“Isidore,” said Lupin, “if you knew your geography and your history, you would know that we are at the bottom of the gorge of Parfonval, in the parish of Biville. More than a century ago, on the night of the twenty-third of August, 1803, Georges Cadoudal and six accomplices, who had landed in France with the intention of kidnapping the first consul, Bonaparte, scrambled up to the top by the road which I will show you. Since then, this road has been demolished by landslips. But Louis Valméras, better known by the name of Arsène Lupin, had it restored at his own expense and bought the farm of the Neuvillette, where the conspirators spent the first night and where, retired from business and withdrawing from the affairs of this world, he means to lead the life of a respectable country squire with his wife and his mother by his side. The gentleman-burglar is dead! Long live the gentleman-farmer!” After the ladder came a sort of gully, an abrupt ravine hollowed out, apparently, by the rains, at the end of which they laid hold of a makeshift staircase furnished with a hand-rail. As Lupin explained, this hand-rail had been placed where it was in the stead of the _estamperche_, a long rope fastened to stakes, by which the people of the country, in the old days, used to help themselves down when going to the beach. After a painful climb of half an hour, they emerged on the tableland, not far from one of those little cabins, dug out of the soil itself, which serve as shelters for the excisemen. And, as it happened, two minutes later, at a turn in the path, one of these custom-house officials appeared. He drew himself up and saluted. Lupin asked: “Any news, Gomel?” “No, governor.” “You’ve met no one at all suspicious-looking?” “No, governor—only—” “What?” “My wife—who does dressmaking at the Neuvillette—” “Yes, I know—Césarine—my mother spoke of her. Well?” “It seems a sailor was prowling about the village this morning.” “What sort of face had he?” “Not a natural face—a sort of Englishman’s face.” “Ah!” said Lupin, in a tone preoccupied. “And you have given Césarine orders—” “To keep her eyes open. Yes, governor.” “Very well. Keep a lookout for Charolais’s return in two or three hours from now. If there’s anything, I shall be at the farm.” He walked on and said to Beautrelet: “This makes me uneasy—is it Shears? Ah, if it’s he, in his present state of exasperation, I have everything to fear!” He hesitated a moment: “I wonder if we hadn’t better turn back. Yes, I have a nasty presentiment of evil.” Gently undulating plains stretched before them as far as the eye could see. A little to the left, a series of handsome avenues of trees led to the farm of the Neuvillette, the buildings of which were now in view. It was the retreat which he had prepared, the haven of rest which he had promised Raymonde. Was he, for the sake of an absurd idea, to renounce happiness at the very moment when it seemed within his reach?