He was intoxicated for a moment with the sense of his own power. The tears came to his eyes when he thought of his triumph. …
The stranger stood still.
And at once, with the very first sentence, they came to the immediate point:
“Tomorrow is the 22nd of August. The letters are to be published tomorrow, are they not?”
“Tonight, in two hours from now, my friends are to hand in to the Grand Journal, not the letters themselves, but an exact list of the letters, with the Grand-duke Hermann’s annotations.”
“That list shall not be handed in.”
“It shall not be.”
“You will give it to me.”
“It shall be placed in the hands of Your … in your hands.”
“Likewise, all the letters?”
“Likewise, all the letters.”
“Without any of them being photographed?”
“Without any of them being photographed.”
The stranger spoke in a very calm voice, containing not the least accent of entreaty nor the least inflection of authority. He neither ordered nor requested; he stated the inevitable actions of Arsène Lupin. Things would happen as he said. And they would happen, whatever Arsène Lupin’s demands should be, at whatever price he might value the performance of those actions. The conditions were accepted beforehand.
“By Jove,” said Lupin to himself, “that’s jolly clever of him! If he leaves it to my generosity, I am a ruined man!”
The very way in which the conversation opened, the frankness of the words employed, the charm of voice and manner all pleased him infinitely.
He pulled himself together, lest he should relent and abandon all the advantages which he had conquered so fiercely.
And the stranger continued:
“Have you read the letters?”
“No.”
“But someone you know has read them?”
“No.”
“In that case …”
“I have the grand-duke’s list and his notes. Moreover, I know the hiding-place where he put all his papers.”
“Why did you not take them before this?”
“I did not know the secret of the hiding-place until I came here. My friends are on the way there now.”
“The castle is guarded. It is occupied by two hundred of my most trusty men.”
“Ten thousand would not be sufficient.”
After a minute’s reflection, the visitor asked:
“How do you know the secret?”
“I guessed it.”
“But you had other elements of information which the papers did not publish?”
“No, none at all.”
“And yet I had the castle searched for four days.”
“Holmlock Shears looked in the wrong place.”
“Ah!” said the stranger to himself. “It’s an odd thing, an odd thing! …” And, to Lupin, “You are sure that your supposition is correct?”
“It is not a supposition: it is a certainty.”
“So much the better,” muttered the visitor. “There will be no rest until those papers cease to exist.”
And, placing himself in front of Arsène Lupin:
“How much?”
“What?” said Lupin, taken aback.
“How much for the papers? How much do you ask to reveal the secret?”
He waited for Lupin to name a figure. He suggested one himself:
“Fifty thousand? … A hundred thousand?”
And, when Lupin did not reply, he said, with a little hesitation:
“More? Two hundred thousand? Very well! I agree.”
Lupin smiled and, in a low voice, said:
“It is a handsome figure. But is it not likely that some sovereign, let us say, the King of England, would give as much as a million? In all sincerity?”
“I believe so.”
“And that those letters are priceless to the Emperor, that they are worth two million quite as easily as two hundred thousand francs … three million as easily as two?”
“I think so.”
“And, if necessary, the Emperor would give that three million francs?”
“Yes.”
“Then it will not be difficult to come to an arrangement.”
“On that basis?” cried the stranger, not without some alarm.
Lupin smiled again:
“On that basis, no. … I am not looking for money. I want something else, something that is worth more to me than any number of millions.”
“What is that?”
“My liberty.”
“What! Your liberty. … But I can do nothing. … That concerns your country … the law. … I have no power.”
Lupin went up to him and, lowering his voice still more:
“You have every power, Sire. … My liberty is not such an exceptional event that they are likely to refuse you.”
“Then I should have to ask for it?”
“Yes.”
“Of whom?”
“Of Valenglay, the prime minister.”
“But M. Valenglay himself can do no more than I.”
“He can open the doors of this prison for me.”
“It would cause a public outcry.”
“When I say, open … half-open would be enough … We should counterfeit an escape. … The public so thoroughly expects it that it would not so much as ask for an explanation.”
“Very well … but M. Valenglay will never consent. …”
“He will consent.”
“Why?”
“Because you will express the wish.”
“My wishes are not commands … to him!”
“No … but an opportunity of making himself agreeable to the Emperor by fulfilling them. And Valenglay is too shrewd a politician. …”
“Nonsense! Do you imagine that the French government will commit so illegal an act for the sole pleasure of making itself agreeable to me?”
“That pleasure will not be the sole one.”
“What will be the other?”
“The pleasure of serving France by accepting the proposal which will accompany the request for my release.”
“I am to make a proposal? I?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“What proposal?”
“I do not know, but it seems to me that there is always a favorable ground on which to come to an understanding … there are possibilities of agreement. …”
The stranger looked at him, without grasping his meaning. Lupin leant forward and, as though seeking his words, as though putting an imaginary case, said:
“Let me suppose that two great countries are divided by some insignificant question … that they have different points of view on a matter of secondary importance … a colonial matter, for instance, in which their self-esteem is at
