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 someone 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.”
Patrice was stupefied. He had utterly
