“He did indeed. But there is one man who is cleverer still.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Yes, there’s the man who guessed that the heap of sand concealed the three hundred million francs. That man is a master, before whom we must all bow.”
Flattered by the compliment, Don Luis raised his hat. Valenglay gave him his hand:
“I can think of no reward worthy of the service which you have done the country.”
“I ask for no reward,” said Don Luis.
“I daresay, sir, but I should wish you at least to be thanked by voices that carry more weight than mine.”
“Is it really necessary, monsieur le président?”
“I consider it essential. May I also confess that I am curious to learn how you discovered the secret? I should be glad, therefore, if you would call at my department in an hour’s time.”
“I am very sorry, sir, but I shall be gone in fifteen minutes.”
“No, no, you can’t go like this,” said Valenglay, with authority.
“Why not, sir?”
“Well, because we don’t know your name or anything about you.”
“That makes so little difference!”
“In peacetime, perhaps. But, in wartime, it won’t do at all.”
“Surely, monsieur le président, you will make an exception in my case?”
“An exception, indeed? What next?”
“Suppose it’s the reward which I ask, will you refuse me then?”
“It’s the only one which we are obliged to refuse you. However, you won’t ask for it. A good citizen like yourself understands the constraints to which everybody is bound to submit. My dear Masseron, arrange it with this gentleman. At the department in an hour from now. Goodbye till then, sir. I shall expect you.”
And, after a very civil bow, he walked away to his car, twirling his stick gaily and escorted by M. Masseron.
“Well, on my soul!” chuckled Don Luis. “There’s a character for you! In the twinkling of an eye, he accepts three hundred millions in gold, signs an epoch-making treaty and orders the arrest of Arsène Lupin!”
“What do you mean?” cried Patrice, startled out of his life. “Your arrest?”
“Well, he orders me to appear before him, to produce my papers and the devil knows what.”
“But that’s monstrous!”
“It’s the law of the land, my dear captain. We must bow to it.”
“But …”
“Captain, believe me when I say that a few little worries of this sort deprive me of none of the wholehearted satisfaction which I feel at rendering this great service to my country. I wanted, during the war, to do something for France and to make the most of the time which I was able to devote to her during my stay. I’ve done it. And then I have another reward: the four millions. For I think highly enough of your Coralie to believe her incapable of wishing to touch this money … which is really her property.”
“I’ll go bail for her over that.”
“Thank you. And you may be sure that the gift will be well employed. So everything is settled. I have still a few minutes to give you. Let us turn them to good account. M. Masseron is collecting his men by now. To simplify their task and avoid a scandal, we’ll go down to the lower quay, by the sand-heap. It’ll be easier for him to collar me there.”
“I accept your few minutes,” said Patrice, as they went down the steps. “But first of all I want to apologize …”
“For what? For behaving a little treacherously and locking me into the studio of the lodge? You couldn’t help yourself: you were trying to assist your Coralie. For thinking me capable of keeping the treasure on the day when I discovered it? You couldn’t help that either: how could you imagine that Arsène Lupin would despise three hundred million francs?”
“Very well, no apologies,” said Patrice, laughing. “But all my thanks.”
“For what? For saving your life and saving Coralie’s? Don’t thank me. It’s a hobby of mine, saving people.”
Patrice took Don Luis’ hand and pressed it firmly. Then, in a chaffing tone which hid his emotion, he said:
“Then I won’t thank you. I won’t tell you that you rid me of a hideous nightmare by letting me know that I was not that monster’s son and by unveiling his real identity. I will not tell you either that I am a happy man now that life is opening radiantly before me, with Coralie free to love me. No, we won’t talk of it. But shall I confess to you that my happiness is still a little—what shall I say?—a little dim, a little timid? I no longer feel any doubt; but in spite of all, I don’t quite understand the truth, and, until I do understand it, the truth will cause me some anxiety. So tell me … explain to me … I want to know …”
“And yet the truth is so obvious!” cried Don Luis. “The most complex truths are always so simple! Look here, don’t you understand anything? Just think of the way in which the problem is set. For sixteen or eighteen years, Siméon Diodokis behaves like a perfect friend, devoted to the pitch of self-denial, in short, like a father. He has not a thought, outside that of his revenge, but to secure your happiness and Coralie’s. He wants to bring you together. He collects your photographs. He follows the whole course of your life. He almost gets into touch with you. He sends you the key of the garden and prepares a meeting. Then, suddenly, a complete change takes place. He becomes your inveterate enemy and thinks of nothing but killing the pair of you. What is there that separates those two states of mind? One fact, that’s all, or rather one date, the night of the third of April and the tragedy that takes place that night and the following day at Essarès’ house. Until that date, you were Siméon Diodokis’ son. After that date, you were Siméon Diodokis’ greatest enemy. Does that suggest nothing to you? It’s really curious. As for
