Dr. Géradec’s hospital had several annexes, each of which served a specific purpose, grouped around it in a fine garden. The villa itself was used for the big operations. The doctor had his consulting-room here also; and it was to this room that Siméon Diodokis was first shown. But, after answering a few questions put to him by a male nurse, Siméon was taken to another room in a separate wing.

Here he was received by the doctor, a man of about sixty, still young in his movements, clean-shaven and wearing a glass screwed into his right eye, which contracted his features into a constant grimace. He was wrapped from the shoulders to the feet in a large white operating-apron.

Siméon explained his case with great difficulty, for he could hardly speak. A footpad had attacked him the night before, taken him by the throat and robbed him, leaving him half-dead in the road.

“You have had time to send for a doctor since,” said Dr. Géradec, fixing him with a glance.

Siméon did not reply; and the doctor added:

“However, it’s nothing much. The fact that you are alive shows that there’s no fracture. It reduces itself therefore to a contraction of the larynx, which we shall easily get rid of by tubing.”

He gave his assistant some instructions. A long aluminum tube was inserted in the patient’s windpipe. The doctor, who had absented himself meanwhile, returned and, after removing the tube, examined the patient, who was already beginning to breathe with greater ease.

“That’s over,” said Dr. Géradec, “and much quicker than I expected. There was evidently in your case an inhibition which caused the throat to shrink. Go home now; and, when you’ve had a rest, you’ll forget all about it.”

Siméon asked what the fee was and paid it. But, as the doctor was seeing him to the door, he stopped and, without further preface, said:

“I am a friend of Mme. Albonin’s.”

The doctor did not seem to understand what he meant.

“Perhaps you don’t recognize the name,” Siméon insisted. “When I tell you, however, that it conceals the identity of Mme. Mosgranem, I have no doubt that we shall be able to arrange something.”

“What about?” asked the doctor, while his face displayed still greater astonishment.

“Come, doctor, there’s no need to be on your guard. We are alone. You have soundproof, double doors. Sit down and let’s talk.”

He took a chair. The doctor sat down opposite him, looking more and more surprised. And Siméon proceeded with his statement:

“I am a Greek subject. Greece is a neutral; indeed, I may say, a friendly country; and I can easily obtain a passport and leave France. But, for personal reasons, I want the passport made out not in my own name but in some other, which you and I will decide upon together and which will enable me, with your assistance, to go away without any danger.”

The doctor rose to his feet indignantly.

Siméon persisted:

“Oh, please don’t be theatrical! It’s a question of price, is it not? My mind is made up. How much do you want?”

The doctor pointed to the door.

Siméon raised no protest. He put on his hat. But, on reaching the door, he said:

“Twenty thousand francs? Is that enough?”

“Do you want me to ring?” asked the doctor, “and have you turned out?”

Siméon laughed and quietly, with a pause after each figure:

“Thirty thousand?” he asked. “Forty?⁠ ⁠… Fifty?⁠ ⁠… Oh, I see, we’re playing a great game, we want a round sum.⁠ ⁠… All right. Only, you know, everything must be included in the price we settle. You must not only fix me up a passport so genuine that it can’t be disputed, but you must guarantee me the means of leaving France, as you did for Mme. Mosgranem, on terms not half so handsome, by Jove! However, I’m not haggling. I need your assistance. Is it a bargain? A hundred thousand francs?”

Dr. Géradec bolted the door, came back, sat down at his desk and said, simply:

“We’ll talk about it.”

“I repeat the question,” said Siméon, coming closer. “Are we agreed at a hundred thousand?”

“We are agreed,” said the doctor, “unless any complications appear later.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the figure of a hundred thousand francs forms a suitable basis for discussion, that’s all.”

Siméon hesitated a second. The man struck him as rather greedy. However, he sat down once more; and the doctor at once resumed the conversation:

“Your real name, please.”

“You mustn’t ask me that. I tell you, there are reasons⁠ ⁠…”

“Then it will be two hundred thousand francs.”

“Eh?” said Siméon, with a start. “I say, that’s a bit steep! I never heard of such a price.”

“You’re not obliged to accept,” replied Géradec, calmly. “We are discussing a bargain. You are free to do as you please.”

“But, look here, once you agree to fix me up a false passport, what can it matter to you whether you know my name or not?”

“It matters a great deal. I run an infinitely greater risk in assisting the escape⁠—for that’s the only word⁠—of a spy than I do in assisting the escape of a respectable man.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“How do I know? Look here, you come to me to propose a shady transaction. You conceal your name and your identity; and you’re in such a hurry to disappear from sight that you’re prepared to pay me a hundred thousand francs to help you. And, in the face of that, you lay claim to being a respectable man! Come, come! It’s absurd! A respectable man does not behave like a burglar or a murderer.”

Old Siméon did not wince. He slowly wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was evidently thinking that Géradec was a hardy antagonist and that he would perhaps have done better not to go to him. But, after all, the contract was a conditional one. There would always be time enough to break it off.

“I say, I say!” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “You are using big words!”

“They’re only words,” said the doctor. “I am stating no hypothesis. I am content to sum up the position and to justify my demands.”

“You’re quite right.”

“Then we’re agreed?”

“Yes. Perhaps, however⁠—and this is the last observation I propose to make⁠—you might let me off more cheaply, considering that I’m a friend of Mme. Mosgranem’s.”

“What do you suggest by that?” asked the doctor.

“Mme. Mosgranem herself told me that you charged her nothing.”

“That’s true, I charged her nothing,” replied the doctor, with a fatuous smile, “but perhaps she presented me with a good deal. Mme. Mosgranem was one of those attractive women whose favors command their own price.”

There was a silence. Old Siméon seemed to feel more and more uncomfortable in his interlocutor’s presence. At last the doctor sighed:

“Poor Mme. Mosgranem!”

“What makes you speak like that?” asked Siméon.

“What! Haven’t you heard?”

“I have had no letters from her since she left.”

“I see. I had one last night; and I was greatly surprised to learn that she was back in France.”

“In France! Mme. Mosgranem!”

“Yes. And she even gave me an appointment for this morning, a very strange appointment.”

“Where?” asked Siméon, with visible concern.

“You’ll never guess. On a barge, yes, called the Nonchalante, moored at the Quai de Passy, alongside Berthou’s Wharf.”

“Is it possible?” said Siméon.

“It’s as I tell you. And do you know how the letter was signed? It was signed Grégoire.”

“Grégoire? A man’s name?” muttered the old man, almost with a groan.

“Yes, a man’s name. Look, I have the letter on me. She tells me that she is leading a very dangerous life, that she distrusts the man with whom her fortunes are bound up and that she would like to ask my advice.”

“Then⁠ ⁠… then you went?”

“Yes, I was there this morning, while you were ringing up here. Unfortunately⁠ ⁠…”

“Well?”

“I arrived too late. Grégoire, or rather Mme. Mosgranem, was dead. She had been strangled.”

“So you know nothing more than that?” asked Siméon, who seemed unable to get his words out.

“Nothing more about what?”

“About the man whom she mentioned.”

“Yes, I do, for she told me his name in the letter. He’s a Greek, who calls himself Siméon Diodokis. She even gave me a description of him. I haven’t read it very carefully.”

He unfolded the letter and ran his eyes down the second page, mumbling:

“A broken-down old man.⁠ ⁠… Passes himself off as mad.⁠ ⁠… Always goes about in a comforter and a pair of large yellow spectacles.⁠ ⁠…”

Dr. Géradec ceased reading and looked at Siméon with an air of amazement. Both of them sat for a moment without speaking. Then the doctor said:

“You are Siméon Diodokis.”

The other did not protest. All these incidents were so strangely and, at the same time, so naturally interlinked as to persuade him that lying was useless.

“This alters the situation,” declared the doctor. “The time for trifling is past. It’s a most serious and terribly dangerous matter for me, I can tell you! You’ll have to make it a million.”

“Oh, no!” cried Siméon, excitedly. “Certainly not! Besides, I never touched Mme. Mosgranem. I was myself attacked by the man who strangled her, the same man⁠—a negro called Ya-Bon⁠—who caught me up and took me by the throat.”

“Ya-Bon? Did you say Ya-Bon?”

“Yes, a one-armed Senegalese.”

“And did you two fight?”

“Yes.”

“And did you kill him?”

“Well⁠ ⁠…”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a smile:

“Listen, sir, to a curious coincidence. When I left the barge, I met half-a-dozen wounded soldiers. They spoke to me and said that they were looking for a comrade, this very Ya-Bon, and also for their captain, Captain Belval, and a friend of this officer’s and a lady, the lady they were staying with. All these people had disappeared; and they accused a certain person⁠ ⁠… wait, they told me his name.⁠ ⁠… Oh, but this is more and more curious! The man’s name was Siméon Diodokis. It was you they accused!⁠ ⁠… Isn’t it odd? But, on the other hand, you must confess that all this constitutes fresh facts and therefore⁠ ⁠…”

There was a pause. Then the doctor formulated his demand in plain tones:

“I shall want two millions.”

This time Siméon remained impassive. He felt that he was in the man’s clutches, like a mouse clawed by a cat. The doctor was playing with him, letting him go and catching him again, without giving him the least hope of escaping from this grim sport.

“This is blackmail,” he said, quietly.

The doctor nodded:

“There’s no other word for it,” he admitted. “It’s blackmail. Moreover, it’s a case of blackmail in which I have not the excuse of creating the opportunity that gives me my advantage. A wonderful chance comes within reach of my hand. I grab at it, as you would do in my place. What else is possible? I have had a few differences, which you know of, with the police. We’ve signed a peace, the police and I. But my professional position has been so much injured that I cannot afford to reject with scorn what you so kindly bring me.”

“Suppose I refuse to submit?”

“Then I shall telephone to the headquarters of police, with whom I stand in great favor at present, as I am able to do them a good turn now and again.”

Siméon glanced at the window and at the door. The doctor had his hand on the receiver of the telephone. There was no way out of it.

“Very well,” he declared. “After all, it’s better so. You know me; and I know you. We can come to terms.”

“On the basis suggested?”

“Yes. Tell me your plan.”

“No, it’s not worth while. I have my methods; and there’s no object in revealing them beforehand. The point is to secure your escape and to put an end to your present danger. I’ll answer for all that.”

“What guarantee have I⁠ ⁠… ?”

“You will pay me half the money now and the other half when the business is done. There remains the matter of the passport, a secondary matter for me. Still, we shall have to make one out. In what name is it to be?”

“Any name you like.”

The doctor took a sheet of paper and wrote down the description, looking at Siméon between the phrases and muttering:

“Gray hair.⁠ ⁠… Clean-shaven.⁠ ⁠… Yellow spectacles.⁠ ⁠…”

Then he stopped and asked:

“But how do I know that I shall be paid the money? That’s essential, you know. I want banknotes, real ones.”

“You shall have them.”

“Where are they?”

“In a hiding-place that can’t be got at.”

“Tell me where.”

“I have no objection. Even if I give you a clue to the general position, you’ll never find it.”

“Well, go on.”

“Grégoire had the money in her keeping, four million francs. It’s on board the barge. We’ll go there together and I’ll count you out the first million.”

“You say those millions are on board the barge?”

“Yes.”

“And there are four of those millions?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t accept any of them in payment.”

“Why not? You must be mad!”

“Why not? Because you can’t pay a man with what already belongs to him.”

“What’s that you’re saying?” cried Siméon, in dismay.

“Those four millions belong to me, so you can’t offer them to me.”

Siméon shrugged his shoulders:

“You’re talking nonsense. For the money to belong to you, it must first be in your possession.”

“Certainly.”

“And is it?”

“It is.”

“Explain yourself, explain yourself at once!” snarled Siméon, beside himself with anger and alarm.

“I will explain myself. The hiding-place that couldn’t be got at consisted of four old books, back numbers of Bottin’s directory for Paris and the provinces, each in two volumes. The four volumes were hollow inside, as though they had been scooped out; and there was a million francs in each of them.”

“You lie! You lie!”

“They were on a shelf, in a little lumber-room next the cabin.”

“Well, what then?”

“What then? They’re here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here, on that bookshelf, in front of your nose. So, in the circumstances, you see, as I am already the lawful owner, I can’t accept⁠ ⁠…”

“You thief! You thief!” shouted Siméon, shaking with rage and clenching his fist. “You’re nothing but a thief; and I’ll make you disgorge. Oh, you dirty thief!”

Dr. Géradec smiled very calmly and raised his hand in protest:

“This is strong language and quite unjustified! quite unjustified! Let me remind you that Mme. Mosgranem honored me with her affection. One day, or rather one morning, after a moment of expansiveness, ‘My dear friend,’ she said⁠—she used to call me her dear friend⁠—‘my dear friend, when I die’⁠—she was given to those gloomy forebodings⁠—‘when I die, I bequeath to you the contents of my home!’ Her home, at that moment, was the barge. Do you suggest that I should insult her memory by refusing to obey so sacred a wish?”

Old Siméon was not listening. An infernal thought was awakening in him; and he turned to the doctor with a movement of affrighted attention.

“We are wasting precious time, my dear sir,” said the doctor. “What have you decided to do?”

He was playing with the sheet of paper on which he had written the particulars required for the passport. Siméon came up to him without a word. At last the old man whispered:

“Give me that sheet of paper.⁠ ⁠… I want to see⁠ ⁠…”

He took the paper out of the doctor’s hand, ran his eyes down it and suddenly leapt backwards:

“What name have you put? What name have you put? What right have you to give me that name? Why did you do it?”

“You told me to put any name I pleased, you know.”

“But why this one? Why this one?”

“Can it be your own?”

The old man started with terror and, bending lower and lower over the doctor, said, in a trembling voice:

“One man alone, one man alone was capable of guessing⁠ ⁠…”

There was a long pause. Then the doctor gave a little chuckle:

“I know that only one man was capable of it. So let’s take it that I’m the man.”

“One man alone,” continued the other, while his breath once again seemed to fail him, “one man alone could find the hiding-place of the four millions in a few seconds.”

The doctor did not answer. He smiled; and his features gradually relaxed.

In a sort of terror-stricken tone Siméon hissed out:

“Arsène Lupin!⁠ ⁠… Arsène Lupin!⁠ ⁠…”

“You’ve hit it in one,” exclaimed the doctor, rising.

He dropped his eyeglass, took from his pocket a little pot of grease, smeared his face with it, washed it off in a basin in a recess and reappeared with a clear skin, a smiling, bantering face and an easy carriage.

“Arsène Lupin!” repeated Siméon, petrified. “Arsène Lupin! I’m in for it!”

“Up to the neck, you old fool! And what a silly fool you must be! Why, you know me by reputation, you feel for me the intense and wholesome awe with which a decent man of my stamp is bound to inspire an old rascal like you⁠ ⁠… and you go and imagine that I should be ass enough to let myself be bottled up in that lethal chamber of yours! Mind you, at that very moment I could have taken you by the hair of the head and gone straight on to the great scene in the fifth act, which we are now playing. Only my fifth act would have been a bit short, you see; and I’m a born actor-manager. As it is, observe how well the interest is sustained! And what fun it was seeing the thought of it take birth in your old Turkish noddle! And what a lark to go into the studio, fasten my electric lamp to a bit of string, make poor, dear Patrice believe that I was there and go out and hear Patrice denying me three times and carefully bolting the door on⁠ ⁠… what? My electric lamp! That was all first-class work, don’t you think? What do you say to it? I can feel that you’re speechless with admiration.⁠ ⁠… And, ten minutes after, when you came back, the same scene in the wings and with the same success. Of course, you old Siméon, I was banging at the walled-up door, between the studio and the bedroom on the left. Only I wasn’t in the studio: I was in the bedroom; and you went away quietly, like a good kind landlord. As for me, I had no need to hurry. I was as certain as that twice two is four that you would go to your friend M. Amédée Vacherot, the porter. And here, I may say, old Siméon, you committed a nice piece of imprudence, which got me out of my difficulty. No one in the porter’s lodge: that couldn’t be helped; but what I did find was a telephone-number on a scrap of newspaper. I did not hesitate for a moment. I rang up the number, coolly: ‘Monsieur, it was I who telephoned to you just now. Only I’ve got your number, but not your address.’ Back came the answer: ‘Dr. Géradec, Boulevard de Montmorency.’ Then I understood. Dr. Géradec? You would want your throat tubed for a bit, then the all-essential passport; and I came off here, without troubling about your poor friend M. Vacherot, whom you murdered in some corner or other to escape a possible giveaway on his side. And I saw Dr. Géradec, a charming man, whose worries have made him very wise and submissive and who⁠ ⁠… lent me his place for the morning. I had still two hours before me. I went to the barge, took the millions, cleared up a few odds and ends and here I am!”

He came and stood in front of the old man:

“Well, are you ready?” he asked.

Siméon, who seemed absorbed in thought, gave a start.

“Ready for what?” said Don Luis, replying to his unspoken question. “Why, for the great journey, of course! Your passport is in order. Your ticket’s taken: Paris to Hell, single. Nonstop hearse. Sleeping-coffin. Step in, sir!”

The old man, tottering on his legs, made an effort and stammered:

“And Patrice?”

“What about him?”

“I offer you his life in exchange for my own.”

Don Luis folded his arms across his chest:

“Well, of all the cheek! Patrice is a friend; and you think me capable of abandoning him like that? Do you see me, Lupin, making more or less witty jokes upon your imminent death while my friend Patrice is in danger? Old Siméon, you’re getting played out. It’s time you went and rested in a better world.”

He lifted a hanging, opened a door and called out:

“Well, captain, how are you getting on? Ah, I see you’ve recovered consciousness! Are you surprised to see me? No, no thanks, but please come in here. Our old Siméon’s asking for you.”

Then, turning to the old man, he said:

“Here’s your son, you unnatural father!”

Patrice entered the room with his head bandaged, for the blow which Siméon had struck him and the weight of the tombstone had opened his old wounds. He was very pale and seemed to be in great pain.

At the sight of Siméon Diodokis he gave signs of terrible anger. He controlled himself, however. The two men stood facing each other, without stirring, and Don Luis, rubbing his hands, said, in an undertone:

“What a scene! What a splendid scene? Isn’t it well-arranged? The father and the son! The murderer and his victim! Listen to the orchestra!⁠ ⁠… A slight tremolo.⁠ ⁠… What are they going to do? Will the son kill his father or the father kill his son? A thrilling moment.⁠ ⁠… And the mighty silence! Only the call of the blood is heard⁠ ⁠… and in what terms! Now we’re off! The call of the blood has sounded; and they are going to throw themselves into each other’s arms, the better to strangle the life out of each other!”

Patrice had taken two steps forward; and the movement suggested by Don Luis was about to be performed. Already the officer’s arms were flung wide for the fight. But suddenly Siméon, weakened by pain and dominated by a stronger will than his own, let himself go and implored his adversary:

“Patrice!” he entreated. “Patrice! What are you thinking of doing?”

Stretching out his hands, he threw himself upon the other’s pity; and Patrice, arrested in his onrush, stood perplexed, staring at the man to whom he was bound by so mysterious and strange a tie:

“Coralie,” he said, without lowering his hands, “Coralie⁠ ⁠… tell me where she is and I’ll spare your life.”

The old man started. His evil nature was stimulated by the remembrance of Coralie; and he recovered a part of his energy at the possibility of wrongdoing. He gave a cruel laugh:

“No, no,” he answered. “Coralie in one scale and I in the other? I’d rather die. Besides, Coralie’s hiding-place is where the gold is. No, never! I may just as well die.”

“Kill him then, captain,” said Don Luis, intervening. “Kill him, since he prefers it.”

Once more the thought of immediate murder and revenge sent the red blood rushing to the officer’s face. But the same hesitation unnerved him.

“No, no,” he said, in a low voice, “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” Don Luis insisted. “It’s so easy. Come along! Wring his neck, like a chicken’s, and have done with it!”

“I can’t.”

“But why? Do you dislike the thought of strangling him? Does it repel you? And yet, if it were a Boche, on the battlefield⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… but this man⁠ ⁠…”

“Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking hold of the flesh and squeezing?⁠ ⁠… Here, captain, take my revolver and blow out his brains.”

Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed it at old Siméon. The silence was appalling. Old Siméon’s eyes had closed and drops of sweat were streaming down his livid cheeks.

At last the officer lowered his arm:

“I can’t do it,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Don Luis. “Get on with the work.”

“No.⁠ ⁠… No.⁠ ⁠…”

“But, in Heaven’s name, why not?”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Shall I tell you the reason? You are thinking of that man as if he were your father.”

“Perhaps it’s that,” said the officer, speaking very low. “There’s a chance of it, you know.”

“What does it matter, if he’s a beast and a blackguard?”

“No, no, I haven’t the right. Let him die by all means, but not by my hand. I haven’t the right.”

“You have the right.”

“No, it would be abominable! It would be monstrous!”

Don Luis went up to him and, tapping him on the shoulder, said, gravely:

“You surely don’t believe that I should stand here, urging you to kill that man, if he were your father?”

Patrice looked at him wildly:

“Do you know something? Do you know something for certain? Oh, for Heaven’s sake⁠ ⁠… !”

Don Luis continued:

“Do you believe that I would even encourage you to hate him, if he were your father?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Patrice. “Do you mean that he’s not my father?”

“Of course he’s not!” cried Don Luis, with irresistible conviction and increasing eagerness. “Your father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence is written on the brute’s face. Throughout this adventure, from the first day to the last, there was not a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one, do you follow me? There were not two criminals, as we thought, not Essarès, to begin the hellish business, and old Siméon, to finish it. There was only one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Before killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the porter and the woman who was his own accomplice, he killed others! He killed one other in particular, one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man who called you Patrice and who only lived for you! He killed that man; and that man was your father, Patrice; he was Armand Belval! Now do you understand?”

