Part 29 (1/2)

Yes, he has made a mistake. Yes, his reading of the doc.u.ment is all wrong. The word aiguille does not point to the castle on the Creuse. Also, the word demoiselles cannot be applied to Raymonde de Saint-Veran and her cousin, because the text of the doc.u.ment dates back for centuries.

Therefore, all must be done over again, from the beginning.

How?

One piece of evidence alone would be incontestible: the book published under Louis XIV. Now of those hundred copies printed by the person who was presumed to be the Man with the Iron Mask only two escaped the flames. One was purloined by the captain of the guards and lost. The other was kept by Louis XIV., handed down to Louis XV., and burnt by Louis XVI. But a copy of the essential page, the page containing the solution of the problem, or at least a cryptographic solution, was conveyed to Marie Antoinette, who slipped it into the binding of her book of hours. What has become of this paper? Is it the one which Beautrelet has held in his hands and which Lupin recovered from him through Bredoux, the magistrate's clerk? Or is it still in Marie Antoinette's book of hours? And the question resolves itself into this: what has become of the Queen's book of hours?

After taking a short rest, Beautrelet consulted his friend's father, an old and experienced collector, who was often called upon officially to give an expert opinion and who had quite lately been invited to advise the director of one of our museums on the drawing up of the catalogue.

”Marie Antoinette's book of hours?” he exclaimed. ”Why, the Queen left it to her waiting-woman, with secret instructions to forward it to Count Fersen. After being piously preserved in the count's family, it has been, for the last five years, in a gla.s.s case-”

”A gla.s.s case?”

”In the Musee Carnavalet, quite simply.”

”When will the museum be open?”

”At twenty minutes from now, as it is every morning.”

Isidore and his friend jumped out of a cab at the moment when the doors of Madame de Sevigne's old mansion were opening.

”Hullo! M. Beautrelet!”

A dozen voices greeted his arrival. To his great surprise, he recognized the whole crowd of reporters who were following up ”the mystery of the Hollow Needle.” And one of them exclaimed:

”Funny, isn't it, that we should all have had the same idea? Take care, a.r.s.ene Lupin may be among us!”

They entered the museum together. The director was at once informed, placed himself entirely at their disposal, took them to the gla.s.s case and skewed them a poor little volume, devoid of all ornament, which certainly had nothing royal about it. Nevertheless, they were overcome by a certain emotion at the sight of this object which the Queen had touched in those tragic days, which her eyes, red with tears, had looked upon-And they dared not take it and hunt through it: it was as though they feared lest they should be guilty of a sacrilege-

”Come, M. Beautrelet, it's your business!”

He took the book with an anxious gesture. The description corresponded with that given by the author of the pamphlet. Outside was a parchment cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under it, the real binding, in stiff leather. With what a thrill Beautrelet felt for the hidden pocket! Was it a fairy tale? Or would he find the doc.u.ment written by Louis XVI. and bequeathed by the queen to her fervent admirer?

At the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no receptacle.

”Nothing,” he muttered.

”Nothing,” they echoed, palpitating with excitement.

But, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once saw that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. He slipped his fingers in between-there was something-yes, he felt something-a paper-

”Oh!” he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. ”Here-is it possible?”

”Quick, quick!” they cried. ”What are you waiting for?”

He drew out a sheet folded in two.

”Well, read it!-There are words in red ink-Look!-it might be blood-pale, faded blood-Read it!-”

He read: