The Hollow Needle by Maurice Leblanc (best book clubs .txt) 📕

“What sort of face had he?”

“Not a natural face⁠—a sort of Englishman’s face.”

“Ah!” said Lupin, in a tone preoccupied. “And you have given Césarine orders⁠—”

“To keep her eyes open. Yes, governor.”

“Very well. Keep a lookout for Charolais’s return in two or three hours from now. If there’s anything, I shall be at the farm.”

He walked on and said to Beautrelet:

“This makes me uneasy⁠—is it Shears? Ah, if it’s he, in his present state of exasperation, I have everything to fear!”

He hesitated a moment: “I wonder if we hadn’t better turn back. Yes, I have a nasty presentiment of evil.”

Gently undulating plains stretched before them as far as the eye could see. A little to the left, a series of handsome avenues of trees led to the farm of the Neuvillette, the buildings of which were now in view. It was the retreat which he had prepared, the haven of rest which he had promised Raymonde. Was he, for the sake of an absurd idea, to renounce happiness at the very moment when it seemed within his reach?

He took Isidore by the arm and, calling his attention to Raymonde, who was walking in front of them:

“Look at her. When she walks, her figure has a little swing at the waist which I cannot see without quivering. But everything in her gives me that thrill of emotion and love: her movements and her repose, her silence and the sound of her voice. I tell you, the mere fact that I am walking in the track of her footsteps makes me feel in the seventh heaven. Ah, Beautrelet, will she ever forget that I was once Lupin? Shall I ever be able to wipe out from her memory the past which she loathes and detests?” He mastered himself and, with obstinate assurance. “She will forget!” he declared. “She will forget, because I have made every sacrifice for her sake. I have sacrificed the inviolable sanctuary of the Hollow Needle, I have sacrificed my treasures, my power, my pride⁠—I will sacrifice everything⁠—I don’t want to be anything more⁠—but just a man in love⁠—and an honest man, because she can only love an honest man. After all, why should I not be honest? It is no more degrading than anything else!”

The quip escaped him, so to speak, unawares. His voice remained serious and free of all chaff. And he muttered, with restrained violence:

“Ah, Beautrelet, you see, of all the unbridled joys which I have tasted in my adventurous life, there is not one that equals the joy with which her look fills me when she is pleased with me. I feel quite weak then, and I should like to cry⁠—” Was he crying? Beautrelet had an intuition that his eyes were wet with tears. Tears in Lupin’s eyes!⁠—Tears of love!

They were nearing an old gate that served as an entrance to the farm. Lupin stopped for a moment and stammered:

“Why am I afraid?⁠—I feel a sort of weight on my chest. Is the adventure of the Hollow Needle not over? Has destiny not accepted the issue which I selected?”

Raymonde turned round, looking very anxious.

“Here comes Césarine. She’s running.”

The exciseman’s wife was hurrying from the farm as fast as she could. Lupin rushed up to her:

“What is it? What has happened? Speak!”

Choking, quite out of breath, Césarine stuttered:

“A man⁠—I saw a man this morning!

“A man⁠—I saw a man in the sitting-room.”

“The Englishman of this morning?”

“Yes⁠—but in a different disguise.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. He saw your mother. Mme. Valméras caught him as he was just going away.”

“Well?”

“He told her that he was looking for Louis Valméras, that he was a friend of yours.”

“Then?”

“The madame said that her son had gone abroad⁠—for years.”

“And he went away?”

“No, he made signs through the window that overlooks the plain⁠—as if he were calling to someone.”

Lupin seemed to hesitate. A loud cry tore the air. Raymonde moaned:

“It’s your mother⁠—I recognize⁠—”

He flung himself upon her and, dragging her away, in a burst of fierce passion:

“Come⁠—let us fly⁠—you first.”

But, suddenly, he stopped, distraught, overcome:

“No, I can’t do it⁠—it’s too awful. Forgive me⁠—Raymonde⁠—that poor woman down there⁠—Stay here. Beautrelet, don’t leave her.”

He darted along the slope that surrounds the farm, turned and followed it, at a run, till he came to the gate that opens on the plain.

Raymonde, whom Beautrelet had been unable to hold back, arrived almost as soon as he did; and Beautrelet, hiding behind the trees, saw, in the lonely walk that led from the farm to the gate, three men, of whom one, the tallest, went ahead, while the two others were holding by the arms a woman who tried to resist and who uttered moans of pain.

The daylight was beginning to fade. Nevertheless, Beautrelet recognized Holmlock Shears. The woman seemed of a certain age. Her livid features were set in a frame of white hair.

They all four came up.

They reached the gate. Shears opened one of the folding leaves.

Then Lupin strode forward and stood in front of him.

The encounter appeared all the more terrible inasmuch as it was silent, almost solemn.

For long moments, the two enemies took each other’s measure with their eyes. An equal hatred distorted the features of both of them. Neither moved.

Then Lupin spoke, in a voice of terrifying calmness:

“Tell your men to leave that woman alone.”

“No.”

It was as though both of them feared to engage in the supreme struggle, as though both were collecting all their strength. And there were no words wasted this time, no insults, no bantering challenges. Silence, a deathlike silence.

Mad with anguish, Raymonde awaited the issue of the duel. Beautrelet had caught her arms and was holding her motionless.

After a second, Lupin repeated:

“Order your men to leave that woman alone.”

“No.”

Lupin said:

“Listen, Shears⁠—”

But he interrupted himself, realizing the silliness of the words. In the face of that colossus of pride and willpower which called itself Holmlock Shears, of what use were threats?

Resolved upon the worst, suddenly he put his hand to his jacket pocket. The Englishman anticipated his