don’t know who Lupin is? The most whimsical, the most audacious, and the most genial thief in France. For the last ten years he has kept the police at bay. He has baffled Ganimard, Holmlock Shears, the great English detective, and even Guerchard, whom everybody says is the greatest detective we’ve had in France since Vidocq. In fact, he’s our national robber. Do you mean to say you don’t know him?”
“Not even enough to ask him to lunch at a restaurant,” said the Duke flippantly. “What’s he like?”
“Like? Nobody has the slightest idea. He has a thousand disguises. He has dined two evenings running at the English Embassy.”
“But if nobody knows him, how did they learn that?” said the Duke, with a puzzled air.
“Because the second evening, about ten o’clock, they noticed that one of the guests had disappeared, and with him all the jewels of the ambassadress.”
“All of them?” said the Duke.
“Yes; and Lupin left his card behind him with these words scribbled on it:”
“‘This is not a robbery; it is a restitution. You took the Wallace collection from us.’”
“But it was a hoax, wasn’t it?” said the Duke.
“No, your Grace; and he has done better than that. You remember the affair of the Daray Bank—the savings bank for poor people?” said Sonia, her gentle face glowing with a sudden enthusiastic animation.
“Let’s see,” said the Duke. “Wasn’t that the financier who doubled his fortune at the expense of a heap of poor wretches and ruined two thousand people?”
“Yes; that’s the man,” said Sonia. “And Lupin stripped Daray’s house and took from him everything he had in his strong-box. He didn’t leave him a sou of the money. And then, when he’d taken it from him, he distributed it among all the poor wretches whom Daray had ruined.”
“But this isn’t a thief you’re talking about—it’s a philanthropist,” said the Duke.
“A fine sort of philanthropist!” broke in Germaine in a peevish tone. “There was a lot of philanthropy about his robbing papa, wasn’t there?”
“Well,” said the Duke, with an air of profound reflection, “if you come to think of it, that robbery was not worthy of this national hero. My portrait, if you except the charm and beauty of the face itself, is not worth much.”
“If you think he was satisfied with your portrait, you’re very much mistaken. All my father’s collections were robbed,” said Germaine.
“Your father’s collections?” said the Duke. “But they’re better guarded than the Bank of France. Your father is as careful of them as the apple of his eye.”
“That’s exactly it—he was too careful of them. That’s why Lupin succeeded.”
“This is very interesting,” said the Duke; and he sat down on a couch before the gap in the pictures, to go into the matter more at his ease. “I suppose he had accomplices in the house itself?”
“Yes, one accomplice,” said Germaine.
“Who was that?” asked the Duke.
“Papa!” said Germaine.
“Oh, come! what on earth do you mean?” said the Duke. “You’re getting quite incomprehensible, my dear girl.”
“Well, I’ll make it clear to you. One morning papa received a letter—but wait. Sonia, get me the Lupin papers out of the bureau.”
Sonia rose from the writing-table, and went to a bureau, an admirable example of the work of the great English maker, Chippendale. It stood on the other side of the hall between an Oriental cabinet and a sixteenth-century Italian cabinet—for all the world as if it were standing in a crowded curiosity shop—with the natural effect that the three pieces, by their mere incongruity, took something each from the beauty of the other. Sonia raised the flap of the bureau, and taking from one of the drawers a small portfolio, turned over the papers in it and handed a letter to the Duke.
“This is the envelope,” she said. “It’s addressed to M. Gournay-Martin, Collector, at the Chateau de Charmerace, Ile-et-Vilaine.”
The Duke opened the envelope and took out a letter.
“It’s an odd handwriting,” he said.
“Read it—carefully,” said Germaine.
It was an uncommon handwriting. The letters of it were small, but perfectly formed. It looked the handwriting of a man who knew exactly what he wanted to say, and liked to say it with extreme precision. The letter ran:
“DEAR SIR,”
“Please forgive my writing to you without our having been introduced to one another; but I flatter myself that you know me, at any rate, by name.”
“There is in the drawing-room next your hall a Gainsborough of admirable quality which affords me infinite pleasure. Your Goyas in the same drawing-room are also to my liking, as well as your Van Dyck. In the further drawing-room I note the Renaissance cabinets—a marvellous pair—the Flemish tapestry, the Fragonard, the clock signed Boulle, and various other objects of less importance. But above all I have set my heart on that coronet which you bought at the sale of the Marquise de Ferronaye, and which was formerly worn by the unfortunate Princesse de Lamballe. I take the greatest interest in this coronet: in the first place, on account of the charming and tragic memories which it calls up in the mind of a poet passionately fond of history, and in the second place—though it is hardly worth while talking about that kind of thing—on account of its intrinsic value. I reckon indeed that the stones in your coronet are, at the very lowest, worth half a million francs.”
“I beg you, my dear sir, to have these different objects properly packed up, and to forward them, addressed to me, carriage paid, to the Batignolles Station. Failing this, I shall Proceed to remove them myself on the night of Thursday, August 7th.”
“Please pardon the slight trouble to which I am putting you, and believe me,”
“Yours very sincerely,”
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
“P.S.—It occurs to me that the pictures have not glass before them. It would be as well to repair this omission before forwarding them to me, and I am sure that you will take this extra trouble cheerfully. I am aware, of course, that some of the best judges declare that a picture loses some of its quality when seen through glass. But it preserves them, and we should always be ready and willing to sacrifice a portion of our own pleasure for the benefit of posterity. France demands it of us.—A. L.”
The Duke laughed, and said, “Really, this is extraordinarily funny. It must have made your father laugh.”
“Laugh?” said Germaine. “You should have seen his face. He took it seriously enough, I can tell you.”
“Not to the point of forwarding the things to Batignolles, I hope,” said the Duke.
“No, but to the point of being driven wild,” said Germaine. “And since the police had always been baffled by Lupin, he had the brilliant idea of trying what soldiers could do. The Commandant at Rennes is a great friend of papa’s; and papa went to him, and told him about Lupin’s letter and what he feared. The colonel laughed at him; but he offered him a corporal and six soldiers to guard his collection, on the night of the seventh. It was arranged that they should come from Rennes by the last train so that the burglars should have no warning of their coming. Well, they came, seven picked men—men who had seen service in Tonquin. We gave them supper; and then the corporal posted them in the hall and the two drawing-rooms where the pictures and things were. At eleven we all went to bed, after promising the corporal that, in the event of any fight with the burglars, we would not stir from our rooms. I can tell you I felt awfully nervous. I couldn’t get to sleep for ages and ages. Then, when I did, I did not wake till morning.