Then he saw her approach the fireplace and press what appeared to be the button of an electric bell. Immediately the panel to the right of the fireplace moved and slowly glided behind the adjoining panel, thus disclosing an opening large enough for a person to pass through. The lady disappeared through this opening, taking the lamp with her.
The operation was a very simple one. Sholmes adopted it and followed the lady. He found himself in total darkness and immediately he felt his face brushed by some soft articles. He lighted a match and found that he was in a very small room completely filled with cloaks and dresses suspended on hangers. He picked his way through until he reached a door that was draped with a portiere. He peeped through and, behold, the blonde lady was there, under his eyes, and almost within reach of his hand.
She extinguished the lamp and turned on the electric lights. Then for the first time Herlock Sholmes obtained a good look at her face. He was amazed. The woman, whom he had overtaken after so much trouble and after so many tricks and manoeuvres, was none other than Clotilde Destange.
Clotilde Destange, the assassin of the Baron d’Hautrec and the thief who stole the blue diamond! Clotilde Destange, the mysterious friend of Arsène Lupin! And the blonde lady!
“Yes, I am only a stupid ass,” thought Herlock Sholmes at that moment. “Because Lupin’s friend was a blonde and Clotilde is a brunette, I never dreamed that they were the same person. But how could the blonde lady remain a blonde after the murder of the baron and the theft of the diamond?”
Sholmes could see a portion of the room; it was a boudoir, furnished with the most delightful luxury and exquisite taste, and adorned with beautiful tapestries and costly ornaments. A mahogany couch, upholstered in silk, was located on the side of the room opposite the door at which Sholmes was standing. Clotilde was sitting on this couch, motionless, her face covered by her hands. Then he perceived that she was weeping. Great tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell, drop by drop, on the velvet corsage. The tears came thick and fast, as if their source were inexhaustible.
A door silently opened behind her and Arsène Lupin entered. He looked at her for a long time without making his presence known; then he approached her, knelt at her feet, pressed her head to his breast, folded her in his arms, and his actions indicated an infinite measure of love and sympathy. For a time not a word was uttered, but her tears became less abundant.
“I was so anxious to make you happy,” he murmured.
“I am happy.”
“No; you are crying. … Your tears break my heart, Clotilde.”
The caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. Her features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! He continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty:
“You should not be unhappy, Clotilde; you have no cause to be.”
She displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly:
“Yes, Maxime; so long as I see those hands I shall be sad.”
“Why?”
“They are stained with blood.”
“Hush! Do not think of that!” exclaimed Lupin. “The dead is past and gone. Do not resurrect it.”
And he kissed the long, delicate hand, while she regarded him with a brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful memory.
“You must love me, Maxime; you must—because no woman will ever love you as I do. For your sake, I have done many things, not at your order or request, but in obedience to your secret desires. I have done things at which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power that I could not resist. What I did I did involuntarily, mechanically, because it helped you, because you wished it … and I am ready to do it again tomorrow … and always.”
“Ah, Clotilde,” he said, bitterly, “why did I draw you into my adventurous life? I should have remained the Maxime Bermond that you loved five years ago, and not have let you know the … other man that I am.”
She replied in a low voice:
“I love the other man, also, and I have nothing to regret.”
“Yes, you regret your past life—the free and happy life you once enjoyed.”
“I have no regrets when you are here,” she said, passionately. “All faults and crimes disappear when I see you. When you are away I may suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what I have done; but when you come it is all forgotten. Your love wipes it all away. And I am happy again. … But you must love me!”
“I do not love you on compulsion, Clotilde. I love you simply because … I love you.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am just as sure of my own love as I am of yours. Only my life is a very active and exciting one, and I cannot spend as much time with you as I would like—just now.”
“What is it? Some new danger? Tell me!”
“Oh! nothing serious. Only. …”
“Only what?” she asked.
“Well, he is on our track.”
“Who? Herlock Sholmes?”
“Yes; it was he who dragged Ganimard into that affair at the Hungarian restaurant. It was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the house in the rue Chalgrin. I have proof of it. Ganimard searched the house this morning and Sholmes was with him. Besides—”
“Besides? What?”
“Well, there is another thing. One of our men is missing.”
“Who?”
“Jeanniot.”
“The concierge?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I sent him to the rue Chalgrin this morning to pick up the garnets that fell out of my brooch.”
“There is no doubt, then, that Sholmes caught him.”
“No; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la
