cornice was the plain plastered wall. Patrice and Coralie had already
observed, without paying particular attention to it, that the
wainscoting seemed to have been renewed in this part, because the
varnish of the boards did not have the same uniform color. Using one of
the iron dogs as a chisel, Patrice broke down the cornice and lifted the
first board. It broke easily. Under this plank, on the plaster of the
wall, were lines of writing.

"It's the same method," he said, "as that which old Siméon has since
employed. First write on the walls, then cover it up with wood or
plaster."

He broke off the top of the other boards and in this way brought several
complete lines into view, hurried lines, written in pencil and slightly
worn by time. Patrice deciphered them with the greatest emotion. His
father had written them at a moment when death was stalking at hand. A
few hours later he had ceased to live. They were the evidence of his
death-agony and perhaps too an imprecation against the enemy who was
killing him and the woman he loved.

Patrice read, in an undertone:

      "I am writing this in order that the scoundrel's plot
      may not be achieved to the end and in order to ensure
      his punishment. Coralie and I are no doubt going to
      perish, but at least we shall not die without
      revealing the cause of our death.

      "A few days ago, he said to Coralie, 'You spurn my
      love, you load me with your hatred. So be it. But I
      shall kill you both, your lover and you, in such a
      manner that I can never be accused of the death, which
      will look like suicide. Everything is ready. Beware,
      Coralie.'

      "Everything was, in fact, ready. He did not know me,
      but he must have known that Coralie used to meet
      somebody here daily; and it was in this lodge that he
      prepared our tomb.

      "What manner of death ours will be we do not know.
      Lack of food, no doubt. It is four hours since we were
      imprisoned. The door closed upon us, a heavy door
      which he must have placed there last night. All the
      other openings, doors and windows alike, are stopped
      up with blocks of stone laid and cemented since our
      last meeting. Escape is impossible. What is to become
      of us?"

The uncovered portion stopped here. Patrice said:

"You see, Coralie, they went through the same horrors as ourselves. They
too dreaded starvation. They too passed through long hours of waiting,
when inaction is so painful; and it was more or less to distract their
thoughts that they wrote those lines."

He went on, after examining the spot:

"They counted, most likely, on what happened, that the man who was
killing them would not read this document. Look, one long curtain was
hung over these two windows and the wall between them, one curtain, as
is proved by the single rod covering the whole distance. After our
parents' death no one thought of drawing it, and the truth remained
concealed until the day when Siméon discovered it and, by way of
precaution, hid it again under a wooden panel and hung up two curtains
in the place of one. In this way everything seemed normal."

Patrice set to work again. A few more lines made their appearance:

      "Oh, if I were the only one to suffer, the only one to
      die! But the horror of it all is that I am dragging my
      dear Coralie with me. She fainted and is lying down
      now, prostrate by the fears which she tries so hard to
      overcome. My poor darling! I seem already to see the
      pallor of death on her sweet face. Forgive me,
      dearest, forgive me!"

Patrice and Coralie exchanged glances. Here were the same sentiments
which they themselves felt, the same scruples, the same delicacy, the
same effacement of self in the presence of the other's grief.

"He loved your mother," Patrice murmured, "as I love you. I also am not
afraid of death. I have faced it too often, with a smile! But you,
Coralie, you, for whose sake I would undergo any sort of torture
. . . !"

He began to walk up and down, once more yielding to his anger:

"I shall save you, Coralie, I swear it. And what a delight it will then
be to take our revenge! He shall have the same fate which he was
devising for us. Do you understand, Coralie? He shall die here, here in
this room. Oh, how my hatred will spur me to bring that about!"

He tore down more pieces of boarding, in the hope of learning something
that might be useful to him, since the struggle was being renewed under
exactly similar conditions. But the sentences that followed, like those
which Patrice had just uttered, were oaths of vengeance:

      "Coralie, he shall be punished, if not by us, then by
      the hand of God. No, his infernal scheme will not
      succeed. No, it will never be believed that we had
      recourse to suicide to relieve ourselves of an
      existence that was built up of happiness and joy. No,
      his crime will be known. Hour by hour I shall here set
      down the undeniable proofs. . . ."

"Words, words!" cried Patrice, in a tone of exasperation. "Words of
vengeance and sorrow, but never a fact to guide us. Father, will you
tell us nothing to save your Coralie's daughter? If your Coralie
succumbed, let mine escape the disaster, thanks to your aid, father!
Help me! Counsel me!"

But the father answered the son with nothing but more words of challenge
and despair:

      "Who can rescue us? We are walled up in this tomb,
      buried alive and condemned to torture without being
      able to defend ourselves. My revolver lies there, upon
      the table. What is the use of it? The enemy does not
      attack us. He has time on his side, unrelenting time
      which kills of its own strength, by the mere fact that
      it is time. Who can rescue us? Who will save my
      darling Coralie?"

The position was terrible, and they felt all its tragic horror. It
seemed to them as though they were already dead, once they were enduring
the same trial endured by others and that they were still enduring it
under the same conditions. There was nothing to enable them to escape
any of the phases through which the other two, his father and her
mother, had passed. The similarity between their own and their parents'
fate was so striking that they seemed to be suffering two deaths, and
the second agony was now commencing.

Coralie gave way and began to cry. Moved by her tears, Patrice attacked
the wainscoting with new fury, but its boards, strengthened by
cross-laths, resisted his efforts:

At last he read:

      "What is happening? We had an impression that some one
      was walking outside, in the garden. Yes, when we put
      our ears to the stone wall built in the embrasure of
      the window, we thought we heard footsteps. Is it
      possible? Oh, if it only were! It would mean the
      struggle, at last. Anything rather than the maddening
      silence and endless uncertainty!

      "That's it! . . . That's it! . . . The sound is
      becoming more distinct. . . . It is a different sound,
      like that which you make when you dig the ground with
      a pick-ax. Some one is digging the ground, not in
      front of the house, but on the right, near the
      kitchen. . . ."

Patrice redoubled his efforts. Coralie came and helped him. This time he
felt that a corner of the veil was being lifted. The writing went on:

      "Another hour, with alternate spells of sound and
      silence: the same sound of digging and the same
      silence which suggests work that is being continued.

      "And then some one entered the hall, one person; he,
      evidently. We recognized his step. . . . He walks
      without attempting to deaden it. . . . Then he went to
      the kitchen, where he worked the same way as before,
      with a pick-ax, but on the stones this time. We also
      heard the noise of a pane of glass breaking.

      "And now he has gone outside again and there is a new
      sort of sound, against the house, a sound that seems
      to travel up the house as though the wretch had to
      climb to a height in order to carry out his plan.
      . . ."

Patrice stopped reading and looked at Coralie. Both of them were
listening.

"Hark!" he said, in a low voice.

"Yes, yes," she answered, "I hear. . . . Steps outside the house . . .
in the garden. . . ."

They went to one of the windows, where they had left the casement open
behind the wall of building-stones, and listened. There was really some
one walking; and the knowledge that the enemy was approaching gave them
the same sense of relief that their parents had experienced.

Some one walked thrice round the house. But they did not, like their
parents, recognize the sound of the footsteps. They were those of a
stranger, or else steps that had changed their tread. Then, for a few
minutes, they heard nothing more. And suddenly another sound arose; and,
though in their innermost selves they were expecting it, they were
nevertheless stupefied at hearing it. And Patrice, in a hollow voice,
laying stress upon each syllable, uttered the sentence which his father
had written twenty years before:

"It's the sound which you make when you dig the ground with a pick-ax."

Yes, It must be that. Some one was digging the ground, not in front of
the house, but on the right, near the kitchen.

And so the abominable miracle of the revived tragedy was continuing.
Here again the former act was repeated, a simple enough act in itself,
but one which became sinister because it was one of those which had
already been performed and because it was announcing and preparing the
death once before announced and prepared.

An hour passed. The work went on, paused and went on again. It was like
the sound of a spade at work in a courtyard, when the grave-digger is in
no hurry and takes a rest and then resumes his work.

Patrice and Coralie stood listening side by side, their eyes in each
other's eyes, their hands in each other's hands.

"He's stopping," whispered Patrice.

"Yes," said Coralie; "only I think . . ."

"Yes, Coralie, there's some one in the hall. . . . Oh, we need not
trouble to listen! We have only to remember. There: 'He goes to the
kitchen and digs as he did just now, but on the stones this time.' . . .
And then . . . and then . . . oh, Coralie, the same sound of broken
glass!"

It was memories mingling with the grewsome reality. The present and the
past formed but one. They foresaw events at the very instant when these
took place.

The enemy went outside again; and, forthwith, the sound seemed "to
travel up the house as though the wretch had to climb to a height in
order to carry out his plans."

And then . . . and then what would happen next? They no longer thought
of consulting the inscription on the wall, or perhaps they did not dare.
Their attention was concentrated on the invisible and sometimes
imperceptible deeds that were being accomplished against them outside,
an uninterrupted stealthy effort, a mysterious twenty-year-old plan
whereof each slightest detail was settled as by clockwork!

The enemy entered the house and they heard a rustling at the bottom of
the door, a rustling of soft things apparently being heaped or pushed
against the wood. Next came other vague noises in the two adjoining
rooms, against the walled doors, and similar noises outside, between the
stones of the windows and the open shutters. And then they heard some
one on the roof.

They raised their eyes. This time they felt certain that the last act
was at hand, or at least one of the scenes of the last act. The roof to
them was the framed skylight which occupied the center of the ceiling
and admitted the only daylight that entered the room. And still the same
agonizing question rose to their minds: what was going to happen? Would
the enemy show his face outside the skylight and reveal himself at last?

This work on the roof continued for a considerable time. Footsteps shook
the zinc sheets that covered it, moving between the right-hand side of
the house and the edge of the skylight. And suddenly this skylight, or
rather a part of it, a square containing four panes, was lifted, a very
little way, by a hand which inserted a stick to keep it open.

And the enemy again walked across the roof and went down the side of the
house.

They were almost disappointed and felt such a craving to know the truth
that Patrice once more fell to breaking the boards of the wainscoting,
removing the last pieces, which covered the end of the inscription. And
what they read made them live the last few minutes all over again. The
enemy's return, the rustle against the walls and the walled windows, the
noise on the roof, the opening of the skylight, the method of supporting
it: all this had happened in the same order and, so to speak, within the
same limit of time. Patrice's father and Coralie's mother had undergone
the same impressions. Destiny seemed bent on following the same paths
and making the same movements in seeking the same object.

And the writing went on:

      "He is going up again, he is going up again. . . .
      There's his footsteps on the roof. . . . He is near
      the skylight. . . . Will he look through? . . . Shall
      we see his hated face? . . ."

"He is going up again, he is going up again," gasped Coralie, nestling
against Patrice.

The enemy's footsteps were pounding over the zinc.

"Yes," said Patrice, "he is going up as before, without departing from
the procedure followed by the other. Only we do not know whose face will
appear to us. Our parents knew their enemy."

She shuddered at her image of the man who had killed her mother; and she
asked:

"It was he, was it not?"

"Yes, it was he. There is his name, written by my father."

Patrice had almost entirely uncovered the inscription. Bending low, he
pointed with his finger:

"Look. Read the name: Essarès. You can see it down there: it was one of
the last words my father wrote."

And Coralie read:

      "The skylight rose higher, a hand lifted it and we saw
      . . . we saw, laughing as he looked down on us--oh,
      the scoundrel--Essarès! . . . Essarès! . . . And then
      he passed something through the opening, something
      that came down, that unrolled itself in the middle of
      the room, over our heads: a ladder, a rope-ladder.

      "We did not understand. It was swinging in front of
      us. And then, in the end, I saw a sheet of paper
      rolled round the bottom rung and pinned to it. On the
      paper, in Essarès' handwriting, are the words, 'Send
      Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be saved. I give
      her ten minutes to accept. If not . . .'"

"Ah," said Patrice, rising from his stooping posture, "will this also be
repeated? What about the ladder, the rope-ladder, which I found in old
Siméon's cupboard?"

Coralie kept her eyes fixed on the skylight, for the footsteps were
moving around it. Then they stopped. Patrice and Coralie had not a doubt
that the moment had come and that they also were about to see their
enemy. And Patrice said huskily, in a choking voice:

"Who will it be? There are three men who could have played this sinister
part as it was played before. Two are dead, Essarès and my father. And
Siméon, the third, is mad. Is it he, in his madness, who has set the
machine working again? But how are we to imagine that he could have done
it with such precision? No, no, it is the other one, the one who directs
him and who till now has remained in the background."

He felt Coralie's fingers clutching his arm.

"Hush," she said, "here he is!"

"No, no."

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

Her imagination had foretold what was preparing; and in fact, as once
before, the skylight was raised higher. A hand lifted it. And suddenly
they saw a head slipping under the open framework.

It was the head of old Siméon.

"The madman!" Patrice whispered, in dismay. "The madman!"

"But perhaps he isn't mad," she said. "He can't be mad."

She could not check the trembling that shook her.

The man overhead looked down upon them, hidden behind his spectacles,
which allowed no expression of satisfied hatred or joy to show on his
impassive features.

"Coralie," said Patrice, in a low voice, "do what I say. . . . Come.
. . ."

He pushed her gently along, as though he were supporting her and leading
her to a chair. In reality he had but one thought, to reach the table
on which he had placed his revolvers, take one of them and fire.

Siméon remained motionless, like some evil genius come to unloose the
tempest. . . . Coralie could not rid herself of that glance which
weighted upon her.

"No," she murmured, resisting Patrice, as though she feared that his
intention would precipitate the dreaded catastrophe, "no, you mustn't.
. . ."

But Patrice, displaying greater determination, was near his object. One
more effort and his hand would hold the revolver.

He quickly made up his mind, took rapid aim and fired a shot.

The head disappeared from sight.

"Oh," said Coralie, "you were wrong, Patrice! He will take his revenge
on us. . . ."

"No, perhaps not," said Patrice, still holding his revolver. "I may very
well have hit him. The bullet struck the frame of the skylight. But it
may have glanced off, in which case . . ."

They waited hand in hand, with a gleam of hope, which did not last long,
however.

The noise on the roof began again. And then, as before--and this they
really had the impression of not seeing for the first time--as before,
something passed through the opening, something that came down, that
unrolled itself in the middle of the room, a ladder, a rope-ladder, the
very one which Patrice had seen in old Siméon's cupboard.

As before, they looked at it; and they knew so well that everything was
being done over again, that the facts were inexorably, pitilessly linked
together, they were so certain of it that their eyes at once sought the
sheet of paper which must inevitably be pinned to the bottom rung.

It was there, forming a little scroll, dry and discolored and torn at
the edges. It was the sheet of twenty years ago, written by Essarès and
now serving, as before, to convey the same temptation and the same
threat:

      "Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be saved.
      I give her ten minutes to accept. If not . . ."

CHAPTER XIII

THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN

"If not . . ."

Patrice repeated the words mechanically, several times over, while their
formidable significance became apparent to both him and Coralie. The
words meant that, if Coralie did not obey and did not deliver herself to
the enemy, if she did not flee from prison to go with the man who held
the keys of the prison, the alternative was death.

At that moment neither of them was thinking what end was in store for
them nor even of that death itself. They thought only of the command to
separate which the enemy had issued against them. One was to go and the
other to die.

Coralie was promised her life if she would sacrifice Patrice. But what
was the price of the promise? And what would be the form of the
sacrifice demanded?

There was a long silence, full of uncertainty and anguish between the
two lovers. They were coming to grips with something; and the drama was
no longer taking place absolutely outside them, without their playing
any other part than that of helpless victims. It was being enacted
within themselves; and they had the power to alter its ending. It was a
terrible problem. It had already been set to the earlier Coralie; and
she had solved it as a lover would, for she was dead. And now it was
being set again.

Patrice read the inscription; and the rapidly scrawled words became less
distinct:

      "I have begged and entreated Coralie. . . . She flung
      herself on her knees before me. She wants to die with
      me. . . ."

Patrice looked at Coralie. He had read the words in a very low voice;
and she had not heard them. Then, in a burst of passion, he drew her
eagerly to him and exclaimed:

"You must go, Coralie! You can understand that my not saying so at once
was not due to hesitation. No, only . . . I was thinking of that man's
offer . . . and I am frightened for your sake. . . . What he asks,
Coralie, is terrible. His reason for promising to save your life is that
he loves you. And so you understand. . . . But still, Coralie, you must
obey . . . you must go on living. . . . Go! It is no use waiting for the
ten minutes to pass. He might change his mind and condemn you to death
as well. No, Coralie, you must go, you must go at once!"

"I shall stay," she replied, simply.

He gave a start:

"But this is madness! Why make a useless sacrifice? Are you afraid of
what might happen if you obeyed him?"

"No."

"Then go."

"I shall stay."

"But why? Why this obstinacy? It can do no good. Then why stay?"

"Because I love you, Patrice."

He stood dumfounded. He knew that she loved him and he had already told
her so. But that she loved him to the extent of preferring to die in his
company, this was an unexpected, exquisite and at the same time terrible
delight.

"Ah," he said, "you love me, Coralie! You love me!"

"I love you, my own Patrice."

She put her arms around his neck; and he felt that hers was an embrace
too strong to be sundered. Nevertheless, he was resolved to save her;
and he refused to yield:

"If you love me," he said, "you must obey me and save your life. Believe
me, it is a hundred times more painful for me to die with you than to
die alone. If I know that you are free and alive, death will be sweet to
me."

She did not listen and continued her confession, happy in making it,
happy in uttering words which she had kept to herself so long:

"I have loved you, Patrice, from the first day I saw you. I knew it
without your telling me; and my only reason for not telling you earlier
was that I was waiting for a solemn occasion, for a time when it would
be a glory to tell you so, while I looked into the depths of your eyes
and offered myself to you entirely. As I have had to speak on the brink
of the grave, listen to me and do not force upon me a separation which
would be worse than death."

"No, no," he said, striving to release himself, "it is your duty to
go."

He made another effort and caught hold of her hands:

"It is your duty to go," he whispered, "and, when you are free, to do
all that you can to save me."

"What are you saying, Patrice?"

"Yes," he repeated, "to save me. There is no reason why you should not
escape from that scoundrel's clutches, report him, seek assistance, warn
our friends. You can call out, you can play some trick. . . ."

She looked at him with so sad a smile and such a doubting expression
that he stopped speaking.

"You are trying to mislead me, my poor darling," she said, "but you are
no more taken in by what you say than I am. No, Patrice, you well know
that, if I surrender myself to that man, he will reduce me to silence or
imprison me in some hiding-place, bound hand and foot, until you have
drawn your last breath."

"You really think that?"

"Just as you do, Patrice. Just as you are sure of what will happen
afterwards."

"Well, what will happen?"

"Ah, Patrice, if that man saves my life, it will not be out of
generosity. Don't you see what his plan is, his abominable plan, once I
am his prisoner? And don't you also see what my only means of escape
will be? Therefore, Patrice, if I am to die in a few hours, why not die
now, in your arms . . . at the same time as yourself, with my lips to
yours? Is that dying? Is it not rather living, in one instant, the most
wonderful of lives?"

He resisted her embrace. He knew that the first kiss of her proffered
lips would deprive him of all his power of will.

"This is terrible," he muttered. "How can you expect me to accept your
sacrifice, you, so young, with years of happiness before you?"

"Years of mourning and despair, if you are gone."

"You must live, Coralie. I entreat you to, with all my soul."

"I cannot live without you, Patrice. You are my only happiness. I have
no reason for existence except to love you. You have taught me to love.
I love you!"

Oh, those heavenly words! For the second time they rang between the four
walls of that room. The same words, spoken by the daughter, which the
mother had spoken with the same passion and the same glad acceptance of
her fate! The same words made twice holy by the recollection of death
past and the thought of death to come!

Coralie uttered them without alarm. All her fears seemed to disappear in
her love; and it was love alone that shook her voice and dimmed the
brightness of her eyes.

Patrice contemplated her with a rapt look. He too was beginning to think
that minutes such as these were worth dying for. Nevertheless, he made a
last effort:

"And if I ordered you to go, Coralie?"

"That is to say," she murmured, "if you ordered me to go to that man and
surrender myself to him? Is that what you wish, Patrice?"

The thought was too much for him.

"Oh, the horror of it! That man . . . that man . . . you, my Coralie,
so stainless and undefiled! . . ."

Neither he nor she pictured the man in the exact image of Siméon. To
both of them, notwithstanding the hideous vision perceived above, the
enemy retained a mysterious character. It was perhaps Siméon. It was
perhaps another, of whom Siméon was but the instrument. Assuredly it was
the enemy, the evil genius crouching above their heads, preparing their
death-throes while he pursued Coralie with his foul desire.

Patrice asked one more question:

"Did you ever notice that Siméon sought your company?"

"No, never. If anything, he rather avoided me."

"Then it's because he's mad. . . ."

"I don't think he is mad: he is revenging himself."

"Impossible. He was my father's friend. All his life long he worked to
bring us together: surely he would not kill us deliberately?"

"I don't know, Patrice, I don't understand. . . ."

They discussed it no further. It was of no importance whether their
death was caused by this one or that one. It was death itself that they
had to fight, without troubling who had set it loose against them. And
what could they do to ward it off?

"You agree, do you not?" asked Coralie, in a low voice.

He made no answer.

"I shall not go," she went on, "but I want you to be of one mind with
me. I entreat you. It tortures me to think that you are suffering more
than I do. You must let me bear my share. Tell me that you agree."

"Yes," he said, "I agree."

"My own Patrice! Now give me your two hands, look right into my eyes and
smile."

Mad with love and longing they plunged themselves for an instant into a
sort of ecstasy. Then she asked:

"What is it, Patrice? You seem distraught again."

He gave a hoarse cry:

"Look! . . . Look . . ."

This time he was certain of what he had seen. The ladder was going up.
The ten minutes were over.

He rushed forward and caught hold of one of the rungs. The ladder no
longer moved.

He did not know exactly what he intended to do. The ladder afforded
Coralie's only chance of safety. Could he abandon that hope and resign
himself to the inevitable?

One or two minutes passed. The ladder must have been hooked fast again,
for Patrice felt a firm resistance up above.

Coralie was entreating him:

"Patrice," she asked, "Patrice, what are you hoping for?"

He looked around and above him, as though seeking an idea, and he seemed
also to look inside himself, as though he were seeking that idea amid
all the memories which he had accumulated at the moment when his father
also held the ladder, in a last effort of will. And suddenly, throwing
up his leg, he placed his left foot on the fifth rung of the ladder and
began to raise himself by the uprights.

It was an absurd attempt to scale the ladder, to reach the skylight, to
lay hold of the enemy and thus save himself and Coralie. If his father
had failed before him, how could he hope to succeed?

It was all over in less than three seconds. The ladder was at once
unfastened from the hook that kept it hanging from the skylight; and
Patrice and the ladder came to the ground together. At the same time a
strident laugh rang out above, followed the next moment by the sound of
the skylight closing.

Patrice picked himself up in a fury, hurled insults at the enemy and, as
his rage increased, fired two revolver shots, which broke two of the
panes. He next attacked the doors and windows, banging at them with the
iron dog which he had taken from the fender. He hit the walls, he hit
the floor, he shook his fist at the invisible enemy who was mocking him.
But suddenly, after a few blows struck at space, he was compelled to
stop. Something like a thick veil had glided overhead. They were in the
dark.

He understood what had happened. The enemy had lowered a shutter upon
the skylight, covering it entirely.

"Patrice! Patrice!" cried Coralie, maddened by the blotting out of the
light and losing all her strength of mind. "Patrice! Where are you,
Patrice? Oh, I'm frightened! Where are you?"

They began to grope for each other, like blind people, and nothing that
had gone before seemed to them more horrible than to be lost in this
pitiless blackness.

"Patrice! Oh, Patrice! Where are you?"

Their hands touched, Coralie's poor little frozen fingers and Patrice's
hands that burned with fever, and they pressed each other and twined
together and clutched each other as though to assure themselves that
they were still living.

"Oh, don't leave me, Patrice!" Coralie implored.

"I am here," he replied. "Have no fear: they can't separate us."

"You are right," she panted, "they can't separate us. We are in our
grave."

The word was so terrible and Coralie uttered it so mournfully that a
reaction overtook Patrice.

"No! What are you talking about?" he exclaimed. "We must not despair.
There is hope of safety until the last moment."

Releasing one of his hands, he took aim with his revolver. A few faint
rays trickled through the chinks around the skylight. He fired three
times. They heard the crack of the wood-work and the chuckle of the
enemy. But the shutter must have been lined with metal, for no split
appeared.

Besides, the chinks were forthwith stopped up; and they became aware
that the enemy was engaged in the same work that he had performed around
the doors and windows. It was obviously very thorough and took a long
time in the doing. Next came another work, completing the first. The
enemy was nailing the shutter to the frame of the skylight.

It was an awful sound! Swift and light as were the taps of the hammer,
they seemed to drive deep into the brain of those who heard them. It was
their coffin that was being nailed down, their great coffin with a lid
hermetically sealed that now bore heavy upon them. There was no hope
left, not a possible chance of escape. Each tap of the hammer
strengthened their dark prison, making yet more impregnable the walls
that stood between them and the outer world and bade defiance to the
most resolute assault:

"Patrice," stammered Coralie, "I'm frightened . . . That tapping hurts
me so!" . . .

She sank back in his arms. Patrice felt tears coursing down her cheeks.

Meanwhile the work overhead was being completed. They underwent the
terrible experience which condemned men must feel on the morning of
their last day, when from their cells they hear the preparations: the
engine of death that is being set up, or the electric batteries that are
being tested. They hear men striving to have everything ready, so that
not one propitious chance may remain and so that destiny may be
fulfilled. Death had entered the enemy's service and was working hand in
hand with him. He was death itself, acting, contriving and fighting
against those whom he had resolved to destroy.

"Don't leave me," sobbed Coralie, "don't leave me! . . ."

"Only for a second or two," he said. "We must be avenged later."

"What is the use, Patrice? What can it matter to us?"

He had a box containing a few matches. Lighting them one after the
other, he led Coralie to the panel with the inscription.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I will not have our death put down to suicide. I want to do what our
parents did before us and to prepare for the future. Some one will read
what I am going to write and will avenge us."

He took a pencil from his pocket and bent down. There was a free space,
right at the bottom of the panel. He wrote:

      "Patrice Belval and Coralie, his betrothed, die the
      same death, murdered by Siméon Diodokis, 14 April,
      1915."

But, as he finished writing, he noticed a few words of the former
inscription which he had not yet read, because they were placed outside
it, so to speak, and did not appear to form part of it.

"One more match," he said. "Did you see? There are some words there, the
last, no doubt, that my father wrote."

