It is not for you to remove the obstacle. Besides, you hate taking life. So do I. This animal is too filthy for words. And so, my good man, there’s no one left but yourself to help us out of this delicate position.”
Don Luis ceased speaking for a moment and leant over Essarès. ”

“ While Patrice, overcome with presentiments, grew gloomier and gloomier, Don Luis began to sing victory in his turn:
“Thank goodness! The battle is becoming serious! Really, it was too easy before; and that was why I was sulking, I, Lupin! Do you imagine things go like that in real life? Does everything fit in so accurately? Benjamin Franklin, the uninterrupted conduit for the gold, the series of clues that reveal themselves of their own accord, the man and the bags meeting at Mantes, the Belle Hélène: no, it all worried me. ”

“ Patrice rebelled:
“But you’re mad! I consent, I? . . . Why, the man saved my life! . . . He saved Coralie!”
“But he’s doing for her now. Think a moment: if he were not there, if he were not interfering, Coralie would be free. Do you accept?”
“No.”
“Why not? Do you know what that man is? A highway robber . . . a wretch who has only one thought, to get hold of the millions. And you have scruples! Come, it’s absurd, isn’t it? . . . Do you accept?”
“No and again no!”
“Then so much the worse for Coralie. . . . ”

“ A young friend of mine has taken a snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital, at a moment when they were talking together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when he hears it!”
At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon’s hand, a sort of personal note:
“Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie Essarès are free to love each other and to marry.” ”

“ They saw old Siméon, late that afternoon, as they had seen him constantly since the tragedy, wandering in the garden or along the passages of the house, restless and distraught, with his comforter always wound round his head and his spectacles on his nose, stammering words which no one could understand. At night, his neighbor, one of the maimed soldiers, would often hear him humming to himself. ”

“ But Patrice persisted in his impassive attitude. Standing with his arms folded, he gazed with eyes devoid of pity upon his father’s murderer. The punishment was well-deserved. Fate must be allowed to take its course. Patrice did not interfere.
And Don Luis continued, unrelentingly and without intermission:
“Come along, come along! . . . It’s a mere nothing and it means eternal rest! . . . How good it feels, already! To forget! To cease fighting! . . . Think of the gold which you have lost. . . . Three hundred millions gone for ever! . . . And Coralie lost as well. ”

“ Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long! . . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . .”
“As mortal enemies,” said Patrice, with emphasis. “Death stands between us: Ya-Bon’s death, Coralie’s perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . .”
“Patrice, is it really you?” the man repeated, in a whisper.
The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice’s roughness, whined:
“You wouldn’t hurt me, Patrice. ”