Books: The Hollow Needle
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Maurice Leblanc >> The Hollow Needle
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Speaking so that she could just hear him, he said:
"Madame, from the late King, your husband, for Your Majesty and your
son."
And he gave her the sealed letter.
She satisfied herself that the jailers could not see her, broke the
seals, appeared surprised at the sight of those undecipherable lines
and then, all at once, seemed to understand.
She smiled bitterly and the officer caught the words:
"Why so late?"
She hesitated. Where should she hide this dangerous document? At
last, she opened her book of hours and slipped the paper into a sort
of secret pocket contrived between the leather of the binding and
the parchment that covered it.
"Why so late?" she had asked.
It is, in fact, probable that this document, if it could have saved
her, came too late, for, in the month of October next, Queen Marie
Antoinette ascended the scaffold in her turn.
Now the officer, when going through his family papers, came upon his
ancestor's manuscript. From that moment, he had but one idea, which
was to devote his leisure to elucidating this strange problem. He
read all the Latin authors, studied all the chronicles of France and
those of the neighboring countries, visited the monasteries,
deciphered account-books, cartularies, treaties; and, in this way,
succeeded in discovering certain references scattered over the ages.
In Book III of Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War (MS. edition,
Alexandria), it is stated that, after the defeat of Veridovix by G.
Titullius Sabinus, the chief of the Caleti was brought before Caesar
and that, for his ransom, he revealed the secret of the Needle--
The Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, between Charles the Simple and
Rollo, the chief of the Norse barbarians, gives Rollo's name
followed by all his titles, among which we read that of Master of
the Secret of the Needle.
The Saxon Chronicle (Gibson's edition, page 134), speaking of
William the Conqueror, says that the staff of his banner ended in a
steel point pierced with an eye, like a needle.
In a rather ambiguous phrase in her examination, Joan of Arc admits
that she has still a great secret to tell the King of France. To
which her judges reply, "Yes, we know of what you speak; and that,
Joan, is why you shall die the death."
Philippe de Comines mentions it in connection with Louis XI., and,
later, Sully in connection with Henry IV.: "By the virtue of the
Needle!" the good king sometimes swears.
Between these two, Francis I., in a speech addressed to the notables
of the Havre, in 1520, uttered this phrase, which has been handed
down in the diary of a Honfleur burgess; "The Kings of France carry
secrets that often decide the conduct of affairs and the fate of
towns."
All these quotations, all the stories relating to the Iron Mask, the
captain of the guards and his descendant, I have found to-day in a
pamphlet written by this same descendant and published in the month
of June, 1815, just before or just after the battle of Waterloo, in
a period, therefore, of great upheavals, in which the revelations
which it contained were likely to pass unperceived.
What is the value of this pamphlet? Nothing, you will tell me, and
we must attach no credit to it. And this is the impression which I
myself would have carried away, if it had not occurred to me to open
Caesar's Commentaries at the chapter given. What was my astonishment
when I came upon the phrase quoted in the little book before me! And
it was the same thing with the Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, with
the Saxon Chronicle, with the examination of Joan of Arc, in short,
with all that I have been able to verify up to the present.
Lastly, there is an even more precise fact related by the author of
the pamphlet of 1815. During the French campaign, he being then an
officer under Napoleon, his horse dropped dead, one evening, and he
rang at the door of a castle where he was received by an old knight
of St. Louis. And, in the course of conversation with the old man,
he learnt that this castle, standing on the bank of the Creuse, was
called the Chateau de l'Aiguille, that it had been built and
christened by Louis XIV., and that, by his express order, it was
adorned with turrets and with a spire which represented the Needle.
As its date it bore, it must still bear, the figure 1680.
1680! One year after the publication of the book and the
imprisonment of the Iron Mask! Everything was now explained: Louis
XIV., foreseeing that the secret might be noised abroad, had built
and named that castle so as to offer the quidnuncs a natural
explanation of the ancient mystery. The Hollow Needle! A castle with
pointed bell-turrets standing on the bank of the Creuse and
belonging to the King. People would at once think that they had the
key to the riddle and all enquiries would cease.