She struck a match. By the flickering light they made out a certain
number of misshapen letters, obviously written in a hurry and forming
two words:

      "_Asphyxiated. . . . Oxide. . . ._"

The match went out. They rose in silence. Asphyxiated! They understood.
That was how their parents had perished and how they themselves would
perish. But they did not yet fully realize how the thing would happen.
The lack of air would never be great enough to suffocate them in this
large room, which contained enough to last them for many days.

"Unless," muttered Patrice, "unless the quality of the air can be
impaired and therefore . . ."

He stopped. Then he went on:

"Yes, that's it. I remember."

He told Coralie what he suspected, or rather what conformed so well with
the reality as to leave no room for doubt. He had seen in old Siméon's
cupboard not only the rope-ladder which the madman had brought with him,
but also a coil of lead pipes. And now Siméon's behavior from the moment
when they were locked in, his movements to and fro around the lodge, the
care with which he had stopped up every crevice, his labors along the
wall and on the roof: all this was explained in the most definite
fashion. Old Siméon had simply fitted to a gas-meter, probably in the
kitchen, the pipe which he had next laid along the wall and on the roof.
This therefore was the way in which they were about to die, as their
parents had died before them, stifled by ordinary gas.

Panic-stricken, they began to run aimlessly about the room, holding
hands, while their disordered brains, bereft of thought or will, seemed
like tiny things shaken by the fiercest gale. Coralie uttered incoherent
words. Patrice, while imploring her to keep calm, was himself carried
away by the storm and powerless to resist the terrible agony of the
darkness wherein death lay waiting. At such times a man tries to flee,
to escape the icy breath that is already chilling his marrow. He must
flee, but where? Which way? The walls are insurmountable and the
darkness is even harder than the walls.

They stopped, exhausted. A low hiss was heard somewhere in the room, the
faint hiss that issues from a badly-closed gas-jet. They listened and
perceived that it came from above. The torture was beginning.

"It will last half an hour, or an hour at most," Patrice whispered.

Coralie had recovered her self-consciousness:

"We shall be brave," she said.

"Oh, if I were alone! But you, you, my poor Coralie!"

"It is painless," she murmured.

"You are bound to suffer, you, so weak!"

"One suffers less, the weaker one is. Besides, I know that we sha'n't
suffer, Patrice."

She suddenly appeared so placid that he on his side was filled with a
great peace. Seated on a sofa, their fingers still entwined, they
silently steeped themselves in the mighty calm which comes when we think
that events have run their course. This calm is resignation, submission
to superior forces. Natures such as theirs cease to rebel when destiny
has manifested its orders and when nothing remains but acquiescence and
prayer.

She put her arm round Patrice's neck:

"I am your bride in the eyes of God," she said. "May He receive us as He
would receive a husband and wife."

Her gentle resignation brought tears to his eyes. She dried them with
her kisses, and, of her own seeking, offered him her lips.

They sat wrapped in an infinite silence. They perceived the first smell
of gas descending around them, but they felt no fear.

"Everything will happen as it did before, Coralie," whispered Patrice,
"down to the very last second. Your mother and my father, who loved
each other as we do, also died in each other's arms, with their lips
joined together. They had decided to unite us and they have united us."

"Our grave will be near theirs," she murmured.

Little by little their ideas became confused and they began to think
much as a man sees through a rising mist. They had had nothing to eat;
and hunger now added its discomfort to the vertigo in which their minds
were imperceptibly sinking. As it increased, their uneasiness and
anxiety left them, to be followed by a sense of ecstasy, then lassitude,
extinction, repose. The dread of the coming annihilation faded out of
their thoughts.

Coralie, the first to be affected, began to utter delirious words which
astonished Patrice at first:

"Dearest, there are flowers falling, roses all around us. How
delightful!"

Presently he himself grew conscious of the same blissful exaltation,
expressing itself in tenderness and joyful emotion. With no sort of
dismay he felt her gradually yielding in his arms and abandoning
herself; and he had the impression that he was following her down a
measureless abyss, all bathed with light, where they floated, he and
she, descending slowly and without effort towards a happy valley.

Minutes or perhaps hours passed. They were still descending, he
supporting her by the waist, she with her head thrown back a little way,
her eyes closed and a smile upon her lips. He remembered pictures
showing gods thus gliding through the blue of heaven; and, drunk with
pure, radiant light and air, he continued to circle above the happy
valley.

But, as he approached it, he felt himself grow weary. Coralie weighed
heavily on his bent arm. The descent increased in speed. The waves of
light turned to darkness. A thick cloud came, followed by others that
formed a whirl of gloom.

And suddenly, worn out, his forehead bathed in sweat and his body
shaking with fever, he pitched forward into a great black pit. . . .

CHAPTER XIV

A STRANGE CHARACTER

It was not yet exactly death. In his present condition of agony, what
lingered of Patrice's consciousness mingled, as in a nightmare, the life
which he knew with the imaginary world in which he now found himself,
the world which was that of death.

In this world Coralie no longer existed; and her loss distracted him
with grief. But he seemed to hear and see somebody whose presence was
revealed by a shadow passing before his closed eyelids. This somebody he
pictured to himself, though without reason, under the aspect of Siméon,
who came to verify the death of his victims, began by carrying Coralie
away, then came back to Patrice and carried him away also and laid him
down somewhere. And all this was so well-defined that Patrice wondered
whether he had not woke up.

Next hours passed . . . or seconds. In the end Patrice had a feeling
that he was falling asleep, but as a man sleeps in hell, suffering the
moral and physical tortures of the damned. He was back at the bottom of
the black pit, which he was making desperate efforts to leave, like a
man who has fallen into the sea and is trying to reach the surface. In
this way, with the greatest difficulty, he passed through one waste of
water after another, the weight of which stifled him. He had to scale
them, gripping with his hands and feet to things that slipped, to
rope-ladders which, possessing no points of support, gave way beneath
him.

Meanwhile the darkness became less intense. A little muffled daylight
mingled with it. Patrice felt less greatly oppressed. He half-opened his
eyes, drew a breath or two and, looking round, beheld a sight that
surprised him, the embrasure of an open door, near which he was lying in
the air, on a sofa. Beside him he saw Coralie, on another sofa. She
moved restlessly and seemed to be in great discomfort.

"She is climbing out of the black pit," he thought to himself. "Like me,
she is struggling. My poor Coralie!"

There was a small table between them, with two glasses of water on it.
Parched with thirst, he took one of them in his hand. But he dared not
drink.

At that moment some one came through the open door, which Patrice
perceived to be the door of the lodge; and he observed that it was not
old Siméon, as he had thought, but a stranger whom he had never seen
before.

"I am not asleep," he said to himself. "I am sure that I am not asleep
and that this stranger is a friend."

And he tried to say it aloud, to make certainty doubly sure. But he had
not the strength.

The stranger, however, came up to him and, in a gentle voice, said:

"Don't tire yourself, captain. You're all right now. Allow me. Have some
water."

The stranger handed him one of the two glasses; Patrice emptied it at a
draught, without any feeling of distrust, and was glad to see Coralie
also drinking.

"Yes, I'm all right now," he said. "Heavens, how good it is to be alive!
Coralie is really alive, isn't she?"

He did not hear the answer and dropped into a welcome sleep.

When he woke up, the crisis was over, though he still felt a buzzing in
his head and a difficulty in drawing a deep breath. He stood up,
however, and realized that all these sensations were not fanciful, that
he was really outside the door of the lodge and that Coralie had drunk
the glass of water and was peacefully sleeping.

"How good it is to be alive!" he repeated.

He now felt a need for action, but dared not go into the lodge,
notwithstanding the open door. He moved away from it, skirting the
cloisters containing the graves, and then, with no exact object, for he
did not yet grasp the reason of his own actions, did not understand what
had happened to him and was simply walking at random, he came back
towards the lodge, on the other front, the one overlooking the garden.

Suddenly he stopped. A few yards from the house, at the foot of a tree
standing beside the slanting path, a man lay back in a wicker
long-chair, with his face in the shade and his legs in the sun. He was
sleeping, with his head fallen forward and an open book upon his knees.

Then and not till then did Patrice clearly understand that he and
Coralie had escaped being killed, that they were both really alive and
that they owed their safety to this man whose sleep suggested a state of
absolute security and satisfied conscience.

Patrice studied the stranger's appearance. He was slim of figure, but
broad-shouldered, with a sallow complexion, a slight mustache on his
lips and hair beginning to turn gray at the temples. His age was
probably fifty at most. The cut of his clothes pointed to dandyism.
Patrice leant forward and read the title of the book: _The Memoirs of
Benjamin Franklin_. He also read the initials inside a hat lying on the
grass: "L. P."

"It was he who saved me," said Patrice to himself, "I recognize him. He
carried us both out of the studio and looked after us. But how was the
miracle brought about? Who sent him?"

He tapped him on the shoulder. The man was on his feet at once, his face
lit up with a smile:

"Pardon me, captain, but my life is so much taken up that, when I have a
few minutes to myself, I use them for sleeping, wherever I may be . . .
like Napoleon, eh? Well, I don't object to the comparison. . . . But
enough about myself. How are you feeling now? And madame--'Little Mother
Coralie'--is she better? I saw no use in waking you, after I had opened
the doors and taken you outside. I had done what was necessary and felt
quite easy. You were both breathing. So I left the rest to the good pure
air."

He broke off, at the sight of Patrice's disconcerted attitude; and his
smile made way for a merry laugh:

"Oh, I was forgetting: you don't know me! Of course, it's true, the
letter I sent you was intercepted. Let me introduce myself. Don Luis
Perenna,[3] a member of an old Spanish family, genuine patent of
nobility, papers all in order. . . . But I can see that all this tells
you nothing," he went on, laughing still more gaily. "No doubt Ya-Bon
described me differently when he wrote my name on that street-wall, one
evening a fortnight ago. Aha, you're beginning to understand! . . . Yes,
I'm the man you sent for to help you. Shall I mention the name, just
bluntly? Well, here goes, captain! . . . Arsène Lupin, at your service."

[Footnote 3: _The Teeth of the Tiger._ By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. "Luis Perenna" is one of several anagrams
of "Arsène Lupin."]

Patrice was stupefied. He had utterly forgotten Ya-Bon's proposal and
the unthinking permission which he had given him to call in the famous
adventurer. And here was Arsène Lupin standing in front of him, Arsène
Lupin, who, by a sheer effort of will that resembled an incredible
miracle, had dragged him and Coralie out of their hermetically-sealed
coffin.

He held out his hand and said:

"Thank you!"

"Tut!" said Don Luis, playfully. "No thanks! Just a good hand-shake,
that's all. And I'm a man you can shake hands with, captain, believe me.
I may have a few peccadilloes on my conscience, but on the other hand I
have committed a certain number of good actions which should win me the
esteem of decent folk . . . beginning with my own. And so . . ."

He interrupted himself again, seemed to reflect and, taking Patrice by a
button of his jacket, said:

"Don't move. We are being watched."

"By whom?"

"Some one on the quay, right at the end of the garden. The wall is not
high. There's a grating on the top of it. They're looking through the
bars and trying to see us."

"How do you know? You have your back turned to the quay; and then there
are the trees."

"Listen."

"I don't hear anything out of the way."

"Yes, the sound of an engine . . . the engine of a stopping car. Now
what would a car want to stop here for, on the quay, opposite a wall
with no house near it?"

"Then who do you think it is?"

"Why, old Siméon, of course!"

"Old Siméon!"

"Certainly. He's looking to see whether I've really saved the two of
you."

"Then he's not mad?"

"Mad? No more mad than you or I!"

"And yet . . ."

"What you mean is that Siméon used to protect you; that his object was
to bring you two together; that he sent you the key of the garden-door;
and so on and so on."

"Do you know all that?"

"Well, of course! If not, how could I have rescued you?"

"But," said Patrice, anxiously, "suppose the scoundrel returns to the
attack. Ought we not to take some precautions? Let's go back to the
lodge: Coralie is all alone."

"There's no danger."

"Why?"

"Because I'm here."

Patrice was more astounded than ever:

"Then Siméon knows you?" he asked. "He knows that you are here?"

"Yes, thanks to a letter which I wrote you under cover to Ya-Bon and
which he intercepted. I told you that I was coming; and he hurried to
get to work. Only, as my habit is on these occasions, I hastened on my
arrival by a few hours, so that I caught him in the act."

"At that moment you did not know he was the enemy; you knew nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"Was it this morning?"

"No, this afternoon, at a quarter to two."

Patrice took out his watch:

"And it's now four. So in two hours . . ."

"Not that. I've been here an hour."

"Did you find out from Ya-Bon?"

"Do you think I've no better use for my time? Ya-Bon simply told me that
you were not there, which was enough to astonish me."

"After that?"

"I looked to see where you were."

"How?"

"I first searched your room and, doing so in my own thorough fashion,
ended by discovering that there was a crack at the back of your roll-top
desk and that this crack faced a hole in the wall of the next room. I
was able therefore to pull out the book in which you kept your diary and
acquaint myself with what was going on. This, moreover, was how Siméon
became aware of your least intentions. This was how he knew of your plan
to come here, on a pilgrimage, on the fourteenth of April. This was how,
last night, seeing you write, he preferred, before attacking you, to
know what you were writing. Knowing it and learning, from your own
words, that you were on your guard, he refrained. You see how simple it
all is. If M. Masseron had grown uneasy at your absence, he would have
been just as successful. Only he would have been successful to-morrow."

"That is to say, too late."

"Yes, too late. This really isn't his business, however, nor that of the
police. So I would rather that they didn't meddle with it. I asked your
wounded soldiers to keep silent about anything that may strike them as
queer. Therefore, if M. Masseron comes to-day, he will think that
everything is in order. Well, having satisfied my mind in this respect
and possessing the necessary information from your diary, I took Ya-Bon
with me and walked across the lane and into the garden."

"Was the door open?"

"No, but Siméon happened to be coming out at that moment. Bad luck for
him, wasn't it? I took advantage of it boldly. I put my hand on the
latch and we went in, without his daring to protest. He certainly knew
who I was."

"But you didn't know at that time that he was the enemy?"

"I didn't know? And what about your diary?"

"I had no notion . . ."

"But, captain, every page is an indictment of the man. There's not an
incident in which he did not take part, not a crime which he did not
prepare."

"In that case you should have collared him."

"And if I had? What good would it have done me? Should I have compelled
him to speak? No, I shall hold him tightest by leaving him his liberty.
That will give him rope, you know. You see already he's prowling round
the house instead of clearing out. Besides, I had something better to
do: I had first to rescue you two . . . if there was still time. Ya-Bon
and I therefore rushed to the door of the lodge. It was open; but the
other, the door of the studio, was locked and bolted. I drew the bolts;
and to force the lock was, for me, child's play. Then the smell of gas
was enough to tell me what had happened, Siméon must have fitted an old
meter to some outside pipe, probably the one which supplied the lamps on
the lane, and he was suffocating you. All that remained for us to do was
to fetch the two of you out and give you the usual treatment: rubbing,
artificial respiration and so on. You were saved."

"I suppose he removed all his murderous appliances?" asked Patrice.

"No, he evidently contemplated coming back and putting everything to
rights, so that his share in the business could not be proved, so too
that people might believe in your suicide, a mysterious suicide, death
without apparent cause; in short, the same tragedy that happened with
your father and Little Mother Coralie's mother."

"Then you know? . . ."

"Why, haven't I eyes to read with? What about the inscription on the
wall, your father's revelations? I know as much as you do, captain . . .
and perhaps a bit more."

"More?"

"Well, of course! Habit, you know, experience! Plenty of problems,
unintelligible to others, seem to me the simplest and clearest that can
be. Therefore . . ."

Don Luis hesitated whether to go on:

"No," he said, "it's better that I shouldn't speak. The mystery will be
dispelled gradually. Let us wait. For the moment . . ."

He again stopped, this time to listen:

"There, he must have seen you. And now that he knows what he wants to,
he's going away."

Patrice grew excited:

"He's going away! You really ought to have collared him. Shall we ever
find him again, the scoundrel? Shall we ever be able to take our
revenge?"

Don Luis smiled:

"There you go, calling him a scoundrel, the man who watched over you for
twenty years, who brought you and Little Mother Coralie together, who
was your benefactor!"

"Oh, I don't know! All this is so bewildering! I can't help hating him.
. . . The idea of his getting away maddens me. . . . I should like to
torture him and yet . . ."

He yielded to a feeling of despair and took his head between his two
hands. Don Luis comforted him:

"Have no fear," he said. "He was never nearer his downfall than at the
present moment. I hold him in my hand as I hold this leaf."

"But how?"

"The man who's driving him belongs to me."

"What's that? What do you mean?"

"I mean that I put one of my men on the driver's seat of a taxi, with
instructions to hang about at the bottom of the lane, and that Siméon
did not fail to take the taxi in question."

"That is to say, you suppose so," Patrice corrected him, feeling more
and more astounded.

"I recognized the sound of the engine at the bottom of the garden when I
told you."

"And are you sure of your man?"

"Certain."

"What's the use? Siméon can drive far out of Paris, stab the man in the
back . . . and then when shall we get to know?"

"Do you imagine that people can get out of Paris and go running about
the high-roads without a special permit? No, if Siméon leaves Paris he
will have to drive to some railway station or other and we shall know of
it twenty minutes after. And then we'll be off."

"How?"

"By motor."

"Then you have a pass?"

"Yes, valid for the whole of France."

"You don't mean it!"

"I do; and a genuine pass at that! Made out in the name of Don Luis
Perenna, signed by the minister of the interior and countersigned . . ."

"By whom?"

"By the President of the Republic."

Patrice felt his bewilderment change all at once into violent
excitement. Hitherto, in the terrible adventure in which he was engaged,
he had undergone the enemy's implacable will and had known little
besides defeat and the horrors of ever-threatening death. But now a more
powerful will suddenly arose in his favor. And everything was abruptly
altered. Fate seemed to be changing its course, like a ship which an
unexpected fair wind brings back into harbor.

"Upon my word, captain," said Don Luis, "I thought you were going to cry
like Little Mother Coralie. Your nerves are overstrung. And I daresay
you're hungry. We must find you something to eat. Come along."

He led him slowly towards the lodge and, speaking in a rather serious
voice:

"I must ask you," he said, "to be absolutely discreet in this whole
matter. With the exception of a few old friends and of Ya-Bon, whom I
met in Africa, where he saved my life, no one in France knows me by my
real name. I call myself Don Luis Perenna. In Morocco, where I was
soldiering, I had occasion to do a service to the very gracious
sovereign of a neighboring neutral nation, who, though obliged to
conceal his true feelings, is ardently on our side. He sent for me; and,
in return, I asked him to give me my credentials and to obtain a pass
for me. Officially, therefore, I am on a secret mission, which expires
in two days. In two days I shall go back . . . to whence I came, to a
place where, during the war, I am serving France in my fashion: not a
bad one, believe me, as people will see one day."

They came to the settee on which Coralie lay sleeping. Don Luis laid his
hand on Patrice's arm:

"One word more, captain. I swore to myself and I gave my word of honor
to him who trusted me that, while I was on this mission, my time should
be devoted exclusively to defending the interests of my country to the
best of my power. I must warn you, therefore, that, notwithstanding all
my sympathy for you, I shall not be able to prolong my stay for a single
minute after I have discovered the eighteen hundred bags of gold. They
were the one and only reason why I came in answer to Ya-Bon's appeal.
When the bags of gold are in our possession, that is to say, to-morrow
evening at latest, I shall go away. However, the two quests are joined.
The clearing up of the one will mean the end of the other. And now
enough of words. Introduce me to Little Mother Coralie and let's get to
work! Make no mystery with her, captain," he added, laughing. "Tell her
my real name. I have nothing to fear: Arsène Lupin has every woman on
his side."

Forty minutes later Coralie was back in her room, well cared for and
well watched. Patrice had taken a substantial meal, while Don Luis
walked up and down the terrace smoking cigarettes.

"Finished, captain? Then we'll make a start."

He looked at his watch:

"Half-past five. We have more than an hour of daylight left. That'll be
enough."

"Enough? You surely don't pretend that you will achieve your aim in an
hour?"

"My definite aim, no, but the aim which I am setting myself at the
moment, yes . . . and even earlier. An hour? What for? To do what? Why,
you'll be a good deal wiser in a few minutes!"

Don Luis asked to be taken to the cellar under the library; where
Essarès Bey used to keep the bags of gold until the time had come to
send them off.

"Was it through this ventilator that the bags were let down?"

"Yes."

"Is there no other outlet?"

"None except the staircase leading to the library and the other
ventilator."

"Opening on the terrace?"

"Yes."

"Then that's clear. The bags used to come in by the first and go out by
the second."

"But . . ."

"There's no but about it, captain: how else would you have it happen?
You see, the mistake people always make is to go looking for
difficulties where there are none."

They returned to the terrace. Don Luis took up his position near the
ventilator and inspected the ground immediately around. It did not take
long. Four yards away, outside the windows of the library, was the basin
with the statue of a child spouting a jet of water through a shell.

Don Luis went up, examined the basin and, leaning forwards, reached the
little statue, which he turned upon its axis from right to left. At the
same time the pedestal described a quarter of a circle.

"That's it," he said, drawing himself up again.

"What?"

"The basin will empty itself."

He was right. The water sank very quickly and the bottom of the fountain
appeared.

Don Luis stepped into it and squatted on his haunches. The inner wall
was lined with a marble mosaic composing a wide red-and-white fretwork
pattern. In the middle of one of the frets was a ring, which Don Luis
lifted and pulled. All that portion of the wall which formed the pattern
yielded to his effort and came down, leaving an opening of about twelve
inches by ten.

"That's where the bags of gold went," said Don Luis. "It was the second
stage. They were despatched in the same manner, on a hook sliding along
a wire. Look, here is the wire, in this groove at the top."

"By Jove!" cried Captain Belval. "But you've unraveled this in a
masterly fashion! What about the wire? Can't we follow it?"

"No, but it will serve our purpose if we know where it finishes. I say,
captain, go to the end of the garden, by the wall, taking a line at
right angles to the house. When you get there, cut off a branch of a
tree, rather high up. Oh, I was forgetting! I shall have to go out by
the lane. Have you the key of the door? Give it me, please."

Patrice handed him the key and then went down to the wall beside the
quay.

"A little farther to the right," Don Luis instructed him. "A little more
still. That's better. Now wait."

He left the garden by the lane, reached the quay and called out from the
other side of the wall:

"Are you there, captain?"

"Yes."

"Fix your branch so that I can see it from here. Capital."

Patrice now joined Don Luis, who was crossing the road. All the way down
the Seine are wharves, built on the bank of the river and used for
loading and unloading vessels. Barges put in alongside, discharge their
cargoes, take in fresh ones and often lie moored one next to the other.
At the spot where Don Luis and Patrice descended by a flight of steps
there was a series of yards, one of which, the one which they reached
first, appeared to be abandoned, no doubt since the war. It contained,
amid a quantity of useless materials, several heaps of bricks and
building-stones, a hut with broken windows and the lower part of a
steam-crane. A placard swinging from a post bore the inscription:

           BERTHOU
     WHARFINGER & BUILDER.

Don Luis walked along the foot of the embankment, ten or twelve feet
high, above which the quay was suspended like a terrace. Half of it was
occupied by a heap of sand; and they saw in the wall the bars of an iron
grating, the lower half of which was hidden by the sand-heap shored up
with planks.

Don Luis cleared the grating and said, jestingly:

"Have you noticed that the doors are never locked in this adventure?
Let's hope that it's the same with this one."

His theory was confirmed, somewhat to his own surprise, and they entered
one of those recesses where workmen put away their tools.

"So far, nothing out of the common," said Don Luis, switching on an
electric torch. "Buckets, pick-axes, wheelbarrows, a ladder. . . . Ah!
Ah! Just as I expected: rails, a complete set of light rails! . . . Lend
me a hand, captain. Let's clear out the back. Good, that's done it."

Level with the ground and opposite the grating was a rectangular
opening exactly similar to the one in the basin. The wire was visible
above, with a number of hooks hanging from it.

"So this is where the bags arrived," Don Luis explained. "They dropped,
so to speak, into one of the two little trollies which you see over
there, in the corner. The rails were laid across the bank, of course at
night; and the trollies were pushed to a barge into which they tipped
their contents."

"So that . . . ?"

"So that the French gold went this way . . . anywhere you like . . .
somewhere abroad."

"And you think that the last eighteen hundred bags have also been
despatched?"

"I fear so."

"Then we are too late?"

Don Luis reflected for a while without answering. Patrice, though
disappointed by a development which he had not foreseen, remained amazed
at the extraordinary skill with which his companion, in so short a time,
had succeeded in unraveling a portion of the tangled skein.

"It's an absolute miracle," he said, at last. "How on earth did you do
it?"

Without a word, Don Luis took from his pocket the book which Patrice had
seen lying on his knees, _The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin_, and
motioned to him to read some lines which he indicated with his finger.
They were written towards the end of the reign of Louis XVI and ran:

      "We go daily to the village of Passy adjoining my
      home, where you take the waters in a beautiful garden.
      Streams and waterfalls pour down on all sides, this
      way and that, in artfully leveled beds. I am known to
      like skilful mechanism, so I have been shown the basin
      where the waters of all the rivulets meet and mingle.
      There stands a little marble figure in the midst; and
      the weight of water is strong enough to turn it a
      quarter circle to the left and then pour down straight
      to the Seine by a conduit, which opens in the ground
      of the basin."

Patrice closed the book; and Don Luis went on to explain:

"Things have changed since, no doubt, thanks to the energies of Essarès
Bey. The water escapes some other way now; and the aqueduct was used to
drain off the gold. Besides, the bed of the river has narrowed. Quays
have been built, with a system of canals underneath them. You see,
captain, all this was easy enough to discover, once I had the book to
tell me. _Doctus cum libro._"

"Yes, but, even so, you had to read the book."

"A pure accident. I unearthed it in Siméon's room and put it in my
pocket, because I was curious to know why he was reading it."

"Why, that's just how he must have discovered Essarès Bey's secret!"
cried Patrice. "He didn't know the secret. He found the book among his
employer's papers and got up his facts that way. What do you think?
Don't you agree? You seem not to share my opinion. Have you some other
view?"

Don Luis did not reply. He stood looking at the river. Beside the
wharves, at a slight distance from the yard, a barge lay moored, with
apparently no one on her. But a slender thread of smoke now began to
rise from a pipe that stood out above the deck.

"Let's go and have a look at her," he said.

The barge was lettered:

     LA NONCHALANTE. BEAUNE

They had to cross the space between the barge and the wharf and to step
over a number of ropes and empty barrels covering the flat portions of
the deck. A companion-way brought them to a sort of cabin, which did
duty as a stateroom and a kitchen in one. Here they found a
powerful-looking man, with broad shoulders, curly black hair and a
clean-shaven face. His only clothes were a blouse and a pair of dirty,
patched canvas trousers.

Don Luis offered him a twenty-franc note. The man took it eagerly.

"Just tell me something, mate. Have you seen a barge lately, lying at
Berthou's Wharf?"

"Yes, a motor-barge. She left two days ago."

"What was her name?"

"The _Belle Hélène_. The people on board, two men and a woman, were
foreigners talking I don't know what lingo. . . . We didn't speak to one
another."

"But Berthou's Wharf has stopped work, hasn't it?"

"Yes, the owner's joined the army . . . and the foremen as well. We've
all got to, haven't we? I'm expecting to be called up myself . . .
though I've got a weak heart."

"But, if the yard's stopped work, what was the boat doing here?"

"I don't know. They worked the whole of one night, however. They had
laid rails along the quay. I heard the trollies; and they were loading
up. What with I don't know. And then, early in the morning, they
unmoored."

"Where did they go?"

"Down stream, Mantes way."

"Thanks, mate. That's what I wanted to know."

Ten minutes later, when they reached the house, Patrice and Don Luis
found the driver of the cab which Siméon Diodokis had taken after
meeting Don Luis. As Don Luis expected, Siméon had told the man to go to
a railway-station, the Gare Saint-Lazare, and there bought his ticket.

"Where to?"

"To Mantes!"

CHAPTER XV

THE BELLE HÉLÈNE

"There's no mistake about it," said Patrice. "The information conveyed
to M. Masseron that the gold had been sent away; the speed with which
the work was carried out, at night, mechanically, by the people
belonging to the boat; their alien nationality; the direction which they
took: it all agrees. The probability is that, between the cellar into
which the gold was shot and the place where it finished its journey,
there was some spot where it used to remain concealed . . . unless the
eighteen hundred bags can have awaited their despatch, slung one behind
the other, along the wire. But that doesn't matter much. The great thing
is to know that the _Belle Hélène_, hiding somewhere in the outskirts,
lay waiting for the favorable opportunity. In the old days Essarès Bey,
by way of precaution, used to send her a signal with the aid of that
shower of sparks which I saw. This time old Siméon, who is continuing
Essarès' work, no doubt on his own account, gave the crew notice; and
the bags of gold are on their way to Rouen and Le Hâvre, where some
steamer will take them over and carry them . . . eastwards. After all,
forty or fifty tons, hidden in the hold under a layer of coal, is
nothing. What do you say? That's it, isn't it? I feel positive about it.
. . . Then we have Mantes, to which he took his ticket and for which
the _Belle Hélène_ is bound. Could anything be clearer? Mantes, where
he'll pick up his cargo of gold and go on board in some seafaring
disguise, unknown and unseen. . . . Loot and looter disappearing
together. It's as clear as daylight. Don't you agree?"

Once again Don Luis did not answer. However, he must have acquiesced in
Patrice's theories, for, after a minute, he declared:

"Very well. I'll go to Mantes." And, turning to the chauffeur, "Hurry
off to the garage," he said, "and come back in the six-cylinder. I want
to be at Mantes in less than an hour. You, captain . . ."

"I shall come with you."

"And who will look after . . . ?"

"Coralie? She's in no danger! Who can attack her now? Siméon has failed
in his attempt and is thinking only of saving his own skin . . . and his
bags of gold."

"You insist, do you?"

"Absolutely."

"I don't know that you're wise. However, that's your affair. Let's go.
By the way, though, one precaution." He raised his voice. "Ya-Bon!"

The Senegalese came hastening up. While Ya-Bon felt for Patrice all the
affection of a faithful dog, he seemed to profess towards Don Luis
something more nearly approaching religious devotion. The adventurer's
slightest action roused him to ecstasy. He never stopped laughing in the
great chief's presence.

"Ya-Bon, are you all right now? Is your wound healed? You don't feel
tired? Good. In that case, come with me."

He led him to the quay, a short distance away from Berthou's Wharf:

"At nine o'clock this evening," he said, "you're to be on guard here, on
this bench. Bring your food and drink with you; and keep a particular
look-out for anything that happens over there, down stream. Perhaps
nothing will happen at all; but never mind: you're not to move until I
come back . . . unless . . . unless something does happen, in which case
you will act accordingly."

He paused and then continued:

"Above all, Ya-Bon, beware of Siméon. It was he who gave you that wound.
If you catch sight of him, leap at his throat and bring him here. But
mind you don't kill him! No nonsense now. I don't want you to hand me
over a corpse, but a live man. Do you understand, Ya-Bon?"

Patrice began to feel uneasy:

"Do you fear anything from that side?" he asked. "Look here, it's out of
the question, as Siméon has gone . . ."

"Captain," said Don Luis, "when a good general goes in pursuit of the
enemy, that does not prevent him from consolidating his hold on the
conquered ground and leaving garrisons in the fortresses. Berthou's
Wharf is evidently one of our adversary's rallying-points. I'm keeping
it under observation."

Don Luis also took serious precautions with regard to Coralie. She was
very much overstrained and needed rest and attention. They put her into
the car and, after making a dash at full speed towards the center of
Paris, so as to throw any spies off the scent, took her to the home on
the Boulevard Maillot, where Patrice handed her over to the matron and
recommended her to the doctor's care. The staff received strict orders
to admit no strangers to see her. She was to answer no letter, unless
the letter was signed "Captain Patrice."

At nine o'clock, the car sped down the Saint-Germain and Mantes road.
Sitting inside with Don Luis, Patrice felt all the enthusiasm of victory
and indulged freely in theories, every one of which possessed for him
the value of an unimpeachable certainty. A few doubts lingered in his
mind, however, points which remained obscure and on which he would have
been glad to have Don Luis' opinion.

"There are two things," he said, "which I simply cannot understand. In
the first place, who was the man murdered by Essarès, at nineteen
minutes past seven in the morning, on the fourth of April? I heard his
dying cries. Who was killed? And what became of the body?"

Don Luis was silent; and Patrice went on:

"The second point is stranger still. I mean Siméon's behavior. Here's a
man who devotes his whole life to a single object, that of revenging his
friend Belval's murder and at the same time ensuring my happiness and
Coralie's. This is his one aim in life; and nothing can make him swerve
from his obsession. And then, on the day when his enemy, Essarès Bey, is
put out of the way, suddenly he turns round completely and persecutes
Coralie and me, going to the length of using against us the horrible
contrivance which Essarès Bey had employed so successfully against our
parents! You really must admit that it's an amazing change! Can it be
the thought of the gold that has hypnotized him? Are his crimes to be
explained by the huge treasure placed at his disposal on the day when
he discovered the secret? Has a decent man transformed himself into a
bandit to satisfy a sudden instinct? What do you think?"

Don Luis persisted in his silence. Patrice, who expected to see every
riddle solved by the famous adventurer in a twinkling, felt peevish and
surprised. He made a last attempt:

"And the golden triangle? Another mystery! For, after all, there's not a
trace of a triangle in anything we've seen! Where is this golden
triangle? Have you any idea what it means?"

Don Luis allowed a moment to pass and then said:

"Captain, I have the most thorough liking for you and I take the
liveliest interest in all that concerns you, but I confess that there is
one problem which excludes all others and one object towards which all
my efforts are now directed. That is the pursuit of the gold of which we
have been robbed; and I don't want this gold to escape us. I have
succeeded on your side, but not yet on the other. You are both of you
safe and sound, but I haven't the eighteen hundred bags; and I want
them, I want them."

"You'll have them, since we know where they are."

"I shall have them," said Don Luis, "when they lie spread before my
eyes. Until then, I can tell you nothing."

At Mantes the enquiries did not take long. They almost immediately had
the satisfaction of learning that a traveler, whose description
corresponded with old Siméon's, had gone to the Hôtel des
Trois-Empereurs and was now asleep in a room on the third floor.

Don Luis took a ground-floor room, while Patrice, who would have
attracted the enemy's attention more easily, because of his lame leg,
went to the Grand Hôtel.

He woke late the next morning. Don Luis rang him up and told him that
Siméon, after calling at the post-office, had gone down to the river and
then to the station, where he met a fashionably-dressed woman, with her
face hidden by a thick veil, and brought her back to the hotel. The two
were lunching together in the room on the third floor.

At four o'clock Don Luis rang up again, to ask Patrice to join him at
once in a little café at the end of the town, facing the Seine. Here
Patrice saw Siméon on the quay. He was walking with his hands behind his
back, like a man strolling without any definite object.

"Comforter, spectacles, the same get-up as usual," said Patrice. "Not a
thing about him changed. Watch him. He's putting on an air of
indifference, but you can bet that his eyes are looking up stream, in
the direction from which the _Belle Hélène_ is coming."

"Yes, yes," said Don Luis. "Here's the lady."

"Oh, that's the one, is it?" said Patrice. "I've met her two or three
times already in the street."

A dust-cloak outlined her figure and shoulders, which were wide and
rather well-developed. A veil fell around the brim of her felt hat. She
gave Siméon a telegram to read. Then they talked for a moment, seemed to
be taking their bearings, passed by the café and stopped a little lower
down. Here Siméon wrote a few words on a sheet of note-paper and handed
it to his companion. She left him and went back into the town. Siméon
resumed his walk by the riverside.

"You must stay here, captain," said Don Luis.

"But the enemy doesn't seem to be on his guard," protested Patrice.
"He's not turning round."

"It's better to be prudent, captain. What a pity that we can't have a
look at what Siméon wrote down!"

"I might . . ."

"Go after the lady? No, no, captain. Without wishing to offend you,
you're not quite cut out for it. I'm not sure that even I . . ."

And he walked away.

Patrice waited. A few boats moved up or down the river. Mechanically, he
glanced at their names. And suddenly, half an hour after Don Luis had
left him, he heard the clearly-marked rhythm, the pulsation of one of
those powerful motors which, for a few years past, have been fitted to
certain barges.

At the bend of the river a barge appeared. As she passed in front of
him, he distinctly and with no little excitement read the name of the
_Belle Hélène_!

She was gliding along at a fair pace, to the accompaniment of a regular,
throbbing beat. She was big and broad in the beam, heavy and pretty deep
in the water, though she appeared to carry no cargo. Patrice saw two
watermen on board, sitting and smoking carelessly. A dinghy floated
behind at the end of a painter.

The barge went on and passed out of sight at the turn. Patrice waited
another hour before Don Luis came back.

"Well?" he asked. "Have you seen her?"

"Yes, they let go the dinghy, a mile and a half from here, and put in
for Siméon."

"Then he's gone with them?"

"Yes."

"Without suspecting anything?"

"You're asking me too much, captain!"

"Never mind! We've won! We shall catch them up in the car, pass them
and, at Vernon or somewhere, inform the military and civil authorities,
so that they may proceed to arrest the men and seize the boat."

"We shall inform nobody, captain. We shall proceed to carry out these
little operations ourselves."

"What do you mean? Surely . . ."

The two looked at each other. Patrice had been unable to dissemble the
thought that occurred to his mind. Don Luis showed no resentment:

"You're afraid that I shall run away with the three hundred millions? By
jingo, it's a largish parcel to hide in one's jacket-pocket!"

"Still," said Patrice, "may I ask what you intend to do?"

"You may, captain, but allow me to postpone my reply until we've really
won. For the moment, we must first find the barge again."

They went to the Hôtel des Trois-Empereurs and drove off in the car
towards Vernon. This time they were both silent.

The road joined the river a few miles lower down, at the bottom of the
steep hill which begins at Rosny. Just as they reached Rosny the _Belle
Hélène_ was entering the long loop which curves out to La Roche-Guyon,
turns back and joins the high-road again at Bonnières. She would need at
least three hours to cover the distance, whereas the car, climbing the
hill and keeping straight ahead, arrived at Bonnières in fifteen
minutes.

They drove through the village. There was an inn a little way beyond it,
on the right. Don Luis made his chauffeur stop here:

"If we are not back by twelve to-night," he said, "go home to Paris.
Will you come with me, captain?"

Patrice followed him towards the right, whence a small road led them to
the river-bank. They followed this for a quarter of an hour. At last Don
Luis found what he appeared to be seeking, a boat fastened to a stake,
not far from a villa with closed shutters. Don Luis unhooked the chain.

It was about seven o'clock in the evening. Night was falling fast, but a
brilliant moonlight lit the landscape.

"First of all," said Don Luis, "a word of explanation. We're going to
wait for the barge. She'll come in sight on the stroke of ten and find
us lying across stream. I shall order her to heave to; and there's no
doubt that, when they see your uniform by the light of the moon or of my
electric lamp, they will obey. Then we shall go on board."

"Suppose they refuse?"

"If they refuse, we shall board her by force. There are three of them
and two of us. So . . ."

"And then?"

"And then? Well, there's every reason to believe that the two men
forming the crew are only extra hands, employed by Siméon, but ignorant
of his actions and knowing nothing of the nature of the cargo. Once we
have reduced Siméon to helplessness and paid them handsomely, they'll
take the barge wherever I tell them. But, mind you--and this is what I
was coming to--I mean to do with the barge exactly as I please. I shall
hand over the cargo as and when I think fit. It's my booty, my prize. No
one is entitled to it but myself."

The officer drew himself up:

"Oh, I can't agree to that, you know!"

"Very well, then give me your word of honor that you'll keep a secret
which doesn't belong to you. After which, we'll say good-night and go
our own ways. I'll do the boarding alone and you can go back to your own
business. Observe, however, that I am not insisting on an immediate
reply. You have plenty of time to reflect and to take the decision which
your interest, honor and conscience may dictate to you. For my part,
excuse me, but you know my weakness: when circumstances give me a little
spare time, I take advantage of it to go to sleep. _Carpe somnum_, as
the poet says. Good-night, captain."

