“In his eye, perhaps?” suggested Prasville, by way of a joke …
“In his eye? Monsieur le secrétaire-général, you have said the word.”
“What?”
“I repeat, in his eye. And it is a truth that ought to have occurred to my mind logically, instead of being revealed to me by accident. And I will tell you why. Daubrecq knew that Clarisse had seen a letter from him instructing an English manufacturer to ‘empty the crystal within, so as to leave a void which it was unpossible to suspect.’ Daubrecq was bound, in prudence, to divert any attempt at search. And it was for this reason that he had a crystal stopper made, ‘emptied within,’ after a model supplied by himself. And it is this crystal stopper which you and I have been after for months; and it is this crystal stopper which I dug out of a packet of tobacco. Whereas all I had to do …”
“Was what?” asked Prasville, greatly puzzled.
M. Nicole burst into a fresh fit of laughter:
“Was simply to go for Daubrecq’s eye, that eye ‘emptied within so as to leave a void which it is impossible to suspect,’ the eye which you see before you.”
And M. Nicole once more took the thing from his pocket and rapped the table with it, producing the sound of a hard body with each rap.
Prasville whispered, in astonishment:
“A glass eye!”
“Why, of course!” cried M. Nicole, laughing gaily. “A glass eye! A common or garden decanter-stopper, which the rascal stuck into his eyesocket in the place of an eye which he had lost—a decanter-stopper, or, if you prefer, a crystal stopper, but the real one, this time, which he faked, which he hid behind the double bulwark of his spectacles and eyeglasses, which contained and still contains the talisman that enabled Daubrecq to work as he pleased in safety.”
Prasville lowered his head and put his hand to his forehead to hide his flushed face: he was almost possessing the list of the Twenty-Seven. It lay before him, on the table.
Mastering his emotion, he said, in a casual tone:
“So it is there still?”
“At least, I suppose so,” declared M. Nicole.
“What! You suppose so?”
“I have not opened the hiding-place. I thought, monsieur le secrétaire-général, I would reserve that honour for you.”
Prasville put out his hand, took the thing up and inspected it. It was a block of crystal, imitating nature to perfection, with all the details of the eyeball, the iris, the pupil, the cornea.
He at once saw a movable part at the back, which slid in a groove. He pushed it. The eye was hollow.
There was a tiny ball of paper inside. He unfolded it, smoothed it out and, quickly, without delaying to make a preliminary examination of the names, the handwriting or the signatures, he raised his arms and turned the paper to the light from the windows.
“Is the cross of Lorraine there?” asked M. Nicole.
“Yes, it is there,” replied Prasville. “This is the genuine list.”
He hesitated a few seconds and remained with his arms raised, while reflecting what he would do. Then he folded up the paper again, replaced it in its little crystal sheath and put the whole thing in his pocket. M. Nicole, who was looking at him, asked:
“Are you convinced?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then we are agreed?”
“We are agreed.”
There was a pause, during which the two men watched each other without appearing to. M. Nicole seemed to be waiting for the conversation to be resumed. Prasville, sheltered behind the piles of books on the table, sat with one hand grasping his revolver and the other touching the push of the electric bell. He felt the whole strength of his position with a keen zest. He held the list. He held Lupin:
“If he moves,” he thought, “I cover him with my revolver and I ring. If he attacks me, I shoot.”
And the situation appeared to him so pleasant that he prolonged it, with the exquisite relish of an epicure.
In the end, M. Nicole took up the threads:
“As we are agreed, monsieur le secrétaire-général, I think there is nothing left for you to do but to hurry. Is the execution to take place tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“In that case, I shall wait here.”
“Wait for what?”
“The answer from the Élysée.”
“Oh, is someone to bring you an answer?”
“Yes.”
“You, monsieur le secrétaire-général.”
Prasville shook his head:
“You must not count on me, M. Nicole.”
“Really?” said M. Nicole, with an air of surprise. “May I ask the reason?”
“I have changed my mind.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. I have come to the conclusion that, as things stand, after this last scandal, it is impossible to try to do anything in Gilbert’s favour. Besides, an attempt in this direction at the Élysée, under present conditions, would constitute a regular case of blackmail, to which I absolutely decline to lend myself.”
“You are free to do as you please, monsieur. Your scruples do you honour, though they come rather late, for they did not trouble you yesterday. But, in that case, monsieur le secrétaire-général, as the compact between us is destroyed, give me back the list of the Twenty-Seven.”
“What for?”
“So that I may apply to another spokesman.”
“What’s the good? Gilbert is lost.”
“Not at all, not at all. On the contrary, I consider that, now that his accomplice is dead, it will be much easier to grant him a pardon which everybody will look upon as fair and humane. Give me back the list.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, you have a short memory and none too nice a conscience. Have you forgotten your promise of yesterday?”
“Yesterday, I made a promise to a M. Nicole.”
“Well?”
“You are not M.
