The Confessions of Arsène Lupin

I

Two Hundred Thousand Francs Reward! …

“Lupin,” I said, “tell me something about yourself.”

“Why, what would you have me tell you? Everybody knows my life!” replied Lupin, who lay drowsing on the sofa in my study.

“Nobody knows it!” I protested. “People know from your letters in the newspapers that you were mixed up in this case, that you started that case. But the part which you played in it all, the plain facts of the story, the upshot of the mystery: these are things of which they know nothing.”

“Pooh! A heap of uninteresting twaddle!”

“What! Your present of fifty thousand francs to Nicolas Dugrival’s wife! Do you call that uninteresting? And what about the way in which you solved the puzzle of the three pictures?”

Lupin laughed:

“Yes, that was a queer puzzle, certainly. I can suggest a title for you if you like: what do you say to The Sign of the Shadow?”

“And your successes in society and with the fair sex?” I continued. “The dashing Arsène’s love-affairs! … And the clue to your good actions? Those chapters in your life to which you have so often alluded under the names of The Wedding-Ring, Shadowed by Death, and so on! … Why delay these confidences and confessions, my dear Lupin? … Come, do what I ask you! …”

It was at the time when Lupin, though already famous, had not yet fought his biggest battles; the time that preceded the great adventures of The Hollow Needle and 813. He had not yet dreamt of annexing the accumulated treasures of the French Royal House1 nor of changing the map of Europe under the Kaiser’s nose:2 he contented himself with milder surprises and humbler profits, making his daily effort, doing evil from day to day and doing a little good as well, naturally and for the love of the thing, like a whimsical and compassionate Don Quixote.

He was silent; and I insisted:

“Lupin, I wish you would!”

To my astonishment, he replied:

“Take a sheet of paper, old fellow, and a pencil.”

I obeyed with alacrity, delighted at the thought that he at last meant to dictate to me some of those pages which he knows how to clothe with such vigour and fancy, pages which I, unfortunately, am obliged to spoil with tedious explanations and boring developments.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Quite.”

“Write down, 20, 1, 11, 5, 14, 15.”

“What?”

“Write it down, I tell you.”

He was now sitting up, with his eyes turned to the open window and his fingers rolling a Turkish cigarette. He continued:

“Write down, 21, 14, 14, 5. …”

He stopped. Then he went on:

“3, 5, 19, 19 …”

And, after a pause:

“5, 18, 25 …”

Was he mad? I looked at him hard and, presently, I saw that his eyes were no longer listless, as they had been a little before, but keen and attentive and that they seemed to be watching, somewhere, in space, a sight that apparently captivated them.

Meanwhile, he dictated, with intervals between each number:

“18, 9, 19, 11, 19 …”

There was hardly anything to be seen through the window but a patch of blue sky on the right and the front of the building opposite, an old private house, whose shutters were closed as usual. There was nothing particular about all this, no detail that struck me as new among those which I had had before my eyes for years. …

“1, 2. …”

And suddenly I understood … or rather I thought I understood, for how could I admit that Lupin, a man so essentially levelheaded under his mask of frivolity, could waste his time upon such childish nonsense? What he was counting was the intermittent flashes of a ray of sunlight playing on the dingy front of the opposite house, at the height of the second floor!