The calculation was just, seeing that, more than two centuries
later, M. Beautrelet fell into the trap. And this, Sir, is what I
was leading up to in writing this letter. If Lupin, under the name
of Anfredi, rented from M. Valmeras the Chateau de l'Aiguille on the
bank of the Creuse; if, admitting the success of the inevitable
investigations of M. Beautrelet, he lodged his two prisoners there,
it was because he admitted the success of the inevitable researches
made by M. Beautrelet and because, with the object of obtaining the
peace for which he had asked, he laid for M. Beautrelet precisely
what we may call the historic trap of Louis XIV.
And hence we come to this undeniable conclusion, that he, Lupin, by
his unaided lights, without possessing any other facts than those
which we possess, managed by means of the witchcraft of a really
extraordinary genius, to decipher the undecipherable document; and
that he, Lupin, the last heir of the Kings of France, knows the
royal mystery of the Hollow Needle!
Here ended the letter. But, for some minutes, from the passage that
referred to the Chateau de l'Aiguille onward, it was not
Beautrelet's but another voice that read it aloud. Realizing his
defeat, crushed under the weight of his humiliation, Isidore had
dropped the newspaper and sunk into his chair, with his face buried
in his hands.
Panting, shaken with excitement by this incredible story, the crowd
had come gradually nearer and was now pressing round.
With a thrill of anguish, they waited for the words which he would
say in reply, the objections which he would raise.
He did not stir.
Valmeras gently uncrossed his hands and raised his head.
Isidore Beautrelet was weeping.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE TREATISE OF THE NEEDLE
It is four o'clock in the morning. Isidore has not returned to the
Lycee Janson. He has no intention of returning before the end of the
war of extermination which he has declared against Lupin. This much
he swore to himself under his breath, while his friends drove off
with him, all faint and bruised, in a cab.
A mad oath! An absurd and illogical war! What can he do, a single,
unarmed stripling, against that phenomenon of energy and strength?
On which side is he to attack him? He is unassailable. Where to
wound him? He is invulnerable. Where to get at him? He is
inaccessible.
Four o'clock in the morning. Isidore has again accepted his
schoolfellow's hospitality. Standing before the chimney in his
bedroom, with his elbows flat on the mantel-shelf and his two fists
under his chin, he stares at his image in the looking-glass. He is
not crying now, he can shed no more tears, nor fling himself about
on his bed, nor give way to despair, as he has been doing for the
last two hours and more. He wants to think, to think and understand.
And he does not remove his eyes from those same eyes reflected in
the glass, as though he hoped to double his powers of thought by
contemplating his pensive image, as though he hoped to find at the
back of that mirrored Beautrelet the unsolvable solution of what he
does not find within himself.
He stands thus until six o'clock, and, little by little, the
question presents itself to his mind with the strictness of an
equation, bare and dry and cleared of all the details that
complicate and obscure it.
Yes, he has made a mistake. Yes, his reading of the document is all
wrong. The word aiguille does not point to the castle on the Creuse.
Also, the word demoiselles cannot be applied to Raymonde de Saint-
Veran and her cousin, because the text of the document dates back
for centuries.
Therefore, all must be done over again, from the beginning.
How?
One piece of evidence alone would be incontestible: the book
published under Louis XIV. Now of those hundred copies printed by
the person who was presumed to be the Man with the Iron Mask only
two escaped the flames. One was purloined by the captain of the
guards and lost. The other was kept by Louis XIV., handed down to
Louis XV., and burnt by Louis XVI. But a copy of the essential page,
the page containing the solution of the problem, or at least a
cryptographic solution, was conveyed to Marie Antoinette, who
slipped it into the binding of her book of hours. What has become of
this paper? Is it the one which Beautrelet has held in his hands and
which Lupin recovered from him through Bredoux, the magistrate's
clerk? Or is it still in Marie Antoinette's book of hours? And the
question resolves itself into this: what has become of the Queen's
book of hours?
After taking a short rest, Beautrelet consulted his friend's father,
an old and experienced collector, who was often called upon
officially to give an expert opinion and who had quite lately been
invited to advise the director of one of our museums on the drawing
up of the catalogue.
"Marie Antoinette's book of hours?" he exclaimed. "Why, the Queen
left it to her waiting-woman, with secret instructions to forward it
to Count Fersen. After being piously preserved in the count's
family, it has been, for the last five years, in a glass case--"
"A glass case?"
"In the Musee Carnavalet, quite simply."
"When will the museum be open?"
