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

down four books, one after the other, turned the pages with a distraught air, replaced them and ended by finding, between the pages of the fifth, a visiting-card on which her eyes spelt the name:

Horace Velmont,

followed by an address written in pencil:

Cercle de la Rue Royale.

And her memory conjured up the strange thing which that man had said to her, a few years before, in that same house, on a day when she was at home to her friends:

“If ever a danger threatens you, if you need help, do not hesitate; post this card, which you see me put into this book; and, whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles, I will come.”

With what a curious air he had spoken these words and how well he had conveyed the impression of certainty, of strength, of unlimited power, of indomitable daring!

Abruptly, unconsciously, acting under the impulse of an irresistible determination, the consequences of which she refused to anticipate, Yvonne, with the same automatic gestures, took a pneumatic-delivery envelope, slipped in the card, sealed it, directed it to “Horace Velmont, Cercle de la Rue Royale” and went to the open window. The policeman was walking up and down outside. She flung out the envelope, trusting to fate. Perhaps it would be picked up, treated as a lost letter and posted.

She had hardly completed this act when she realized its absurdity. It was mad to suppose that the message would reach the address and madder still to hope that the man to whom she was sending could come to her assistance, “whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles.”

A reaction followed which was all the greater inasmuch as the effort had been swift and violent. Yvonne staggered, leant against a chair and, losing all energy, let herself fall.

The hours passed by, the dreary hours of winter evenings when nothing but the sound of carriages interrupts the silence of the street. The clock struck, pitilessly. In the half-sleep that numbed her limbs, Yvonne counted the strokes. She also heard certain noises, on different floors of the house, which told her that her husband had dined, that he was going up to his room, that he was going down again to his study. But all this seemed very shadowy to her; and her torpor was such that she did not even think of lying down on the sofa, in case he should come in.⁠ ⁠…

The twelve strokes of midnight.⁠ ⁠… Then half-past twelve⁠ ⁠… then one.⁠ ⁠… Yvonne thought of nothing, awaiting the events which were preparing and against which rebellion was useless. She pictured her son and herself as one pictures those beings who have suffered much and who suffer no more and who take each other in their loving arms. But a nightmare shattered this dream. For now those two beings were to be torn asunder; and she had the awful feeling, in her delirium, that she was crying and choking.⁠ ⁠…

She leapt from her seat. The key had turned in the lock. The count was coming, attracted by her cries. Yvonne glanced round for a weapon with which to defend herself. But the door was pushed back quickly and, astounded, as though the sight that presented itself before her eyes seemed to her the most inexplicable prodigy, she stammered:

“You!⁠ ⁠… You!⁠ ⁠…”

A man was walking up to her, in dress-clothes, with his opera-hat and cape under his arm, and this man, young, slender and elegant, she had recognized as Horace Velmont.

“You!” she repeated.

He said, with a bow:

“I beg your pardon, madame, but I did not receive your letter until very late.”

“Is it possible? Is it possible that this is you⁠ ⁠… that you were able to⁠ ⁠… ?”

He seemed greatly surprised:

“Did I not promise to come in answer to your call?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… but⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, here I am,” he said, with a smile.

He examined the strips of canvas from which Yvonne had succeeded in freeing herself and nodded his head, while continuing his inspection:

“So those are the means employed? The Comte d’Origny, I presume?⁠ ⁠… I also saw that he locked you in.⁠ ⁠… But then the pneumatic letter?⁠ ⁠… Ah, through the window!⁠ ⁠… How careless of you not to close it!”

He pushed both sides to. Yvonne took fright:

“Suppose they hear!”

“There is no one in the house. I have been over it.”

“Still⁠ ⁠…”

“Your husband went out ten minutes ago.”

“Where is he?”

“With his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, it’s very simple! He was rung up by telephone and I awaited the result at the corner of this street and the boulevard. As I expected, the count came out hurriedly, followed by his man. I at once entered, with the aid of special keys.”

He told this in the most natural way, just as one tells a meaningless anecdote in a drawing-room. But Yvonne, suddenly seized with fresh alarm, asked:

“Then it’s not true?⁠ ⁠… His mother is not ill?⁠ ⁠… In that case, my husband will be coming back.⁠ ⁠…”

“Certainly, the count will see that a trick has been played on him and in three quarters of an hour at the latest.⁠ ⁠…”

“Let us go.⁠ ⁠… I don’t want him to find me here.⁠ ⁠… I must go to my son.⁠ ⁠…”

“One moment.⁠ ⁠…”

“One moment!⁠ ⁠… But don’t you know that they have taken him from me?⁠ ⁠… That they are hurting him, perhaps?⁠ ⁠…”

With set face and feverish gestures, she tried to push Velmont back. He, with great gentleness, compelled her to sit down and, leaning over her in a respectful attitude, said, in a serious voice:

“Listen, madame, and let us not waste time, when every minute is valuable. First of all, remember this: we met four times, six years ago.⁠ ⁠… And, on the fourth occasion, when I was speaking to you, in the drawing-room of this house, with too much⁠—what shall I say?⁠—with too much feeling, you gave me to understand that my visits were no longer welcome. Since that day I have not seen you. And, nevertheless, in spite of all, your faith in me was such that you kept the card which I put between the pages of that book and, six years later, you