“The inevitable failure,” he kept on repeating to himself. “Success depends upon circumstances far too subtle and can be obtained only by methods far too psychological. … There is no doubt that I am deceiving myself as to the value and the range of my weapons. … And yet …”
Hope returned to him. He weighed his chances. They suddenly seemed to him real and formidable. The fact was going to happen as he had foreseen it happening and for the very reasons which he had expected. It was inevitable. …
Yes, inevitable. Unless, indeed, Shears discovered the hiding-place. …
And again he thought of Shears; and again an immense sense of discouragement overwhelmed him.
The last day. …
He woke late, after a night of bad dreams.
He saw nobody that day, neither the examining magistrate nor his counsel.
The afternoon dragged along slowly and dismally, and the evening came, the murky evening of the cells. … He was in a fever. His heart beat in his chest like the clapper of a bell.
And the minutes passed, irretrievably. …
At nine o’clock, nothing. At ten o’clock, nothing.
With all his nerves tense as the string of a bow, he listened to the vague prison sounds, tried to catch through those inexorable walls all that might trickle in from the life outside.
Oh, how he would have liked to stay the march of time and to give destiny a little more leisure!
But what was the good? Was everything not finished? …
“Oh,” he cried, “I am going mad! If all this were only over … that would be better. I can begin again, differently. … I shall try something else … but I can’t go on like this, I can’t go on. …”
He held his head in his hands, pressing it with all his might, locking himself within himself and concentrating his whole mind upon one subject, as though he wished to provoke, as though he wished to create the formidable, stupefying, inadmissible event to which he had attached his independence and his fortune:
“It must happen,” he muttered, “it must; and it must, not because I wish it, but because it is logical. And it shall happen … it shall happen. …”
He beat his skull with his fists; and delirious words rose to his lips. …
The key grated in the lock. In his frenzy, he had not heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; and now, suddenly, a ray of light penetrated into his cell and the door opened.
Three men entered.
Lupin had not a moment of surprise.
The unheard-of miracle was being worked; and this at once seemed to him natural and normal, in perfect agreement with truth and justice.
But a rush of pride flooded his whole being. At this minute he really received a clear sensation of his own strength and intelligence. …
“Shall I switch on the light?” asked one of the three men, in whom Lupin recognized the governor of the prison.
“No,” replied the taller of his companions, speaking in a foreign accent. “This lantern will do.”
“Shall I go?”
“Act according to your duty, sir,” said the same individual.
“My instructions from the prefect of police are to comply entirely with your wishes.”
“In that case, sir, it would be preferable that you should withdraw.”
M. Borély went away, leaving the door half open, and remained outside, within call.
The visitor exchanged a few words with the one who had not yet spoken; and Lupin vainly tried to distinguish his features in the shade. He saw only two dark forms, clad in wide motoring-cloaks and wearing caps with the flaps lowered.
“Are you Arsène Lupin?” asked the man, turning the light of the lantern full on his face.
He smiled:
“Yes, I am the person known as Arsène Lupin, at present a prisoner in the Santé, cell 14, second division.”
“Was it you,” continued the visitor, “who published in the Grand Journal a series of more or less fanciful notes, in which there is a question of a so-called collection of letters … ?”
Lupin interrupted him.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but, before pursuing this conversation, the object of which, between ourselves, is none too clear to me, I should be much obliged if you would tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking.”
“Absolutely unnecessary,” replied the stranger.
“Absolutely essential,” declared Lupin.
“Why?”
“For reasons of politeness, sir. You know my name and I do not know yours; this implies a disregard of good form which I cannot suffer.”
The stranger lost patience:
“The mere fact that the governor of the prison brought us here shows …”
“That M. Borély does not know his manners,” said Lupin. “M. Borély should have introduced us to each other. We are equals here, sir: it is no case of a superior and an inferior, of a prisoner and a visitor who condescends to come and see him. There are two men here; and one of those two men has a hat on his head, which he ought not to have.”
“Now look here …”
“Take the lesson as you please, sir,” said Lupin.
The stranger came closer to him and tried to speak.
“The hat first,” said Lupin, “the hat. …”
“You shall listen to me!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Matters were becoming virulent, stupidly. The second stranger, the one who had kept silent, placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said, in German:
“Leave him to me.”
“Why, it was understood …”
“Hush … and go away!”
“Leaving you alone?”
“Yes.”
“But the door?”
“Shut it and walk away.”
“But this man … you know who he is. … Arsène Lupin. …”
“Go away!”
The other went out, cursing under his breath.
“Pull the door!” cried the second visitor. “Harder than that. … Altogether! … That’s right. …”
Then he turned, took the lantern and raised it slowly:
“Shall I tell you who I am?” he asked.
“No,” replied Lupin.
“And why?”
“Because I know.”
“Ah!”
“You are the visitor I was expecting.”
“I?”
“Yes, Sire.”
XI
Charlemagne
“Silence!” said the stranger, sharply. “Don’t use that word.”
“Then what shall I call Your …”
“Call me nothing.”
They were both silent; and this moment of respite was not one of those which go before the struggle of two adversaries ready for the fray. The stranger strode to and fro
