"Forty? . . . I shall do it. . . . I am sure to do it. . . . I've got to do it. . . ." He took his head in his two hands. "Oh, if I had my brain, the real brain, the brain that thinks! It would be a matter of a second! There is only one dark spot left . . . but I cannot . . . my thoughts escape me. . . . I can't grasp it . . . it's awful." His shoulders shook. Was he crying? They heard him repeating: "813 . . . 813. . . ." And, in a lower voice, "813 . . . an '8' . . . a '1' . . . a '3' . . . yes, of course. . . . But why? . . . That's not enough. . . ." The Emperor muttered: "He impresses me. I find it difficult to believe that a man can play a part like that. . . ." Half-past eleven struck . . . a quarter to twelve. . . . Lupin remained motionless, with his fists glued to his temples. The Emperor waited, with his eyes fixed on a chronometer which Waldemar held in his hand. Ten minutes more . . . five minutes more . . . "Is the car there, Waldemar? . . . Are your men ready?" "Yes, Sire." "Is that watch of yours a repeater, Waldemar?" "Yes, Sire." "At the last stroke of twelve, then. . . ." "But . . ." "At the last stroke of twelve, Waldemar." There was really something tragic about the scene, that sort of grandeur and solemnity which the hours assume at the approach of a possible miracle, when it seems as though the voice of fate itself were about to find utterance. The Emperor did not conceal his anguish. This fantastic adventurer who was called Arsène Lupin and whose amazing life he knew, this man troubled him . . . and, although he was resolved to make an end of all this dubious story, he could not help waiting . . . and hoping. Two minutes more . . . one minute more . . . Then they counted by seconds. Lupin seemed asleep. "Come, get ready," said the Emperor to the count. The count went up to Lupin and placed his hand on his shoulder. The silvery chime of the repeater quivered and struck . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . "Waldemar, old chap, pull the weights of the old clock." A moment of stupefaction. It was Lupin's voice, speaking very calmly. Waldemar, annoyed at the familiarity of the address, shrugged his shoulders. "Do as he says, Waldemar," said the Emperor. "Yes, do as I say, my dear count," echoed Lupin, recovering his powers of chaff. "You know the ropes so well . . . all you have to do is to pull those of the clock . . . in turns . . . one, two . . . capital! . . . That's how they used to wind it up in the old days." The pendulum, in fact, was started; and they heard its regular ticking. "Now the hands," said Lupin. "Set them at a little before twelve . . . Don't move . . . Let me . . ." He rose and walked to the face of the clock, standing two feet away, at most, with his eyes fixed, with every nerve attentive. The twelve strokes sounded, twelve heavy, deep strokes.