A motherless girl, Clarice was not fortunate in her father, a hard man, gloomy in character, a fanatic in religion, inordinately proud of his title, greedy of gain to the point that the farmers who rented his land looked upon him as an enemy.
When Ralph, who had not even been introduced to him, had the audacity to ask his daughter’s hand in marriage, the Baron fell into such a fury with this beardless suitor, without a career and without relations, that he would have horsewhipped him if the young man had not quietly held him with something of the gaze of a tamer of wild beasts.
It was in consequence of this interview and to efface the memory of it from Ralph’s spirit that Clarice had entrusted to him the two keys which gave him secret access to her suite.
Later in the morning, pretending that she was not feeling well, she had her midday déjeuner brought up to her boudoir while Ralph hid himself in a room at the end of the corridor. After the meal they returned to the couch in front of the window and renewed the transports of the magical night.
A fresh breeze, rising from the sea and blowing across the high ground, caressed their faces. In front of them, beyond the great park enclosed by the wall, and among the plains all golden with the blossom of the colza, a depression allowed them to see, on the right, the white line of the high cliffs as far as Fécamp, on the left Etretat Bay, Aval Harbor, and the point of the enormous Needle.
A cloud fell on Clarice’s spirit. The tears welled up into her eyes.
He said to her gently:
“Don’t be sad, my dearest darling. Life is so sweet at our age; and it will be sweeter still for us when we shall have swept away all the obstacles. Don’t be sad.”
She dried her tears and, gazing at him, tried to smile. He was slender as was she, but broad-shouldered, of a build at once elegant and solid. His face, full of character, displayed a mischievous mouth and eyes shining with gaiety. Wearing knickerbockers and an open jacket over a white woollen sweater, he had an air of incredible suppleness.
“Ralph,” she said in a tone of distress, “at this very moment even while you are looking at me, you are not thinking about me! You are not thinking about me any longer, even though you are with me. It hardly seems possible! What are you thinking about, darling?”
He laughed gently and said:
“About your father.”
“About my father?”
“Yes: about the Baron d’Etigues and his guests. How on earth can men of their age waste their time killing off poor innocent birds on a rock?”
“It’s their amusement.”
“Are you sure of that? For my part I’m rather puzzled about the matter. In fact, if we were not in the year of grace 1892 I should be inclined to think rather … You’re not going to feel hurt?”
“Go on, dear.”
“Well, they have the air of playing at conspirators! Yes; it really is so … the Marquis de Rolleville, Matthew de la Vaupaliere, Count Oscar de Bennetot, Rufus d’Estiers, etc., all these noble lords of the Caux country are up to their necks in a conspiracy!”
She looked at him with incredulous eyes.
“You’re talking nonsense, darling,” she murmured.
“But you listen so prettily,” he replied, assured of her complete ignorance of the plot. “You have such a delightful way of waiting for me to tell you serious things.”
“Things about love, darling.”
He drew her to him almost roughly.
“The whole of my life is nothing but love for you, darling. If I have other cares, other ambitions, they are to win you outright. Suppose that your father, this conspiracy discovered, is arrested and condemned to death and all at once I save him. After that how would he be able to refuse me his daughter’s hand?”
“He will give way some day or other, darling.”
“Never! I have no money … no means of support.”
“You have your name: Ralph d’Andresy.”
“Not even that.”
“What do you mean?”
“D’Andresy was my mother’s name, which she took again when she became a widow, and at the bidding of her family whom her marriage had outraged.”
“Why?” said Clarice somewhat dumbfounded by these unexpected revelations.
“Why? Because my father was only an outsider … as poor as Job … a simple professor … and a professor of what? Of gymnastics, fencing, and boxing!”
“Then what is your name?”
“An uncommonly vulgar one.”
“What is it?”
“Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin?”
“Yes; it’s hardly a brilliant name, is it? And the best thing to do was to change it, don’t you think?”
Clarice appeared overwhelmed. It made no difference what his name was—to her. But in the eyes of the Baron the particle “de” was the very first qualification of a son-in-law.
She murmured however:
“You ought not to have disowned your father. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being a professor.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of at all,” said he, laughing cheerfully, but with a rather hard laugh which hurt Clarice. “And I can assure you that I’ve benefited to the greatest possible extent by the lessons in boxing and gymnastics which he gave me when I was still at the bottle. But it may be that my mother had other reasons for denying the noble fellow. But that is nobody’s business.”
He hugged her with a sudden violence and then began to dance and pirouette. Then coming back to her:
“But smile, little girl—laugh!” he exclaimed. “All this is really very funny. So laugh. Arsène Lupin or Ralph d’Andresy, what on earth does it matter? The main thing is to succeed. And I shall succeed. About that there is no doubt. Every fortune-teller I have ever come across has predicted a great future and universal renown for me. Ralph d’Andresy will be a general, or a minister, or an ambassador. … Always