And, without another word, Don Luis wrapped himself in his great-coat,
sprang into the boat and lay down.

Patrice had had to make a violent effort to restrain his anger. Don
Luis' calm, ironic tone and well-bred, bantering voice got on his nerves
all the more because he felt the influence of that strange man and fully
recognized that he was incapable of acting without his assistance.
Besides, he could not forget that Don Luis had saved his life and
Coralie's.

The hours slipped by. The adventurer slumbered peacefully in the cool
night air. Patrice hesitated what to do, seeking for some plan of
conduct which would enable him to get at Siméon and rid himself of that
implacable adversary and at the same time to prevent Don Luis from
laying hands on the enormous treasure. He was dismayed at the thought of
being his accomplice. And yet, when the first throbs of the motor were
heard in the distance and when Don Luis awoke, Patrice was by his side,
ready for action.

They did not exchange a word. A village-clock struck ten. The _Belle
Hélène_ was coming towards them.

Patrice felt his excitement increase. The _Belle Hélène_ meant Siméon's
capture, the recovery of the millions, Coralie out of danger, the end of
that most hideous nightmare and the total extinction of Essarès'
handiwork. The engine was throbbing nearer and nearer. Its loud and
regular beat sounded wide over the motionless Seine. Don Luis had taken
the sculls and was pulling hard for the middle of the river. And
suddenly they saw in the distance a black mass looming up in the white
moonlight. Twelve or fifteen more minutes passed and the _Belle Hélène_
was before them.

"Shall I lend you a hand?" whispered Patrice. "It looks as if you had
the current against you and as if you had a difficulty in getting
along."

"Not the least difficulty," said Don Luis; and he began to hum a tune.

"But . . ."

Patrice was stupefied. The boat had turned in its own length and was
making for the bank.

"But, I say, I say," he said, "what's this? Are you going back? Are you
giving up? . . . I don't understand. . . . You're surely not afraid
because they're three to our two?"

Don Luis leapt on shore at a bound and stretched out his hand to him.
Patrice pushed it aside, growling:

"Will you explain what it all means?"

"Take too long," replied Don Luis. "Just one question, though. You know
that book I found in old Siméon's room, _The Memoirs of Benjamin
Franklin_: did you see it when you were making your search?"

"Look here, it seems to me we have other things to . . ."

"It's an urgent question, captain."

"Well, no, it wasn't there."

"Then that's it," said Don Luis. "We've been done brown, or rather, to
be accurate, I have. Let's be off, captain, as fast as we can."

Patrice was still in the boat. He pushed off abruptly and caught up the
scull, muttering:

"As I live, I believe the beggar's getting at me!"

He was ten yards from shore when he cried:

"If you're afraid, I'll go alone. Don't want any help."

"Right you are, captain!" replied Don Luis. "I'll expect you presently
at the inn."

Patrice encountered no difficulties in his undertaking. At the first
order, which he shouted in a tone of command, the _Belle Hélène_
stopped; and he was able to board her peacefully. The two bargees were
men of a certain age, natives of the Basque coast. He introduced himself
as a representative of the military authorities; and they showed him
over their craft. He found neither old Siméon nor the very smallest bag
of gold. The hold was almost empty.

The questions and answers did not take long:

"Where are you going?"

"To Rouen. We've been requisitioned by the government for transport of
supplies."

"But you picked up somebody on the way."

"Yes, at Mantes."

"His name, please?"

"Siméon Diodokis."

"Where's he got to?"

"He made us put him down a little after, to take the train."

"What did he want?"

"To pay us."

"For what?"

"For a shipload we took at Paris two days ago."

"Bags?"

"Yes."

"What of?"

"Don't know. We were well paid and asked no questions."

"And what's become of the load?"

"We transhipped it last night to a small steamer that came alongside of
us below Passy."

"What's the steamer's name?"

"The _Chamois_. Crew of six."

"Where is she now?"

"Ahead of us. She was going fast. She must be at Rouen by this time.
Siméon Diodokis is on his way to join her."

"How long have you known Siméon Diodokis?"

"It's the first time we saw him. But we knew that he was in M. Essarès'
service."

"Oh, so you've worked for M. Essarès?"

"Yes, often. . . . Same job and same trip."

"He called you by means of a signal, didn't he?"

"Yes, he used to light an old factory-chimney."

"Was it always bags?"

"Yes. We didn't know what was inside. He was a good payer."

Patrice asked no more questions. He hurriedly got into his boat, pulled
back to shore and found Don Luis seated with a comfortable supper in
front of him.

"Quick!" he said. "The cargo is on board a steamer, the _Chamois_. We
can catch her up between Rouen and Le Hâvre."

Don Luis rose and handed the officer a white-paper packet:

"Here's a few sandwiches for you, captain," he said. "We've an arduous
night before us. I'm very sorry that you didn't get a sleep, as I did.
Let's be off, and this time I shall drive. We'll knock some pace out of
her! Come and sit beside me, captain."

They both stepped into the car; the chauffeur took his seat behind them.
But they had hardly started when Patrice exclaimed:

"Hi! What are you up to? Not this way! We're going back to Mantes or
Paris!"

"That's what I mean to do," said Luis, with a chuckle.

"Eh, what? Paris?"

"Well, of course!"

"Oh, look here, this is a bit too thick! Didn't I tell you that the two
bargees . . . ?"

"Those bargees of yours are humbugs."

"They declared that the cargo . . ."

"Cargo? No go!"

"But the _Chamois_ . . ."

"_Chamois_? Sham was! I tell you once more, we're done, captain, done
brown! Old Siméon is a wonderful old hand! He's a match worth meeting.
He gives you a run for your money. He laid a trap in which I've been
fairly caught. It's a magnificent joke, but there's moderation in all
things. We've been fooled enough to last us the rest of our lives. Let's
be serious now."

"But . . ."

"Aren't you satisfied yet, captain? After the _Belle Hélène_ do you want
to attack the _Chamois_? As you please. You can get out at Mantes: Only,
I warn you, Siméon is in Paris, with three or four hours' start of us."

Patrice gave a shudder. Siméon in Paris! In Paris, where Coralie was
alone and unprotected! He made no further protest; and Don Luis ran on:

"Oh, the rascal! How well he played his hand! _The Memoirs of Benjamin
Franklin_ were a master stroke. Knowing of my arrival, he said to
himself, 'Arsène Lupin is a dangerous fellow, capable of disentangling
the affair and putting both me and the bags of gold in his pocket. To
get rid of him, there's only one thing to be done: I must act in such a
way as to make him rush along the real track at so fast a rate of speed
that he does not perceive the moment when the real track becomes a false
track.' That was clever of him, wasn't it? And so we have the Franklin
book, held out as a bait; the page opening of itself, at the right
place; my inevitable easy discovery of the conduit system; the clue of
Ariadne most obligingly offered. I follow up the clue like a trusting
child, led by Siméon's own hand, from the cellar down to Berthou's
Wharf. So far all's well. But, from that moment, take care! There's
nobody at Berthou's Wharf. On the other hand, there's a barge alongside,
which means a chance of making enquiries, which means the certainty that
I shall make enquiries. And I make enquiries. And, having made
enquiries, I am done for."

"But then that man . . . ?"

"Yes, yes, yes, an accomplice of Siméon's, whom Siméon, knowing that he
would be followed to the Gare Saint-Lazare, instructs in this way to
direct me to Mantes for the second time. At Mantes the comedy continues.
The _Belle Hélène_ passes, with her double freight, Siméon and the bags
of gold. We go running after the _Belle Hélène_. Of course, on the
_Belle Hélène_ there's nothing: no Siméon, no bags of gold. 'Run after
the _Chamois_. We've transhipped it all on the _Chamois_.' We run after
the _Chamois_, to Rouen, to Le Hâvre, to the end of the world; and of
course our pursuit is fruitless, for the _Chamois_ does not exist. But
we are convinced that she does exist and that she has escaped our
search. And by this time the trick is played. The millions are gone,
Siméon has disappeared and there is only one thing left for us to do,
which is to resign ourselves and abandon our quest. You understand,
we're to abandon our quest: that's the fellow's object. And he would
have succeeded if . . ."

The car was traveling at full speed. From time to time Don Luis would
stop her dead with extraordinary skill. Post of territorials. Pass to be
produced. Then a leap onward and once more the breakneck pace.

"If what?" asked Patrice, half-convinced. "Which was the clue that put
you on the track?"

"The presence of that woman at Mantes. It was a vague clue at first. But
suddenly I remembered that, in the first barge, the _Nonchalante_, the
person who gave us information--do you recollect?--well, that this
person somehow gave me the queer impression, I can't tell you why, that
I might be talking to a woman in disguise. The impression occurred to me
once more. I made a mental comparison with the woman at Mantes. . . .
And then . . . and then it was like a flash of light. . . ."

Don Luis paused to think and, in a lower voice, continued:

"But who the devil can this woman be?"

There was a brief silence, after which Patrice said, from instinct
rather than reason:

"Grégoire, I suppose."

"Eh? What's that? Grégoire?"

"Yes. Yes, Grégoire is a woman."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, obviously. Don't you remember? The accomplice told me so, on the
day when I had them arrested outside the café."

"Why, your diary doesn't say a word about it!"

"Oh, that's true! . . . I forgot to put down that detail."

"A detail! He calls it a detail! Why, it's of the greatest importance,
captain! If I had known, I should have guessed that that bargee was no
other than Grégoire and we should not have wasted a whole night. Hang it
all, captain, you really are the limit!"

But all this was unable to affect his good-humor. While Patrice,
overcome with presentiments, grew gloomier and gloomier, Don Luis began
to sing victory in his turn:

"Thank goodness! The battle is becoming serious! Really, it was too easy
before; and that was why I was sulking, I, Lupin! Do you imagine things
go like that in real life? Does everything fit in so accurately?
Benjamin Franklin, the uninterrupted conduit for the gold, the series of
clues that reveal themselves of their own accord, the man and the bags
meeting at Mantes, the _Belle Hélène_: no, it all worried me. The cat
was being choked with cream! And then the gold escaping in a barge! All
very well in times of peace, but not in war-time, in the face of the
regulations: passes, patrol-boats, inspections and I don't know what.
. . . How could a fellow like Siméon risk a trip of that kind? No, I had
my suspicions; and that was why, captain, I made Ya-Bon mount guard, on
the off chance, outside Berthou's Wharf. It was just an idea that
occurred to me. The whole of this adventure seemed to center round the
wharf. Well, was I right or not? Is M. Lupin no longer able to follow a
scent? Captain, I repeat, I shall go back to-morrow evening. Besides, as
I told you, I've got to. Whether I win or lose, I'm going. But we shall
win. Everything will be cleared up. There will be no more mysteries, not
even the mystery of the golden triangle. . . . Oh, I don't say that I
shall bring you a beautiful triangle of eighteen-carat gold! We mustn't
allow ourselves to be fascinated by words. It may be a geometrical
arrangement of the bags of gold, a triangular pile . . . or else a hole
in the ground dug in that shape. No matter, we shall have it! And the
bags of gold shall be ours! And Patrice and Coralie shall appear before
monsieur le maire and receive my blessing and live happily ever after!"

They reached the gates of Paris. Patrice was becoming more and more
anxious:

"Then you think the danger's over?"

"Oh, I don't say that! The play isn't finished. After the great scene of
the third act, which we will call the scene of the oxide of carbon,
there will certainly be a fourth act and perhaps a fifth. The enemy has
not laid down his arms, by any means."

They were skirting the quays.

"Let's get down," said Don Luis.

He gave a faint whistle and repeated it three times.

"No answer," he said. "Ya-Bon's not there. The battle has begun."

"But Coralie . . ."

"What are you afraid of for her? Siméon doesn't know her address."

There was nobody on Berthou's Wharf and nobody on the quay below. But by
the light of the moon they saw the other barge, the _Nonchalante_.

"Let's go on board," said Don Luis. "I wonder if the lady known as
Grégoire makes a practise of living here? Has she come back, believing
us on our way to Le Hâvre? I hope so. In any case, Ya-Bon must have been
there and no doubt left something behind to act as a signal. Will you
come, captain?"

"Right you are. It's a queer thing, though: I feel frightened!"

"What of?" asked Don Luis, who was plucky enough himself to understand
this presentiment.

"Of what we shall see."

"My dear sir, there may be nothing there!"

Each of them switched on his pocket-lamp and felt the handle of his
revolver. They crossed the plank between the shore and the boat. A few
steps downwards brought them to the cabin. The door was locked.

"Hi, mate! Open this, will you?"

There was no reply. They now set about breaking it down, which was no
easy matter, for it was massive and quite unlike an ordinary cabin-door.

At last it gave way.

"By Jingo!" said Don Luis, who was the first to go in. "I didn't expect
this!"

"What?"

"Look. The woman whom they called Grégoire. She seems to be dead."

She was lying back on a little iron bedstead, with her man's blouse open
at the top and her chest uncovered. Her face still bore an expression of
extreme terror. The disordered appearance of the cabin suggested that a
furious struggle had taken place.

"I was right. Here, by her side, are the clothes she wore at Mantes. But
what's the matter, captain?"

Patrice had stifled a cry:

"There . . . opposite . . . under the window . . ."

It was a little window overlooking the river. The panes were broken.

"Well?" asked Don Luis. "What? Yes, I believe some one's been thrown out
that way."

"The veil . . . that blue veil," stammered Patrice, "is her nurse's veil
. . . Coralie's. . . ."

Don Luis grew vexed:

"Nonsense! Impossible! Nobody knew her address."

