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

“He asked what? But it’s nonsense! It’s impossible! I got to know all about it. They met one another two or three times in the country⁠—not more.”

“Better than that, they met in the young woman’s set of rooms in the Château.”

“You lie!” she cried.

“What you must mean is that her father is lying, for these facts were confided to me by Godfrey d’Etigues the night before last,” he said in a tone of sinister triumph.

“And who did he get them from?”

“From Clarice herself.”

“But it’s absurd! A girl never admits a thing like that!”

“I tell you he got it out of her the day before yesterday.”

“But what put him on to it? They have never seen one another again,” she said.

“They write to one another.”

“A proof, Beaumagnan! Give me a proof this instant!” she cried with a sudden fury.

“Will a letter satisfy you?”

“A letter?”

“Written by him to Clarice,” said Beaumagnan.

“Written four months ago?”

“Written four days ago.”

She clutched at her bosom and paled and said between her teeth: “Have you got it?”

“Here it is.”

Ralph, who had listened to the last dozen sentences with extreme discomfort, trembled. He recognized the letter which he had sent from Lillebonne to Clarice d’Etigues.

Josephine took it from Beaumagnan and read it in a low voice, giving every syllable its full value:

Forgive me, dear Clarice. I have treated you like a scoundrel. Let us hope for a brighter future and think of me with all the indulgence of your generous heart. Once more, forgive me⁠—forgive.

Ralph.

She hardly had the strength to finish the reading of this letter, which denied her and wounded her vanity in the cruelest fashion. She tottered. Her eyes sought those of Ralph. He understood that Clarice was condemned to death and in his heart of hearts he knew that never again would he feel anything but hate for Josephine Balsamo.

Beaumagnan said quietly, in explanation: “Godfrey intercepted this letter and sent it to me, asking my advice. The postmark on the envelope was Lillebonne; that’s how I got on the track of both of you again.”

Josephine said nothing. Her face displayed so profound a suffering that it might have touched one. The tears which rolled slowly down her cheeks might have awakened one’s pity, if her grief had not so plainly been dominated by a bitter lust for vengeance. She was making her plans, devising the snare.

Shaking her head, she said to Ralph: “I warned you, Ralph.”

“A man who is warned is worth two,” he said in a joking tone.

“Don’t make a joke of it!” she cried with savage impatience. “You know what I told you, that you had better be careful never to let her cross the path of our love.”

“And you know what I told you,” Ralph retorted with the same irritating air. “If ever you touch a single hair of her head⁠—”

She trembled and said bitterly: “How can you laugh at my suffering like this? How can you take the part of another woman against me?⁠ ⁠… Against me!” Then she added in quieter, threatening accents: “All the worse for her.”

“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She’s safe enough, since I’ll protect her.”

Beaumagnan watched them with a gloomy joy; their discord and all this hate that welled up in them warmed his heart. But Josephine recovered control of herself, reckoning, doubtless, that it was a waste of words to speak of a vengeance which would be hers in due time. At the moment other cares thrust this one from her mind, for, a little way off, someone blew a whistle gently.

The grief and fury vanished from her face and she said: “Did you hear that whistle, Beaumagnan? It’s one of my men who are watching the path to the lighthouse. The person for whom we are waiting must be in sight, for I suppose that that’s what you are here for, too?”

Indeed, the presence of Beaumagnan at that place at that hour needed to be accounted for. How had he known of the meeting and the meeting-place? What special information had he with regard to the Rousselin business?

She cast a glance at Ralph. He, at any rate, bound hand and foot, could not hamper her plans or take part in the final battle. But Beaumagnan appeared to trouble her; and she went towards the door as if she wished to be the first to meet the person they expected, when, at the very instant at which she was going to it, quick footsteps were heard. She stepped backwards, therefore, with a movement that thrust Beaumagnan aside and cleared the door for the entrance of Leonard. He looked sharply from one to the other of the two men, then drew Josephine aside, and whispered in her ear.

She seemed astounded and murmured: “What do you mean? What on earth do you mean?”

She turned her head that they might not see her expression; but Ralph had an impression that it was one of extreme joy.

“Don’t stir,” she said. “The owner of the casket is here. Out with your revolver, Leonard. Be ready to shoot.”

She turned on Beaumagnan, who was trying to open the door, and cried: “You must be mad! Stay where you are!”

But when he insisted she lost her temper and said: “What do you want to go out for? What are you up to? You must know this person and want to balk us and get away with the casket. Is that your game? Speak up!”

Beaumagnan did not loose the handle of the door. Josephine gripped his arm with her right hand and tried to hold him back. Perceiving that she would not succeed, she turned towards Leonard, and with her left hand pointed to Beaumagnan’s left shoulder with a gesture which bade her henchman strike and strike quietly. In about a second he had drawn a dagger from his pocket and driven it into their enemy’s left shoulder.

Beaumagnan groaned and cried: “The damned jade!” and dropped fainting to the floor.

She said calmly to