"At twenty minutes from now, as it is every morning."
Isidore and his friend jumped out of a cab at the moment when the
doors of Madame de Sevigne's old mansion were opening.
"Hullo! M. Beautrelet!"
A dozen voices greeted his arrival. To his great surprise, he
recognized the whole crowd of reporters who were following up "the
mystery of the Hollow Needle." And one of them exclaimed:
"Funny, isn't it, that we should all have had the same idea? Take
care, Arsene Lupin may be among us!"
They entered the museum together. The director was at once informed,
placed himself entirely at their disposal, took them to the glass
case and skewed them a poor little volume, devoid of all ornament,
which certainly had nothing royal about it. Nevertheless, they were
overcome by a certain emotion at the sight of this object which the
Queen had touched in those tragic days, which her eyes, red with
tears, had looked upon--And they dared not take it and hunt through
it: it was as though they feared lest they should be guilty of a
sacrilege--
"Come, M. Beautrelet, it's your business!"
He took the book with an anxious gesture. The description
corresponded with that given by the author of the pamphlet. Outside
was a parchment cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under
it, the real binding, in stiff leather. With what a thrill
Beautrelet felt for the hidden pocket! Was it a fairy tale? Or would
he find the document written by Louis XVI. and bequeathed by the
queen to her fervent admirer?
At the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no
receptacle.
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing," they echoed, palpitating with excitement.
But, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once
saw that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. He slipped his
fingers in between--there was something--yes, he felt something--a
paper--
"Oh!" he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. "Here--is it
possible?"
"Quick, quick!" they cried. "What are you waiting for?"
He drew out a sheet folded in two.
"Well, read it!--There are words in red ink--Look!--it might be
blood--pale, faded blood--Read it!--"
He read:
To you, Fersen. For my son. 16 October, 1793.
MARIE ANTOINETTE.
And suddenly Beautrelet gave a cry of stupefaction. Under the
queen's signature there were--there were two words, in black ink,
underlined with a flourish--two words:
ARSENE LUPIN.
All, in turns, took the sheet of paper and the same cry escaped from
the lips of all of them:
"Marie Antoinette!--Arsene Lupin!"
A great silence followed. That double signature: those two names
coupled together, discovered hidden in the book of hours; that relic
in which the poor queen's desperate appeal had slumbered for more
than a century: that horrible date of the 16th of October, 1793, the
day on which the Royal head fell: all of this was most dismally and
disconcertingly tragic.
"Arsene Lupin!" stammered one of the voices, thus emphasizing the
scare that underlay the sight of that demoniacal name at the foot of
the hallowed page.
"Yes, Arsene Lupin," repeated Beautrelet. "The Queen's friend was
unable to understand her desperate dying appeal. He lived with the
keepsake in his possession which the woman whom he loved had sent
him and he never guessed the reason of that keepsake. Lupin
discovered everything, on the other hand--and took it."
"Took what?"
"The document, of course! The document written by Louis XVI.; and it
is that which I held in my hands. The same appearance, the same
shape, the same red seals. I understand why Lupin would not leave me
a document which I could turn to account by merely examining the
paper, the seals and so on."
"And then?"
"Well, then, since the document is genuine, since I have, with my
own eyes, seen the marks of the red seals, since Marie Antoinette
herself assures me, by these few words in her hand, that the whole
story of the pamphlet, as printed by M. Massiban, is correct,
because a problem of the Hollow Needle really exists, I am now
certain to succeed."
"But how? Whether genuine or not, the document is of no use to you
if you do not manage to decipher it, because Louis XVI. destroyed
the book that gave the explanation."
"Yes, but the other copy, which King Louis XVI.'s captain of the
guards snatched from the flames, was not destroyed."
"How do you know?"
"Prove the contrary."
After uttering this defiance, Beautrelet was silent for a time and
then, slowly, with his eyes closed, as though trying to fix and sum
up his thoughts, he said:
"Possessing the secret, the captain of the guards begins by
revealing it bit by bit in the journal found by his descendant. Then
comes silence. The answer to the riddle is withheld. Why? Because
the temptation to make use of the secret creeps over him little by
little and he gives way to it. A proof? His murder. A further proof?