"Still . . ."

"Still what? You haven't written to her? You haven't telegraphed to
her?"

"Yes . . . I telegraphed to her . . . from Mantes."

"What's that? Oh, but look here. This is madness! You don't mean that
you really telegraphed?"

"Yes, I do."

"You telegraphed from the post-office at Mantes?"

"Yes."

"And was there any one in the post-office?"

"Yes, a woman."

"What woman? The one who lies here, murdered?"

"Yes."

"But she didn't read what you wrote?"

"No, but I wrote the telegram twice over."

"And you threw the first draft anywhere, on the floor, so that any one
who came along. . . . Oh, really, captain, you must confess . . . !"

But Patrice was running towards the car and was already out of ear-shot.

Half an hour after, he returned with two telegrams which he had found on
Coralie's table. The first, the one which he had sent, said:

      "All well. Be easy and stay indoors. Fondest love.

      "CAPTAIN PATRICE."

The second, which had evidently been despatched by Siméon, ran as
follows:

      "Events taking serious turn. Plans changed. Coming
      back. Expect you nine o'clock this evening at the
      small door of your garden.

      "CAPTAIN PATRICE."

This second telegram was delivered to Coralie at eight o'clock; and she
had left the home immediately afterwards.

CHAPTER XVI

THE FOURTH ACT

"Captain," said Don Luis, "you've scored two fine blunders. The first
was your not telling me that Grégoire was a woman. The second . . ."

But Don Luis saw that the officer was too much dejected for him to care
about completing his charge. He put his hand on Patrice Belval's
shoulder:

"Come," he said, "don't upset yourself. The position's not as bad as you
think."

"Coralie jumped out of the window to escape that man," Patrice muttered.

"Your Coralie is alive," said Don Luis, shrugging his shoulders. "In
Siméon's hands, but alive."

"Why, what do you know about it? Anyway, if she's in that monster's
hands, might she not as well be dead? Doesn't it mean all the horrors of
death? Where's the difference?"

"It means a danger of death, but it means life if we come in time; and
we shall."

"Have you a clue?"

"Do you imagine that I have sat twiddling my thumbs and that an old hand
like myself hasn't had time in half an hour to unravel the mysteries
which this cabin presents?"

"Then let's go," cried Patrice, already eager for the fray. "Let's have
at the enemy."

"Not yet," said Don Luis, who was still hunting around him. "Listen to
me. I'll tell you what I know, captain, and I'll tell it you straight
out, without trying to dazzle you by a parade of reasoning and without
even telling you of the tiny trifles that serve me as proofs. The bare
facts, that's all. Well, then . . ."

"Yes?"

"Little Mother Coralie kept the appointment at nine o'clock. Siméon was
there with his female accomplice. Between them they bound and gagged her
and brought her here. Observe that, in their eyes, it was a safe spot
for the job, because they knew for certain that you and I had not
discovered the trap. Nevertheless, we may assume that it was a
provisional base of operations, adopted for part of the night only, and
that Siméon reckoned on leaving Little Mother Coralie in the hands of
his accomplice and setting out in search of a definite place of
confinement, a permanent prison. But luckily--and I'm rather proud of
this--Ya-Bon was on the spot. Ya-Bon was watching on his bench, in the
dark. He must have seen them cross the embankment and no doubt
recognized Siméon's walk in the distance. We'll take it that he gave
chase at once, jumped on to the deck of the barge and arrived here at
the same time as the enemy, before they had time to lock themselves in.
Four people in this narrow space, in pitch darkness, must have meant a
frightful upheaval. I know my Ya-Bon. He's terrible at such times.
Unfortunately, it was not Siméon whom he caught by the neck with that
merciless hand of his, but . . . the woman. Siméon took advantage of
this. He had not let go of Little Mother Coralie. He picked her up in
his arms and went up the companionway, flung her on the deck and then
came back to lock the door on the two as they struggled."

"Do you think so? Do you think it was Ya-Bon and not Siméon who killed
the woman?"

"I'm sure of it. If there were no other proof, there is this particular
fracture of the wind-pipe, which is Ya-Bon's special mark. What I do not
understand is why, when he had settled his adversary, Ya-Bon didn't
break down the door with a push of his shoulder and go after Siméon. I
presume that he was wounded and that he had not the strength to make the
necessary effort. I presume also that the woman did not die at once and
that she spoke, saying things against Siméon, who had abandoned her
instead of defending her. This much is certain, that Ya-Bon broke the
window-panes . . ."

"To jump into the Seine, wounded as he was, with his one arm?" said
Patrice.

"Not at all. There's a ledge running along the window. He could set his
feet on it and get off that way."

"Very well. But he was quite ten or twenty minutes behind Siméon?"

"That didn't matter, if the woman had time, before dying, to tell him
where Siméon was taking refuge."

"How can we get to know?"

"I've been trying to find out all the time that we've been chatting
. . . and I've just discovered the way."

"Here?"

"This minute; and I expected no less from Ya-Bon. The woman told him of
a place in the cabin--look, that open drawer, probably--in which there
was a visiting-card with an address on it. Ya-Bon took it and, in order
to let me know, pinned the card to the curtain over there. I had seen it
already; but it was only this moment that I noticed the pin that fixed
it, a gold pin with which I myself fastened the Morocco Cross to
Ya-Bon's breast."

"What is the address?"

"Amédée Vacherot, 18, Rue Guimard. The Rue Guimard is close to this,
which makes me quite sure of the road they took."

The two men at once went away, leaving the woman's dead body behind. As
Don Luis said, the police must make what they could of it.

As they crossed Berthou's Wharf they glanced at the recess and Don Luis
remarked:

"There's a ladder missing. We must remember that detail. Siméon has been
in there. He's beginning to make blunders too."

The car took them to the Rue Guimard, a small street in Passy. No. 18
was a large house let out in flats, of fairly ancient construction. It
was two o'clock in the morning when they rang.

A long time elapsed before the door opened; and, as they passed through
the carriage-entrance, the porter put his head out of his lodge:

"Who's there?" he asked.

"We want to see M. Amédée Vacherot on urgent business."

"That's myself."

"You?"

"Yes, I, the porter. But by what right . . . ?"

"Orders of the prefect of police," said Don Luis, displaying a badge.

They entered the lodge. Amédée Vacherot was a little,
respectable-looking old man, with white whiskers. He might have been a
beadle.

"Answer my questions plainly," Don Luis ordered, in a rough voice, "and
don't try to prevaricate. We are looking for a man called Siméon
Diodokis."

The porter took fright at once:

"To do him harm?" he exclaimed. "If it's to do him harm, it's no use
asking me any questions. I would rather die by slow tortures than injure
that kind M. Siméon."

Don Luis assumed a gentler tone:

"Do him harm? On the contrary, we are looking for him to do him a
service, to save him from a great danger."

"A great danger?" cried M. Vacherot. "Oh, I'm not at all surprised! I
never saw him in such a state of excitement."

"Then he's been here?"

"Yes, since midnight."

"Is he here now?"

"No, he went away again."

Patrice made a despairing gesture and asked:

"Perhaps he left some one behind?"

"No, but he intended to bring some one."

"A lady?"

M. Vacherot hesitated.

"We know," Don Luis resumed, "that Siméon Diodokis was trying to find a
place of safety in which to shelter a lady for whom he entertained the
deepest respect."

"Can you tell me the lady's name?" asked the porter, still on his guard.

"Certainly, Mme. Essarès, the widow of the banker to whom Siméon used to
act as secretary. Mme. Essarès is a victim of persecution; he is
defending her against her enemies; and, as we ourselves want to help the
two of them and to take this criminal business in hand, we must insist
that you . . ."

"Oh, well!" said M. Vacherot, now fully reassured. "I have known Siméon
Diodokis for ever so many years. He was very good to me at the time when
I was working for an undertaker; he lent me money; he got me my present
job; and he used often to come and sit in my lodge and talk about heaps
of things. . . ."

"Such as relations with Essarès Bey?" asked Don Luis, carelessly. "Or
his plans concerning Patrice Belval?"

"Heaps of things," said the porter, after a further hesitation. "He is
one of the best of men, does a lot of good and used to employ me in
distributing his local charity. And just now again he was risking his
life for Mme. Essarès."

"One more word. Had you seen him since Essarès Bey's death?"

"No, it was the first time. He arrived a little before one o'clock. He
was out of breath and spoke in a low voice, listening to the sounds of
the street outside: 'I've been followed,' said he; 'I've been followed.
I could swear it.' 'By whom?' said I. 'You don't know him,' said he. 'He
has only one hand, but he wrings your neck for you.' And then he
stopped. And then he began again, in a whisper, so that I could hardly
hear: 'Listen to me, you're coming with me. We're going to fetch a lady,
Mme. Essarès. They want to kill her. I've hidden her all right, but
she's fainted: we shall have to carry her. . . . Or no, I'll go alone.
I'll manage. But I want to know, is my room still free?' I must tell
you, he has a little lodging here, since the day when he too had to hide
himself. He used to come to it sometimes and he kept it on in case he
might want it, for it's a detached lodging, away from the other
tenants."

"What did he do after that?" asked Patrice, anxiously.

"After that, he went away."

"But why isn't he back yet?"

"I admit that it's alarming. Perhaps the man who was following him has
attacked him. Or perhaps something has happened to the lady."

"What do you mean, something happened to the lady?"

"I'm afraid something may have. When he first showed me the way we
should have to go to fetch her, he said, 'Quick, we must hurry. To save
her life, I had to put her in a hole. That's all very well for two or
three hours. But, if she's left longer, she will suffocate. The want of
air . . ."

Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was beside himself, maddened at
the thought that Coralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the
point of death in some unknown place, a prey to terror and suffering.

"You shall speak," he cried, "and this very minute! You shall tell us
where she is! Oh, don't imagine that you can fool us any longer! Where
is she? You know! He told you!"

He was shaking M. Vacherot by the shoulders and hurling his rage into
the old man's face with unspeakable violence.

Don Luis, on the other hand, stood chuckling.

"Splendid, captain," he said, "splendid! My best compliments! You're
making real progress since I joined forces with you. M. Vacherot will go
through fire and water for us now."

"Well, you see if I don't make the fellow speak," shouted Patrice.

"It's no use, sir," declared the porter, very firmly and calmly. "You
have deceived me. You are enemies of M. Siméon's. I shall not say
another word that can give you any information."

"You refuse to speak, do you? You refuse to speak?"

In his exasperation Patrice drew his revolver and aimed it at the man:

"I'm going to count three. If, by that time, you don't make up your mind
to speak, you shall see the sort of man that Captain Belval is!"

The porter gave a start:

"Captain Belval, did you say? Are you Captain Belval?"

"Ah, old fellow, that seems to give you food for thought!"

"Are you Captain Belval? Patrice Belval?"

"At your service; and, if in two seconds from this you haven't told me
. . ."

"Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon's enemy? And you want to . . . ?"

"I want to do him up like the cur he is, your blackguard of a Siméon
. . . and you, his accomplice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! . . .
Well, have you made up your mind?"

"Unhappy man!" gasped the porter. "Unhappy man! You don't know what
you're doing. Kill M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you're the last man who
could commit a crime like that!"

"What about it? Speak, will you, you old numskull!"

"You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You, Captain Belval? You?"

"And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?"

"You are his son."

All Patrice's fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in
Siméon's power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all
his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of
merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.

"Siméon's son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this beats
everything! Upon my word, you're full of ideas, when you're trying to
save him! You old ruffian! Of course, it's most convenient: don't kill
that man, he's your father. He my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon
Diodokis, Patrice Belval's father! Oh, it's enough to make a chap split
his sides!"

Don Luis had listened in silence. He made a sign to Patrice:

"Will you allow me to clear up this business, captain? It won't take me
more than a few minutes; and that certainly won't delay us." And,
without waiting for the officer's reply, he turned to the old man and
said slowly, "Let's have this out, M. Vacherot. It's of the highest
importance. The great thing is to speak plainly and not to lose yourself
in superfluous words. Besides, you have said too much not to finish your
revelation. Siméon Diodokis is not your benefactor's real name, is it?"

"No, that's so."

"He is Armand Belval; and the woman who loved him used to call him
Patrice?"

"Yes, his son's name."

"Nevertheless, this Armand Belval was a victim of the same murderous
attempt as the woman he loved, who was Coralie Essarès' mother?"

"Yes, but Coralie Essarès' mother died; and he did not."

"That was on the fourteenth of April, 1895."

"The fourteenth of April, 1895."

Patrice caught hold of Don Luis' arm:

"Come," he spluttered, "Coralie's at death's door. The monster has
buried her. That's the only thing that matters."

"Then you don't believe that monster to be your father?" asked Don Luis.

"You're mad!"

"For all that, captain, you're trembling! . . ."

"I dare say, I dare say, but it's because of Coralie. . . . I can't even
hear what the man's saying! . . . Oh, it's a nightmare, every word of
it! Make him stop! Make him shut up! Why didn't I wring his neck?"

He sank into a chair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his
hands. It was really a horrible moment; and no catastrophe would have
overwhelmed a man more utterly.

Don Luis looked at him with feeling and then turned to the porter:

"Explain yourself, M. Vacherot," he said. "As briefly as possible, won't
you? No details. We can go into them later. We were saying, on the
fourteenth of April, 1895 . . ."

"On the fourteenth of April, 1895, a solicitor's clerk, accompanied by
the commissary of police, came to my governor's, close by here, and
ordered two coffins for immediate delivery. The whole shop got to work.
At ten o'clock in the evening, the governor, one of my mates and I went
to the Rue Raynouard, to a sort of pavilion or lodge, standing in a
garden."

