I accept no responsibility... . It was he who committed suicide... .

He was only a dumb actor in the play... . He has gone under... . I am sorry... . But it can't be helped!"

The necessity for action stimulated him afresh. Wounded, tortured by that crime of which he knew himself to be the author for all that he might say, he nevertheless looked to the future:

"Those are the accidents of war," he said. "Don't let us think about it.

Nothing is lost. On the contrary! Dolores was the stumbling-block, since Pierre Leduc loved her. Dolores is dead. Therefore Pierre Leduc belongs to me. And he shall marry Genevieve, as I have arranged! And he shall reign! And I shall be the master! And Europe, Europe is mine!"

He worked himself up, reassured, full of sudden confidence, and made feverish gestures as he walked along the road, whirling an imaginary sword, the sword of the leader whose will is law, who commands and triumphs:

"Lupin, you shall be king! You shall be king, Arsene Lupin!"

He inquired in the village of Bruggen and heard that Pierre Leduc had lunched yesterday at the inn. Since then, he had not been seen.

"Oh?" asked Lupin. "Didn't he sleep here?"

"No."

"But where did he go after his lunch?"

"He took the road to the castle."

Lupin walked away in some surprise. After all, he had told the young man to lock the doors and not to return after the servants had gone.

He at once received a proof that Pierre had disobeyed him: the park gates were open.

He went in, hunted all over the castle, called out. No reply.

Suddenly, he thought of the chalet. Who could tell? Perhaps Pierre Leduc, worrying about the woman he loved and driven by an intuition, had gone to look for her in that direction. And Dolores' corpse was there!

Greatly alarmed, Lupin began to run.

At first sight, there seemed to be no one in the chalet.

"Pierre! Pierre!" he cried.

Hearing no sound, he entered the front passage and the room which he had occupied.

He stopped short, rooted to the threshold.

Above Dolores' corpse, hung Pierre Leduc, with a rope round his neck, dead.

Lupin impatiently pulled himself together from head to foot. He refused to yield to a single gesture of despair. He refused to utter a single violent word. After the cruel blows which fate had dealt him, after Dolores' crimes and death, after Massier's execution, after all those disturbances and catastrophes, he felt the absolute necessity of retaining all his self-command. If not, his brain would undoubtedly give way... .

"Idiot!" he said, shaking his fist at Pierre Leduc. "You great idiot, couldn't you wait? In ten years we should have had Alsace-Lorraine again!"

To relieve his mind, he sought for words to say, for attitudes; but his ideas escaped him and his head seemed on the point of bursting.

"Oh, no, no!" he cried. "None of that, thank you! Lupin mad too! No, old chap! Put a bullet through your head, if you like; and, when all is said, I don't see any other way out. But Lupin drivelling, wheeled about in a bath-chair ... no! Style, old fellow, finish in style!"

He walked up and down, stamping his feet and lifting his knees very high, as certain actors do when feigning madness. And he said:

"Swagger, my lad, swagger! The eyes of the gods are upon you! Lift up your head! Pull in your stomach, hang it! Throw out your chest! ...

Everything is breaking up around you. What do you care? ... It's the final disaster, I've played my last card, a kingdom in the gutter, I've lost Europe, the whole world ends in smoke... . Well ... and what of it? Laugh, laugh! Be Lupin, or you're in the soup... . Come, laugh!

Louder than that, louder, louder! That's right! ... Lord, how funny it all is! Dolores, old girl, a cigarette!"

He bent down with a grin, touched the dead woman's face, tottered for a second and fell to the ground unconscious.

After lying for an hour, he came to himself and stood up. The fit of madness was over; and, master of himself, with relaxed nerves, serious and silent, he considered the position.

He felt that the time had come for the irrevocable decisions that involve a whole existence. His had been utterly shattered, in a few days, under the assault of unforeseen catastrophes, rushing up, one after the other, at the very moment when he thought his triumph assured.

What should he do? Begin again? Build up everything again? He had not the courage for it. What then?

The whole morning, he roamed tragically about the park and gradually realized his position in all its slightest details. Little by little, the thought of death enforced itself upon him with inflexible rigor.

But, whether he decided to kill himself or to live, there was first of all a series of definite acts which he was obliged to perform. And these acts stood out clearly in his brain, which had suddenly become quite cool.

The mid-day Angelus rang from the church-steeple.

"To work!" he said, firmly.

He returned to the chalet in a very calm frame of mind, went to his room, climbed on a stool, and cut the rope by which Pierre Leduc was hanging:

"You poor devil!" he said. "You were doomed to end like that, with a hempen tie around your neck. Alas, you were not made for greatness: I ought to have foreseen that and not hooked my fortune to a rhymester!"

He felt in the young man's clothes and found nothing. But, remembering Dolores' second pocket-book, he took it from the pocket where he had left it.

He gave a start of surprise. The pocket-book contained a bundle of letters whose appearance was familiar to him; and he at once recognized the different writings.

"The Emperor's letters!" he muttered, slowly. "The old chancellor's letters! The whole bundle which I myself found at Leon Massier's and which I handed to Count von Waldemar! ... How did it happen? ...

Did she take them in her turn from that blockhead of a Waldemar?" And, suddenly, slapping his forehead, "Why, no, the blockhead is myself.

These are the real letters! She kept them to blackmail the Emperor when the time came. And the others, the ones which I handed over, are copies, forged by herself, of course, or by an accomplice, and placed where she knew that I should find them... . And I played her game for her, like a mug! By Jove, when women begin to interfere ... !"

There was only a piece of pasteboard left in the pocket-book, a photograph. He looked at it. It was his own.

"Two photographs ... Massier and I ... the two she loved best, no doubt ... For she loved me... . A strange love, built up of admiration for the adventurer that I am, for the man who, by himself, put away the seven scoundrels whom she had paid to break my head! A strange love! I felt it throbbing in her the other day, when I told her my great dream of omnipotence. Then, really, she had the idea of sacrificing Pierre Leduc and subjecting her dream to mine. If the incident of the mirror had not taken place, she would have been subdued.

But she was afraid. I had my hand upon the truth. My death was necessary for her salvation and she decided upon it." He repeated several times, pensively, "And yet she loved me... . Yes, she loved me, as others have loved me ... others to whom I have brought ill-luck also... .

Alas, all those who love me die! ... And this one died too, strangled by my hand... . What is the use of living? ... What is the use of living?" he asked again, in a low voice. "Is it not better to join them, all those women who have loved me ... and who have died of their love ... Sonia, Raymonde, Clotilde, Destange, Miss Clarke? ..."

He laid the two corpses beside each other, covered them with the same sheet, sat down at a table and wrote:

"I have triumphed over everything and I am beaten. I have reached the goal and I have fallen. Fate is too strong for me... . And she whom I loved is no more.

I shall die also."

And he signed his name: