THE FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE NOVELS A NEST OF SPIES BY PIERRE SOUVESTRE AND MARCEL ALLAIN AUTHORS OF "FANTÔMAS, " "THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE, " "MESSENGERS OF EVIL, " ETC. NEW YORK BRENTANO'S 1917 Copyright, 1917, by Brentano's * * * * * CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. SUDDEN DEATH 1 II. DOCUMENT NO. SIX 13 III. BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE 26 IV. A CORDIAL RECEPTION 35 V. THEY ARE NOT AGREED 43 VI. CORPORAL VINSON 51 VII. THE SECOND BUREAU 65 VIII. A SINGER OF THE HALLS 77 IX. WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE 88 X. AUNT PALMYRA 96 XI. THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS 104 XII. A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR 115 XIII. JUVE'S STRATAGEM 122 XIV. BEFORE A TOMB 130 XV. THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP 138 XVI. AT THE ELYSÉE BALL 149 XVII. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY 158 XVIII. IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! 162 XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ 171 XX. MAN OR WOMAN 180 XXI. A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING 187 XXII. HAVE THEY BOLTED? 195 XXIII. LONDON AND PARIS 204 XXIV. AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR 212 XXV. THE ARREST 218 XXVI. WILHELMINES'S SECRET 225 XXVII. THE TWO VINSONS 232 XXVIII. AT "THE CRYING CALF" 240 XXIX. "I AM TROKOFF" 246 XXX. APPALLING ACCUSATIONS 260 XXXI. A CARAVAN DRAMA 271 XXXII. FREE AND PRISONER 281 XXXIII. RECONCILIATION 292 XXXIV. A FANTÔMAS TRICK 298 XXXV. AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR 309 XXXVI. AMBASSADOR! 320 * * * * * A NEST OF SPIES I SUDDEN DEATH She sought in vain! The young woman, who was finishing her toilette, lost patience. With alook of annoyance she half turned round, crying, "Well, Captain, it iseasy to see that you are not accustomed to women's ways!" This pretty girl's lover, a man about forty, with an energeticcountenance, and a broad forehead adorned with sparse locks, wassmoking a Turkish cigarette, taking his ease on a divan at the far endof the room. He jumped up as if moved by a spring. For some time the captain had followed with his eyes the gestures ofhis graceful mistress; like a good and attentive lover he guessed whatshe required. He rushed into the adjoining dressing-room and returnedwith a little onyx cup in which was a complete assortment of pins. "There, my pretty Bobinette!" he cried, coming up to the young woman. "This will put me into your good graces again. " She thanked him with a smile; took the needed pins from the cup, andquietly finished dressing. Bobinette was a red-haired beauty. The thick braids of her abundant tresses, with their natural waves andcurls, fell to where the lines of neck and shoulders meet, their tawnyhues enhancing the milky whiteness of her plump flesh. This youngcreature was of the true Rubens type. It was half past three in the afternoon of a dull November day. A kindof twilight was darkening the ground floor flat in the quiet rue deLille, where the two lovers were together. For some months now Captain Brocq had been on intimate terms with thisintoxicating young person, who answered to the nickname "Bobinette. "Her features, though irregular, were pleasing. Sprung from the people, Bobinette had tried to remedy this by becoming a past mistress ofpostures, of attitudes. Like others of her kind, from her verychildhood she had learned to adapt herself to whatever company she wasin, picking up almost intuitively those shades of taste, of tact, which can transform the most unconsidered daughter of the people intothe most fastidious of Parisiennes. It was the contrary as regards Captain Brocq, an artillerystaff-officer and attached to the Ministry of War. Notwithstanding hisintellectual capacities and his professional worth, so highly valuedby his chiefs, he always remained the man of humble origin, somewhatgauche, timid, who was evidently better fitted to be at the head of abattery on the bastions of a fortress than frequenting the gossipyclubs of officials or society drawing-rooms. Brocq, who had passed outof the Military Academy exceedingly well, had been given an importantpost recently: a confidential appointment at the Ministry of War. During the first years of his military life Brocq had been entirelypreoccupied by his profession. Of a truth, as pretty Bobinette hadjust told him, he was not at all "a man accustomed to women. " This waswhy, when verging on forty, his heart, as young, as fresh as astudent's, had suddenly caught fire when he happened to meetBobinette. Who was this woman? Brocq could not place her with that mathematical exactitude dear tohis scientific mind. She puzzled this honest man, who fell deeper anddeeper in love with her. Whenever they met, and their first tendereffusions were over, the lovers exchanged ideas, and always on thesame subject. * * * * * Bobinette had completed her toilet. In leisurely fashion she came overto her lover and seated herself beside him. Brocq, who was thinkingdeeply, remained silent. "What are you thinking about?" Bobinette suddenly asked, in a chaffingtone. "Have you solved a new problem, or are you thinking of a darkwoman?" Brocq smiled. Amorously he put his arm round the girl's supplefigure; drawing her to him, and burying his lips in her abundant andperfumed hair, he murmured tenderly: "I am thinking of the future, of our future. " "Good gracious me!" replied Bobinette, withdrawing herself from hisarms. "You are not going to bore me again with your ideas ofmarriage?" The captain made a movement of protestation; but Bobinette went on: "No, no, old dear, no chains for me! No gag, no muzzle for me! We areboth independent, let us remain so! Free! Long live liberty!" Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place, " he said, "you knowquite well you would do a very stupid thing if you married me; I havenot the usual dowry, far from it! Then I am not of your world. Can yousee me in a drawing-room, playing my tricks with the colonel's wife, the general's wife, with the whole blessed lot of them? Zut! I am justwhat I am, just Bobinette. ". . . Brocq now got in a word: "In the first place, " he observed, "asregards the dowry, you know very well, my pretty Bobinette, that Ihave already taken steps about it, on your behalf--now don't protest!It gives me pleasure to make your future safe, as far as I can: amodest competence. On the other hand, I am not a society man, and ifyou wish it. ". . . The captain drew nearer his mistress and brushed her lips with hismoustache. Bobinette drew back, got up from the divan, stood in front of herlover, erect, arms crossed, her look sullen: "No, I tell you, I wishto be free, my own mistress. ". . . Brocq grew impatient: "But in spite of your ideas of independence, mypoor darling, you are always in a state of servitude! Why, only togive one example, for the last two years you have been content tooccupy an inferior position in the house of this Bavarian diplomat--orAustrian--I don't know what he is?" "Naarboveck?" asked Bobinette, surprised. "But don't imagine that I amthe Baron de Naarboveck's servant: still, if it were otherwise, Ican't play proud. I can't bring out the title-deeds and pedigree ofmy ancestors for inspection!" "It's not a question of that, " observed Brocq. Bobinette had launched forth. She continued: "But that is the question. You are always imagining that I have thingsgiven me to do which lower me. I have told you a hundred times how itwas I went to the Naarboveck's. One day the poor man came to thehospital: he was almost beside himself. His daughter Wilhelmine, whois barely nineteen, had just been taken ill--it was typhoid fever--hewas obliged to go away and leave her--not a soul in whose care hecould leave the child with confidence. I was recommended toNaarboveck. I came, I nursed Wilhelmine. This went on for a month, then for two, then three--now we are the best friends in the world. Wilhelmine is a girl whom I love with all my heart; the baron is anamiable man, all kindness and attention. . . . It is true that I am now akind of companion, in an 'inferior' position, as you choose to put itin your absurdly vain and jealous way of looking at things; but, mydear man, there are ways and ways, and I assure you I am treated asone of the family. And, besides, you ought to consider that it wasprecisely at the Naarboveck receptions we met. " With the utterance of these last words Bobinette glanced at CaptainBrocq as if she would annihilate him: the remembrance of their firstmeeting seemed more odious to her than pleasing. Brocq, whose eyes were obstinately lowered, saw nothing of this. Hesuggested: "I am not the only one you have met at M. De Naarboveck's. There is that handsome cuirassier, Henri de Loubersac. ". . . Bobinette crimsoned. She shrugged her shoulders. "How stupid you are!Lieutenant Henri does not give me a thought, if he comes to thehouse. ". . . Brocq interrupted: "Yes, I know he comes on account of the fairWilhelmine. " His tone was conciliatory. Once more he drew Bobinette tohim; but she seemed to object more and more strongly to the captain'scaresses. Glancing at a clock on the mantelpiece she cried: "Why, itis four o'clock! High time I should leave. " Brocq, who had followed her glance, added, suddenly serious: "Myfaith! I must call at the Ministry!" Both rose. Bobinette took up her hat and went to the looking-glass. Brocq exchanged his jacket for a black coat. He went into his study, separated from the other room by a heavy curtain. "Bobinette!" he called. That young person responded to his call, but with no show of haste. She found the captain seated before his bureau rummaging in an immensedrawer crammed full of papers. "You know, my little Bobinette, that I have made you my sole legatee, "cried the captain, with an adoring look at the pretty girl whosuddenly appeared in the doorway. He continued his search among hispapers: they were in great disorder. "I wished to show you--it's a question of spelling your namecorrectly. You are called Berthe, are you not?" The girl had come forward. She quickly caught sight of a mauve sheetof paper on the blotting-pad. A few lines were traced on it. "Ah! you wretch!" she cried, while she glanced through the words. Shepretended to be angry. "I've caught you! You were writing to a woman!Ho, it starts well: "'_My own darling adored one, how long the hours seem when Iawait. _'". . . Captain Brocq shouted with laughter. "Ah, here's a joke! Why, it is you who are jealous now!" Bobinette questioned him with a look. He explained: "But, you great idiot, don't you understand that I was writing to you, and that only a couple of hours ago! You know I am always afraid youwill not come to our meeting-place, and you are always late!" Bobinette, reassured, now helped Brocq to go through his drawermethodically. There could be no doubt of it--the captain was a most untidy man. Family letters, papers covered with figures, handwritten militarydocuments, even some bank-notes, were jumbled together in greatdisorder. Bobinette noticed her own handwriting on some sheets of paper. Howwell she knew them! She feigned anger. "It is abominable to compromise me like this!" shecried. "See! My letters! Love letters! Intimate letters lying aboutlike this! No, decidedly!". . . Brocq put her right. "No, no, my pet! Your precious letters are mostcarefully preserved by me--put together--see--there they are--thereare not many of them--but not one is missing!" "You are sure of that?" "I swear it. " Bobinette reflected. The captain, however, returned to the adjoiningroom, hoping to come across the deed of gift he had set his mind onfinding. "Come with me, Bobe!" he called. He opened a little writingdesk. He thought his mistress had followed him, but she had remainedin the study. "Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone. She lingered. Brocq went back. He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slippedsomething into her muff. "Well, " said he. "Well, what now?" she retorted. They gazed at each other for a moment in silence. "What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously. "Nothing, " answered Bobinette coldly. But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry:"Tell me!" The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well, then! I have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them!It disgusts me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Doyou think it funny that your orderly should read them to hiscountry-woman? That your concierge should know all about them? Ideclare men like you have not a scrap of tact, of nice feeling!" "Bobinette!" the captain implored her. "No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I havethem. I keep them!" The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently: "But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them backto you later--when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy!Come, kiss me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her!If you don't I shall cry!" Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping. Captain Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst heclasped her in his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguishconvulsed his soul. Did she really love him, this woman with herwhimsical ways, her independent attitude, this elusive woman who nevergave herself entirely? Was he the dupe of a comedy? Did she consent tothese meetings three times a week through pity, through sympathy only, or through habit, or, worse still, for some mercenary reason? And thiswhen he himself would have given up everything so that he might notmiss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The captain felt an immensevoid opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He apologised in a lowvoice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette listened withcurled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared. Then, afew moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish toshow it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover'sforehead as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peacemight last. "I am very much behind time, " she had murmured by way of farewell. Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched herturn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Pères, and go towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. Aroll of paper was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew thispaper: its appearance and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless, his mind was so full of his love affair that he immediately forgotthis detail. But, in a minute, the turn of events forced him to recallit. "In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from hisclenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "ByHeaven! It is impossible!" When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq sawit was five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry ofWar. Hastily putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into hisstudy to look for the big leather portfolio he always carried whentaking his work from the office to his own home. Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had beenrequested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on thedefences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of theeffective forces of the companies of mechanics in time ofmobilisation. He had searched feverishly in his drawers for thisreport, which was of no great bulk. For the last ten minutes he hadanxiously searched, but in vain: he could not find a trace of it! "It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better toconvince himself. "The title is in big letters, '_Confidential_, ' inred, and twice underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it shouldpass under my eyes unperceived!" Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio. Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellentBobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to thisconfusion. Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!" He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while dropsof sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered theroll of papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "MyGod! But supposing!". . . He did not put the rest of his thought intowords. For an instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, bymistake, an involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken thisdocument to wrap up her letters . . . Without suspecting. That was it!No doubt she had carried off with her this secret plan ofmobilisation--but if the plan got lost? If it were dropped in thestreet! Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himselffor having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers--but he must act, and at once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of onething he was sure--the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumpedup. "Good-day, Captain!" * * * * * "Good-day, Captain!" The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Pères, atthe corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially. Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety, gasping for breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutesago--did you not see a lady--young--she had red hair--did she not passthis way? Come now!" The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time. Only a moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier thanthat, got into a taxi; she. ". . . "Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?" "Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to thedriver. ". . . "Well?" "Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois, ' and the cab turned bythe Saints-Pères bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quayafter. " "The number? The number of this taxi?" "Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainlyentered it, as usual. " Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had hadlowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed offin pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B. Z. Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leatherportfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before theMinistry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. Hescrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. Hewas asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurryaway, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd?This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushedafter his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? Afterall, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried awaythis document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or fourlarge sheets of paper!. . . In that case, she must have lost it beforegetting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had takenit away intentionally--Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? Therewas nothing to lead him to think. But, all the same!. . . All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, aninstinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtakeBobinette--he absolutely must. Why? Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: afeeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, tocontinue the chase at top speed. Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who wasdriving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! Inthe devil's name, go faster--faster!" Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularlybeautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on thehorizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze waswafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them overand over before they fell on the autumnal greensward and the blackearth of the empty flower-beds. Rows of carriages were moving towards the Étoile. As they had clearedthe Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysées Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Somefifty yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: hehad identified the number. "There it is!" He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless ofconsequences. "A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249, " said Brocq tohimself. His landaulet was gaining ground. The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roadsintersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, couldnot keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Étoile. Thecarriages, conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right, going more and more slowly owing to the increased crush. But thecaptain felt relieved; only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separatedhim from Bobinette's taxi, and assuredly her vehicle and his would beabreast, side by side at the entry to the avenue of the Bois deBoulogne. Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke orinadvertently she had carried off the document, he would give her apiece of his mind. He would let her know that it would not do to playtricks with things of that sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrungwith anxiety. Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing--if the document had fallen inthe street? Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line ofcarriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armée. Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued inthe direction of the Bois de Boulogne. "Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give hisinstructions as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out ofthe vehicle. * * * * * But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, thathe might see what had happened to his fare. Something must havehappened, for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of hisdirections. He had collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remainedmotionless. Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in avictoria noticed the captain. "Look, my dear, " exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that manis? He seems to be ill!". . . At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer'sstrange attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on thecushion, his head had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyeswere closed: he seemed to have fainted. A crowd gathered at once. The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm wasinert. The crowd increased. "A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!" A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore adecoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. Withan air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, andwhen a constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people standaway. I am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine. " There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for theprofessor was famous. This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, thecravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put hisear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, consideredthe face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction. The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take thisindividual to a chemist's?" Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so ifyou wish . . . But it is useless . . . You would do better to go to thepolice-station: this unfortunate man is dead--it is a case of suddendeath. " The medical man added some technical words which this guardianof the peace did not understand. II DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX "Hullo!. . . Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?" "Yes?" "To the sergeant?. . . Good!. . . It is the superintendent of the WagramQuarter who is telephoning. . . . They have just brought here the body ofan officer who has died suddenly, Place de l'Étoile, and I want you tosend me one of your inspectors. . . . This officer was the bearer ofimportant documents. . . . I must send them direct to the militaryauthorities. . . . Hullo!. . . Good. . . . You will send me someoneimmediately?. . . An inspector will be here in ten minutes?. . . Splendid!. . . Very good!" The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to thepoliceman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visiblyembarrassed. The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisiveaction. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the mostprecious of all for those of the police force, whose functions call themto intervene continually in the most surprising adventures--presence ofmind. A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stoppedat his police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body ofthe unfortunate captain. Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapidinvestigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio. "Here's a go!" he muttered--"'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders forthe eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such importantdocuments longer than I can help. " He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by thesergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman. "You have made out your report?" he asked curtly. The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed, and scratched his head. "Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out atonce. " The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose wedo it together!" "Let us see now! The deceased was a captain--isn't that so? The papersfound in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that hewas called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So muchfor his identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Placewill tell us that! Now let us go into the details of theaccident--tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!" Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with ananxious look. "I saw nothing of it, Monsieur, " he replied. "And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?" "He did not see anything either, Monsieur. " "Call this chauffeur. " A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. Ashort interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seennothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry. The superintendent recalled the honest policeman. "Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?" "Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctorcame up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!" "This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?" "No, Monsieur. But he gave me his card. " The policeman drew from the pocket of his tunic a dirty note-book. Hetook a card from it and handed it to his chief. "There, Monsieur!" The magistrate looked at the name. _Professor Barrell, of the Schoolof Medicine_. Turning the card, he read aloud a few words in pencil: "_Sudden death, which seems due to a phenomenon of inhibition. _". . . "This professor did not explain what he meant by 'death due toinhibition'?" "No, Monsieur. " "Annoying!. . . I do not know what that means. " The superintendent was about to continue his enquiry when there was aknock at his office door. A policeman informed him respectfully: "There is an inspector, Monsieur, from Headquarters detective department who asks to see youon urgent business--he declares you have sent for him. " "Tell him to come in. " No sooner had this personage from "Headquarters detective department"appeared in the doorway, than the superintendent rose, and advancedwith outstretched hands. "You, Juve! I am delighted to see you! How are you?" It was, in truth, the celebrated detective, Juve. Juve had altered but little. He was always the same man; ratherthick-set, vigorous, astonishingly alive, agile, as youthful as ever, in spite of his moustache turning grey, in spite of his roundedshoulders which, at moments, seemed to bend under the weight of thetoils and fatigues of the past. This magic name evoked memories of terrible stories, stories ofdangers encountered, endured, overcome; of brave deeds; of desperatestruggles with the worst criminals. Juve! He was the man who, for ten years, had represented to all, ability, audacity, limitless daring! He was the man who best knew howto employ wiles and stratagems to secure the triumph of society in theincessant combat it had to sustain against the innumerable soldiers ofthe army of crime. * * * * * When the terrible Dollon affair had come to an end, Juve had beenblamed officially, and the detective could not help feeling angry andexasperated, for, after all, if he had failed, he ought not to havebeen treated as a culprit. Not a soul had had the slightest suspicionof how the affair had ended. Not one of them knew the incredibletruth--how the marvellous, the redoubtable, the incredible Fantômashad elected to make his escape at the very moment when Juve waspreparing to put the handcuffs on him. And the detective, disheartened, but determined not to give up thefight against this deep-dyed criminal whom he had been pursuing foryears, had asked for a few weeks' holiday, had lain snug, then hadreturned to his post at Headquarters, had made a point of keeping inthe background, only awaiting the moment when he could resume his huntfor the ruffian whom he looked on as a personal enemy. Since then, nothing had happened to put him on the track of Fantômas. No crime had been committed in circumstances which could leave him tothink that this elusive murderer was involved in it. Our detective had begun to ask himself if, not having been fortunateenough to arrest this king of assassins, he had not at any ratesucceeded in unmasking him, in compelling him to fly for his life, inputting him out of power to do harm. * * * * * Rapidly the superintendent put Juve in possession of the incidentswhich had led him to telephone to Headquarters. "You have done well, " said Juve. "Have you the portfolio of this deadman?" "Here it is, my friend. " Juve opened it. "If you will allow it, Monsieur, I am going to make a complete list ofthe contents. This list I shall leave with you. I shall take a copy:that I shall deposit at the office of the Chief of Staff, obtaining areceipt for it. This will relieve both you and myself of all furtherresponsibility on this head. " For some moments Juve and the superintendent occupied themselves ingoing over the papers of the dead man. Suddenly the detective got up, and, holding a paper in his hand, began walking up and down the room. "You have read that?" he asked, turning to the superintendent. "What is it? No. " "Read it!" The superintendent read: "_Inventory of the documents which were submitted to me by the SecondBureau of the Staff Headquarters, for which I have signed a receipt, and I have undertaken to return and deliver them up to the SecondBureau of the Staff Headquarters, Monday, November 7th, when given areceipt to that effect. _" "Well, what of it?" "Well, " replied Juve. "Compare the documents given on this list withthose we have found in this portfolio . . . They tally. ". . . "Of course. That only proves, I imagine, that this officer died at thevery moment when he was on the way to his office to return the papersentrusted to him. What do you see surprising in that?" Juve shook his head. "I see, Monsieur, that what I feared is true:yes, this is certainly the list of documents contained in thisportfolio, but. ". . . "But, one is missing!" The two men checked the papers of Captain Brocq. Juve was right. Therewas a document missing--Number Six. "Whew!" murmured the superintendent. "How are we to know whether thisdocument has been dropped in the taxi, or has already been returned bythe captain, or whether. ". . . "Or whether it has been stolen from him, " finished Juve. The supposition which the detective had put into words was so grave, so terrible, so weighty in its consequence that the superintendentcried, in a shaking voice: "Robbed! Robbed! But by whom? Where? How? On the way from the Place del'Étoile here? While the body was being brought to the policestation?. . . Juve, it's incredible!" Juve was walking up and down, up and down. "I don't like affairs ofthis sort, in which officers are involved, and most particularlyofficers connected with the Second Bureau of the Military Staff: theyrequire the most careful handling. . . . You never know where they willlead. These officers are, owing to their functions, the masters of allthe military defences of France. . . . Confound it!" Juve stopped short. "You had better let me see the body of this poorfellow. " "Certainly!". . . The superintendent led Juve towards one of the rooms, where the corpseof Captain Brocq was: it had been laid down on the floor. Pious handshad lighted a mortuary candle, and, in view of the position held bythe dead man, two of the police staff were keeping watch and warduntil someone came to claim the body of the deceased. Juve examined the corpse. "A fine fellow!" he said quietly. He turned to the superintendent. "You told me just now that Prof. Barrell chanced to be present at themoment of death?" "That is so. " "What did he suppose was the cause of death?" The superintendent smiled. "Now you have it! Possibly you can throwlight on it, my dear Juve, for I could hardly make head or tail of hisdiagnostic. The professor claims that death is due to a _phenomenon ofinhibition_. What does that mean exactly?" Juve shrugged his shoulders. "Inhibition!. . . Peuh!. . . It is a learned word--very learned!". . . "Which means to say?". . . Pressed the superintendent. "It does not mean anything. " Juve's tone was a mixture of contempt and anger. The superintendentwas staggered. Juve's anger increased. "It does not mean anything, " he repeated. "Inhibition! Inhibition! Itis the term reserved for deaths that are unexplained and inexplicable:it is the term with which science covers herself when she does notwish to confess her ignorance. " The magistrate was smiling now. "So then, Juve, you conclude that Professor Barrell has declared thatthis officer had died through inhibition because, in fact, he wasignorant of the cause of death?" "Exactly!" snapped Juve. He was kneeling on the floor, bending over the body. Slowly, minutely, he was examining it with his keen eyes, by the flickering light of themortuary candle. He had examined successively the face of the dead man, then the arms, the trunk, the shoulders, the whole body. He did not utter a word. "What are you looking for in particular, Juve?" "The cause of this _inhibition_, " replied the detective, whopronounced the word with unconcealed anger and resentment. He seemedto harbour some subtle rancour regarding the doctor. Suddenly he gotup and, turning to the policeman, commanded: "Undress this body!" The superintendent interposed. "What for?" "It will be useful for your report. " "Come, now! In what way?" "For that, " said Juve, pointing a finger at the officer's shortcoat. . . . "That? How that?. . . I don't see anything, " protested thesuperintendent. Juve knelt down again, and made a sign to the superintendent to dolikewise. "Look, Monsieur! Just bend down and look at this tiny graze on thecloth. " "Yes!. . . Well?" "Does that not tell you anything?" "No it does not. " Juve rose and repeated his order. "Unclothe this corpse!" Then, turning to the superintendent, he added: "What that tells me is, that this man has been killed by a shot from agun or a revolver. " "Oh, come, now!" "You will see. ". . . "The garment is not pierced. ". . . Juve began to smile. "Monsieur, " said he, "you must know that arms of high penetratingpower, firing projectiles of small diameter, grooved projectiles, cause only the slightest graze in the materials they pass through: thedamage is almost imperceptible. Numerous experiments have demonstratedthis. You see the passage of the projectile is so rapid, its gyratorymovement so accelerated, that, in some way, the threads of the fabricare not broken: they are only pushed aside. They come together againafter the passage of the ball, and unless a very careful examinationis made, one would never know that a projectile had perforated thematerial. " The two policemen were undressing the corpse. Scarcely had they undone the waistcoat than the shirt of theunfortunate man was seen to have a spot of blood on it, in the regionof the heart. "See, " cried Juve. "It is just as I said: a ball of small diameter, propelled by a formidable power of penetration, has caused immediatedeath, producing a wound which has hardly bled at all, so precise andclean has the wound been!" Juve again bent over the corpse. "It is plain to see that this officer's death has been caused by aball in the heart, right in the centre of the heart. " The superintendent now protested: "But what you are telling us, Juve, is terrible, it is inadmissible!How could this person have committed suicide without having been seenin the act by someone? Without anyone finding his revolver? And thatat the very moment when he leaned out of the window of the vehicle togive the chauffeur his instructions?" Juve did not seem disposed to answer this. But, after remaining silentfor a minute or two, he took the superintendent by the arm in familiarfashion, and drawing him away said: "Let us return to your office, Ihave a couple of words to say to you. " When the superintendent and the detective had entered the room, whenthey were alone together, when the detective had made sure that thedouble door was shut tight, and that not a soul could hear them, Juve, his hands resting on the writing-table, looked thesuperintendent straight in the face. The latter, having seated himselfin his chair, waited for the detective to speak. Juve spoke. "We are thoroughly agreed, Monsieur, are we not, regarding theconditions of the accident?. . . This officer has been shot through theheart, when he was crossing the Place de l'Étoile in a vehicle, and atthe precise moment when he leaned over the door of that vehicle, andthis, without anyone having seen or heard what happened?" "Yes, Juve, that is so. This suicide is incomprehensible!" "It is not a case of suicide, Monsieur. ". . . "What is it, then?" "A crime!" "A crime!!!" "This man has been killed by a shot from a gun, a shot fired from adistance. No one saw the assassin do the deed: the Place de l'Étoilewas crowded with people. It was a shot fired from a distance, becauseof an important point, Monsieur. The deceased was attached to theSecond Bureau of the Ministry of War. At the time of his death he wasthe bearer of important documents: one of these important documents ismissing! I assure you, Monsieur, this not only determines the fact ofthe crime, but furnishes us with the motive for that crime!" The superintendent of police stared at Juve, speechless. At last hesaid: "But it is impossible! Absolutely impossible, I tell you! What you areinventing now is impossible!. . . You forget that a shot from a gun, ashot from so powerful a weapon, makes a noise. Why, deuce take it, thedetonation must be heard!" "No, Monsieur! There are now weapons which are perfectly silent. Forexample, there are guns in which liquefied carbonic acid is used, which fires a projectile at more than 800 yards, and all that can beheard is a sharp snap when the projectile speeds off. ". . . "But, look here, Juve! Such a crime as this partakes of the nature ofa romance! The criminal must have taken aim in the midst of a crowd!Who, do you suppose, would have been mad enough to attempt it? Whatscoundrel would ever have run such a risk?" Juve, very calm, very much master of himself, was standing in front ofthe superintendent. His arms were crossed: he seemed to defy him, asthough he knew beforehand that in him he was to encounter theincredulity of the average person. "You ask me, " replied he, "what criminal could be daring enough to dothis? What criminal would have carried out such a murder successfully?Sir, that murderer's name is synonymous with all the maddest attempts, with every kind of atrocity, with every species of cruelty, with allthe talents!". . . "And, it is. ". . . Juve suddenly stopped short, as if he were afraid of the word he wasabout to pronounce. "By jove!" he declared, "if I knew the name of the guilty person, Iwould go and arrest him!". . . * * * * * While the unfortunate Captain Brocq collapsed inside his carriage, mortally struck by the mysterious shot, pretty Bobinette, who couldhave had no idea of the accident to her lover, following hard in herwake, continued her drive. She ordered her chauffeur to stop at theriding-alley which passes behind the Chinese Pavilion. A lingering ray of sunshine still illuminated the thickets of theBois, but already those out for an airing were hastening towards thecity, when Bobinette, discharging her taxi, entered the little pathwhich runs beside the equestrian's track. She seemed full of the joy of life, stepping smartly along, appreciating the pleasure of this quick, free, independent walk. Soon, however, her pace slackened. She spied an unoccupied seat, looked ather watch, and sat down. She cast a sharp glance towards the far endof the path. "We are both up to time, " she murmured, recognising a figure stillsome distance away. Bobinette drew from her muff a small roll of papers. The advancing person was a seedy-looking individual, stooping, seemingly bent under the weight of a bulky accordion. He looked aboutsixty; his long white beard, untrimmed and badly neglected, disguisedthe lower half of his face, while his luxuriant moustache, and hislong hair, arranged artist fashion, largely hid the upper part of hiscountenance. A beggar? Not at all! This personage would most certainly have spurnedsuch an epithet with a gesture of offended disdain. Live by charity?Not he! Was not his accordion there to show that he possessed aregular means of livelihood? He claimed to be a musician. He was well known throughout one quarter of Paris, was this poor oldman who chanced to be passing along that path in the Bois de Boulogne. He was a perfect specimen of the unsettled type of human being, savagely enamoured of liberty, going from court to court playing withwearied arms the ballads of the moment, indifferent to their melodies, to their rhythms, to their beauties, to their ugliness. . . . No one knewhis real name. They called him _Vagualame_; for his plaintive notesinspired sad thoughts and an indefinable trouble of the nerves inthose unlucky enough to listen to him for a time. This nickname stuckto him. He was quite a Parisian type, this Vagualame: one of those faces atonce odd and classic, such as one comes across in numbers on thepavements, known to all the world, without anyone knowing exactly whothey are, how they live, where they go, or whence they come. . . . * * * * * The old man had, on his side, caught sight of Bobinette. He hastenedtowards her as fast as his legs permitted; and as soon as he was nearenough to speak to her without raising his voice, he questioned her: "Well?" It was the interrogation of a master to a subordinate. "Well?" he repeated. His tone was anxious. Bobinette calmed the old man's apprehensions with a nod. "It's done, "said she. Holding out to him the roll of paper, she added: "I could only getthem at the last minute; but I've got them, and I don't fancy hesuspects anything. " As Bobinette uttered these last words, the old accordion playerchuckled sneeringly: "So that's what you think? As a matter of fact, it is evident that hesuspects nothing now!" The way in which the old man pronounced the word "now" puzzled thegirl. "What do you mean?" "Captain Brocq is dead. " "Dead!" Although she did not love her lover much, at this startling piece ofnews Bobinette had jumped up, wringing her hands in horror. She grewstrangely pale. "Yes, dead!" replied Vagualame coldly. "Kindly sit down please! See toit that you play your part! You are a young woman speaking to an oldbeggar, and you are not to forget it. " Bobinette sat down mechanically. She questioned him, and her voice wastrembling. "Dead? What has happened, then?" "What has happened is that you have played the fool! Brocq saw clearlythat you had stolen the document from him. " "He saw?". . . "Yes, he saw it! I had my suspicions, fortunately!. . . Then this cursedcaptain threw himself into a taxi and followed you. . . . At the momentwhen your own auto turned on the Place de l'Étoile, his was going tomeet it! Brocq was already hailing you, and you would have been caughtwithout a doubt had I not come to the rescue. " "Great Heavens! What have you done?" "I have just told you. Clic-clac! A bullet in his heart, and heremains on the spot. ". . . Bobinette was dumbfounded. She did not speak for a minute or two. Thenshe asked anxiously: "But where were you?" "That does not concern you!" "What must I say, then, if, by chance, I am questioned?" "What must you say! The truth. ". . . "I am to confess that I knew him?" Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently. "How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At thepresent moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identityhas been established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not athis domicile already and if enquiry is not being made into the life ofCaptain Brocq. To learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship withyour patron, de Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he hasreceived a visit from you to-day, to prove that you were hismistress--or, at the very least that you had come on an errand fromNaarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why anybody can discover that!To-morrow you will read the details in all the papers, for thereporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable!Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise youto no good purpose. You will say. ". . . Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carriedslung over his shoulder, saying in a whisper: "People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary. Do not be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" Andsuddenly changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated toexcite pity: "Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on youfor it. . . . I thank you, kind lady!" Vagualame moved off. III BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris, despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those firstdark days of November which depress humanity, Jérôme Fandor, thejournalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper _LaCapitale_, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top ofhis voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood. In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had livedfor a number of years, the young journalist was coming and goingbusily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments, piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-roomtable a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of hishousekeeper, Jérôme Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things herequired, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant, Angélique. Presently she asked, rather anxiously: "Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?" The journalist shook his head and murmured: "I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists getholidays of that sort!" Still anxious, Angélique went on: "Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return, Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless----" "You are really mad, Angélique! Have I not told you twenty times thatI am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have Ithought of getting rid of you--quite the contrary! I am delighted withthe way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco--Ipromise to put five francs on the red for you!" "On the red?" questioned old Angélique. "Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present foryou! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!" Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the windowand, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky. "Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I amgoing to the sun of the South--ah, to the sun!" He laughed a greatlaugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, howhe had longed for it!--this holiday he was going to take now, aftertwo-and-twenty months of uninterrupted work! During those months, inhis capacity of chief reporter to _La Capitale_, scarcely a day hadpassed without his having some move to make, some strange happening toclear up, even some criminal to pursue; for Jérôme Fandor belonged tothat species of active and restless beings who are ceaselessly atwork, ready for action, bent on doing things: an activity due partlyto temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this, his professioninterested him enormously. At the commencement of his career--and that of journalism is a ticklishone--he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice hadbeen invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved--particularly duringthe last few years--in the most sensational crimes, in the mostmysterious affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had playeda real part in them. He had not been content to take up the position ofonlooker and historian only. Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriouslyreckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, andtime and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had takenpart in terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomoushatreds, all the more disquieting in that his adversaries were ofthose who keep in the shade and never come into the open for aface-to-face tussle. Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detectiveJuve, had either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himselfwith ridicule, but in either case he had attracted public attention byhis epic combats with the most deadly personality of the age--theelusive Fantômas. But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all therage, gave no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that afew hours hence he would be installed in a comfortable sleepingcompartment, to awake next morning on the wonderful Côte d'Azur, inundated with light, drenched in the perfume of tropical flowers, bathed in the radiance of eternal summer. Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from theoffices of _La Capitale_, of the police stations, of wretched dens andhovels with their pestilential smells, would separate him from thiseverlasting bad weather, from the cold, the wet, which were theordinary concomitants of his daily existence. To the devil with allthat! No more copy to feed printer and paper with! No more people tobe interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the holidays! It was leave ofabsence, and liberty. The telephone bell rang. Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it? According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: hecould plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV, "After me the deluge!" This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at thatinstant precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptiedtorrents of water over the darkened city. Perhaps a friend had rung him up--or it was a mistake! So arguing, Fandor unhooked the receiver. Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectfulattitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line couldsee him. Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation withthese words: "Agreed. Presently, then chief. " As the journalist hung up the receiver his expression changed: hefrowned, and pulling at his moustache with a nervous hand, frettingand fuming. "Hang it! It only wanted this, " he grumbled. Fandor had been called up by M. Dupont, of _L'Aube_, the well-knownopportunist deputy, who was the manager of _La Capitale_ as well. M. Dupont was only a nominal manager, and generally contented himselfwith writing up his editorial without even taking it to the office. Heleft the real management to his son-in-law, whose function was that ofeditor-in-chief. Thus Fandor had been extremely astonished when his"Head, " as he was called in the editorial department, had rung him up. M. Dupont had summoned him to the Chamber of Deputies, for threeo'clock in the afternoon: his chief wished to give him someinformation for an article on a matter which interested himparticularly. Fandor was puzzled, anxious. What could it be? The chief could not know that he was taking hisholiday. "Bah!" said he, "Dupont evidently does not know. I will go to ourmeeting-place and will explain my approaching departure to him, andthe devil's in it if he does not pass on this bit of reporting to oneof my colleagues!" "Madame Angélique, " continued Fandor in a joyous voice, turning to thebreathless old housekeeper who had just come back laden with parcels, "Get me lunch quickly. Then you must strap up my portmanteau. Thisevening I am going to make off, whatever happens!" * * * * * For two hours, interminable hours they seemed, Fandor had waited forM. Dupont in the Hall des Perdus[1] of the Palais-Bourbon. The deputywas at a sitting of the Chamber. If the ushers were to be believed, the discussion was likely to go on interminably. Several times ouryoung journalist had thought he would simply make off without wordsaid, excusing himself on the score of a misunderstanding when eighthundred odd miles lay between him and the directorial thunders. But hewas too scrupulous a journalist, too professionally honest to followthe prompting of his desires. [Footnote 1: Hall of the Wandering Footsteps. ] So, champing his bit, Fandor had stood his ground. As he was looking at his watch for the hundred and fiftieth time, hequickly rose and hastened towards two men who came out of a corridor:they were M. Dupont and a personage whom Fandor recognised at once. He bowed respectfully to them, shaking hands with the cordial M. Dupont, who said to his companion: "My dear Minister, let me present to you my young collaborator, JérômeFandor. " "It is a name not unknown to me, " replied the minister; then, havinginnumerable calls on his time, he quickly disappeared. A few minutes after, in one of the little sitting-rooms reserved forParliamentary Commissions, the manager of _La Capitale_ was conversingwith his chief reporter. "It was not to present me to the minister that you sent for me, mydear Chief--unless you intend to get me an appointment as sub-prefect, in which case. ". . . "In which case?" questioned M. Dupont gently. Fandor's reply was frank. "In which case, even before being nominated, I should tender you myresignation: it is not a profession which tempts me much!" "Reassure yourself, Fandor, I have no intention whatever of sendingyou to live in the provinces: but if I asked you to see me here, itwas with reference to a very delicate affair about which I mean togive you _instructions_--I insist on this word. " "Good, " thought Fandor. "It's all up with my holiday!" He tried to ask this question before his chief went into details, butM. Dupont interrupted him with a movement of his hand. "You will leave for your holiday a few hours later, my dear fellow, and you can take eight days in addition. " Fandor bowed. He could not dispute his chief's decision--and he hadgained by this arrangement. "My dear Fandor, " said his chief, coming to the main point, "wepublished yesterday evening, as you, of course, know, a shortparagraph on the death of an artillery officer, Captain Brocq. . . . There is something mysterious about his death. Captain Brocq who, owing to his functions, was attached to the Second Bureau of the StaffHeadquarters, that is to say, the Intelligence Department, was intouch with different sets of people: it would be interesting to getsome information about them. I mentioned this just now to the Ministerof War, and to the Minister for Home Affairs: both are agreed, that, without making too much noise about this incident, we should instituteenquiries, discreet, of course, but also pretty exhaustive. You arethe only man on the paper possessed of the necessary tact and abilityto carry the thing through successfully. " * * * * * An hour later, under the pouring rain, Fandor, with turned-uptrousers, his greatcoat collar raised, was walking stoically along theEsplanade des Invalides, which was feebly lighted by a few scarcelyvisible gas-jets. He reached the other side of the Place à la rueFabert; looked at the number of the first house in front of him, followed the pavement a moment, turning his back on the Seine, thenreached the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg by way of the rue del'Université. Fandor repeated to himself the final words of his chief'sinstructions. "Interview Baron de Naarboveck; get into touch with a young personcalled Bobinette; find out who and what are the frequenters of thehouse where this well-known diplomat lives. " Our journalist was not anxious as to the result of his interview; itwas not his first experience of the kind, and this time his task wasrendered especially easy, owing to the letter of introduction which M. Dupont had given him, in order that he might have a talk with M. DeNaarboveck, who lived in a sumptuous mansion in the rue Fabert. Fandor did not go straight ahead to this interview: his method was notso simple. After identifying the front of the house, wishing to knowthe immediate neighbourhood thoroughly, he went all round the mass ofhouses which limited the rue de l'Université; he went through theAvenue de la Tour-Maubourg, in order to discover whether the house wasdouble or single, if it had one or two exits. Fandor was too much adetective at heart to neglect the smallest detail. His inspection was soon done. The house possessed two entrances; thatin the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg was for the use of the servants andcommon folk only. The front door opened on the rue Fabert. A courtyardat the back separated it from the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg. The house consisted of three storeys, and a ground-floor approached bya few steps. Fandor returned to the Esplanade des Invalides, and walked up and downunder the trees for some time, watching the comings and goings of theneighbourhood. At a quarter to seven he had looked at his watch, and, not seeing any light in the first-floor rooms, the shutters of whichwere not yet closed, he concluded that the inmates had probably notcome in. Just then Fandor saw an automobile, a very elegant limousine, draw upbefore M. De Naarboveck's house. A man of a certain age descended fromit, and vanished in the shadow of a doorway: the door had opened asthe carriage stopped. "That's de Naarboveck, " thought Fandor. Then he saw the carriage turn and move away. "The carriage goes in: the master does not go out again, " deducedFandor. A short time after, the chauffeur, having taken off his livery, cameout of the house and went away. "Good, " remarked Fandor. "The man I am after will not budge from thehouse to-night. " The next to enter were two young women: then some twenty minutespassed. The rooms on the first floor were lit up, one after the other. The house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when amotor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man, smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin droopingmoustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officerin mufti, beyond question. Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door openingon to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boyslip into the house. "M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter, therefore he has people dining with him this evening, " reasoned thejournalist. He then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and ahalf later. Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time, and would be the easier to interview. Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house, where he had dined badly in the company of coachmen andhouse-servants, but fully informed as to the private and publicexistence of the person he was going to interview. He had set his hostand his table neighbours gossiping to such purpose that he could tellat what time de Naarboveck rose in the morning, what his habits were, if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for his cigars. * * * * * "Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?" Jérôme Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rueFabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stampappeared. "He lives here, Monsieur. " Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M. Dupont. "Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and findout if he can receive me. " The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to beleft waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. Theporter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, andtook card and letter from the porter. The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on thecard, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely statethe purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, andas his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to besatisfied with his own curiosity. "Kindly wait here a moment, " said the footman, in a fairly civil toneof voice. "I will see if my master is at home. " Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissancemanner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposingpictures, their sumptuously woven epics. The footman quickly returned. "Will Monsieur kindly follow me?" Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed. One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the whitestone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by athick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicatelywrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century. The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificentreception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIVperiod. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, familypictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable assouvenirs. Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawingrooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room atlast, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces madefor comfort after the English fashion, the tawny leather of whichharmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany andwith its ancient bronzes. The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared. "By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himselfwell in the way of a dwelling-place!" The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of anexceedingly elegant young lady. Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition. IV A CORDIAL RECEPTION The journalist had naturally expected to see Monsieur de Naarboveckenter the room: in his stead came this pretty girl. "Be seated, I beg, Monsieur, " she entreated. "She is his daughter, " thought Fandor. "I am given the go-by: thediplomatist is not going to see me! I am sorry for that, but, on theother hand, here is this delicious creature. " "You asked to see Monsieur de Naarboveck, did you not? It is for aninterview, no doubt. Monsieur de Naarboveck makes it a point of honournever to get himself written about in the newspapers, therefore youmust not be surprised. ". . . The charming girl paused. Fandor bowed and smiled. He said to himself: "I shall have to listen for five minutes to this delightful personassuring me that her father does not wish to talk; after that he willcome himself, and will tell me all I want to know. ". . . Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature'swords. Then he interjected: "Monsieur, your father. ". . . His companion smiled. "Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am notMademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I ammerely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call meMademoiselle Berthe. ". . . "Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediatelyregretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person didnot take offence. "They certainly do call me that--my intimates, at least, " she addedwith a touch of malice. Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He mustdo all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that hemight get into the good graces of this girl; for she was the veryperson whom it behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysteriousadventure, the outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq. Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that shewas not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address. "Alas, Monsieur, " she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am toomuch afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will becomevery quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have cometo see M. Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regardingthis sad affair we have all been thinking so much about. " "Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor. He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the youngwoman did not give him time. She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she hadrepeated a lesson learned by heart. "Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you donot already know, except--and there is no secret about it--thatCaptain Brocq used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined withthe Baron frequently, and they have worked at several thingstogether. . . . Several of his friends, officers, have been received hereas well: M. De Naarboveck is very fond of company. ". . . "And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor. "Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes. " Fandor nearly added: "A daughter to get married. " It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs, this red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part inthe drama. "Mademoiselle, " questioned Fandor, "it has been reported thatyesterday afternoon you had occasion to meet Captain Brocq, some hoursbefore his sad end?" The young woman stared fixedly at the journalist, as if to read histhoughts, as if to divine whether or not he knew that not only had shemet Captain Brocq, but had spent some time with him alone. Fandor did know it, but he remained impenetrable. Bobinette, very much mistress of herself, said quite simply: "It is a fact Monsieur, that I did see Captain Brocq yesterday. I hadto give him a message. " "You will think me very inquisitive, " continued Fandor, who pretendednot to look at the young woman, in order to put her more at her ease, but who, in reality, did not lose a single change of expression on herpretty face, for he could watch its reflection in a mirror. "You willthink me very inquisitive, but could you tell me the nature of . . . This communication?" Bobinette replied, quite naturally: "To be sure I can, Monsieur. Baron de Naarboveck is giving anentertainment here shortly, and the captain was going to take part init. As he was very much of an artist we counted on his doing somemenus in colour for us: I simply went to see him with a message fromMademoiselle Wilhelmine. ". . . The conversation stopped short. Fandor had turned around quickly. Behind him--doubtless he had beenthere for some moments--a man was standing. Fandor had not heard himenter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quitewhite: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850. Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for nothaving noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at thejournalist with apparent cordiality. "Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but Ihad a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what myviews are regarding interviews. ". . . Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued: "Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent youfrom taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highestesteem for Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommendedyou to me are such that, from now on, I have not the slightesthesitation in treating you as one of ourselves, as a friend. " Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist'sshoulder, and led him into the next room. It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantlyfurnished. Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people werestanding, and were chatting very much at their ease. They paused when Fandor entered. Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe. Fandor bowed to the two young people. Naarboveck made the introductions: "Monsieur Jérôme Fandor--Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, mydaughter--Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers. " Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was incertain measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, hewas really bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gatheringwhich mattered little to him. He felt he had been caught. How thedevil was he going to escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on atimepiece. Seeing the hour, he thought: "Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, Ishould now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towardsDijon!". . . Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman, offered the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee. Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar. Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something, said to him: "But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur JérômeFandor! It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who, some time ago, was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whomthey called Fantômas?" Fandor, a little embarrassed, smiled. It seemed to him something quiteabnormal to hear Fantômas mentioned in this gathering, so simple, sonatural, so commonplace. Surely, this criminal, his adventures, the police, and even reporting, must partake of the fantastic, the imaginary--it must all be Greek tosuch conventional people. Nevertheless, as Monsieur de Naarboveck spoke, Mademoiselle Berthedrew close to the journalist and gazed at him with curiosity. "But tell me, Monsieur, may I ask you a question? Perhaps it is myturn to be inquisitive--but then, so were you just now!" Fandor laughed. Decidedly this young and pretty person was charming. "I am certainly bound to reply to you as you wish, Mademoiselle!" Nodding with a mischievous look, and casting a glance at the Baronasking his approval--he signified his consent by a nod--she demandedwith an innocently curious air: "Do tell me, Monsieur, who this Fantômas is?" Fandor stood speechless. Ah, this question, which this young woman had asked so naturally, asif it referred to the most simple thing in the world, how often had heasked himself that same question? During how many sleepless nights hadhis mind not been full of it? And he had never been able to find asatisfactory answer to "Who is Fantômas?" Fandor had been asking this question for years. He had, after afashion, vowed his existence to the search for this mysteriousindividual. How often, and often, in the course of his investigation, in the midst of his struggles with criminals during his long talks andconferences with Juve, had he not thought that he had run the banditto earth, identified him, was going to drag his personality out intothe broad light of day--and then, suddenly, Fantômas had disappeared. Fantômas had made a mock of him, of Juve, of the police, of everybody! For weeks, for months, all trace of him was lost completely; then onefine day he would produce a drama, it might be a big drama, which tookpublic opinion captive, it might be a drama in appearanceinsignificant, and then each one saw and followed traces which weremore or less normal and ordinarily probable. Fandor and Juve, Fandoralone, or Juve isolated, following the indications which only theirperspicacity enabled them to discover, still and always felt thepresence, the trace of this monster, this being so enigmatical, soindefinable, who was terrorising humanity. Then implacable and dangerous pursuits, redoubtable struggles, werethe order of their days and nights. Juve, Fandor, the representatives of justice, one and all, united toreduce the circle in which this ruffian revolved, and at the momentthey were about to catch him, he would fade away, leaving them astheir only spoil, the temporary personality with which he had clothedhimself, and under which he had momentarily deigned to make himselfknown. Now behold, here was this little red-haired creature, Bobinette, whoasked for the solution of this formidable, incomprehensible, unprecedented thing, wanted it straight away. "Who is Fantômas?" Fandor's attitude, his expression showed how surprised he was at sucha question. M. De Naarboveck emphasised and justified the journalist'sastonishment. Then, in a rather dry, hard voice, Monsieur de Loubersac gave hisopinion: "My dear Baron, don't you think that for several years past we havebeen made sufficient fools of with all these Fantômas tales? For mypart, I don't believe a word of them! Such a powerful criminal has nochance nowadays, that is to say, if he exists. One must see life inits true proportions and recognise that it is very commonplace. ". . . "But, Monsieur, " interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, who, covered withblushes, scarcely dared raise her eyes to the handsome lieutenant, "but, Monsieur, for all that, Fantômas has been much talked about!" The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowingon her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatlytroubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got avery clear impression that if the lieutenant did not consider thepretty girl worthy of much consideration, she, on her side, seemedvery much influenced by all that this elegant and handsome youngofficer said or did. Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle deNaarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a gracefulgirl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, withlarge eyes, soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently abright and gay one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and tosuch a point that, in spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant, she could not hide her sad preoccupation. M. De Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him, in a low voice: "Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident whichhas overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we. ". . . Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh: "In conclusion, " exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantômasis an invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, butan invention of not the least practical interest. Just an invention ofthe detectives, this Fantômas; or, it may be of the journalists only, who have made the gaping public swallow this hocus-pocus pill--thisenormous pill!" The lieutenant stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let meadd, I speak from knowledge, for, up to a certain point, I know allthese individuals!" Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressivedeclarations. He regarded him calmly--there was a touch of irony inhis gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand deLoubersac's last phrase. The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear: "De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at theMinistry of War: the statistics department. ". . . * * * * * It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tearhimself away from the de Naarboveck house. Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned tohis flat. On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, hefound the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines fromParis to the Côte d'Azur! He would not look at the seductivetime-table. He rushed to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furioushaste, dragged out his clothes, which he flung to the four quarters ofthe room. For the moment he was in a towering rage. "And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use mytrying to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery aboutit! Those officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person, neither servant, nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to meall the appearance of playing not merely a double rôle, but at theleast a triple, perhaps a quadruple!. . . Good old Fandor, there'snothing for it, if you want to go South, but to see friend Juve andget some light on it all. " Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could notsleep. There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminousletters before his mind's eye--a word he dare not articulate. It was asynthetic word which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas;it was the summing up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of hisfears; the word which said all without defining anything, butpermitted everything to be inferred: that word was--_Spying_! V THEY ARE NOT AGREED As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor openedthe front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as aspecial favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and wenttowards his friend's study. He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight ofJuve at his desk. "Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!" The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such adegree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the soundof his voice Juve started. "What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!" Fandor smiled a woeful smile. "I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, asin yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here Iam still--stuck here!" Juve nodded assent. "Well, what then?" he asked. "Well, what do you think, Juve?" The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his youngfriend. "Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hatand overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. Heselected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritabledelight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling. "It's a fine day, Juve!" The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalistwith the utmost attention. "What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last. "Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on yourtravels?. . . Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your headfull of other things than the state of the weather?" "And you, Juve?" "How? I?" "Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?" The detective folded his arms. "My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, thatI am thoroughly upset?" "Juve, you look like a death's-head!" "Really?" "Juve, you have not been to bed!" "I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?" Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where aseries of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side. "Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study everymorning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side:you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequentlyyou have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have notgone to bed. " Juve's tone was bantering. "Continue, little one, you interest me. " "And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have beenchewed, bitten, mangled, --an indisputable sign of high nervoustension--therefore. ". . . "Therefore, Fandor?" "Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you--that's all!" The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying toguess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juveto let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was anenigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply. The detective quickly decided to speak out. "I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly. " "Grave?" "Possibly. " This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated himself on the corner of thewriting-table and considered his friend. "See now, Juve, answer me if you can see your way to it. . . . Yourattitude makes me sure that important things are in the air: you arein a very emotional condition, and that for some reason I have notfathomed. Can I be useful to you? Will you not let me share thissecret?" "Will you tell me yours?" "In three minutes. " Juve sat for a few minutes deep in thought. Then in a changed voice, asolemn voice with a sharp note in it, he said: "You know about Captain Brocq's sudden death, of course?. . . Let metell you that I have discovered it was an assassination. It's thisaffair I am giving all my attention to. " When there was mention of the Brocq affair, Fandor started. Here was astrange coincidence. Since last night had not his own mind beendistressed by the mysteries he divined in this strange death? And nowhere was Juve also upset by his examination of this same affair. Fandor drew up a chair, placed himself astride it, facing Juve, putting his elbows on the back and holding his head between his hands. "You are looking into this Brocq affair, Juve?. . . Very well! So amI!. . . You have read my articles?" "They are very interesting. " "They lack conclusiveness, however!. . . But, as things are, I could notdo better, not having any precise information and facts to go upon. Are you quite certain about the facts yourself? Do you know who hasstruck the blow?" "Don't you suspect, Fandor?" Juve did not give him time to reply. He half rose from his seat, and, bending close to Fandor, looked him straight in the eyes. "Tell me, my boy! Suppose that after six months of truce, six monthsof tranquillity, your whole existence is again violently upset? If youunderstood that the efforts and dangers and struggles and tenacity ofsix long years were entirely wasted, and that the results you thoughtyou had achieved did not exist--that you had to begin all overagain--that once more you had to play a match with not only your lifefor stakes, but your honour as well--tell me, Fandor, would you not bestirred to your depths?" Our journalist feigned indifference: it was the best way to draw Juveon, he well knew. "What do you mean, Juve?" "What do I mean, my boy? You shall hear! Do you know who killedCaptain Brocq?" "No! Who?" "Fantômas!" At this sinister name Fandor jumped up as though thunderstruck. "Fantômas?. . . You accuse Fantômas of having killed Captain Brocq?" Juve nodded assent. The two men stared at each other in horror-struck silence. Fantômas! What a flood of memories, horrid, menacing, that name evoked! Thereflashed through Fandor's mind all that he knew of the atrocities whichcould be imputed to Fantômas. He seemed to live over again the recentyears of continual struggle, of almost daily contest with themysterious criminal--Fantômas!. . . But had not Juve declared--and notso long ago--after the drama of rue Norvins, [2] when the elusivemonster had been driven to flight--had not Juve declared that Fantômashad vanished for good and all! Now, at this precise moment, he wasaccusing this criminal of a fresh crime!. . . Fandor thought, too, ofthe conclusions he had himself arrived at, whilst studying the Brocqaffair from his own point of view: that it was a drama of spies andspying. . . . Surely either he was mistaken--or Juve was!. . . Was it amurder, or a political assassination?. . . No longer pretendingindifference, he questioned Juve anxiously: [Footnote 2: See _The Exploits of Juve_, vol. Ii, _Fantômas Series_. ] "You accuse Fantômas? In the name of death and destruction, why?" Juve had regained his self-possession. By pronouncing the word"Fantômas, " by giving utterance to his secret fears, he had relievedhis feelings. "Fandor!" said he, in a quiet voice: "Consider carefully all thedetails and circumstances of this drama! In open day, on one of themost frequented promenades of Paris, an officer falls mortally woundedwhen passing in a taxicab, going possibly to some appointedmeeting-place in one of the restaurants of the Bois. His taxi issurrounded by a crowd of vehicles, and without having time even to seehis attacker, without anyone having seen him, Brocq collapses, mortally wounded, killed as though in battle, by a shot, a mysteriousshot, fired from a weapon of the most perfect kind. . . . Come now, Fandor! Is that not a crime worthy of Fantômas?" But the journalist was not convinced. "True, this crime is worthy of Fantômas, but I do not think Fantômashas committed it. . . . You go too far, Juve! You are the victim of yourhobby. Believe me, you exaggerate--you cannot trace every strange andsubtle crime to this criminal!" "If you do not attribute this crime to Fantômas, then at whose door doyou lay it?" demanded the detective, who was well aware that he mustguard against being the victim of a Fantômas obsession. "Juve, " replied Fandor, "I have been charged by Dupont to look intothe Brocq affair, and have had to postpone my holiday to do it--thatis how you see me this morning. . . . Well, I have begun my enquiry, andam trying to find out the exact truth regarding this unfortunateofficer's death. . . . I have visited certain of his relations, interviewed the people who have known him, I have been able to getinto touch with this Bobinette, who seems to be the last person whoapproached him a