The Arsene Lupin MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

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      They had nearly finished it when Jean came in, his gun on his arm, to say that Firmin had harnessed the horse to the luggage-cart, and it was awaiting them at the door of the chateau.

      “Send him in to me, and stand by the horse till we come out,” said the millionaire.

      Firmin came clumping in.

      The millionaire gazed at him solemnly, and said: “Firmin, I am relying on you. I am leaving you in a position of honour and danger—a position which an old soldier of France loves.”

      Firmin did his best to look like an old soldier of France. He pulled himself up out of the slouch which long years of loafing through woods with a gun on his arm had given him. He lacked also the old soldier of France’s fiery gaze. His eyes were lack-lustre.

      “I look for anything, Firmin—burglary, violence, an armed assault,” said the millionaire.

      “Don’t be afraid, sir. I saw the war of ’70,” said Firmin boldly, rising to the occasion.

      “Good!” said the millionaire. “I confide the chateau to you. I trust you with my treasures.”

      He rose, and saying “Come along, we must be getting to the station,” he led the way to the door of the chateau.

      The luggage-cart stood rather high, and they had to bring a chair out of the hall to enable the girls to climb into it. Germaine did not forget to give her real opinion of the advantages of a seat formed by a plank resting on the sides of the cart. The millionaire climbed heavily up in front, and took the reins.

      “Never again will I trust only to motor-cars. The first thing I’ll do after I’ve made sure that my collections are safe will be to buy carriages—something roomy,” he said gloomily, as he realized the discomfort of his seat.

      He turned to Jean and Firmin, who stood on the steps of the chateau watching the departure of their master, and said: “Sons of France, be brave—be brave!”

      The cart bumped off into the damp, dark night.

      Jean and Firmin watched it disappear into the darkness. Then they came into the chateau and shut the door.

      Firmin looked at Jean, and said gloomily: “I don’t like this. These burglars stick at nothing. They’d as soon cut your throat as look at you.”

      “It can’t be helped,” said Jean. “Besides, you’ve got the post of honour. You guard the hall. I’m to look after the drawing-rooms. They’re not likely to break in through the drawing-rooms. And I shall lock the door between them and the hall.”

      “No, no; you won’t lock that door!” cried Firmin.

      “But I certainly will,” said Jean. “You’d better come and get a gun.”

      They went to the gun-room, Firmin still protesting against the locking of the door between the drawing-rooms and the hall. He chose his gun; and they went into the kitchen. Jean took two bottles of wine, a rich-looking pie, a sweet, and carried them to the drawing-room. He came back into the hall, gathered together an armful of papers and magazines, and went back to the drawing-room. Firmin kept trotting after him, like a little dog with a somewhat heavy footfall.

      On the threshold of the drawing-room Jean paused and said: “The important thing with burglars is to fire first, old cock. Good-night. Pleasant dreams.”

      He shut the door and turned the key. Firmin stared at the decorated panels blankly. The beauty of the scheme of decoration did not, at the moment, move him to admiration.

      He looked fearfully round the empty hall and at the windows, black against the night. Under the patter of the rain he heard footsteps—distinctly. He went hastily clumping down the hall, and along the passage to the kitchen.

      His wife was setting his supper on the table.

      “My God!” he said. “I haven’t been so frightened since ’70.” And he mopped his glistening forehead with a dish-cloth. It was not a clean dish-cloth; but he did not care.

      “Frightened? What of?” said his wife.

      “Burglars! Cut-throats!” said Firmin.

      He told her of the fears of M. Gournay-Martin, and of his own appointment to the honourable and dangerous post of guard of the chateau.

      “God save us!” said his wife. “You lock the door of that beastly hall, and come into the kitchen. Burglars won’t bother about the kitchen.”

      “But the master’s treasures!” protested Firmin. “He confided them to me. He said so distinctly.”

      “Let the master look after his treasures himself,” said Madame Firmin, with decision. “You’ve only one throat; and I’m not going to have it cut. You sit down and eat your supper. Go and lock that door first, though.”

      Firmin locked the door of the hall; then he locked the door of the kitchen; then he sat down, and began to eat his supper. His appetite was hearty, but none the less he derived little pleasure from the meal. He kept stopping with the food poised on his fork, midway between the plate and his mouth, for several seconds at a time, while he listened with straining ears for the sound of burglars breaking in the windows of the hall. He was much too far from those windows to hear anything that happened to them, but that did not prevent him from straining his ears. Madame Firmin ate her supper with an air of perfect ease. She felt sure that burglars would not bother with the kitchen.

      Firmin’s anxiety made him terribly thirsty. Tumbler after tumbler of wine flowed down the throat for which he feared. When he had finished his supper he went on satisfying his thirst. Madame Firmin lighted his pipe for him, and went and washed up the supper-dishes in the scullery. Then she came back, and sat down on the other side of the hearth, facing him. About the middle of his third bottle of wine, Firmin’s cold, relentless courage was suddenly restored to him. He began to talk firmly about his duty to his master, his resolve to die, if need were, in defence of his interests, of his utter contempt for burglars—probably Parisians. But he did not go into the hall. Doubtless the pleasant warmth of the kitchen fire held him in his chair.

      He had described to his wife, with some ferocity, the cruel manner in which he would annihilate the first three burglars who entered the hall, and was proceeding to describe his method of dealing with the fourth, when there came a loud knocking on the front door of the chateau.

      Stricken silent, turned to stone, Firmin sat with his mouth open, in the midst of an unfinished word. Madame Firmin scuttled to the kitchen door she had left unlocked on her return from the scullery, and locked it. She turned, and they stared at one another.

      The heavy knocker fell again and again and again. Between the knocking there was a sound like the roaring of lions. Husband and wife stared at one another with white faces. Firmin picked up his gun with trembling hands, and the movement seemed to set his teeth chattering. They chattered like castanets.

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