Patrice did not understand. Don Luis’ words fell uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the darkness of Patrice’s brain. However, one thought insistently possessed him; and he stammered:

“That was my father? I heard his voice, you say? Then it was he who called to me?”

“Yes, Patrice, your father.”

“And the man who killed him⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Was this one,” said Don Luis, pointing to Siméon.

The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quivering with rage, stared at him fixedly:

“Who are you? Who are you?” he asked. And, turning to Don Luis, “Tell me his name, I beseech you. I want to know his name, before I destroy him.”

“His name? Haven’t you guessed it yet? Why, from the very first day, I took it for granted! After all, it was the only possible theory.”

“But what theory? What was it you took for granted?” cried Patrice, impatiently.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Oh, please! I’m longing to kill him, but I must first know his name.”

“Well, then⁠ ⁠…”

There was a long silence between the two men, as they stood close together, looking into each other’s eyes. Then Lupin let fall these four syllables:

“Essarès Bey.”

Patrice felt a shock that ran through him from head to foot. Not for a second did he try to understand by what prodigy this revelation came to be merely an expression of the truth. He instantly accepted this truth, as though it were undeniable and proved by the most evident facts. The man was Essarès Bey and had killed his father. He had killed him, so to speak, twice over: first years ago, in the lodge in the garden, taking from him all the light of life and any reason for living; and again the other day, in the library, when Armand Belval had telephoned to his son.

This time Patrice was determined to do the deed. His eyes expressed an indomitable resolution. His father’s murderer, Coralie’s murderer, must die then and there. His duty was clear and precise. The terrible Essarès was doomed to die by the hand of the son and the bridegroom.

“Say your prayers,” said Patrice, coldly. “In ten seconds you will be a dead man.”

He counted out the seconds and, at the tenth, was about to fire, when his enemy, in an access of mad energy proving that, under the outward appearance of old Siméon, there was hidden a man still young and vigorous, shouted with a violence so extraordinary that it made Patrice hesitate:

“Very well, kill me!⁠ ⁠… Yes, let it be finished!⁠ ⁠… I am beaten: I accept defeat. But it is a victory all the same, because Coralie is dead and my gold is saved!⁠ ⁠… I shall die, but nobody shall have either one or the other, the woman whom I love or the gold that was my life. Ah, Patrice, Patrice, the woman whom we both loved to distraction is no longer alive⁠ ⁠… or else she is dying without a possibility of saving her now. If I cannot have her, you shall not have her either, Patrice. My revenge has done its work. Coralie is lost!”

He had recovered a fierce energy and was shouting and stammering at the same time. Patrice stood opposite him, holding him covered with the revolver, ready to act, but still waiting to hear the terrible words that tortured him.

“She is lost, Patrice!” Siméon continued, raising his voice still louder. “Lost! There’s nothing to be done! And you will not find even her body in the bowels of the earth, where I buried her with the bags of gold. Under the tombstone? No, not such a fool! No, Patrice, you will never find her. The gold is stifling her. She’s dead! Coralie is dead! Oh, the delight of throwing that in your face! The anguish you must be feeling! Coralie is dead! Coralie is dead!”

“Don’t shout so, you’ll wake her,” said Don Luis, calmly.

The brief sentence was followed by a sort of stupor which paralyzed the two adversaries. Patrice’s arms dropped to his sides. Siméon turned giddy and sank into a chair. Both of them, knowing the things of which Don Luis was capable, knew what he meant.

But Patrice wanted something more than a vague sentence that might just as easily be taken as a jest. He wanted a certainty.

“Wake her?” he asked, in a broken voice.

“Well, of course!” said Don Luis. “When you shout too loud, you wake people up.”

“Then she’s alive?”

“You can’t wake the dead, whatever people may say. You can only wake the living.”

“Coralie is alive! Coralie is alive!” Patrice repeated, in a sort of rapture that transfigured his features. “Can it be possible? But then she must be here! Oh, I beg of you, say you’re in earnest, give me your word!⁠ ⁠… Or no, it’s not true, is it? I can’t believe it⁠ ⁠… you must be joking.⁠ ⁠…”

“Let me answer you, captain, as I answered that wretch just now. You are admitting that it is possible for me to abandon my work before completing it. How little you know me! What I undertake to do I do. It’s one of my habits and a good one at that. That’s why I cling to it. Now watch me.”

He turned to one side of the room. Opposite the hanging that covered the door by which Patrice had entered was a second curtain, concealing another door. He lifted the curtain.