"I know. Go on."

"There were two bodies. We wrapped them in winding-sheets and put them
into the coffins. At eleven o'clock my governor and my fellow-workmen
went away and left me alone with a sister of mercy. There was nothing
more to do except to nail the coffins down. Well, just then, the nun,
who had been watching and praying, fell asleep and something happened
. . . oh, an awful thing! It made my hair stand on end, sir. I shall
never forget it as long as I live. My knees gave way beneath me, I shook
with fright. . . . Sir, the man's body had moved. The man was alive!"

"Then you didn't know of the murder at that time?" asked Don Luis. "You
hadn't heard of the attempt?"

"No, we were told that they had both suffocated themselves with gas.
. . . It was many hours before the man recovered consciousness
entirely. He was in some way poisoned."

"But why didn't you inform the nun?"

"I couldn't say. I was simply stunned. I looked at the man as he slowly
came back to life and ended by opening his eyes. His first words were,
'She's dead, I suppose?' And then at once he said, 'Not a word about all
this. Let them think me dead: that will be better.' And I can't tell you
why, but I consented. The miracle had deprived me of all power of will.
I obeyed like a child. . . . He ended by getting up. He leant over the
other coffin, drew aside the sheet and kissed the dead woman's face over
and over again, whispering, 'I will avenge you. All my life shall be
devoted to avenging you and also, as you wished, to uniting our
children. If I don't kill myself, it will be for Patrice and Coralie's
sake. Good-by.' Then he told me to help him. Between us, we lifted the
woman out of the coffin and carried it into the little bedroom next
door. Then we went into the garden, took some big stones and put them
into the coffins where the two bodies had been. When this was done, I
nailed the coffins down, woke the good sister and went away. The man had
locked himself into the bedroom with the dead woman. Next morning the
undertaker's men came and fetched away the two coffins."

Patrice had unclasped his hands and thrust his distorted features
between Don Luis and the porter. Fixing his haggard eyes upon the
latter, he asked, struggling with his words:

"But the graves? The inscription saying that the remains of both lie
there, near the lodge where the murder was committed? The cemetery?"

"Armand Belval wished it so. At that time I was living in a garret in
this house. I took a lodging for him where he came and lived by stealth,
under the name of Siméon Diodokis, since Armand Belval was dead, and
where he stayed for several months without going out. Then, in his new
name and through me, he bought his lodge. And, bit by bit, we dug the
graves. Coralie's and his. His because, I repeat, he wished it so.
Patrice and Coralie were both dead. It seemed to him, in this way, that
he was not leaving her. Perhaps also, I confess, despair had upset his
balance a little, just a very little, only in what concerned his memory
of the woman who died on the fourteenth of April, 1895, and his devotion
for her. He wrote her name and his own everywhere: on the grave and also
on the walls, on the trees and in the very borders of the flower-beds.
They were Coralie Essarès' name and yours. . . . And for this, for all
that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and
with the dead woman's daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his
wits about him, believe me, sir!"

Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards
the porter:

"Proofs, proofs, proofs!" he insisted, in a stifled voice. "Give me
proofs at once! There's some one dying at this moment by that
scoundrel's criminal intentions, there's a woman at the point of death.
Give me proofs!"

"You need have no fear," said M. Vacherot. "My friend has only one
thought, that of saving the woman, not killing her. . . ."

"He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us, as our parents were
killed before us."

"He is trying only to unite you."

"Yes, in death."

"No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He always spoke of you with
pride."

"He is a ruffian, a monster!" shouted the officer.

"He is the very best man living, sir, and he is your father."

Patrice started, stung by the insult:

"Proofs," he roared, "proofs! I forbid you to speak another word until
you have proved the truth in a manner admitting of no doubt."

Without moving from his seat, the old man put out his arm towards an old
mahogany escritoire, lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out
one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle of papers:

"You know your father's handwriting, don't you, captain?" he said. "You
must have kept letters from him, since the time when you were at school
in England. Well, read the letters which he wrote to me. You will see
your name repeated a hundred times, the name of his son; and you will
see the name of the Coralie whom he meant you to marry. Your whole
life--your studies, your journeys, your work--is described in these
letters. And you will also find your photographs, which he had taken by
various correspondents, and photographs of Coralie, whom he had visited
at Salonica. And you will see above all his hatred for Essarès Bey,
whose secretary he had become, and his plans of revenge, his patience,
his tenacity. And you will also see his despair when he heard of the
marriage between Essarès and Coralie and, immediately afterwards, his
joy at the thought that his revenge would be more cruel when he
succeeded in uniting his son Patrice with Essarès' wife."

As the old fellow spoke, he placed the letters one by one under the eyes
of Patrice, who had at once recognized his father's hand and sat
greedily devouring sentences in which his own name was constantly
repeated. M. Vacherot watched him.

"Have you any more doubts, captain?" he asked, at last.

The officer again pressed his clenched fists to his temples:

"I saw his face," he said, "above the skylight, in the lodge into which
he had locked us. . . . It was gloating over our death, it was a face
mad with hatred. . . . He hated us even more than Essarès did. . . ."

"A mistake! Pure imagination!" the old man protested.

"Or madness," muttered Patrice.

Then he struck the table violently, in a fit of revulsion:

"It's not true, it's not true!" he exclaimed. "That man is not my
father. What, a scoundrel like that! . . ."

He took a few steps round the little room and, stopping in front of Don
Luis, jerked out:

"Let's go. Else I shall go mad too. It's a nightmare, there's no other
word for it, a nightmare in which things turn upside down until the
brain itself capsizes. Let's go. Coralie is in danger. That's the only
thing that matters."

The old man shook his head:

"I'm very much afraid . . ."

"What are _you_ afraid of?" bellowed the officer.

"I'm afraid that my poor friend has been caught up by the person who was
following him . . . and then how can he have saved Mme. Essarès? The
poor thing was hardly able to breathe, he told me."

Hanging on to Don Luis' arm, Patrice staggered out of the porter's lodge
like a drunken man:

"She's done for, she must be!" he cried.

"Not at all," said Don Luis. "Siméon is as feverishly active as
yourself. He is nearing the catastrophe. He is quaking with fear and not
in a condition to weigh his words. Believe me, your Coralie is in no
immediate danger. We have some hours before us."

"But Ya-Bon? Suppose Ya-Bon has laid hands upon him?"

"I gave Ya-Bon orders not to kill him. Therefore, whatever happens,
Siméon is alive. That's the great thing. So long as Siméon is alive,
there is nothing to fear. He won't let your Coralie die."

"Why not, seeing that he hates her? Why not? What is there in that man's
heart? He devotes all his existence to a work of love on our behalf;
and, from one minute to the next, that love turns to execration."

He pressed Don Luis' arm and, in a hollow voice, asked:

"Do you believe that he is my father?"

"Siméon Diodokis is your father, captain," replied Don Luis.

"Ah, don't, don't! It's too horrible! God, but we are in the valley of
the shadow!"

"On the contrary," said Don Luis, "the shadow is lifting slightly; and I
confess that our talk with M. Vacherot has given me a little light."

"Do you mean it?"

But, in Patrice Belval's fevered brain, one idea jostled another. He
suddenly stopped:

"Siméon may have gone back to the porter's lodge! . . . And we sha'n't
be there! . . . Perhaps he will bring Coralie back!"

"No," Don Luis declared, "he would have done that before now, if it
could be done. No, it's for us to go to him."

"But where?"

"Well, of course, where all the fighting has been . . . where the gold
lies. All the enemy's operations are centered in that gold; and you may
be sure that, even in retreat, he can't get away from it. Besides, we
know that he is not far from Berthou's Wharf."

Patrice allowed himself to be led along without a word. But suddenly Don
Luis cried:

"Did you hear?"

"Yes, a shot."

At that moment they were on the point of turning into the Rue Raynouard.
The height of the houses prevented them from perceiving the exact spot
from which the shot had been fired, but it came approximately from the
Essarès house or the immediate precincts. Patrice was filled with
alarm:

"Can it be Ya-Bon?"

"I'm afraid so," said Don Luis, "and, as Ya-Bon wouldn't fire, some one
must have fired a shot at him. . . . Oh, by Jove, if my poor Ya-Bon were
to be killed . . . !"

"And suppose it was at her, at Coralie?" whispered Patrice.

Don Luis began to laugh:

"Oh, my dear captain, I'm almost sorry that I ever mixed myself up in
this business! You were much cleverer before I came and a good deal
clearer-sighted. Why the devil should Siméon attack your Coralie,
considering that she's already in his power?"

They hurried their steps. As they passed the Essarès house they saw that
everything was quiet and they went on until they came to the lane, down
which they turned.

Patrice had the key, but the little door which opened on to the garden
of the lodge was bolted inside.

"Aha!" said Don Luis. "That shows that we're warm. Meet me on the quay,
captain. I shall run down to Berthou's Wharf to have a look round."

During the past few minutes a pale dawn had begun to mingle with the
shades of night. The embankment was still deserted, however.

Don Luis observed nothing in particular at Berthou's Wharf; but, when he
returned to the quay above, Patrice showed him a ladder lying right at
the end of the pavement which skirted the garden of the lodge; and Don
Luis recognized the ladder as the one whose absence he had noticed from
the recess in the yard. With that quick vision which was one of his
greatest assets, he at once furnished the explanation:

"As Siméon had the key of the garden, it was obviously Ya-Bon who used
the ladder to make his way in. Therefore he saw Siméon take refuge there
on returning from his visit to old Vacherot and after coming to fetch
Coralie. Now the question is, did Siméon succeed in fetching Little
Mother Coralie, or did he run away before fetching her? That I can't
say. But, in any case . . ."

Bending low down, he examined the pavement and continued:

"In any case, what is certain is that Ya-Bon knows the hiding-place
where the bags of gold are stacked and that it is there most likely that
your Coralie was and perhaps still is, worse luck, if the enemy, giving
his first thought to his personal safety, has not had time to remove
her."

"Are you sure?"

"Look here, captain, Ya-Bon always carries a piece of chalk in his
pocket. As he doesn't know how to write, except just the letters forming
my name, he has drawn these two straight lines which, with the line of
the wall, make a triangle . . . the golden triangle."

Don Luis drew himself up:

"The clue is rather meager. But Ya-Bon looks upon me as a wizard. He
never doubted that I should manage to find this spot and that those
three lines would be enough for me. Poor Ya-Bon!"

"But," objected Patrice, "all this, according to you, took place before
our return to Paris, between twelve and one o'clock, therefore."

"Yes."

"Then what about the shot which we have just heard, four or five hours
later?"

"As to that I'm not so positive. We may assume that Siméon squatted
somewhere in the dark. Possibly at the first break of day, feeling
easier and hearing nothing of Ya-Bon, he risked taking a step or two.
Then Ya-Bon, keeping watch in silence, would have leaped upon him."

"So you think . . ."

"I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon was wounded and that
Siméon . . ."

"That Siméon escaped?"

"Or else was killed. However, we shall know all about it in a few
minutes."

He set the ladder against the railing at the top of the wall. Patrice
climbed over with Don Luis' assistance. Then, stepping over the railing
in his turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into the garden and
made a careful examination. Finally, they turned their steps, through
the tall grasses and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.

The daylight was increasing rapidly and the outlines of everything were
becoming clearer. The two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis leading
the way. When he came in sight of the yard, on the street side, he
turned and said: "I was right."

And he ran forward.

Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two adversaries, clutching
each other in a confused heap. Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head,
from which the blood was flowing all over his face. With his right hand
he held Siméon by the throat.

Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead and Siméon Diodokis
alive.

CHAPTER XVII

SIMÉON GIVES BATTLE

It took them some time to loosen Ya-Bon's grip. Even in death the
Senegalese did not let go his prey; and his fingers, hard as iron and
armed with nails piercing as a tiger's claws, dug into the neck of the
enemy, who lay gurgling, deprived of consciousness and strength.

Don Luis caught sight of Siméon's revolver on the cobbles of the yard:

"It was lucky for you, you old ruffian," he said, in a low voice, "that
Ya-Bon did not have time to squeeze the breath out of you before you
fired that shot. But I wouldn't chortle overmuch, if I were you. He
might perhaps have spared you, whereas, now that Ya-Bon's dead, you can
write to your family and book your seat below. _De profundis_,
Diodokis!" And, giving way to his grief, he added, "Poor Ya-Bon! He
saved me from a horrible death one day in Africa . . . and to-day he
dies by my orders, so to speak. My poor Ya-Bon!"

Assisted by Patrice, he carried the negro's corpse into the little
bedroom next to the studio.

"We'll inform the police this evening, captain, when the drama is
finished. For the moment, it's a matter of avenging him and the
others."

He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene
of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon,
whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.

Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped
against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a
fixed stare of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the execrable demon who,
two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the
skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon Diodokis,
who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he
might go back and torture her at his ease!

He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His
wind-pipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon's clutch. His yellow
spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled
eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.

"Search him, captain," said Don Luis.

But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in
Siméon's jacket and produced a pocket-book, which he handed to the
officer.

It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon
Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The
photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter
and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There
was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda,
addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey's secretary, and, among these papers,
a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows:

      "_Dear M. Siméon_,

      "I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a
      snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital,
      at a moment when they were talking together. I am so
      glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell
      your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when
      he hears it!"

At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon's hand, a sort of
personal note:

      "Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal
      anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my
      bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie
      Essarès are free to love each other and to marry."

"That's your father's writing, is it not?" asked Don Luis.