“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 to-day, 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 Prefet, 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 Prefet.  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 Arsene Lupin?  Was it just an allusion to your pluck, to your physical strength?”

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