He held out his hand to him.
“All my acknowledgements—and no ill will on your side, I trust?”
Strange to say, Beautrelet felt no ill will at all, no sense of humiliation, no bitterness. He realized so strongly the immense superiority of his adversary that he did not blush at being beaten by him. He pressed the offered hand.
“Luncheon is served, ma’am.”
A butler had placed a tray of dishes on the table.
“You must excuse us, Beautrelet: my chef is away and we can only give you a cold lunch.”
Beautrelet felt very little inclined to eat. He sat down, however, and was enormously interested in Lupin’s attitude. How much exactly did he know? Was he aware of the danger he was running? Was he ignorant of the presence of Ganimard and his men?
And Lupin continued:
“Yes, thanks to you, my dear friend. Certainly, Raymonde and I loved each other from the first. Just so, my boy—Raymonde’s abduction, her imprisonment, were mere humbug: we loved each other. But neither she nor I, when we were free to love, would allow a casual bond at the mercy of chance, to be formed between us. The position, therefore, was hopeless for Lupin. Fortunately, it ceased to be so if I resumed my identity as the Louis Valméras that I had been from a child. It was then that I conceived the idea, as you refused to relinquish your quest and had found the Château de l’Aiguille, of profiting by your obstinacy.”
“And my silliness.”