The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar | Page 7

at public sales.
Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the treasures that he had
accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with so much perspicacity that the
shrewdest merchant could not say that the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment.
He loved them--his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a lover.
Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the
court of honor are closed and barred. At the least touch on these gates, electric bells will
ring throughout the castle.
One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of
the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal.
He scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and
twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man
laughed, as he said:

"It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap and blouse."
"One can never tell," muttered the Baron.
The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:
"And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new."
"Something new?"
"Yes, a letter. A registered letter."
Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any
letters, and the one now presented to him immediately aroused within him a feeling of
suspicion and distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent
that dared to disturb the tranquility of his retreat?
"You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron."
He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had disappeared beyond the
bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned
against the parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper,
bearing this heading: Prison de la Santé, Paris. He looked at the signature: Arsène Lupin.
Then he read:
"Monsieur le Baron:
"There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe de Champaigne, of exquisite
finish, which pleases me beyond measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as
your smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the Louis XIII
cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire gueridon signed `Jacob,' and the
Renaissance chest. In the salon to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.
"For the present, I will content myself with those articles that can be conveniently
removed. I will therefore ask you to pack them carefully and ship them to me, charges
prepaid, to the station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be obliged to
remove them myself during the night of 27 September; but, under those circumstances, I
shall not content myself with the articles above mentioned.
"Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and believe me to be your
humble servant, "Arsène Lupin."
"P. S.--Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you paid thirty thousand francs
for it, it is only a copy, the original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras,
during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.
"I do not care for the Louis XV chatelaine, as I doubt its authenticity."

That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other signature, he would have
been greatly alarmed--but signed by Arsène Lupin!
As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history of recent crimes,
and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of the mysterious burglar. Of course,
he knew that Lupin had been arrested in America by his enemy Ganimard and was at
present incarcerated in the Prison de la Santé. But he knew also that any miracle might be
expected from Arsène Lupin. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the location
of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming aspect. How could he have
acquired that information concerning things that no one had ever seen?
The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the castle, its steep rocky
pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water, and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there
was no danger. No one in the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that
contained his priceless treasures.
No one, perhaps, but Arsène Lupin! For him, gates, walls and drawbridges did not exist.
What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most careful precautions, if Arsène
Lupin had decided to effect an entrance?
That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He enclosed the
threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.
The reply