The explanation only half satisfied him, and he promised himself sooner or later to clear up the riddle and to discover the exact part which Massier had played in Dolores’ life. But what did it matter for the moment? One fact alone stood out clearly, which was Massier’s madness, and he repeated, persistently:
“He was a madman … Massier was undoubtedly mad. Besides, all those Massiers … a family of madmen. …”
He raved, mixing up names in his enfeebled brain.
But, on alighting at Bruggen Station, in the cool, moist air of the morning, his consciousness revived. Things suddenly assumed a different aspect. And he exclaimed:
“Well, after all, it was his own lookout! He had only to protest. … I accept no responsibility. … It was he who committed suicide. … He was only a dumb actor in the play. … He has gone under. … I am sorry. … But it can’t be helped!”
The necessity for action stimulated him afresh. Wounded, tortured by that crime of which he knew himself to be the author for all that he might say, he nevertheless looked to the future:
“Those are the accidents of war,” he said. “Don’t let us think about it. Nothing is lost. On the contrary! Dolores was the stumbling-block, since Pierre Leduc loved her. Dolores is dead. Therefore Pierre Leduc belongs to me. And he shall marry Geneviève, as I have arranged! And he shall reign! And I shall be the master! And Europe, Europe is mine!”
He worked himself up, reassured, full of sudden confidence, and made feverish gestures as he walked along the road, whirling an imaginary sword, the sword of the leader whose will is law, who commands and triumphs:
“Lupin, you shall be king! You shall be king, Arsène Lupin!”
He inquired in the village of Bruggen and heard that Pierre Leduc had lunched yesterday at the inn. Since then, he had not been seen.
“Oh?” asked Lupin. “Didn’t he sleep here?”
“No.”
“But where did he go after his lunch?”
“He took the road to the castle.”
Lupin walked away in some surprise. After all, he had told the young man to lock the doors and not to return after the servants had gone.
He at once received a proof that Pierre had disobeyed him: the park gates were open.
He went in, hunted all over the castle, called out. No reply.
Suddenly, he thought of the chalet. Who could tell? Perhaps Pierre Leduc, worrying about the woman he loved and driven by an intuition, had gone to look for her in that direction. And Dolores’ corpse was there!
Greatly alarmed, Lupin began to run.
At first sight, there seemed to be no one in the chalet.
“Pierre! Pierre!” he cried.
Hearing no sound, he entered the front passage and the room which he had occupied.
He stopped short, rooted to the threshold.
Above Dolores’ corpse, hung Pierre Leduc, with a rope round his neck, dead.
Lupin impatiently pulled himself together from head to foot. He refused to yield to a single gesture of despair. He refused to utter a single violent word. After the cruel blows which fate had dealt him, after Dolores’ crimes and death, after Massier’s execution, after all those disturbances and catastrophes, he felt the absolute necessity of retaining all his self-command. If not, his brain would undoubtedly give way. …
“Idiot!” he said, shaking his fist at Pierre Leduc. “You great idiot, couldn’t you wait? In ten years we should have had Alsace-Lorraine again!”
To relieve his mind, he sought for words to say, for attitudes; but his ideas escaped him and his head seemed on the point of bursting.
“Oh, no, no!” he cried. “None of that, thank you! Lupin mad too! No, old chap! Put a bullet through your head, if you like; and, when all is said, I don’t see any other way out. But Lupin drivelling, wheeled about in a bath-chair … no! Style, old fellow, finish in style!”
He walked up and down, stamping his feet and lifting his knees very high, as certain actors do when feigning madness. And he said:
“Swagger, my lad, swagger! The eyes of the gods are upon you! Lift up your head! Pull in your stomach, hang it! Throw out your chest! … Everything is breaking up around you. What do you care? … It’s the final disaster, I’ve played my last card, a kingdom in the gutter, I’ve lost Europe, the whole world ends in smoke. … Well … and what of it? Laugh, laugh! Be Lupin, or you’re in the soup. … Come, laugh! Louder than that, louder, louder! That’s right! … Lord, how funny it all is! Dolores, old girl, a cigarette!”
He bent down with a grin, touched the dead woman’s face, tottered for a second and fell to the ground unconscious.
After lying for an hour, he came to himself and stood up. The fit of madness was over; and, master of himself, with relaxed nerves, serious and silent, he considered the position.
He felt that the time had come for the irrevocable decisions that involve a whole existence. His had been utterly shattered, in a few days, under the assault of unforeseen catastrophes, rushing up, one after the other, at the very moment when he thought his triumph assured. What should he do? Begin again? Build up everything again? He had not the courage for it. What then?
The whole morning, he roamed tragically about the park and gradually realized his position in all its slightest details. Little by little, the thought of death enforced itself upon him with inflexible rigor.
But, whether he decided to kill himself or to live, there was first of all a series of definite acts which he was obliged to perform. And these acts stood out clearly in his brain, which had suddenly become quite cool.
The midday Angelus rang from the church-steeple.
“To work!” he said, firmly.
He returned to the chalet in a very calm frame of mind, went to his room, climbed on a stool, and cut the rope by which Pierre Leduc
