feel so much as though they were made of lead. I began to run away from them…they were dropping behind…all of them but one…he stuck to me. We went at a jog-trot, a slow jog-trot, for I don’t know how long. Then we dropped to a walk—we could run no more; and on we went. My strength and wind began to come back. I suppose my pursuer’s did too; for exactly what I expected happened. He gave a yell and dashed for me. I was ready for him. I pretended to start running, and when he was within three yards of me I dropped on one knee, caught his ankles, and chucked him over my head. I don’t know whether he broke his neck or not. I hope he did.”
“Splendid!” said Victoire. “Splendid!”
“Well, there I was, outside Paris, and I’m hanged if I know where. I went on half a mile, and then I rested. Oh, how sleepy I was! I would have given a hundred thousand francs for an hour’s sleep—cheerfully. But I dared not let myself sleep. I had to get back here unseen. There were you and Sonia.”
“Sonia? Another woman?” cried Victoire. “Oh, it’s then that I’m frightened…when you get a woman mixed up in your game. Always, when you come to grief…when you really get into danger, there’s a woman in it.”
“Oh, but she’s charming!” protested Lupin.
“They always are,” said Victoire drily. “But go on. Tell me how you got here.”
“Well, I knew it was going to be a tough job, so I took a good rest—an hour, I should think. And then I started to walk back. I found that I had come a devil of a way—I must have gone at Marathon pace. I walked and walked, and at last I got into Paris, and found myself with still a couple of miles to go. It was all right now; I should soon find a cab. But the luck was dead against me. I heard a man come round the corner of a side-street into a long street I was walking down. He gave a yell, and came bucketing after me. It was that hound Dieusy. He had recognized my figure. Off I went; and the chase began again. I led him a dance, but I couldn’t shake him off. All the while I was working my way towards home. Then, just at last, I spurted for all I was worth, got out of his sight, bolted round the corner of the street into the secret entrance, and here I am.” He smiled weakly, and added, “Oh, my dear Victoire, what a profession it is!”
CHAPTER XXI
THE CUTTING OF THE TELEPHONE WIRES
The door opened, and in came Charolais, bearing a tray.
“Here’s your breakfast, master,” he said.
“Don’t call me master—that’s how his men address Guerchard. It’s a disgusting practice,” said Lupin severely.
Victoire and Charolais were quick laying the table. Charolais kept up a running fire of questions as he did it; but Lupin did not trouble to answer them. He lay back, relaxed, drawing deep breaths. Already his lips had lost their greyness, and were pink; there was a suggestion of blood under the skin of his pale face. They soon had the table laid; and he walked to it on fairly steady feet. He sat down; Charolais whipped off a cover, and said:
“Anyhow, you’ve got out of the mess neatly. It was a jolly smart escape.”
“Oh, yes. So far it’s all right,” said Lupin. “But there’s going to be trouble presently—lots of it. I shall want all my wits. We all shall.”
He fell upon his breakfast with the appetite but not the manners of a wolf. Charolais went out of the room. Victoire hovered about him, pouring out his coffee and putting sugar into it.
“By Jove, how good these eggs are!” he said. “I think that, of all the thousand ways of cooking eggs, en cocotte is the best.”
“Heavens! how empty I was!” he said presently. “What a meal I’m making! It’s really a very healthy life, this of mine, Victoire. I feel much better already.”
“Oh, yes; it’s all very well to talk,” said Victoire, in a scolding tone; for since he was better, she felt, as a good woman should, that the time had come to put in a word out of season. “But, all the same, you’re trying to kill yourself—that’s what you’re doing. Just because you’re young you abuse your youth. It won’t last for ever; and you’ll be sorry you used it up before it’s time. And this life of lies and thefts and of all kinds of improper things—I suppose it’s going to begin all over again. It’s no good your getting a lesson. It’s just thrown away upon you.”
“What I want next is a bath,” said Lupin.
“It’s all very well your pretending not to listen to me, when you know very well that I’m speaking for your good,” she went on, raising her voice a little. “But I tell you that all this is going to end badly. To be a thief gives you no position in the world—no position at all—and when I think of what you made me do the night before last, I’m just horrified at myself.”
“We’d better not talk about that—the mess you made of it! It was positively excruciating!” said Lupin.
“And what did you expect? I’m an honest woman, I am!” said Victoire sharply. “I wasn’t brought up to do things like that, thank goodness! And to begin at my time of life!”
“It’s true, and I often ask myself how you bring yourself to stick to me,” said Lupin, in a reflective, quite impersonal tone. “Please pour me out another cup of coffee.”
“That’s what I’m always asking myself,” said Victoire, pouring out the coffee. “I don’t know—I give it up. I suppose it is because I’m fond of you.”
“Yes, and I’m very fond of you, my dear Victoire,” said Lupin, in a coaxing tone.
“And then, look you, there are things that there’s no understanding. I often talked to your poor mother about them. Oh, your poor mother! Whatever would she have said to these goings-on?”
Lupin helped himself to another cutlet; his eves twinkled and he said, “I’m not sure that she would have been very much surprised. I always told her that I was going to punish society for the way it had treated her. Do you think she would have been surprised?”
“Oh, nothing you did would have surprised her,” said Victoire. “When you were quite a little boy you were always making us wonder. You gave yourself such airs, and you had such nice manners of your own—altogether different from the other boys. And you were already a bad boy, when you were only seven years old, full of all kinds of tricks; and already you had begun to steal.”
“Oh, only sugar,” protested Lupin.
“Yes, you began by stealing sugar,” said Victoire, in the severe tones of a moralist. “And then it was jam, and then it was pennies. Oh, it was all very well at that age—a little thief is pretty enough. But now—when you’re twenty-eight years old.”
“Really, Victoire, you’re absolutely depressing,” said Lupin, yawning; and he helped himself to jam.
“I know very well that you’re all right at heart,” said Victoire. “Of course you only rob the rich, and you’ve always been kind to the poor.… Yes; there’s no doubt about it: you have a good heart.”
“I can’t help it—what about it?” said Lupin, smiling.
“Well, you ought to have different ideas in your head. Why are you a burglar?”
“You
