I recognized his voice, now that he was no longer changing its tone, and I recognized his eyes also and the expression of his face and his whole attitude and his very being, through the counterfeit appearance in which he had shrouded it:
“Arsène Lupin!” I muttered.
“Yes, Arsène Lupin!” he cried, rising from his chair. “The one and only Arsène Lupin, returned from the realms of darkness, since it appears that I expired and passed away in a crypt! Arsène Lupin, alive and kicking, in the full exercise of his will, happy and free and more than ever resolved to enjoy that happy freedom in a world where hitherto he has received nothing but favors and privileges!”
It was my turn to laugh:
“Well, it’s certainly you, and livelier this time than on the day when I had the pleasure of seeing you, last year—I congratulate you.”
I was alluding to his last visit, the visit following on the famous adventure of the diadem,[1] his interrupted marriage, his flight with Sonia Kirchnoff and the Russian girl’s horrible death. On that day, I had seen an Arsène Lupin whom I did not know, weak, down-hearted, with eyes tired with weeping, seeking for a little sympathy and affection.
[1] Arsène Lupin, play in three acts and four scenes, by Maurice Leblanc and Francis de Croisset.]
“Be quiet,” he said. “The past is far away.”
“It was a year ago,” I observed.
“It was ten years ago,” he declared. “Arsène Lupin’s years count for ten times as much as another man’s.”