Memoirs of Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc (ebook reader for pc and android .txt) 📕

Fortunately they had no great distance to go to find security; and with a last brisk effort he carried her across a field into a lonely barn which he had had in mind all the while. He carried her up the ladder into the loft, laid her on a heap of straw, covered her with the rug, told her that she was safe and need fear nothing and that he would soon be back. Then he closed the trap-door, unhooked the ladder, hid it under straw, and hurried to the sleeping inn. With cat-like quietness he filled a basket with some cold meat, cheese, bread, a bottle of wine, a bottle of water, and a lantern. He was soon back at the barn, climbed up into the loft with his basket, drew up the ladder, and shut the trapdoor.

“Twelve hour’s sleep and safety!” he said in a tone of satisfaction. “No one will disturb us here. At noon tomorrow I’ll get a carriage for you and take you wherever you like.”

Here they were then, shut up together after the most tragic and marvellous adventure that one could imagine. How far away it all seemed now⁠—all those dreadful scenes of the day! The tribunal of enquiry, the inexorable judges, the sinister executioners, Beaumagnan, Godfrey d’Etigues, the condemnation, the descent down to the sea, the boat sinking in the darkness, what nightmares already dim! They had come to an end in an intimate comradeship of victim and rescuer.

By the light of the lantern hanging from a beam he gave the young woman food and drink and dressed her wound with infinite gentleness. Protected by him, far from the snares and hatred of her enemies, Josephine Balsamo lay back in utter trustfulness. She shut her eyes and fell asleep.

The lamp illumined clearly her beautiful face, flushed by the fever of so many emotions. Ralph knelt down in front of her and contemplated her at length. Finding the heat of the barn oppressive, she had unfastened the top of her bodice; and he could see her admirably shaped shoulders and the purity of the line where they joined the neck.

He bethought himself of that black mark of which Beaumagnan had spoken, and which was plain to see in the miniature. How could he have resisted the temptation to make sure if it were really there on the bosom of the woman he had saved from death? Gently he drew down the top of her frock. Low down on her right shoulder a beauty spot, black as one of those mouches which coquettes used formerly to stick at the corner of their lips, marked the white and silky skin and rose and fell with the even rhythm of her breathing.

“Who are you? Who are you?” he murmured, greatly troubled. “From what world do you come?”

He too, like the others, was conscious of an inexplicable discomfort; like them felt the mysterious impression that emanated from this strange creature, accentuated by those curious details of her life and by her astonishing beauty. And he could not help questioning her as if she were able to answer on behalf of the woman who had, those long years, before been the model of the miniature.

Her lips formed words which he did not understand. And he was so near to them and the breath they breathed forth was so sweet that, trembling like a leaf, he brushed them with his own.

She sighed. Her eyes opened. At the sight of Ralph on his knees before her she blushed and at the same time smiled; and this smile still wreathed her lips when her heavy eyelids had come down again over her eyes and she had sunk back into her slumber.

Ralph was distracted; quivering with passionate admiration, Clarice utterly forgotten, he murmured the most exalted phrases and clasped his hands as before an idol to which he was addressing a hymn of the most ardent and frenzied adoration.

“Oh, how beautiful you are!⁠ ⁠… I did not think there was so much beauty in the world.⁠ ⁠… Do not go on smiling.⁠ ⁠… I can quite understand that men desire to make you weep⁠—your smile is so troubling.⁠ ⁠… One would like to efface it so that no one might ever see it again. Ah, do not smile at anyone but me, I implore you!”

Then in a lower voice and even more passionately he continued:

“Josephine Balsamo. How sweet your name is! And how much more mysterious it makes you! Did Beaumagnan call you a witch?⁠ ⁠… He was wrong. You’re an enchantress.⁠ ⁠… You have emerged from the darkness and you’re the light⁠—the light of the sun!⁠ ⁠… Josephine Balsamo.⁠ ⁠… Enchantress⁠ ⁠… Magician!⁠ ⁠… What a world opens before me!⁠ ⁠… What a wealth of happiness I see.⁠ ⁠… My life began at the very moment at which I took you in my arms. I have no other memories but the memory of you.⁠ ⁠… All my hope is in you.⁠ ⁠… Heavens how beautiful you are!⁠ ⁠… It is enough to make one weep with despair.”

He uttered these impassioned words, leaning over her, his mouth close to her mouth; but the kiss he had stolen was the only caress he allowed himself. There was not only a voluptuousness in the smile of Josephine Balsamo, but also such a modesty that he felt a profound respect for her; and his exaltation ended in the words of genuine gravity, full of juvenile devotion.

“I will help you.⁠ ⁠… The rest of the world shall be able to do nothing against you.⁠ ⁠… If you desire to reach, in spite of them, the goal at which they are aiming, I promise you that you shall succeed.⁠ ⁠… Far from you or near you, I shall always be your defender and savior. Trust in my devotion.”

At last he went to sleep, murmuring promises and oaths which had become rather incoherent; and it was a profound and dreamless sleep like the sleep of children who have to restore their overdriven young organizations.

The church clock struck eleven. He counted the strokes with a growing