Presently he took up his paper and read aloud:
Nos jours s'en vont à la dérive,
Comme emportés par un courant
Qui les pousse vers une rive
Où l'on n'aborde qu'en mourant.[10]
[10]Our days go by, adrift, adrift,
Borne along by current swift
That urges them toward the strand
Where not until we die, we land.
"Not so bad," said a voice behind him. "Mme. Amable Tastu might have written that, or Mrs. Felicia Hemans. However, we can't all be Byrons or Lamartines!"
"You! . . . You! . . ." stammered the young man, in dismay.
"Yes, I, poet, I myself, Arsène Lupin come to see his dear friend Pierre Leduc."
Pierre Leduc began to shake, as though shivering with fever. He asked, in a low voice:
"Has the hour come?"
"Yes, my dear Pierre Leduc: the hour has come for you to give up, or rather to interrupt the slack poet's life which you have been leading for months at the feet of Geneviève Ernemont and Mrs. Kesselbach and to perform the part which I have allotted to you in my play . . . oh, a fine play, I assure you, thoroughly well-constructed, according to all the canons of art, with top notes, comic relief and gnashing of teeth galore! We have reached the fifth act; the grand finale is at hand; and you, Pierre Leduc, are the hero. There's fame for you!"
The young man rose from his seat: