“So that … ?” asked Mrs. Kesselbach, in a low voice.
“So that, with a good lens and particularly with the special methods which I have at my disposal, I was able to revive some of the obliterated syllables and, without any possibility of a mistake, in all certainty, to reconstruct the old writing. I then found not Louis de Malreich, but …”
“Oh, don’t, don’t! …”
Suddenly shattered by the strain of her prolonged effort of resistance, she lay bent in two and, with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaken with convulsive sobs, she wept.
Lupin looked for long seconds at this weak and listless creature, so pitifully helpless. And he would have liked to stop, to cease the torturing questions which he was inflicting upon her. But was it not to save her that he was acting as he did? And, to save her, was it not necessary that he should know the truth, however painful?
He resumed:
“Why that forgery?”
“It was my husband,” she stammered, “it was my husband who did it. With his fortune, he could do everything; and he bribed a junior clerk to have the Christian name of the second child altered for him on the register.”
“The Christian name and the sex,” said Lupin.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then,” he continued, “I am not mistaken: the original Christian name, the real one, was Dolores?”
“Yes.”
“But why did your husband … ?”
She whispered in a shamefaced manner, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“But think,” she said, shuddering, “I was the sister of Isilda, the mad woman, the sister of Altenheim, the ruffian. My husband—or rather my affianced husband—would not have me remain that. He loved me. I loved him too, and I consented. He suppressed Dolores de Malreich on the register, he bought me other papers, another personality, another birth-certificate; and I was married in Holland under another maiden name, as Dolores Amonti.”
Lupin reflected for a moment and said, thoughtfully:
“Yes … yes … I understand. … But then Louis de Malreich does not exist; and the murderer of your husband, the murderer of your brother and sister, does not bear that name. … His name. …”
She sprang to a sitting posture and, eagerly:
“His name! Yes, that is his name … yes, it is his name nevertheless. … Louis de Malreich. … L. M. … Remember. … Oh, do not try to find out … it is the terrible secret. … Besides, what does it matter? … They have the criminal. … He is the criminal. … I tell you he is. Did he defend himself when I accused him, face to face? Could he defend himself, under that name or any other? It is he … it is he … He committed the murders. … He struck the blows. … The dagger. … The steel dagger. … Oh, if I could only tell all I know! … Louis de Malreich. … If I could only …”
She fell back on the sofa in a fit of hysterical sobbing; and her hand clutched Lupin’s and he heard her stammering, amid inarticulate words:
“Protect me … protect me. … You alone, perhaps. … Oh, do not forsake me. … I am so unhappy! … Oh, what torture … what torture! … It is hell! …”
With his free hand, he stroked her hair and forehead with infinite gentleness; and, under his caress, she gradually relaxed her tense nerves and became calmer and quieter.
Then he looked at her again and long, long asked himself what there could be behind that fair, white brow, what secret was ravaging that mysterious soul. She also was afraid. But of whom? Against whom was she imploring him to protect her?
Once again, he was obsessed by the image of the man in black, by that Louis de Malreich, the sinister and incomprehensible enemy, whose attacks he had to ward off without knowing whence they came or even if they were taking place.
He was in prison, watched day and night. Tush! Did Lupin not know by his own experience that there are beings for whom prison does not exist and who throw off their chains at the given moment? And Louis de Malreich was one of those.
Yes, there was someone in the Santé prison, in the condemned man’s cell. But it might be an accomplice or some victim of Malreich … while Malreich himself prowled around Bruggen Castle, slipped in under cover of the darkness, like an invisible spectre, made his way into the chalet in the park and, at night, raised his dagger against Lupin asleep and helpless.
And it was Louis de Malreich who terrorized Dolores, who drove her mad with his threats, who held her by some dreadful secret and forced her into silence and submission.
And Lupin imagined the enemy’s plan: to throw Dolores, scared and trembling, into Pierre Leduc’s arms, to make away with him, Lupin, and to reign in his place, over there, with the grand-duke’s power and Dolores’s millions.
It was a likely supposition, a certain supposition, which fitted in with the facts and provided a solution of all the problems.
“Of all?” thought Lupin. “Yes. … But then, why did he not kill me, last night, in the chalet? He had but to wish … and he did not wish. One movement and I was dead. He did not make that movement. Why?”
Dolores opened her eyes, saw him and smiled, with a pale smile:
“Leave me,” she said:
He rose, with some hesitation. Should he go and see if the enemy was behind the curtain or hidden behind the dresses in a cupboard?
She repeated, gently:
“Go … I am so sleepy. …”
He went away.
But, outside, he stopped behind some trees that formed a dark cluster in front of the castle. He saw a light in Dolores’ boudoir. Then the light passed into the bedroom. In a few minutes, all was darkness.
He waited. If the enemy was there, perhaps he would come out of the castle. …
An hour elapsed. … Two hours. … Not a sound. …
“There’s nothing to be done,” thought Lupin. “Either he is burrowing in some corner of the castle … or else he has gone out by a door which I cannot see from here. Unless the whole thing is the most ridiculous supposition on my
