“For what? For behaving a little treacherously and locking me into the studio of the lodge? You couldn’t help yourself: you were trying to assist your Coralie. For thinking me capable of keeping the treasure on the day when I discovered it? You couldn’t help that either: how could you imagine that Arsène Lupin would despise three hundred million francs?”
“Very well, no apologies,” said Patrice, laughing. “But all my thanks.”
“For what? For saving your life and saving Coralie’s? Don’t thank me. It’s a hobby of mine, saving people.”
Patrice took Don Luis’ hand and pressed it firmly. Then, in a chaffing tone which hid his emotion, he said:
“Then I won’t thank you. I won’t tell you that you rid me of a hideous nightmare by letting me know that I was not that monster’s son and by unveiling his real identity. I will not tell you either that I am a happy man now that life is opening radiantly before me, with Coralie free to love me. No, we won’t talk of it. But shall I confess to you that my happiness is still a little—what shall I say?—a little dim, a little timid? I no longer feel any doubt; but in spite of all, I don’t quite understand the truth, and, until I do understand it, the truth will cause me some anxiety. So tell me . . . explain to me . . . I want to know . . .”
“And yet the truth is so obvious!” cried Don Luis. “The most complex truths are always so simple! Look here, don’t you understand anything? Just think of the way in which the problem is set. For sixteen or eighteen years, Siméon Diodokis behaves like a perfect friend, devoted to the pitch of self-denial, in short, like a father. He has not a thought, outside that of his revenge, but to secure your happiness and Coralie’s. He wants to bring you together. He collects your photographs. He follows the whole course of your life. He almost gets into touch with you. He sends you the key of the garden and prepares a meeting. Then, suddenly, a complete change takes place. He becomes your inveterate enemy and thinks of nothing but killing the pair of you. What is there that separates those two states of mind? One fact, that’s all, or rather one date, the night of the third of April and the tragedy that takes place that night and the following day at Essarès’ house. Until that date, you were Siméon Diodokis’ son. After that date, you were Siméon Diodokis’ greatest enemy. Does that suggest nothing to you? It’s really curious. As for me, all my discoveries are due to this general view of the case which I took from the beginning.”
Patrice shook his head without replying. He did not understand. The riddle retained a part of its unfathomable secret.
“Sit down there,” said Don Luis, “on our famous sand-heap, and listen to me. It won’t take me ten minutes.”
They were on Berthou’s Wharf. The light was beginning to wane and the outlines on the opposite bank of the river were becoming indistinct. The barge rocked lazily at the edge of the quay.
Don Luis expressed himself in the following terms: