The Confessions of Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (love story novels in english TXT) 📕

mere song, by a delegate of the Commune, the very man who had arrested d’Ernemont, one Citizen Broquet. Citizen Broquet shut himself up in the house, barricaded the doors, fortified the walls and, when Charles d’Ernemont was at last set free and appeared outside, received him by firing a musket at him. Charles instituted one lawsuit after another, lost them all and then proceeded to offer large sums of money. But Citizen Broquet proved intractable. He had bought the house and he stuck to the house; and he would have stuck to it until his death, if Charles had not obtained the support of Bonaparte. Citizen Broquet cleared out on the 12th of February, 1803; but Charles d’Ernemont’s joy was so great and his brain, no doubt, had been so violently unhinged by all that he had gone through, that, on reaching the threshold of the house of which he had at last recovered the ownership, even before opening the door he began to dance and sing in the street. He had gone clean off his head.”

“By Jove!” said Lupin. “And what became of him?”

“His mother and his sister Pauline, who had ended by marrying a cousin of the same name at Geneva, were both dead. The old servant-woman took care of him and they lived together in the Passy house. Years passed without any notable event; but, suddenly, in 1812, an unexpected incident happened. The old servant made a series of strange revelations on her deathbed, in the presence of two witnesses whom she sent for. She declared that the farmer-general had carried to his house at Passy a number of bags filled with gold and silver and that those bags had disappeared a few days before the arrest. According to earlier confidences made by Charles d’Ernemont, who had them from his father, the treasures were hidden in the garden, between the rotunda, the sundial and the well. In proof of her statement, she produced three pictures, or rather, for they were not yet framed, three canvases, which the farmer-general had painted during his captivity and which he had succeeded in conveying to her, with instructions to hand them to his wife, his son and his daughter. Tempted by the lure of wealth, Charles and the old servant had kept silence. Then came the lawsuits, the recovery of the house, Charles’s madness, the servant’s own useless searches; and the treasures were still there.”

“And they are there now,” chuckled Lupin.

“And they will be there always,” exclaimed Maître Valandier. “Unless⁠ ⁠… unless Citizen Broquet, who no doubt smelt a rat, succeeded in ferreting them out. But this is an unlikely supposition, for Citizen Broquet died in extreme poverty.”

“So then⁠ ⁠… ?”

“So then everybody began to hunt. The children of Pauline, the sister, hastened from Geneva. It was discovered that Charles had been secretly married and that he had sons. All these heirs set to work.”

“But Charles himself?”

“Charles lived in the most absolute retirement. He did not leave his room.”

“Never?”

“Well, that is the most extraordinary, the most astounding part of the story. Once a year, Charles d’Ernemont, impelled by a sort of subconscious willpower, came downstairs, took the exact road which his father had taken, walked across the garden and sat down either on the steps of the rotunda, which you see here, in the picture, or on the kerb of the well. At twenty-seven minutes past five, he rose and went indoors again; and until his death, which occurred in 1820, he never once failed to perform this incomprehensible pilgrimage. Well, the day on which this happened was invariably the 15th of April, the anniversary of the arrest.”

Maître Valandier was no longer smiling and himself seemed impressed by the amazing story which he was telling us.

“And, since Charles’s death?” asked Lupin, after a moment’s reflection.

“Since that time,” replied the lawyer, with a certain solemnity of manner, “for nearly a hundred years, the heirs of Charles and Pauline d’Ernemont have kept up the pilgrimage of the 15th of April. During the first few years they made the most thorough excavations. Every inch of the garden was searched, every clod of ground dug up. All this is now over. They take hardly any pains. All they do is, from time to time, for no particular reason, to turn over a stone or explore the well. For the most part, they are content to sit down on the steps of the rotunda, like the poor madman; and, like him, they wait. And that, you see, is the sad part of their destiny. In those hundred years, all these people who have succeeded one another, from father to son, have lost⁠—what shall I say?⁠—the energy of life. They have no courage left, no initiative. They wait. They wait for the 15th of April; and, when the 15th of April comes, they wait for a miracle to take place. Poverty has ended by overtaking every one of them. My predecessors and I have sold first the house, in order to build another which yields a better rent, followed by bits of the garden and further bits. But, as to that corner over there,” pointing to the picture, “they would rather die than sell it. On this they are all agreed: Louise d’Ernemont, who is the direct heiress of Pauline, as well as the beggars, the workman, the footman, the circus-rider and so on, who represent the unfortunate Charles.”

There was a fresh pause; and Lupin asked:

“What is your own opinion, Maître Valandier?”

“My private opinion is that there’s nothing in it. What credit can we give to the statements of an old servant enfeebled by age? What importance can we attach to the crotchets of a madman? Besides, if the farmer-general had realized his fortune, don’t you think that that fortune would have been found? One could manage to hide a paper, a document, in a confined space like that, but not treasures.”

“Still, the pictures?⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, of course. But, after all, are they a sufficient proof?”

Lupin bent over the copy which the