The magnificent jewel found upon him, which he must undoubtedly have
taken from some royal treasure the hiding-place of which, unknown to
all, would just constitute the mystery of the Hollow Needle. Lupin
conveyed as much to me; Lupin was not lying.
"Then what conclusion do you draw, Beautrelet?"
"I draw this conclusion, my friends, that it be a good thing to
advertise this story as much as possible, so that people may know,
through all the papers, that we are looking for a book entitled The
Treatise of the Needle. It may be fished out from the back shelves
of some provincial library."
The paragraph was drawn up forthwith; and Beautrelet set to work at
once, without even waiting for it to produce a result. A first scent
suggested itself: the murder was committed near Gaillon. He went
there that same day. Certainly, he did not hope to reconstruct a
crime perpetrated two hundred years ago. But, all the same, there
are crimes that leave traces in the memories, in the traditions of a
countryside. They are recorded in the local chronicles. One day,
some provincial archaeologist, some lover of old legends, some
student of the minor incidents of the life of the past makes them
the subject of an article in a newspaper or of a communication to
the academy of his departmental town.
Beautreiet saw three or four of these archaeologists. With one of
them in particular, an old notary, he examined the prison records,
the ledgers of the old bailiwicks and the parish registers. There
was no entry referring to the murder of a captain of the guards in
the seventeenth century.
He refused to be discouraged and continued his search in Paris,
where the magistrate's examination might have taken place. His
efforts came to nothing.
But the thought of another track sent him off in a fresh direction.
Was there no chance of finding out the name of that captain whose
descendant served in the armies of the Republic and was quartered in
the Temple during the imprisonment of the Royal family? By dint of
patient working, he ended by making out a list in which two names at
least presented an almost complete resemblance: M. de Larbeyrie,
under Louis XIV., and Citizen Larbrie, under the Terror.
This already was an important point. He stated it with precision in
a note which he sent to the papers, asking for any information
concerning this Larbeyrie or his descendants.
It was M. Massiban, the Massiban of the pamphlet, the member of the
Institute, who replied to him:
SIR:
Allow me to call your attention to the following passage of
Voltaire, which I came upon in his manuscript of Le Siecle de Louis
XIV. (Chapter XXV: Particularites et anecdotes du regne). The
passage has been suppressed in all the printed editions:
"I have heard it said by the late M. de Caumartin, intendant of
finance, who was a friend of Chamillard the minister, that the King
one day left hurriedly in his carriage at the news that M. de
Larbeyrie had been murdered and robbed of some magnificent jewels.
He seemed greatly excited and repeated:
"'All is lost--all is lost--'
"In the following year, the son of this Larbeyrie and his daughter,
who had married the Marquis de Velines, were banished to their
estates in Provence and Brittany. We cannot doubt that there is
something peculiar in this."
I, in my turn, will add that we can doubt it all the less inasmuch
as M. de Chamillard, according to Voltaire, WAS THE LAST MINISTER
WHO POSSESSED THE STRANGE SECRET OF THE IRON MASK.
You will see for yourself, Sir, the profit that can be derived from
this passage and the evident link established between the two
adventures. As for myself, I will not venture to imagine any very
exact surmise as regards the conduct, the suspicions, and the
apprehensions of Louis XIV. in these circumstances; but, on the
other hand, seeing that M. de Larbeyrie left a son, who was probably
the grandfather of Larbrie the citizen-officer, and also a daughter,
is it not permissible to suppose that a part of the papers left by
Larbeyrie came to the daughter and that among these papers was the
famous copy which the captain of the guards saved from the flames?
I have consulted the Country-house Year-book. There is a Baron de
Velines living not far from Rennes. Could he be a descendant of the
marquis? At any rate, I wrote to him yesterday, on chance, to ask if
he had not in his possession a little old book bearing on its title-
page the word aiguille; and I am awaiting his reply.
It would give me the greatest pleasure to talk of all these matters
with you. If you can spare the time, come and see me.
I am, Sir, etc., etc.
P.S.--Of course, I shall not communicate these little discoveries to
the press. Now that you are near the goal, discretion is essential.
Beautrelet absolutely agreed. He even went further: to two
journalists who were worrying him that morning he gave the most
fanciful particulars as to his plans and his state of mind.
