The Teeth of the Tiger by Maurice Leblanc (e book reader android TXT) 📕

“I recognize him,” said Comte d’Astrignac.

“Beyond the possibility of a mistake?”

“Beyond the possibility of a mistake and without the least feeling of hesitation.”

The Prefect of Police, with a laugh, hinted:

“You recognize Private Perenna, whom the men, carried away by a sort of astounded admiration of his exploits, used to call Arsène Lupin?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet,” replied the major sharply, “the one whom the men called Arsène Lupin, but whom the officers called simply the Hero, the one who we used to say was as brave as d’Artagnan, as strong as Porthos.⁠ ⁠…”

“And as mysterious as Monte Cristo,” said the Prefect of Police, laughing. “I have all this in the report which I received from the Fourth Regiment of the Foreign Legion. It is not necessary to read the whole of it; but it contains the unprecedented fact that Private Perenna, in the space of two years’ time, received the military medal, received the Legion of Honour for exceptional services, and was mentioned fourteen times in dispatches. I will pick out a detail here and there.”

“Monsieur le Préfet, I beg of you,” protested Don Luis. “These are trivial matters, of no interest to anybody; and I do not see the reason.⁠ ⁠…”

“There is every reason, on the contrary,” declared M. Desmalions. “You gentlemen are here not only to hear a will read, but also to authorize its execution as regards the only one of its clauses that is to be carried out at once, the payment of a legacy of a million francs. It is necessary, therefore, that all of you should know what there is to know of the personality of the legatee. Consequently, I propose to continue⁠ ⁠…”

“In that case, Monsieur le Préfet,” said Perenna, rising and making for the door, “you will allow me⁠ ⁠…”

“Right about turn! Halt!⁠ ⁠… Eyes front!” commanded Major d’Astrignac in a jesting tone.

He dragged Don Luis back to the middle of the room and forced him into a chair.

“Monsieur le Préfet,” he said, “I plead for mercy for my old comrade-in-arms, whose modesty would really be put to too severe a test if the story of his prowess were read out in front of him. Besides, the report is here; and we can all of us consult it for ourselves. Without having seen it, I second every word of praise that it contains; and I declare that, in the course of my whole military career, I have never met a soldier who could compare with Private Perenna. And yet I saw plenty of fine fellows over there, the sort of demons whom you only find in the Legion and who will get themselves cut to bits for the sheer pleasure of the thing, for the lark of it, as they say, just to astonish one another.

“But not one of them came anywhere near Perenna. The chap whom we nicknamed d’Artagnan, Porthos, and de Bussy deserved to be classed with the most amazing heroes of legend and history. I have seen him perform feats which I should not care to relate, for fear of being treated as an impostor; feats so improbable that today, in my calmer moments, I wonder if I am quite sure that I did see them. One day, at Settat, as we were being pursued⁠—”

“Another word, Major,” cried Don Luis, gayly, “and this time I really will go out! I must say you have a nice way of sparing my modesty!”

“My dear Perenna,” replied Comte d’Astrignac, “I always told you that you had every good quality and only one fault, which was that you were not a Frenchman.”

“And I always answered, Major, that I was French on my mother’s side and a Frenchman in heart and temperament. There are things which only a Frenchman can do.”

The two men again gripped each other’s hands affectionately.

“Come,” said the Prefect, “we’ll say no more of your feats of prowess, Monsieur, nor of this report. I will mention one thing, however, which is that, after two years, you fell into an ambush of forty Berbers, that you were captured, and that you did not rejoin the Legion until last month.”

“Just so, Monsieur le Préfet, in time to receive my discharge, as my five years’ service was up.”

“But how did Mr. Cosmo Mornington come to mention you in his will, when, at the time when he was making it, you had disappeared from view for eighteen months?”

“Cosmo and I used to correspond.”

“What!”

“Yes; and I had informed him of my approaching escape and my return to Paris.”

“But how did you manage it? Where were you? And how did you find the means?⁠ ⁠…”

Don Luis smiled without answering.

“Monte Cristo, this time,” said M. Desmalions. “The mysterious Monte Cristo.”

“Monte Cristo, if you like, Monsieur le Préfet. In point of fact, the mystery of my captivity and escape is a rather strange one. It may be interesting to throw some light upon it one of these days. Meanwhile, I must ask for a little credit.”

A silence ensued. M. Desmalions once more inspected this curious individual; and he could not refrain from saying, as though in obedience to an association of ideas for which he himself was unable to account:

“One word more, and one only. What were your comrades’ reasons for giving you that rather odd nickname of Arsène Lupin? Was it just an allusion to your pluck, to your physical strength?”

“There was something besides, Monsieur le Préfet: the discovery of a very curious theft, of which certain details, apparently incapable of explanation, had enabled me to name the perpetrator.”

“So you have a gift for that sort of thing?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, a certain knack which I had the opportunity of employing in Africa on more than one occasion. Hence my nickname of Arsène Lupin. It was soon after the death of the man himself, you know, and he was much spoken of at the time.”

“Was it a serious theft?”

“It was rather; and it happened to be committed upon Cosmo Mornington, who was then living in the Province of Oran. That was