“Will you allow me, gentlemen?” he asked.
He opened the letter. It contained a telegram. He read it—and became as though transformed. His face lit up, his figure righted itself and I saw the veins on his forehead swell. It was the athlete who once more stood before me, the ruler, sure of himself, master of events and master of persons. He spread the telegram on the table and, striking it with his fist, exclaimed:
“Now, M. Beautrelet, it’s you and I!”
Beautrelet adopted a listening attitude and Lupin began, in measured, but harsh and masterful tones:
“Let us throw off the mask—what say you?—and have done with hypocritical compliments. We are two enemies, who know exactly what to think of each other; we act toward each other as enemies; and therefore we ought to treat with each other as enemies.”
“To treat?” echoed Beautrelet, in a voice of surprise.
“Yes, to treat. I did not use that word at random and I repeat it, in spite of the effort, the great effort, which it costs me. This is the first time I have employed it to an adversary. But also, I may as well tell you at once, it is the last. Make the most of it. I shall not leave this flat without a promise from you. If I do, it means war.”
Beautrelet seemed more and more surprised. He said very prettily:
“I was not prepared for this—you speak so funnily! It’s so different from what I expected! Yes, I thought you were not a bit like that! Why this display of anger? Why use threats? Are we enemies because circumstances bring us into opposition? Enemies? Why?”
Lupin appeared a little out of countenance, but he snarled and, leaning over the boy: