Then came the struggle, the desperate struggle of his brain, his nerves, his will against that hideous, paralyzing torpor, the struggle of a dying man against death, the struggle of life against extinction. And the sight was one of infinite sadness.
“He is suffering,” muttered Waldemar.
“Or at least, he is pretending to suffer,” declared the Emperor, “and pretending very cleverly at that. What an actor!”
Lupin stammered:
“An injection, doctor, an injection of caffeine … at once. …”
“May I, Sire?” asked the doctor.
“Certainly. … Until twelve o’clock, do all that he asks. He has my promise.”
“How many minutes … before twelve o’clock?” asked Lupin.
“Forty,” said somebody.
“Forty? … I shall do it. … I am sure to do it. … I’ve got to do it. …” He took his head in his two hands. “Oh, if I had my brain, the real brain, the brain that thinks! It would be a matter of a second! There is only one dark spot left … but I cannot … my thoughts escape me. … I can’t grasp it … it’s awful.”
His shoulders shook. Was he crying?
They heard him repeating:
“813 … 813. …” And, in a lower voice, “813 … an ‘8’ … a ‘1’ … a ‘3’ … yes, of course. … But why? … That’s not enough. …”
The Emperor muttered:
“He impresses me. I find it difficult to believe that a man can play a part like that. …”
Half-past eleven struck … a quarter to twelve. …
Lupin remained motionless, with his fists glued to his temples.
The Emperor waited, with his eyes fixed on a chronometer which Waldemar held in his hand.
Ten minutes more … five minutes more …
“Is the car there, Waldemar? … Are your men ready?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“At the last stroke of twelve, then. …”
“But …”
“At the last stroke of twelve, Waldemar.”
There was really something tragic about the scene, that sort of grandeur and solemnity which the hours assume at the approach of a possible miracle, when it seems as though the voice of fate itself were about to find utterance.
The Emperor did not conceal his anguish. This fantastic adventurer who was called Arsène Lupin and whose amazing life he knew, this man troubled him … and, although he was resolved to make an end of all this dubious story, he could not help waiting … and hoping.
Two minutes more … one minute more …
Then they counted by seconds.
Lupin seemed asleep.
“Come, get ready,” said the Emperor to the count.
The count went up to Lupin and placed his hand on his shoulder.
The silvery chime of the repeater quivered and struck … one, two, three, four, five …
“Waldemar, old chap, pull the weights of the old clock.”
A moment of stupefaction. It was Lupin’s voice, speaking very calmly.
Waldemar, annoyed at the familiarity of the address, shrugged his shoulders.
“Do as he says, Waldemar,” said the Emperor.
“Yes, do as I say, my dear count,” echoed Lupin, recovering his powers of chaff. “You know the ropes so well … all you have to do is to pull those of the clock … in turns … one, two … capital! … That’s how they used to wind it up in the old days.”
The pendulum, in fact, was started; and they heard its regular ticking.
“Now the hands,” said Lupin. “Set them at a little before twelve … Don’t move … Let me …”
He rose and walked to the face of the clock, standing two feet away, at most, with his eyes fixed, with every nerve attentive.
The twelve strokes sounded, twelve heavy, deep strokes.
A long silence. Nothing happened. Nevertheless, the Emperor waited, as though he were sure that something was going to happen. And Waldemar did not move, stood with wide-open eyes.
Lupin, who had stooped over the clock-face, now drew himself up, muttering:
“That’s it … I have it. …”
He went back to his chair and commanded:
“Waldemar, set the hands at two minutes to twelve again. Oh, no, old chap, not backwards! The way the hands go! … Yes, I know, it will take rather long … but it can’t be helped.”
All the hours struck and the half hours, up to half-past eleven.
“Listen, Waldemar,” said Lupin.
And he spoke seriously, without jesting, as though himself excited and anxious:
“Listen, Waldemar. Do you see on the face of the clock a little round dot marking the first hour? That dot is loose, isn’t it? Put the forefinger of your left hand on it and press. Good. Do the same with your thumb on the dot marking the third hour. Good. With your right hand, push in the dot at the eighth hour. Good. Thank you. Go and sit down, my dear fellow.”
The minute-hand shifted, moved to the twelfth dot and the clock struck again.
Lupin was silent and very white. The twelve strokes rang out in the silence.
At the twelfth stroke, there was a sound as of a spring being set free. The clock stopped dead. The pendulum ceased swinging.
And suddenly, the bronze ornament representing a ram’s head, which crowned the dial, fell forwards, uncovering a sort of little recess cut out of the stone wall.
In this recess was a chased silver casket.
Lupin took it and carried it to the Emperor:
“Would Your Imperial Majesty be so good as to open it yourself? The letters which you instructed me to look for are inside.”
The Emperor raised the lid and seemed greatly astonished.
The casket was empty.
The casket was empty.
It was an enormous, unforeseen sensation. After the success of the calculation made by Lupin, after the ingenious discovery of the secret of the clock, the Emperor, who had no doubt left as to the ultimate success, appeared utterly confounded.
Opposite him was Lupin, pallid and wan, with drawn jaws and bloodshot eyes, gnashing his teeth with rage and impotent hate.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, then snatched up the casket, turned it over, examined it, as though he hoped to find a false bottom. At last, for greater certainty, in a fit of fury, he crushed it, with an irresistible grip.
That relieved him. He breathed more easily.
The Emperor said:
“Who has done this?”
“Still the same man, Sire, the one who is following the same road as I and pursuing the
