The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar | Page 6

the small
object that I had taken the precaution to place in her hands before Ganimard arrested me,
it was there I had deposited Rozaine's twenty thousand francs and Lady Jerland's pearls
and diamonds.
Oh! I pledge my oath that, at that solemn moment, when I was in the grasp of Ganimard
and his two assistants, I was perfectly indifferent to everything, to my arrest, the hostility
of the people, everything except this one question: what will Miss Nelly do with the
things I had confided to her?
In the absence of that material and conclusive proof, I had nothing to fear; but would
Miss Nelly decide to furnish that proof? Would she betray me? Would she act the part of
an enemy who cannot forgive, or that of a woman whose scorn is softened by feelings of
indulgence and involuntary sympathy?
She passed in front of me. I said nothing, but bowed very low. Mingled with the other
passengers, she advanced to the gangway with my kodak in her hand. It occurred to me
that she would not dare to expose me publicly, but she might do so when she reached a
more private place. However, when she had passed only a few feet down the gangway,
with a movement of simulated awkwardness, she let the camera fall into the water
between the vessel and the pier. Then she walked down the gangway, and was quickly
lost to sight in the crowd. She had passed out of my life forever.
For a moment, I stood motionless. Then, to Ganimard's great astonishment, I muttered:
"What a pity that I am not an honest man!"
Such was the story of his arrest as narrated to me by Arsène Lupin himself. The various
incidents, which I shall record in writing at a later day, have established between us
certain ties....shall I say of friendship? Yes, I venture to believe that Arsène Lupin honors
me with his friendship, and that it is through friendship that he occasionally calls on me,
and brings, into the silence of my library, his youthful exuberance of spirits, the
contagion of his enthusiasm, and the mirth of a man for whom destiny has naught but
favors and smiles.
His portrait? How can I describe him? I have seen him twenty times and each time he
was a different person; even he himself said to me on one occasion: "I no longer know
who I am. I cannot recognize myself in the mirror." Certainly, he was a great actor, and
possessed a marvelous faculty for disguising himself. Without the slightest effort, he
could adopt the voice, gestures and mannerisms of another person.
"Why," said he, "why should I retain a definite form and feature? Why not avoid the

danger of a personality that is ever the same? My actions will serve to identify me."
Then he added, with a touch of pride:
"So much the better if no one can ever say with absolute certainty: There is Arsène Lupin!
The essential point is that the public may be able to refer to my work and say, without
fear of mistake: Arsène Lupin did that!"

II. Arsène Lupin in Prison
There is no tourist worthy of the name who does not know the banks of the Seine, and
has not noticed, in passing, the little feudal castle of the Malaquis, built upon a rock in the
centre of the river. An arched bridge connects it with the shore. All around it, the calm
waters of the great river play peacefully amongst the reeds, and the wagtails flutter over
the moist crests of the stones.
The history of the Malaquis castle is stormy like its name, harsh like its outlines. It has
passed through a long series of combats, sieges, assaults, rapines and massacres. A recital
of the crimes that have been committed there would cause the stoutest heart to tremble.
There are many mysterious legends connected with the castle, and they tell us of a
famous subterranean tunnel that formerly led to the abbey of Jumieges and to the manor
of Agnes Sorel, mistress of Charles VII.
In that ancient habitation of heroes and brigands, the Baron Nathan Cahorn now lived; or
Baron Satan as he was formerly called on the Bourse, where he had acquired a fortune
with incredible rapidity. The lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to
sell the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable collection of furniture,
pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron lived there alone, attended by three old
servants. No one ever enters the place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he
possessed, his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures that he
had acquired by a vast expenditure of money