“Indeed! Then, pray, who am I?”
“Need I tell you?”
M. Nicole made no reply, but began to laugh softly, as though pleased at the curious turn which the conversation was taking; and Prasville felt a vague misgiving at observing that fit of merriment. He grasped the butt-end of his revolver and wondered whether he ought not to ring for help.
M. Nicole drew his chair close to the desk, put his two elbows on the table, looked Prasville straight in the face and jeered:
“So, M. Prasville, you know who I am and you have the assurance to play this game with me?”
“I have that assurance,” said Prasville, accepting the sneer without flinching.
“Which proves that you consider me, Arsène Lupin—we may as well use the name: yes, Arsène Lupin—which proves that you consider me fool enough, dolt enough to deliver myself like this, bound hand and foot into your hands.”
“Upon my word,” said Prasville, airily, patting the waistcoat-pocket in which he had secreted the crystal ball, “I don’t quite see what you can do, M. Nicole, now that Daubrecq’s eye is here, with the list of the Twenty-Seven inside it.”
“What I can do?” echoed M. Nicole, ironically.
“Yes! The talisman no longer protects you; and you are now no better off than any other man who might venture into the very heart of the police-office, among some dozens of stalwart fellows posted behind each of those doors and some hundreds of others who will hasten up at the first signal.”
M. Nicole shrugged his shoulders and gave Prasville a look of great commiseration:
“Shall I tell you what is happening, monsieur le secrétaire-général? Well, you too are having your head turned by all this business. Now that you possess the list, your state of mind has suddenly sunk to that of a Daubrecq or a d’Albufex. There is no longer even a question, in your thoughts, of taking it to your superiors, so that this ferment of disgrace and discord may be ended. No, no; a sodden temptation has seized upon you and intoxicated you; and, losing your head, you say to yourself, ‘It is here, in my pocket. With its aid, I am omnipotent. It means wealth, absolute, unbounded power. Why not benefit by it? Why not let Gilbert and Clarisse Mergy die? Why not lock up that idiot of a Lupin? Why not seize this unparalleled piece of fortune by the forelock?’ ”
He bent toward Prasville and, very softly, in a friendly and confidential tone, said:
“Don’t do that, my dear sir, don’t do it.”
“And why not?”
“It is not to your interest, believe me.”
“Really!”
“No. Or, if you absolutely insist on doing it, have the kindness first to consult the twenty-seven names on the list of which you have just robbed me and reflect, for a moment, on the name of the third person on it.”
“Oh? And what is the name of that third person?”
“It is the name of a friend of yours.”
“What friend?”
“Stanislas Vorenglade, the ex-deputy.”
“And then?” said Prasville, who seemed to be losing some of his self-confidence.
“Then? Ask yourself if an inquiry, however summary, would not end by discovering, behind that Stanislas Vorenglade, the name of one who shared certain little profits with him.”
“And whose name is?”
“Louis Prasville.”
M. Nicole banged the table with his fist.
“Enough of this humbug, monsieur! For twenty minutes, you and I have been beating about the bush. That will do. Let us understand each other. And, to begin with, drop your pistols. You can’t imagine that I am frightened of those playthings! Stand up, sir, stand up, as I am doing, and finish the business: I am in a hurry.”
He put his hand on Prasville’s shoulder and, speaking with great deliberation, said:
“If, within an hour from now, you are not back from the Élysée, bringing with you a line to say that the decree of pardon has been signed; if, within one hour and ten minutes, I, Arsène Lupin, do not walk out of this building safe and sound and absolutely free, this evening four Paris newspapers will receive four letters selected from the correspondence exchanged between Stanislas Vorenglade and yourself, the correspondence which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me this morning. Here’s your hat, here’s your overcoat, here’s your stick. Be off. I will wait for you.”
Then happened this extraordinary and yet easily understood thing, that Prasville did not raise the slightest protest nor make the least show of fight. He received the sudden, far-reaching, utter conviction of what the personality known as Arsène Lupin meant, in all its breadth and fullness. He did not so much as think of carping, of pretending—as he had until then believed—that the letters had been destroyed by Vorenglade the deputy or, at any rate, that Vorenglade would not dare to hand them over, because, in so doing, Vorenglade was also working his own destruction. No, Prasville did not speak a word. He felt himself caught in a vise of which no human strength could force the jaws asunder. There was nothing to do but yield. He yielded.
“Here, in an hour,” repeated M. Nicole.
“In an hour,” said Prasville, tamely. Nevertheless, in order to know exactly where he stood, he added, “The letters, of course, will be restored to me against Gilbert’s pardon?”
“No.”
“How do you mean, no? In that case, there is no object in …”
“They will be restored to you, intact, two months after the day when my friends and I have brought about Gilbert’s escape … thanks to the very slack watch which will be kept upon him, in accordance with your orders.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there are two further conditions: first, the immediate payment of a cheque for forty thousand francs.”
“Forty thousand francs?”
“The sum for which Stanislas Vorenglade sold me the letters. It is only fair …”
“And next?”
“Secondly, your resignation, within six months, of your present position.”
“My resignation? But why?”
M. Nicole made a very dignified gesture:
“Because it is against public morals that one of the highest positions in the police-service should be occupied by a man whose hands are not absolutely clean. Make them send you
