The Hollow Needle, Maurice Leblanc [fiction novels to read .TXT] 📗

each other. They watched each other. Their swords were engaged up to the hilt. And it was like the heavy silence that goes before the mortal blow. Which of the two was to strike it?

Lupin said, between his teeth:

“Failing my instructions to the contrary, two of my friends have orders to enter your father’s room tonight, at three o’clock in the morning, to seize him and carry him off to join Ganimard and Holmlock Shears.”

A burst of shrill laughter interrupted him:

“Why, you highwayman, don’t you understand,” cried Beautrelet, “that I have taken my precautions? So you think that I am innocent enough, ass enough, to have sent my father home to his lonely little house in the open country!” Oh, the gay, bantering laughter that lit up the boy’s face! It was a new sort of laugh on his lips, a laugh that showed the influence of Lupin himself. And the familiar form of address which he adopted placed him at once on his adversary’s level. He continued:

“You see, Lupin, your great fault is to believe your schemes infallible. You proclaim yourself beaten, do you? What humbug! You are convinced that you will always win the day in the end⁠—and you forget that others can have their little schemes, too. Mine is a very simple one, my friend.”

It was delightful to hear him talk. He walked up and down, with his hands in his pockets and with the easy swagger of a boy teasing a caged beast. Really, at this moment, he was revenging, with the most terrible revenges, all the victims of the great adventurer. And he concluded:

“Lupin, my father is not in Savoy. He is at the other end of France, in the centre of a big town, guarded by twenty of our friends, who have orders not to lose sight of him until our battle is over. Would you like details? He is at Cherbourg, in the house of one of the keepers of the arsenal. And remember that the arsenal is closed at night and that no one is allowed to enter it by day, unless he carries an authorization and is accompanied by a guide.”

He stopped in front of Lupin and defied him, like a child making faces at his playmate:

“What do you say to that, master?”

For some minutes, Lupin had stood motionless. Not a muscle of his face had moved. What were his thoughts? Upon what action was he resolving? To anyone knowing the fierce violence of his pride the only possible solution was the total, immediate, final collapse of his adversary. His fingers twitched. For a second, I had a feeling that he was about to throw himself upon the boy and wring his neck.

“What do you say to that, master?” Beautrelet repeated.

Lupin took up the telegram that lay on the table, held it out and said, very calmly:

“Here, baby, read that.”

Beautrelet became serious, suddenly, impressed by the gentleness of the movement. He unfolded the paper and, at once, raising his eyes, murmured:

“What does it mean? I don’t understand.”

“At any rate, you understand the first word,” said Lupin, “the first word of the telegram⁠—that is to say, the name of the place from which it was sent⁠—look⁠—‘Cherbourg.’ ”

“Yes⁠—yes,” stammered Beautrelet. “Yes⁠—I understand⁠—‘Cherbourg’⁠—and then?”

“And then?⁠—I should think the rest is quite plain: ‘Removal of luggage finished. Friends left with it and will wait instructions till eight morning. All well.’ Is there anything there that seems obscure? The word ‘luggage’? Pooh, you wouldn’t have them write ‘M. Beautrelet, senior’! What then? The way in which the operation was performed? The miracle by which your father was taken out of Cherbourg Arsenal, in spite of his twenty bodyguards? Pooh, it’s as easy as A.B.C.! And the fact remains that the luggage has been dispatched. What do you say to that, baby?”

With all his tense being, with all his exasperated energy, Isidore tried to preserve a good countenance. But I saw his lips quiver, his jaw shrink, his eyes vainly strive to fix upon a point. He lisped a few words, then was silent and, suddenly, gave way and, with his hands before his face, burst into loud sobs:

“Oh, father! Father!”

An unexpected result, which was certainly the collapse which Lupin’s pride demanded, but also something more, something infinitely touching and infinitely artless. Lupin gave a movement of annoyance and took up his hat, as though this unaccustomed display of sentiment were too much for him. But, on reaching the door, he stopped, hesitated and then returned, slowly, step by step.

The soft sound of the sobs rose like the sad wailing of a little child overcome with grief. The lad’s shoulders marked the heartrending rhythm. Tears appeared through the crossed fingers. Lupin leaned forward and, without touching Beautrelet, said, in a voice that had not the least tone of pleasantry, nor even of the offensive pity of the victor:

“Don’t cry, youngster. This is one of those blows which a man must expect when he rushes headlong into the fray, as you did. The worst disasters lie in wait for him. The destiny of fighters will have it so. We must suffer it as bravely as we can.” Then, with a sort of gentleness, he continued, “You were right, you see: we are not enemies. I have known it for long. From the very first, I felt for you, for the intelligent creature that you are, an involuntary sympathy⁠—and admiration. And that is why I wanted to say this to you⁠—don’t be offended, whatever you do: I should be extremely sorry to offend you⁠—but I must say it: well, give up struggling against me. I am not saying this out of vanity⁠—nor because I despise you⁠—but, you see, the struggle is too unequal. You do not know⁠—nobody knows all the resources which I have at my command. Look here, this secret of the Hollow Needle which you are trying so vainly to unravel: suppose, for a moment, that it is a formidable, inexhaustible treasure⁠—or else an invisible, prodigious, fantastic refuge⁠—or