“No, no, she’s not there,” said Patrice, in an almost inaudible voice. “I dare not believe it. The disappointment would be too great. Swear to me⁠ ⁠…”

“I swear nothing, captain. You have only to open your eyes. By Jove, for a French officer, you’re cutting a pretty figure! Why, you’re as white as a sheet! Of course it’s she! It’s Little Mother Coralie! Look, she’s in bed asleep, with two nurses to watch her. But there’s no danger; she’s not wounded. A bit of a temperature, that’s all, and extreme weakness. Poor Little Mother Coralie! I never could have imagined her in such a state of exhaustion and coma.”

Patrice had stepped forward, brimming over with joy. Don Luis stopped him:

“That will do, captain. Don’t go any nearer. I brought her here, instead of taking her home, because I thought a change of scene and atmosphere essential. But she must have no excitement. She’s had her share of that; and you might spoil everything by showing yourself.”

“You’re right,” said Patrice. “But are you quite sure⁠ ⁠… ?”

“That she’s alive?” asked Don Luis, laughing. “She’s as much alive as you or I and quite ready to give you the happiness you deserve and to change her name to Mme. Patrice Belval. You must have just a little patience, that’s all. And there is yet one obstacle to overcome, captain, for remember she’s a married woman!”

He closed the door and led Patrice back to Essarès Bey:

“There’s the obstacle, captain. Is your mind made up now? This wretch still stands between you and your Coralie.”

Essarès had not even glanced into the next room, as though he knew that there could be no doubt about Don Luis’ word. He sat shivering in his chair, cowering, weak and helpless.

“You don’t seem comfortable,” said Don Luis. “What’s worrying you? You’re frightened, perhaps? What for? I promise you that we will do nothing except by mutual consent and until we are all of the same opinion. That ought to cheer you up. We’ll be your judges, the three of us, here and now. Captain Patrice Belval, Arsène Lupin and old Siméon will form the court. Let the trial begin. Does anyone wish to speak in defense of the prisoner at the bar, Essarès Bey? No one. The prisoner at the bar is sentenced to death. Extenuating circumstances? No notice of appeal? No. Commutation of sentence? No. Reprieve? No. Immediate execution? Yes. You see, there’s no delay. What about the means of death? A revolver-shot? That will do. It’s clean, quick work. Captain Belval, your bird. The gun’s loaded. Here you are.”

Patrice did not move. He stood gazing at the foul brute who had done him so many injuries. His whole being seethed with hatred. Nevertheless, he replied:

“I will not kill that man.”

“I agree, captain. Your scruples do you honor. You have not the right to kill a man whom you know to be the husband of the woman you love. It is not for you to remove the obstacle. Besides, you hate taking life. So do I. This animal is too filthy for words. And so, my good man, there’s no one left but yourself to help us out of this delicate position.”

Don Luis ceased speaking for a moment and leant over Essarès. Had the wretched man heard? Was he even alive? He looked as if he were in a faint, deprived of consciousness.

Don Luis shook him by the shoulder.

“The gold,” moaned Essarès, “the bags of gold⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, you’re thinking of that, you old scoundrel, are you? You’re still interested? The bags of gold are in my pocket⁠ ⁠… if a pocket can contain eighteen hundred bags of gold.”

“The hiding-place?”

“Your hiding-place? It doesn’t exist, so far as I’m concerned. I needn’t prove it to you, need I, since Coralie’s here? As Coralie was buried among the bags of gold, you can draw your own conclusion. So you’re nicely done. The woman you wanted is free and, what is worse still, free by the side of the man whom she adores and whom she will never leave. And, on the other hand, your treasure is discovered. So it’s all finished, eh? We are agreed? Come, here’s the toy that will release you.”

He handed him the revolver. Essarès took it mechanically and pointed it at Don Luis; but his arm lacked the strength to take aim and fell by his side.

“Capital!” said Don Luis. “We understand each other; and the action which you are about to perform will atone for your evil life, you old blackguard. When a man’s last hope is dispelled, there’s nothing for it but death. That’s the final refuge.”

He took hold of the other’s hand and, bending Essarès’ nerveless fingers round the revolver, forced him to point it towards his own face.