In the afternoon, he hurried round to see Massiban, who lived at 17,
Quai Voltaire. To his great surprise, he was told that M. Massiban
had gone out of town unexpectedly, leaving a note for him in case he
should call. Isidore opened it and read:
I have received a telegram which gives me
some hope. So I am leaving town and shall sleep
at Rennes. You might take the evening train and,
without stopping at Rennes, go on to the little
station of Velines. We would meet at the castle,
which is two miles and a half from the station.
The programme appealed to Beautrelet, and especially the idea that
he would reach the castle at almost the same time as Massiban, for
he feared some blunder on the part of that inexperienced man. He
went back to his friend and spent the rest of the day with him. In
the evening, he took the Brittany express and got out at Velines as
six o'clock in the morning.
He did the two and a half miles, between bushy woods, on foot. He
could see the castle, perched on a height, from a distance: it was a
hybrid edifice, a mixture of the Renascence and Louis Philippe
styles, but it bore a stately air, nevertheless, with its four
turrets and its ivy-mantled draw-bridge.
Isidore felt his heart beat as he approached. Was he really nearing
the end of his race? Did the castle contain the key to the mystery?
He was not without fear. It all seemed too good to be true; and he
asked himself if he was not once more acting in obedience to some
infernal plan contrived by Lupin, if Massiban was not for instance,
a tool in the hands of his enemy. He burst out laughing:
"Tut, tut, I'm becoming absurd! One would really think that Lupin
was an infallible person who foresees everything, a sort of divine
omnipotence against whom nothing can prevail! Dash it all, Lupin
makes his mistakes; Lupin, too, is at the mercy of circumstances;
Lupin has an occasional slip! And it is just because of his slip in
losing the document that I am beginning to have the advantage of
him. Everything starts from that. And his efforts, when all is said,
serve only to repair the first blunder."
And blithely, full of confidence, Beautrelet rang the bell.
"Yes, sir?" said the servant who opened the door.
"Can I see the Baron de Velines?"
And he gave the man his card.
"Monsieur le baron is not up yet, but, if monsieur will wait--"
"Has not some one else been asking for him, a gentleman with a white
beard and a slight stoop?" asked Beautrelet, who knew Massiban's
appearance from the photographs in the newspapers.
"Yes, the gentleman came about ten minutes ago; I showed him into
the drawing room. If monsieur will come this way--"
The interview between Massiban and Beautrelet was of the most
cordial character. Isidore thanked the old man for the first-rate
information which he owed to him and Massiban expressed his
admiration for Beautrelet in the warmest terms. Then they exchanged
impressions on the document, on their prospects of discovering the
book; and Massiban repeated what he had heard at Rennes regarding M.
de Velines. The baron was a man of sixty, who had been left a
widower many years ago and who led a very retired life with his
daughter, Gabrielle de Villemon. This lady had just suffered a cruel
blow through the loss of her husband and her eldest son, both of
whom had died as the result of a motor-car accident.
"Monsieur le baron begs the gentlemen to be good enough to come
upstairs."
The servant led the way to the first floor, to a large, bare-walled
room, very simply furnished with desks, pigeon-holes and tables
covered with papers and account-books.
The baron received them very affably and with the volubility often
displayed by people who live too much alone. They had great
difficulty in explaining the object of their visit.
"Oh, yes, I know, you wrote to me about it, M. Massiban. It has
something to do with a book about a needle, hasn't it, a book which
is supposed to have come down to me from my ancestors?"
"Just so."
"I may as well tell you that my ancestors and I have fallen out.
They had funny ideas in those days. I belong to my own time. I have
broken with the past."
"Yes," said Beautrelet, impatiently, "but have you no recollection
of having seen the book?--"
"Certainly, I said so in my telegram," he exclaimed, addressing M.
Massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room
and looking out of the tall windows. "Certainly--or, at least, my
daughter thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books
that lumber up the library, upstairs--for I don't care about reading
myself--I don't even read the papers. My daughter does, sometimes,
but only when there is nothing the matter with Georges, her
remaining son! As for me, as long as my tenants pay their rents and
my leases are kept up--! You see my account-books: I live in them,
gentlemen; and I confess that I know absolutely nothing whatever
about that story of which you wrote to me in your letter, M.
Massiban--"
Isidore Beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted
him bluntly:
"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book--"
"My daughter has looked for it. She looked for it all day
yesterday."
"Well?"
"Well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. When you
arrived--"
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