And time went by. Losing patience and beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, I went to the Rue Raynouard to fetch something to eat, which we divided while watching the actors in the incomprehensible comedy that was being performed before our eyes. They hardly stirred. Each minute that passed seemed to load them with increasing melancholy; and they sank into attitudes of discouragement, bent their backs more and more and sat absorbed in their meditations.
The afternoon wore on in this way, under a grey sky that shed a dreary light over the enclosure.
“Are they going to spend the night here?” I asked, in a bored voice.
But, at five o’clock or so, the fat gentleman in the soiled jacket-suit took out his watch. The others did the same and all, watch in hand, seemed to be anxiously awaiting an event of no little importance to themselves. The event did not take place, for, in fifteen or twenty minutes, the fat gentleman gave a gesture of despair, stood up and put on his hat.
Then lamentations broke forth. The two lean sisters and the workman’s wife fell upon their knees and made the sign of the cross. The lady with the little dog and the beggar-woman kissed each other and sobbed; and we saw Louise d’Ernemont pressing her daughter sadly to her.
“Let’s go,” said Lupin.
“You think it’s over?”
“Yes; and we have only just time to make ourselves scarce.”
We went out unmolested. At the top of the lane, Lupin turned to the left and, leaving me outside, entered the first house in the Rue Raynouard, the one that backed on to the enclosure.
After talking for a few seconds to the porter, he joined me and we stopped a passing taxicab:
“No. 34 Rue de Turin,” he said to the driver.
The ground-floor of No. 34 was occupied by a notary’s office; and we were shown in, almost without waiting, to Maître Valandier, a smiling, pleasant-spoken man of a certain age.
Lupin introduced himself by the name of Captain Jeanniot, retired from the army. He said that he wanted to build a house to his own liking and that someone had suggested to him a plot of ground situated near the Rue Raynouard.
“But that plot is not for sale,” said Maître Valandier.
“Oh, I was told. …”
“You have been misinformed, I fear.”
The lawyer rose, went to a cupboard and returned with a picture which he showed us. I was petrified. It was the same picture which I had bought, the same picture that hung in Louise d’Ernemont’s room.
“This is a painting,” he said, “of the plot of ground to which you refer. It is known as the Clos d’Ernemont.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, this close,” continued the notary, “once formed part of a large garden belonging to d’Ernemont, the farmer-general, who was executed during the Terror. All that could be sold has been sold, piecemeal, by the heirs. But this last plot has remained and will remain in their joint possession … unless. …”
The notary began to laugh.
“Unless what?” asked Lupin.
“Well, it’s quite a romance, a rather curious romance, in fact. I often amuse myself by looking through the voluminous documents of the case.”
“Would it be indiscreet, if I asked … ?”
“Not at all, not at all,” declared Maître Valandier, who seemed delighted, on the contrary, to have found a listener for his story. And, without waiting to be pressed, he began: “At the outbreak of the Revolution, Louis Agrippa d’Ernemont, on the pretence of joining his wife, who was staying at Geneva with their daughter Pauline, shut up his mansion in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, dismissed his servants and, with his son Charles, came and took up his abode in his pleasure-house at Passy, where he was known to nobody except an old and devoted serving-woman. He remained there in hiding for three years and he had every reason to hope that his retreat would not be discovered, when, one day, after luncheon, as he was having a nap, the old servant burst into his room. She had seen, at the end of the street, a patrol of armed men who seemed to be making for the house. Louis d’Ernemont got ready quickly and, at the moment when the men were knocking at the front door, disappeared through the door that led to the garden, shouting to his son, in a scared voice, to keep them talking, if only for five minutes. He may have intended to escape and found the outlets through the garden watched. In any case, he returned in six or seven minutes, replied very calmly to the questions put to him and raised no difficulty about accompanying the men. His son Charles, although only eighteen years of age, was arrested also.”
“When did this happen?” asked Lupin.
“It happened on the 26th day of Germinal, Year II, that is to say, on the. …”
Maître Valandier stopped, with his eyes fixed on a calendar that hung on the wall, and exclaimed:
“Why, it was on this very day! This is the 15th of April, the anniversary of the farmer-general’s arrest.”
“What an odd coincidence!” said Lupin. “And considering the period at which it took place, the arrest, no doubt, had serious consequences?”
“Oh, most serious!” said the notary, laughing. “Three months later, at the beginning of Thermidor, the farmer-general mounted the scaffold. His son Charles was forgotten in prison and their property was confiscated.”
“The property was immense, I suppose?” said Lupin.
“Well, there you are! That’s just where the thing becomes complicated. The property, which was, in fact, immense, could never be traced. It was discovered that the Faubourg Saint-Germain mansion had been sold, before the Revolution, to an Englishman, together with all the country-seats and estates and all the jewels, securities and collections belonging to the farmer-general. The Convention instituted minute inquiries, as did the Directory afterward. But the inquiries led to no result.”
“There remained, at any rate, the Passy house,” said Lupin.
“The house at Passy was bought, for a