“Come,” said he, “just a little pluck. What you’ve resolved to do is a very good thing. As Captain Belval and I refuse to disgrace ourselves by killing you, you’ve decided to do the job yourself. We are touched; and we congratulate you. But you must behave with courage. No resistance, come! That’s right, that’s much more like it. Once more, my compliments. It’s very smart, your manner of getting out of it. You perceive that there’s no room for you on earth, that you’re standing in the way of Patrice and Coralie and that the best thing you can do is to retire. And you’re jolly well right! No love and no gold! No gold, Siméon! The beautiful shiny coins which you coveted, with which you would have managed to secure a nice, comfortable existence, all fled, vanished! You may just as well vanish yourself, what?”

Whether because he felt himself to be helpless or because he really understood that Don Luis was right and that his life was no longer worth living, Siméon offered hardly any resistance. The revolver rose to his forehead. The barrel touched his temple.

At the touch of the cold steel he gave a moan:

“Mercy!”

“No, no, no!” said Don Luis. “You mustn’t show yourself any mercy. And I won’t help you either. Perhaps, if you hadn’t killed my poor Ya-Bon, we might have put our heads together and sought for another ending. But, honestly, you inspire me with no more pity than you feel for yourself. You want to die and you are right. I won’t prevent you. Besides, your passport is made out; you’ve got your ticket in your pocket. They are expecting you down below. And, you know, you need have no fear of being bored. Have you ever seen a picture of Hell? Everyone has a huge stone over his tomb; and everyone is lifting the stone and supporting it with his back, in order to escape the flames bursting forth beneath him. You see, there’s plenty of fun. Well, your grave is reserved. Bath’s ready, sir!”

Slowly and patiently he had succeeded in slipping the wretched man’s forefinger under the handle, so as to bring it against the trigger. Essarès was letting himself go. He was little more than a limp rag. Death had already cast its shadow upon him.

“Mind you,” said Don Luis, “you’re perfectly free. You can pull the trigger if you feel like it. It’s not my business. I’m not here to compel you to commit suicide, but only to advise you and to lend you a hand.”

He had in fact let go the forefinger and was holding only the arm. But he was bearing upon Essarès with all his extraordinary power of will, the will to seek destruction, the will to seek annihilation, an indomitable will which Essarès was unable to resist. Every second death sank a little deeper into that invertebrate body, breaking up instinct, obscuring thought and bringing an immense craving for rest and inaction.

“You see how easy it is. The intoxication is flying to your brain. It’s an almost voluptuous feeling, isn’t it? What a riddance! To cease living! To cease suffering! To cease thinking of that gold which you no longer possess and can never possess again, of that woman who belongs to another and offers him her lips and all her entrancing self!⁠ ⁠… You couldn’t live, could you, with that thought on you? Then come on!⁠ ⁠…”

Seized with cowardice, the wretch was yielding by slow degrees. He found himself face to face with one of those crushing forces, one of nature’s forces, powerful as fate, which a man must needs accept. His head turned giddy and swam. He was descending into the abyss.

“Come along now, show yourself a man. Don’t forget either that you are dead already. Remember, you can’t appear in this world again without falling into the hands of the police. And, of course, I’m there to inform them in case of need. That means prison and the scaffold. The scaffold, my poor fellow, the icy dawn, the knife⁠ ⁠…”

It was over. Essarès was sinking into the depths of darkness. Everything whirled around him. Don Luis’ will penetrated him and annihilated his own.

For one moment he turned to Patrice and tried to implore his aid. But Patrice persisted in his impassive attitude. Standing with his arms folded, he gazed with eyes devoid of pity upon his father’s murderer. The punishment was well-deserved. Fate must be allowed to take its course. Patrice did not interfere.

And Don Luis continued, unrelentingly and without intermission:

“Come along, come along!⁠ ⁠… It’s a mere nothing and it means eternal rest!⁠ ⁠… How good it feels, already! To forget! To cease fighting!⁠ ⁠… Think of the gold which you have lost.⁠ ⁠… Three hundred millions gone forever!⁠ ⁠… And Coralie lost as well. Mother and daughter: you can’t have either. In that case, life is nothing but a snare and a delusion. You may as well leave it. Come, one little effort, one little movement.⁠ ⁠…”

That little movement the miscreant made. Hardly knowing what he did, he pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the room; and Essarès fell forward, with his knees on the floor. Don Luis had to spring to one side to escape being splashed by the blood that trickled from the man’s shattered head.

“By Jove!” he cried. “The blood of vermin like that would have brought me ill-luck. And, Lord, what crawling vermin it is!⁠ ⁠… Upon my word, I believe that this makes one more good action I’ve done in my life and that this suicide entitles me to a little seat in Paradise. What say you, captain?”