“No, not either.”
Isidore continued his inquiries all through the morning. He was on the point of leaving for Quillebeuf, when the waiter of the inn at which he had spent the night said:
“I came back from my thirteen days’ training on the morning of which you are speaking and I saw a cart, but it did not go across.”
“Really?”
“No, they unloaded it onto a flat boat, a barge of sorts, which was moored to the wharf.”
“And where did the cart come from?”
“Oh, I knew it at once. It belonged to Master Vatinel, the carter.”
“And where does he live?”
“At Louvetot.”
Beautrelet consulted his military map. The hamlet of Louvetot lay where the highroad between Yvetot and Caudebec was crossed by a little winding road that ran through the woods to La Mailleraie.
Not until six o’clock in the evening did Isidore succeed in discovering Master Vatinel, in a pothouse. Master Vatinel was one of those artful old Normans who are always on their guard, who distrust strangers, but who are unable to resist the lure of a gold coin or the influence of a glass or two:
“Well, yes, sir, the men in the motor car that morning had told me to meet them at five o’clock at the crossroads. They gave me four great, big things, as high as that. One of them went with me and we carted the things to the barge.”
“You speak of them as if you knew them before.”
“I should think I did know them! It was the sixth time they were employing me.”
Isidore gave a start:
“The sixth time, you say? And since when?”
“Why every day before that one, to be sure! But it was other things then—great blocks of stone—or else smaller, longish ones, wrapped up in newspapers, which they carried as if they were worth I don’t know what. Oh, I mustn’t touch those on any account!—But what’s the matter? You’ve turned quite white.”
“Nothing—the heat of the room—”
Beautrelet staggered out into the air. The joy, the surprise of the discovery made him feel giddy. He went back very quietly to Varengeville, slept in the village, spent an hour at the mayor’s offices with the schoolmaster and returned to the château. There he found a letter awaiting him “care of M. le Comte de Gesvres.” It consisted of a single line:
“Second warning. Hold your tongue. If not—”
“Come,” he muttered. “I shall have to make up my mind and take a few precautions for my personal safety. If not, as they say—”
It was nine o’clock. He strolled about among the ruins and then lay down near the cloisters and closed his eyes.
“Well, young man, are you satisfied with the results of your campaign?”
It was M. Filleul.
“Delighted, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction.”
“By which you mean to say—?”
“By which I mean to say that I am prepared to keep my promise—in spite of this very uninviting letter.”
He showed the letter to M. Filleul.
“Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!” cried the magistrate. “I hope you won’t let that prevent you—”
“From telling you what I know? No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. I have given my word and I shall keep it. In less than ten minutes, you shall know—a part of the truth.”
“A part?”
“Yes, in my opinion, Lupin’s hiding-place does not constitute the whole of the problem. Far from it. But we shall see later on.”
“M. Beautrelet, nothing that you do could astonish me now. But how were you able to discover—?”
“Oh, in a very natural way! In the letter from old man Harlington to M. Étienne de Vaudreix, or rather to Lupin—”
“The intercepted letter?”
“Yes. There is a phrase which always puzzled me. After saying that the pictures are to be forwarded as arranged, he goes on to say, ‘You may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.’ ”
“Yes, I remember.”
“What was this ‘rest’? A work of art, a curiosity? The château contains nothing of any value besides the Rubenses and the tapestries. Jewelry? There is very little and what there is of it is not worth much. In that case, what could it be?—On the other hand, was it conceivable that people so prodigiously clever as Lupin should not have succeeded in adding ‘the rest,’ which they themselves had evidently suggested? A difficult undertaking, very likely; exceptional, surprising, I dare say; but possible and therefore certain, since Lupin wished it.”
“And yet he failed: nothing has disappeared.”
“He did not fail: something has disappeared.”
“Yes, the Rubenses—but—”
“The Rubenses and something besides—something which has been replaced by a similar thing, as in the case of the Rubenses; something much more uncommon, much rarer, much more valuable than the Rubenses.”
“Well, what? You’re killing me with this procrastination!”
While talking, the two men had crossed the ruins, turned toward the little door and were now walking beside the chapel. Beautrelet stopped:
“Do you really want to know, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction?”
“Of course, I do.”
Beautrelet was carrying a walking-stick, a strong, knotted stick. Suddenly, with a back stroke of this stick, he smashed one of the little statues that adorned the front of the chapel.
“Why, you’re mad!” shouted M. Filleul, beside himself, rushing at the broken pieces of the statue. “You’re mad! That old saint was an admirable bit of work—”
“An admirable bit of work!” echoed Isidore, giving a whirl which brought down the Virgin Mary.
M. Filleul took hold of him round the body:
“Young man, I won’t allow you to commit—”
A wise man of the East came toppling to the ground, followed by a manger containing the Mother and Child. …
“If you stir another limb, I fire!”
The Comte de Gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. Beautrelet burst out laughing:
“That’s right, Monsieur le Comte, blaze away!—Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!—Wait a bit—this chap carrying his head in his hands—”
St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces.
“Oh!” shouted the count, pointing his revolver. “You young vandal!—Those masterpieces!”
“Sham, Monsieur le Comte!”
“What? What’s that?” roared M. Filleul, wresting the
