“But you listen so prettily,” he replied, assured of her complete
ignorance of the plot. “You have such a delightful way of waiting for
me to tell you serious things.”
“Things about love, darling.”
He drew her to him almost roughly.
“The whole of my life is nothing but love for you, darling. If I have
other cares, other ambitions, they are to win you outright. Suppose
that your father, this conspiracy discovered, is arrested and condemned
to death and all at once I save him. After that how would he be able to
refuse me his daughter’s hand?”
“He will give way some day or other, darling.”
“Never! I have no money ... no means of support.”
“You have your name ... Ralph d’Andresy.”
“Not even that.”
“What do you mean?”
“D’Andresy was my mother’s name, which she took again when she became a
widow, and at the bidding of her family whom her marriage had outraged.”
“Why?” said Clarice somewhat dumbfounded by these unexpected
revelations.
“Why? Because my father was only an outsider ... as poor as Job ... a
simple professor ... and a professor of what? Of gymnastics, fencing,
and boxing!”
“Then what _is_ your name?”
“An uncommonly vulgar one.”
“What is it?”
“Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin?”
“Yes; it’s hardly a brilliant name, is it? And the best thing to do was
to change it, don’t you think?”
Clarice appeared overwhelmed. It made no difference what his name
was--to her. But in the eyes of the Baron the particle “de” was the
very first qualification of a son-in-law.
She murmured however:
“You ought not to have disowned your father. There’s nothing to be
ashamed of in being a professor.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of at all,” said he, laughing cheerfully, but
with a rather hard laugh which hurt Clarice. “And I can assure you that
I’ve benefited to the greatest possible extent by the lessons in boxing
and gymnastics which he gave me when I was still at the bottle. But it
may be that my mother had other reasons for denying the noble fellow.
But that is nobody’s business.”
He hugged her with a sudden violence and then began to dance and
pirouette. Then coming back to her:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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