Arsène Lupin | Page 4

A LETTER FROM LUPIN VI. AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS VII. THE
THEFT OF THE MOTOR-CARS VIII. THE DUKE ARRIVES IX. M.
FORMERY OPENS THE INQUIRY X. GUERCHARD ASSISTS XI.
THE FAMILY ARRIVES XII. THE THEFT OF THE PENDANT XIII.
LUPIN WIRES XIV. GUERCHARD PICKS UP THE TRUE SCENT
XV. THE EXAMINATION OF SONIA XVI. VICTOIRE'S SLIP XVII.
SONIA'S ESCAPE XVIII. THE DUKE STAYS XIX. THE DUKE
GOES XX. LUPIN COMES HOME XXI. THE CUTTING OF THE
TELEPHONE WIRES XII. THE BARGAIN XXIII. THE END OF
THE DUEL
CHAPTER I

ARSENE LUPIN
THE MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER
The rays of the September sun flooded the great halls of the old chateau
of the Dukes of Charmerace, lighting up with their mellow glow the
spoils of so many ages and many lands, jumbled together with the
execrable taste which so often afflicts those whose only standard of
value is money. The golden light warmed the panelled walls and old
furniture to a dull lustre, and gave back to he fading gilt of the First
Empire chairs and couches something of its old brightness. It illumined
the long line of pictures on the walls, pictures of dead and gone
Charmeraces, the stern or debonair faces of the men, soldiers,
statesmen, dandies, the gentle or imperious faces of beautiful women. It
flashed back from armour of brightly polished steel, and drew dull
gleams from armour of bronze. The hues of rare porcelain, of the rich
inlays of Oriental or Renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the
pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor to fill
the hall with a rich glow of colour.
But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed
to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in front
of the long windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of the
broad terrace, was the most beautiful and the most precious.
It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the
transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only tinted
with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was delicately cut,
her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of beauty would have
been at a loss whether more to admire her clear, germander eyes, so
melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth, with its rather full lips,
inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he would have been grieved by the
perpetual air of sadness which rested on the beautiful face--the wistful
melancholy of the Slav, deepened by something of personal misfortune
and suffering.
Her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands of
gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious to the comb,

strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold.
She was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her left
hand. When she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a
wedding-card. On each was printed:
"M. Gournay-Martin has the honour to inform you of the marriage of
his daughter Germaine to the Duke of Charmerace."
She wrote steadily on, adding envelope after envelope to the pile ready
for the post, which rose in front of her. But now and again, when the
flushed and laughing girls who were playing lawn-tennis on the terrace,
raised their voices higher than usual as they called the score, and
distracted her attention from her work, her gaze strayed through the
open window and lingered on them wistfully; and as her eyes came
back to her task she sighed with so faint a wistfulness that she hardly
knew she sighed. Then a voice from the terrace cried, "Sonia! Sonia!"
"Yes. Mlle. Germaine?" answered the writing girl.
"Tea! Order tea, will you?" cried the voice, a petulant voice, rather
harsh to the ear.
"Very well, Mlle. Germaine," said Sonia; and having finished
addressing the envelope under her pen, she laid it on the pile ready to
be posted, and, crossing the room to the old, wide fireplace, she rang
the bell.
She stood by the fireplace a moment, restoring to its place a rose which
had fallen from a vase on the mantelpiece; and her attitude, as with
arms upraised she arranged the flowers, displayed the delightful line of
a slender figure. As she let fall her arms to her side, a footman entered
the room.
"Will you please bring the tea, Alfred," she said in a charming voice of
that pure, bell-like tone which has been Nature's most precious gift to
but a few of the greatest actresses.

"For how many, miss?" said Alfred.
"For four--unless your master has come back."
"Oh, no; he's not back yet, miss. He went in the car to Rennes to lunch;
and it's a good