little before his assassination, and I have alsoarrived at a conclusion. " "And that is--Fandor?" "A conclusion, Juve, which does not involve Fantômas in the slightestdegree, a conclusion which, I assure you, has the advantage of beingmore certain, plainer, more absolutely definite than yours. ". . . "And that is--Fandor?" "Juve, this officer belonged to the Second Bureau of the StaffOfficer's Headquarters. ". . . "Yes, and?". . . "Juve, when an officer of the Second Bureau disappears in such tragicconditions, do you know what one presumes to be the reason of thatdisappearance?" "What?" "Juve, I assert that if Captain Brocq is dead it is because there is aspy in the pay of a foreign power, who, being under supervision, perhaps on the point of being arrested, has resolved that the captainmust die in order to save himself. . . . A document has been stolen, andit is precisely this fact which makes me disbelieve in theintervention of Fantômas. ". . . "You do not believe me, Juve?" The detective shrugged his shoulders. "No, I do not think you are right. . . . In the first place, Fantômas iscapable of everything--capable of the theft of a document for which aforeign power would pay him very highly, just as there is no otherkind of theft he is not capable of. . . . And then, dear boy, a spy, atraitor in the pay of a foreign power would not dare to attempt thecrime to which we are giving all our attention--not in that particularway at any rate. There is only one person who would riskthat--Fantômas. " Fandor's laugh had a note of mockery in it. He let Juve see that hethought his ideas on this subject were very simple indeed. "It is your hobby which always inspires you, " he repeated. . . . "Beyondquestion I am the first to believe in the audacity of Fantômas . . . Andif I do not know all the secrets of terror hidden in this word'spying, ' I am ready enough to be convinced. . . . But, look here, Juve, I know the world of spies, I have studied them, I know what they arecapable of attempting, . . . And I do not speak lightly when I tell youthat the assassination of Brocq is a political crime. " Juve continued to shake his head, quite unconvinced. Fandor continued: "Juve, believe me! Who says 'spy, ' says 'capable of anything. ' Theofficers of the Second Bureau are, in short, the true directors of thepolice spy system; they know all the shameful mysteries whereby someindividual reputed honest, honourable in appearance, is in the pay ofthe foreigner. They know the traitors. They know who sells France andwho buys France. Every day they are in relation with the agentsbelonging to all classes of society, lawyers, commercial men, smallshopkeepers, commercial travellers, railway servants, women of theworld, women of the pavement, thousands of individuals who continuallytravel about the country, holding it in a network of observations, notes, remarks, the result of all of which might be that some onepower would have immediately the advantage over some other, because itknew the weak points where it could launch its attack. . . . You know, Juve, that they are people who do not shrink from anything when theirinterest is at stake. You know that the man who betrays, who spies, who is an informer, is always disavowed by the country who employshim. . . . You know that those who are taken in the act are punished tothe utmost, consequently they will stick at nothing to save themselvesfrom being caught. Do you not think that in this spy-world there mightbe found a man who, driven into a corner by circumstances, would bedaring enough to commit the crime which is occupying our attentionnow? You say: 'It is a crime worthy of Fantômas!' Agreed. But I replyto you: 'There must be spies worthy of being compared toFantômas!'". . . Fandor stopped short. Suddenly Juve threw himself back in his chair:the detective laughed aloud, a burst of ironic laughter. "My dearboy, " said he, "do not be angry with me. " "What nonsense, Juve--You know very well that I would not be that!" "Well, my dear Fandor, you see in the assassination of Captain Brocqan affair of spying because you have had your hobby for some timepast--the hobby of spying. " Fandor smiled. Juve continued: "Come! Is it not true that six months ago--it was just after theDollon assassination--you published in _La Capitale_ a whole series ofpapers relating to affairs of treason?" "True, but. ". . . "Is it correct that you learned just then that one could define theSecond Bureau as the world of spies, and that you were extremelystruck by this, extremely surprised?" "That is so, Juve. It is precisely because I had this information, andwas able to get a fair knowledge of the terrible secrets existing inthis dark Government department, that I am in a position now toascribe the Brocq affair to the action of some group of spies. " "Your hobby again, Fandor! The assassination of the captain hasoccurred under such circumstances that it can only be imputed toFantômas. Let us look the truth in the face! We are going to enterinto a fresh struggle with Fantômas! That is a certainty!" "It's your hobby now, Juve! There's no Fantômas in this affair. No! Weare face to face with a very serious business, there I agree with you;but it is wholly a spy job--nothing else!" Getting up, the journalist added: "This very evening I shall publish in _La Capitale_ an article inwhich I shall explain exactly what spies are, the real part they playin the body politic, their terrible power; that it is a mistake toconsider them only cowards; that owing to the exigencies of theirsinister profession, they very often give proof of an exceptionalcourage--bravery--and in which I shall. ". . . With a shrug, Juve interrupted: "In which you will write nonsense, old boy. . . . Anyhow, you are free!" "That's true! Free to spend a fortnight in the Sunny South, where Ishall be in a few hours' time! Anyhow, read my article in _LaCapitale_; I tell you I am going to take a lot of trouble over it!". . . "A fortnight hence, then, Juve!" He added in a bantering tone: "Don't dream too much of Fantômas. . . . What!" VI CORPORAL VINSON With one knee resting on his portmanteau, Jérôme Fandor was pullingwith all the force of his powerful arms at the straps in order tobuckle them up. It was Sunday, November the thirteenth, and five o'clock in theafternoon. The flat was brilliantly illuminated, and the greatestdisorder reigned throughout. At last Fandor was off for his holiday! Not to risk losing his train, our journalist meant to dine at the Lyons railway station. "Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass ofgarments sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau. Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be nodoubt about his departure--the thing was certain. He was casting afinal glance round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage. The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrancedoor. Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going toprevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it tofind a soldier on the landing. "Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice. "Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly. The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, hearticulated painfully: "Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you. " Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunatestranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quiteyoung, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of acorporal. His hair was brown, and his light eyes were in markedcontrast to the much darker tones of his face. A slight moustacheshaded his lip. The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with anembarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked: "To whom have I the honour of speaking?" This question appeared to tear the soldier from a kind of dream. Hejumped, then mechanically stood at attention, as if before a superiorofficer. "I am Corporal Vinson. " Fandor nodded, tried to remember him, but in vain. The name told himnothing. . . . "I have not the honour to be known to you, Monsieur, but I know youvery well through your articles. " Then he continued in almost a supplicating tone: "I greatly need speech with you, Monsieur. ". . . "Another bore, " said Fandor to himself, "who wants to get me to givehim a recommendation of some sort!" Our journalist boiled with impatience at the thought of the preciousminutes he was losing. He would have to cut his dinner short if he didnot wish to miss the night express. Nevertheless, wishing to lessenthe unpleasant reception he had given this unwelcome visitor, hemurmured in a tone which was cold, all the same: "Pray be seated, Monsieur: I am listening to you!" Corporal Vinson seemed greatly agitated. The invitation was evidently very opportune, for the visitor lethimself fall heavily into an arm-chair. Great drops of perspirationwere on his forehead, his lips were pallid: at intervals he looked atthe journalist, whose impassible countenance did not seem to inviteconfidences. The poor trooper lost countenance more and more: Fandorremained silent. At last Vinson managed to say, in a voice strangling with emotion: "Ah! Monsieur, excuse me for having come to disturb you like this, butI was determined to tell you . . . To know you--to express to you . . . How I appreciate your talent, your way of writing . . . How I like theideas you express in your paper!. . . There was your last article, sojust, so . . . Charitable!" "You are very kind, Monsieur, " interrupted Fandor, "and I am muchobliged to you; but, if it is the same to you, we might arrange ameeting for another day, because now I am very pressed for time. ". . . Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but CorporalVinson, far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in thelarge arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutesbefore, and with an accent of profound anguish, for he understoodFandor's desire to shorten the conversation, he cried with a groan: "Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away! If I keep silence now, I shallnever have the courage to speak--but I must. ". . . The soldier's countenance was so full of alarm that Fandor regrettedhis first movement of ill-temper, his show of impatience. Perhaps thisman had interesting things to say! He must give the fellow confidence. Fandor smiled. "Very well, " he suggested amiably, "let us have a talk if you reallywish it. ". . . Corporal Vinson considered Fandor a moment, thanking him with a lookfor his more cordial attitude; then suddenly drawing himself up into astanding position, he shouted: "Monsieur Fandor . . . I am a traitor!" Though far from expecting so brutal a declaration, Fandor sat tight. He well knew that in such circumstances comments are useless. He roseslowly, approached the soldier, and, placing his hands on the agitatedman's shoulders, pushed him back into the arm-chair. "Control yourself, Monsieur, I beg of you, " he said in a kind voice. "You must not upset yourself like this! Be calm!" Great tears flowed down the corporal's sunburnt cheeks, and Fandorconsidered him, not knowing how to console so great, so spontaneous agrief. Amidst his despair, Corporal Vinson stammered out: "Yes, Monsieur, it's because of a woman--you will understand--you whowrite articles in which you say that there should be pity for suchunfortunates as I am--for one is a miserable wretch when a woman hasyou in her clutches, and you have no money--and then, with that sort, once you have started getting mixed up in their affairs, you are jollywell caught--you have to do as you are told--and always they ask moreand more of you. . . . Ah, Monsieur, the death of Captain Brocq is afrightful disaster! As for me. . . . If I have turned traitor--it istheir fault. ". . . The corporal murmured some unintelligible words, pronouncing namesunknown to Fandor; but our journalist was rejoicing more and more atthis outpouring. Suddenly he got the impression that the mysterious happenings, theobscure drama he had been on the fringe of for some days past wasbecoming clear, that the veil of ignorance was being torn away. Fandorhad the sensation of being a spectator, before whose eyes a curtainwas slowly rising which until then had concealed the scenery of theplay. The corporal continued, stammeringly: "Ah, Monsieur, you do not know what it is to have for your mistresssuch a woman as . . . She whom I love, . . . Such a woman as . . . Nichoune!Nichoune! Ah, all Châlons knows what she is like. Her wickedness iswell known . . . But for all that, there is not a man who. ". . . Fandor interrupted: "But, my good corporal, why are you telling me all this?" "Why, Monsieur, " replied Vinson, after a pause and a piteous look, "because--it's because . . . I have sworn to tell you everything beforeI die!" "Hang it all! What do you mean to do?" asked Fandor. The corporal replied simply, but his tone was decisive: "I mean to kill myself!" From this moment it was Fandor who, far from wishing to start off forhis train--he had given up any idea of leaving for the South thatevening--was bent on getting from the soldier further details abouthis life. Fandor now learned that the corporal had been in the service somefifteen months. He had been among the first conscripts affected by thenew law of two years' compulsory service, and had been sent to the214th of the line, in garrison at Châlons. Owing to his qualities hehad been much appreciated by all his superior officers. As soon as hehad finished his classes, he obtained his corporal's stripes, and inconsideration of his very good handwriting, and also owing to theinfluence of a commandant, he got a snug post as secretary in theoffices of the fortress itself. Vinson was thoroughly satisfied with his new situation; for, havingbeen brought up in his mother's petticoats, and practically the wholeof his adolescence having been passed behind the counter of thematernal book-shop, he had much more the temperament of a clerk thanof an active out-of-doors man. The only sport which he enjoyed was riding, riding a bicycle, and theonly luxury he allowed himself was photography. Time passed. Then, one Sunday evening, he went with some comrades to aChâlons music-hall. Vinson's chief companions were some non-commissioned officers, alittle better off than he was. . . . Without being lavish in theirexpenditure, these young fellows did not reckon up their every penny, and, not wishing to be behindhand, Vinson had sent to his mother formoney again and again, and she had kept him in funds. On this particular evening, after the concert, they had invited someof the performers to supper in a private room, and Vinson, in thecourse of the entertainment, was attracted, fascinated, by a tall girlwith dyed hair, emaciated cheeks, and brilliant eyes, whose flashymanners smacking of some low suburb, had subjugated him completely. Vinson made an impression on the singer, for she did not respond tothe advances of a swaggering sergeant, reputed generous, but turnedher attentions to the modest corporal. They talked, and they discovered they were affinities. The result wasthey found themselves at daybreak on the deserted boulevard ofChâlons. The corporal's leave did not expire till the evening of thefollowing day. Nichoune offered him hospitality: they became lovers. Vinson's heart was in this liaison: he persuaded himself that thechain that bound them was indissoluble. The singer's idea was toprofit by it. Her demands for money were constant: she harried herlover for money. Little by little, Vinson's mother cut off supplies: the corporal, incapable of breaking with Nichoune, ran up debts in the town. "But, " went on Vinson, "this is only the beginning. I have told youthis, Monsieur, with the hope of excusing myself to a certain extentfor what I did later on. My actions were the outcome and consequencesof my difficulties. " "Something serious?" questioned Fandor. "You shall judge of that, Monsieur. " Vinson went on with his confession in a firmer tone. Fandor realisedthat the corporal had decided to make a clean breast of it. "It sometimes happened after I had had a scene with Nichoune, and hadquitted her in a fury, that I would go for a long bicycle ride intothe country, taking my shame and rage with me. On a certain Saturday, bestriding my faithful bike, I went for a spin along the dustyhigh-road which runs past the camp. After going at high speed, Idismounted, seated myself under a tree in the shade, by the side of aditch, and was falling asleep. It was summer, the sun was pouringdown. A cyclist stopped in front of me with a punctured tyre. He askedme to lend him the wherewithal to repair it; and whilst the solutionwas drying we started talking. "This individual was about thirty; elegantly dressed; and from the wayhe expressed himself, one could see that he was a man accustomed togood society. "He told me he was making a tour, and was now doing the neighbourhoodabout Reims and Châlons. "'Not very picturesque country, ' I remarked. "But he retorted; "'It is interesting--the roads, for example, are complicated!' "I began to laugh at this, and as he insisted on the difficulty he hadto find his way in these parts, I offered to let him look at myStaff-office map. I carried a copy in my blazer. . . . Ah, Monsieur--howwell Alfred played his little comedy! That is what he called himself, at least, that was the name he was known by--the only name I have everknown. He seemed absolutely stupefied at the sight of this map, ordinary though as it was, and seemed set on buying it from me. I didnot want to part with it. He offered five francs for it. I expressedmy astonishment that he would not wait till he got to Châlons, wherehe could procure one like it for the sum of twenty sous. "'Bah!' declared Alfred, 'It gives me pleasure to pay you that sum--itis a way of thanking you for having lent me the use of your cycleoutfit. ' "My faith, Monsieur Fandor, I was too beggared to say 'No!' so Iaccepted the money, while making excuses for myself: my plea beingthat a soldier is not a rich man. "I pass over details. It is sufficient to say that when we returned toChâlons together, we were such good friends that he asked me to dinewith him. When he saw me back to barracks, Alfred pressed a loan onme. I had told him about Nichoune, and about the pecuniarydifficulties I was in, for by this time, I had full confidence in him. He slipped a twenty-franc piece into my hand with an air of authority:'When you become a civilian again, ' said he, 'you will easily be ableto pay me back; and besides, to salve your pride, I am going to askyou shortly to do me a few services. I often have little things done. I shall entrust the doing of them to you, and shall pay youaccordingly. '. . . "You understand, Monsieur Fandor, that there was no reason forrefusing, that I could see, especially as he made the offer verynicely, and that it came in the nick of time, at the very momentwhen--I have to admit it--I would have done anything for money. . . . "After this we met frequently. Alfred used to send me invitations, andoften he included Nichoune. He never would let me pay for anything;and, I must confess, that the greater part of the time I should havefound it very difficult indeed to pay a sou! "We always met at some appointed place outside the town: he would notstay in Châlons longer than he could help, because he said the airthere was bad for his delicate lungs. He was particularly interestedin aviation, and he was for ever getting me to pilot him about theaviation camp. "'You who draw so well, ' he would say; 'make me a plan of thisapparatus!. . . Explain to me how these huts are constructed!' "He would question me as to the effectives of the regiments, ask medetails as to estimates, statements, and returns which passed throughmy hands in the offices. "Finally, one day, as I had no inkling of what he was really aimingat, Alfred put me on to it!". . . The corporal stopped. His throat was strained and dry. Fandor brought him a glass of water, which he swallowed at a gulp. With a grateful look he continued: "'Vinson, ' said Alfred to me, 'I have confidence in you, and you knowhow discreet I am! Very well, I have a superb piece of business inhand which ought to bring us in a great deal of money. A stranger withwhom I came into contact recently, who is a very good fellow, who hasbeen obliged to leave his country owing to troubles that were broughton him, possesses a document, a very interesting one, which would bemuch valued at the Staff Headquarters of the Sixth Corps. He needsmoney and would be willing to sell it. I tried to buy it from him, butI have not the necessary funds. I was seeking a solution of thedifficulty, when this stranger asked me to procure him somephotographs of the Châlons barracks, in exchange for which he wouldgive me his document. He needs these photographs for postcardpurposes. If we could supply him with them in three days, not onlywill he give us his important paper, but he will pay twenty francs foreach proof as well!' "Ah, Monsieur Fandor, this story did not hang together, but I wasactually weak enough to believe it! Or at least I tried to makemyself believe it. Besides, this proposal of Alfred's came just intime: I had not a sou to my name! Nichoune was making a terrible row, and I hardly dared venture into the streets, I had so many creditors. "I tried to square matters with my conscience: telling myself thatthere was nothing compromising connected with these photographs: infact, views of our barracks are to be found in any album on sale, however small. "Later on, I learned that this was a method _they_ employed to decoythe guides, to draw them securely into their toils. _They_ first ofall give them very insignificant things to do, in order not tofrighten them, and pay a high price: it is afterwards that they fastenyou up tight. You shall see how. ". . . Fandor nodded. It was nearly time to catch the train, but he thoughtno more of the Côte d'Azur! He was too interested in the corporal'sconfession, and felt that by letting him speak he would learn more, hewould learn much. He therefore encouraged Vinson to continue. Thecorporal asked nothing better. "The photographs taken, I rejoined Alfred, who had told me to be sureto get leave for forty-eight hours, whatever happened. Alfred draggedme to the railway station; he had two tickets. We went off to Nancy, where, said he, we should find the purchaser. At Nancy, no one;whoever it was, had gone to a street in one of the suburbs. We waitedin a little flat. Towards four in the afternoon Alfred said to me:'Bah! Don't let us hesitate any longer. If the stranger has not come, it is because he is waiting for us elsewhere--I know where--let us goto meet him--at Metz!" "'At Metz!' I cried. 'But we should have to cross the frontier, and Ihave not. '. . . "Alfred interrupted me, laughing. He opened a press and brought outcivilian clothes, then he took wigs from a drawer, and a false beard. At the end of half-an-hour we were disguised; an hour later we were inLorraine. We left the train there. It was there that, for the firsttime, I began to be afraid, for it seemed to me that when leaving thestation at Metz, Alfred exchanged a quick glance with the policemanon duty. Ah, Monsieur Fandor, how I have regretted this journey!Directly we were in a foreign country, Alfred's attitude towards mechanged: he was no longer the friend, he was the master. He had gotme, the rogue, and jolly tight too! "'Where are we going?' I asked. "Alfred chuckled. "'By jove! can't you guess?' he replied. 'Why, we are going to theWornerstrasse, to visit Major Schwartz of the IntelligenceDepartment. ' "'I shall not go!' I declared. "Alfred's look was a menace. "'You will come, ' said he, in a low voice. 'Consider! If you refuse, at the end of five minutes the police will have unmasked you!'. . . "There was nothing else to be done. I knew this IntelligenceDepartment already, by reputation. Alfred had spoken to me about it. It was a vast suite of rooms on the first floor of a middle-classhouse, where a number of men in civilian clothes were at work. Theyall bore the military stamp. We had to wait in a large room filledwith draughtsmen and typewriters, and on the wall hung a map, on ahuge scale, of the frontier of the Vosges. "Alfred sent in his name. "A few minutes afterwards we were ushered into an office. A big man, seated behind a table heaped with bundles of papers, scrutinised usover his spectacles: he was bald, and wore a thick square-cut fairbeard. He examined the photographs without a word, threw themcarelessly on a set of shelves, and took from his drawer ten louis inFrench money, which he counted out to me. Of any document in exchangethere was, of course, no question! I thought everything was finished, and I was preparing to leave this abominable place when the big manput his hand on my arm. It was Major Schwartz himself, the chief ofthe spy system there--I learned that later. He said to me in verycorrect French, with hardly a trace of accent to betray his origin: "'Corporal Vinson, we have paid you lavishly for information of novalue, but you will have to serve us better than that, and we shallcontinue to treat you well. ' "I thought I should have fainted when I heard my name pronounced bythis man. It was clear he already knew my rank and name. . . . He knewmuch more than that--as the conversation which followed let me see. Heinformed me that he wished to obtain a complete statement of theorganisation of the dirigibles and aeroplanes; he must have thecharacteristics of all the apparatus; a list of the Flying ServiceCorps: he exacted even more confidential information still--where theaviators and the aircraft were to be moved if mobilisation tookplace--the whole bag of tricks, in fact!" "And, " asked Fandor, hesitating a little, "you have . . . Supplied himwith all this?" In a voice so low as to be barely audible, and blushing to the rootsof his hair, Vinson confessed: "I supplied it all!" "Is that all you have to say?" "Not yet, Monsieur--listen: "Alfred had gone back with me as far as Nancy, where I had put on myuniform again; then I returned to Châlons quite by myself. "I asked myself if it would be possible to get clear away from theterrible set I was mixed up with. Try as I might, I could not manageit. Every day Alfred harried me, threatened me: I had to obey him. Then almost on the top of this came the affair of Captain Brocq. " Fandor had been waiting for this. He had foreseen that he was going tolearn what the connecting link was, which united the adventures ofCorporal Vinson with the drama of the Place de l'Étoile, but hisexpectations were not fulfilled. . . . True enough, Vinson, through themysterious intervention of his redoubtful friends, was to enter intorelations with Captain Brocq, to whom he had been recommended, how orin what terms he did not know. The business hung fire for several weeks, and this was owing to Vinsonhimself, whose moods alternated from one of shrinking disgust to oneof bravado courage. "At times, " said he, "I wished to break with them at any cost, andbecome honest once more; but, alas, I was always under the evilinfluence of Nichoune, who was a very close friend of Alfred, and thepair of them encouraged me to tread the traitor's path withoutfaltering. Then, without breathing a word, I put in a request throughthe proper channel for a change of garrison. I hoped to get senteither to the West or the South; above all, I was bent on leaving theSixth Corps, on flying from the frontier neighbourhood, and finishingmy service in some district or region where it would be impossible forthem to make me their spy tool. But, I do not know how--was it throughNichoune?--I expect so, because I had unluckily confided this secretto her one evening--Alfred got wind of what I was up to. He flew intoa fearful rage. Suddenly he quieted down, and began to laugh. "'Ah, my boy, I am going to play a good joke on you!' "It was a terrible joke--it is that still, Monsieur! Listen to whathappened! I got my exchange all right: it is on that account I haveeight days' leave; but next Monday, November 21st, before midday, Imust report to my new regiment. But this regiment, the 257th Infantry, is in garrison at Verdun!. . . You grasp it?" "I begin to, " murmured Fandor. "At Verdun, " continued Vinson, who had risen, and was walking to andfro, pressing his head between his hands, a prey to an indescribableanguish. . . . "At Verdun! That is to say at the frontier itself! Thatmeans I shall be in the thick of all that lot--at their mercy!. . . Oh, the trick had been well thought out, carefully contrived! I have gotaway from the wasp's nest only to tumble into the middle of the swarm!Oh, Monsieur, I am losing my head absolutely! I feel that they have metight, that it is impossible to get free of them and, what is more, Iam afraid of being taken up . . . Yes. These last few days at Châlons Ihave been terrified: I believe that they suspect me, that they suspectNichoune, that my superiors have me under supervision! Directly afterthe announcement of Captain Brocq's assassination appeared in thepapers, all this descended on me as swiftly as a tempest. Oh, I amlost! Lost!!. . . I wished to come and make an open confession of all myshame to you that, by means of an article in your paper, you may putyoung soldiers on their guard, those who, owing to a mad infatuationfor some abominable women, or through need of money, should bedisposed to follow my wretched example some cursed day or other--yes, my damnable example!" The corporal fell down in the middle of the room, fell down like acrumpled rag: he sobbed. Fandor pitied this miserable creature who had sunk so low. He raisedhim gently. "Vinson, " he declared, "you must not die. Remember you have a mother!Listen! Be brave! Summon your courage! Tell your chiefseverything--everything!" The wretched man shook his head. "Never! Never, Monsieur--I could not do it. Think, Monsieur: it is thevilest of vile things I have done--I, a soldier of France--of France, Monsieur!. . . You spoke of my mother! It is because of her I wish tokill myself! You must know that she is an Alsatian!. . . She would gomad--mad, Monsieur, if she learned that her son has betrayedFrance!. . . This evening Corporal Vinson will no longer exist--it willbe well finished with him!" There was a great silence. Fandor, with his arms folded and anxious brow, was pacing up and downhis study, seeking a solution of this frightful problem, askinghimself what was to be done. . . . He saw that this miserable Vinson wascaught in the wheels of a terrible machine, from which it was almostimpossible to snatch him into safety. Nevertheless, his consciencerevolted at the idea that he should do nothing to avert this wretchedlad's suicide. He must stop Vinson--he must certainly save him fromhimself at any price, save him doubly! Then Fandor saw further than this. He perceived that good may come out of evil: perhaps through Vinsonand his relations with this nefarious nest of spies, they wouldsucceed in clearing up the dark mystery surrounding the death ofCaptain Brocq. Evidently all these happenings were interconnected!. . . With his mind's eye, Fandor saw this foreign spy system under the formof an immense--a vast spider's web. Could one but lay hands on theoriginator of the initial thread, or the master-spider himself, thenthey could strike at the extreme ends of this evil tissue. * * * * * Fandor admonished Vinson for a long time. Our journalist was noweloquent, now persuasive: he heaped argument on argument, he appealedto his self-respect, to duty! When at last he saw that the youngcorporal hesitated, that a faint gleam of hope appeared, that a vaguedesire for rehabilitation was born in him, he stopped short anddemanded abruptly: "Vinson, are you still bent on killing yourself?" The corporal communed with himself a moment, closed his eyes, and, without a touch of insincerity, replied in a steady voice: "Yes, I have decided to do it. " "In that case, " said Fandor, "will you look on the deed as done, andtake it that you are no longer in existence?" The corporal stared at Fandor, speechless, absolutely dumbfounded. Fandor made his idea more definite. "From this moment you do not exist any more, you are nothing, you areno longer Corporal Vinson. ". . . "And then?". . . But Fandor must have a definite promise. "Is this agreed to?". . . "I agree. " "Swear it!" "I swear it!" "Very well, Vinson, you now belong to me, you are my property, mychattel; I am going to give you my instructions, and they must bestrictly obeyed, carried out!" The miserable soldier seemed crushed to the earth; but with a movementof his head he signified that he was prepared to do whatever thejournalist ordered. VII THE SECOND BUREAU As early as nine o'clock that morning, there was unusual activity inthe Second Bureau of the Headquarters Staff. The Second Bureau! This formidable office, whose official designation, _Bureau ofStatistics_, did not deceive anyone, occupied premises in the Ministryof War. Modest as to appearance, this Bureau was located on the thirdfloor of one of the oldest buildings in the rue Saint Dominique. Thedepartments of the Second Bureau impinged on a long corridor, and hadtaken possession of quite half the floor in the right wing of thebuilding. Anyone authorised to enter here would find a fairly large outer room, where about a dozen secretaries would be working at wooden desks. These secretaries are changed frequently, so that they may not get toknow too much about the work passing through their hands, though theyare seldom given anything of an important confidential nature to dealwith. There is a vast square room adjoining, reserved for theso-called "_statistics_. " This immense apartment is abundantly lightedby two large windows and a large table of white wood stands in thecentre of the room. Occasionally it is heaped with papers, butgenerally it is clear, and only maps are to be seen, maps of all partsof France and of foreign countries also, marked with red pencil, ornamented with cabalistic signs, thickly sprinkled with notes. Placedagainst the walls are the desks of the officers of this department, two captains and two lieutenants. Next to this room is the smalloffice where Commandant Dumoulin, the chief assistant, is generally tobe found. Fixed into the wall, on the right-hand side, is the oneremarkable thing in this most ordinary looking office: here is thefamous steel press, of which Commandant Dumoulin alone possesses thekey, and in which are enclosed, they say, the most secret instructionsrelating to National Defence and Mobilisation. This office communicates on one side with the office of statistics, and on the opposite side with a sitting-room, soberly furnished witharm-chairs and sofas covered with green velvet; on the walls is agreen paper; one picture only adorns this solemn reception-room, whosedoors are tightly closed to air and sound--the portrait of thepresident of the Republic. Here are received visitors of mark, whohave information of the highest importance to communicate. Hereconversations can be freely carried on, for thick window curtains, door curtains and carpet deaden sound. At the extreme end of the corridor is the office of thecommander-in-chief, Colonel Hofferman. At once elegantly andcomfortably furnished, this office is quite unlike the others: thereis more of the individual than the official here. An array oftelephones keeps the colonel in touch with the various departments ofthe Ministry, with the Municipality, with the Governor of Paris. In arecess is a telegraphic installation. This able infantry officer is a man of great distinction. He hasdirected the delicate service of "statistics" with much tact anddiscretion for the past three years. His fair complexion, blue eyes, blonde hair betray his Alsatian origin. This handsome bachelor, verging on the fifties, is very much a man of the world, is receivedin the most exclusive sets, and has been known to carry on the mostintimate conversations with charming ladies in his office. Was thesubject of these talks National Defence? Who knows? * * * * * In the officers' room there was animated talk. "Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, aregular colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed longyears in Africa at the head of a detachment of Zouaves. Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil. He stopped, and, throwinghimself back in his chair, replied with a smile: "No, my dear fellow, this time it is to be a sapper. " Looking over hisspectacles he softly hummed the old refrain of Thérèse: "_Nothing is as sacred to a sapper!_" Armandelle burst out laughing. "Ah, my boy, come what will, you meet it with a smile!" "By Jove, old man, why be gloomy?" answered the lively captain. "Wecan only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Whynot be jolly?" Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice. Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, largeround glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionallyshort-sighted. His colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer. " It waseasy to see that he was much more at home in mufti than in uniform. Hewould say, laughing: "I have all the looks of a territorial, and that is unfortunate, considering I belong to the active contingent. " Loreuil was one of the most highly appreciated officers of the SecondBureau. Had anyone examined the hands of "The Lawyer" just then, hewould have seen that they were roughened and had horny lumps on themof recent formation. His fingers, all twisted out of shape at thetips, seamed with scars, led one to suppose that the captain was notentirely a man of sedentary office life. In fact, he had just returnedafter a fairly long absence. He had disappeared for six months. It wasrumoured in the departments that he had been one of a gang of masonswho were constructing a fort on a foreign frontier, a fort, the plansof which he had got down to the smallest detail. But questions had notbeen asked, and the captain had not, of course, given his colleaguesthe slightest hint, the smallest indication of how those six monthshad been passed. Besides, unforeseen journeys, sudden disappearances, unexpected returns, mysterious missions, made up the ordinary lot ofthose attached to the Second Bureau. The old keeper of the records, Gaudin, who was methodically sorting avoluminous correspondence which was to be laid before CommandantDumoulin, put a question to Armandelle: "Lieutenant, is it not a captain of the engineers who is to take theplace of this poor Captain Brocq?" "True enough, Gaudin! His nomination was signed by the ministeryesterday. We expect him this morning at half-past nine. What time isit now? "A quarter past nine, lieutenant!" "He will be punctual. " "Why, of course!" cried Captain Loreuil. "That is why I caught sightof the chief just now. He is earlier than usual. What is the name ofthe new-comer?" "Muller, " said Armandelle. "He comes from Belfort, " cried Loreuil: "I know what Hofferman will say to him--'My dear Captain, you enterthis day the house of silence and discretion. '" Loreuil turned to Gaudin. "Where is Lieutenant de Loubersac this morning?" "Why, Captain, " explained the old keeper of records, "you must knowvery well that he has been ordered to act as escort to the King ofGreece. " "Confound Loubersac! He goes to all the entertainments. " Steps were heard, some brief words were spoken in the adjacentcorridor, an orderly opened the door and saluted. "Captain Muller has arrived, Monsieur!" Extended very much at his ease on a comfortable couch, ColonelHofferman was polishing his nails, whilst Commandant Dumoulin stoodrespectfully before him tightly encased in his sober light infantryuniform. Dumoulin was fully alive to the importance of his position:was he not the repository of the famous key which unlocked the steelpress? The colonel looked up at his subordinate. "You are going to put Captain Muller in the way of things here, Commandant, are you not?" "Yes, Colonel!" "It will be a good thing to have a talk with Captain Muller. He comesjust at the moment when we have some very nasty business inhand--difficult--very worrying. . . . That's so, Dumoulin?" "True, Colonel! That's a fact. " Hofferman pressed a bell. An orderly appeared. "Ask Captain Muller to kindly step in here. " Almost at once Captain Muller entered, saluted, and remained standingat some distance from his chief. "Take this arm-chair, Captain. " Hofferman was amiable politenessitself. Dumoulin, rather scandalised that the colonel should encouragesuch familiarity in a subordinate, was on the point of retiringdiscreetly. The colonel made him sit down also. Hofferman turned to Captain Muller. "You come amongst us, Monsieur, at a sad moment. You know, of course, that you are Captain Brocq's successor? A most valuable officer, towhom we were greatly attached. " Captain Muller bent his head. He murmured: "We were men of the same year, comrades at the school--Brocq and I. " Hofferman continued: "Ah, well, you are to take on the work begun by Captain Brocq. . . . Nowtell me, Captain, what importance do you attach to the ordersregarding the roll-call, the mustering and distribution of themechanics and operatives of the artillery in the various corps--fromthe point of view of mobilisation, that is?" "It is of the very greatest importance, Colonel. " "Good!" Hofferman paused. He continued, in a low tone and with a grave air: "In the newspapers--oh, in ambiguous terms, but clear enough to theinitiated--the public has been given to understand that not only hasan important document been stolen from Captain Brocq before, or at thetime of his assassination, or after it, but that this document wasnone other than the distribution chart of the concealed works in andabout the girdle of forts on the east of Paris. . . . This is inaccurate. Captain, what has disappeared is the distribution list of ourartillery mechanics! That is much more serious!. . . However, for sometime past we have had under consideration a rearrangement scheme. Weare going to take advantage of the disappearance of the document inquestion, Document Number 6--keep that number in mind--we are goingto draw up a new plan for the mobilisation of the rear-guards. You areto be entrusted with this, and I count on your devoting your wholetime and attention to it. " Captain Muller understood that the conversation was at an end. Herose, saying quietly: "You may count on me, Colonel. " He was then given his official instructions. Hofferman left the couch, and, dropping his nail polisher, cametowards the captain with outstretched hands. "My father knew yours in bygone days, " he cried genially; "both werenatives of Colmar. " "Why, is that so, indeed, Colonel?" cried the captain, delighted tofind himself among friends. Hofferman nodded. "All will go well, be sure of it. I know you take your workseriously. . . . We have excellent reports of you--you are married, areyou not?" Muller nodded in the affirmative. "Excellent!" declared the colonel. Pointing a threatening finger atMuller. "You know our standing orders here! Many acquaintances--very fewintimates: no mistress. " The colonel did not remain alone in his office long. He sent forLieutenant de Loubersac. With a soldier's punctuality he appearedbefore his chief. He was in uniform. "Nothing unusual this morning, Loubersac?" questioned Hofferman, gazing complacently at the soldier, superb in his magnificent uniform, an elegant and splendid specimen of a cavalry officer. "Nothing, Colonel. The arrival of the King of Greece has beenperfectly carried out. " "The crowd?" "Oh, indifferent on the whole; come to have a look at him out ofcuriosity. " "Ah, no King of Spain affair?" "No, no! Out of that I got this scar on my forehead. " "Well, " cried the colonel, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody anygood! You will get the cross all the quicker!" Lieutenant de Loubersac smiled. Hofferman continued: "My dear fellow, . . . You know . . . The vanished document!. . . It'sextremely important--it will have to be found!" "Good, Colonel!" "Have you just now a particularly sharp agent?. . . Shrewd?" "Yes, Colonel, " said de Loubersac, after a moment's reflection. "Who is he?" "The man engaged on the V---- affair. " "When shall you see him?" "This afternoon, Colonel. We have an appointment for three-thirty. " "The worst of it is this affair is making no end oftalk--scandal--it's the very devil and all! Some fools of papers whodeal in scandal are scaring the public with rumours of war: they speakof the eventual rupture of diplomatic relations. The financial marketis unsteady--the Jews are selling as hard as they can, and that isdisquieting, for those fellows have a quicker scent than any one. . . . Lieutenant, it is urgent: set your agent to work at once! He must actwith discretion, of course, but he must act as quickly as possible--itis urgent!" "And what are the conditions, Colonel?" After a moment's reflection, Hofferman replied: "You must make and get the best conditions you can. " * * * * * It was noon, and twelve was striking. The vast ministerial premises, where silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and thesharp sound of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs, doors banged: the offices were emptying for a couple or hours. "Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down onhis head till it all but covered his eyes. This gave him theappearance, either of an artist of sorts or of a seller of chestnuts!Now behold the handsomest cavalier of France and Navarre!. . . And he struck up, in a clear voice: "_Ah, how I would love this cuirassier_ _If I were still a demoiselle. _" Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst intolaughter, and warmly shook hands with him. * * * * * A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, werestanding motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining thepalisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodileswere performing their evolutions. Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were alsopoverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two, the inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead ofhastening onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair youngman, smart, in tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He hadbeen standing there some ten minutes, and was giving but scantattention to the saurians. He was casting furtive glances around him, as though looking for someone. If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, ithardly seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy ZoologicalGardens, misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees atthe approach of winter. A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeantbelonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly, bent on business. Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisadeand hid himself behind a tree, muttering: "Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttonedhis coat and looked at his watch. "Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!" * * * * * Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to theGardens, a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one anotherin the circle they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserableold man with a long white beard, who was drawing discordant soundsfrom an old accordion. Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, wereexercising their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician toplay according to time and tune. But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manageto play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain. At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts, and, taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice amuch easier exercise: he made the round of the company to collecttheir offerings. The crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary, hat in hand, and with only a few sous in it for his pains. With aresigned air, the man pocketed his meagre takings, then, pushing theaccordion up on his back where it was held in place by a strap, hewalked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He passed through it andentered the Gardens. The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almostimmediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very samewho some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles withbut lukewarm interest. The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player withoutseeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as ifspeaking to himself, the young man uttered these words: "Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom. " At once the accordion player added. "And the potatoes are going to sprout!" They identified each other. The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; theydrew closer together and began to converse. "Are things still going well, Vagualame?" "My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends. ". . . The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at thecountenance of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease ofhabit. The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand withhis stick. "What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly. "I have no more money, Lieutenant. " The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily. "What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here--I am M. Henri, andnothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?" "Oh, " protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, Iunderstand my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs agreat deal!" "Yes, " replied Henri de Loubersac--for he it was--"Yes, I know you arealways hard up. " "Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame. "That depends. . . . How are things going?" "Which things?" The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly mannerintentional? Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri deLoubersac, knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations withBobinette, nor his attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of hiswhom he had just assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated, Captain Brocq. Thus Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving atone and the same time the Second Bureau and, most probably, itsbitterest adversaries. "Vagualame, you really are a fool, " went on de Loubersac. "What Irefer to is the V. Affair: how does it stand--what has been done?" The old man began to laugh. "Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up!You know the little singer of Châlons, called Nichoune? She made herfirst appearance at La Fère, and since then the creature has rovedthrough the rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes--youmust know her well, Monsieur Henri. " The lieutenant interrupted him. "All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!" "Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V. --he is on leave, thecorporal is. ". . . "I know, he is in Paris. " "Well, then, what do you wish me to do?" "You must go to Châlons and make an exhaustive enquiry into therelations of V. . . . With Nichoune. V. Was eaten up with debts. " "He has settled them, " remarked Vagualame. "Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback. "Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someonecalled Alfred. " "I know him, Lieutenant, --pardon--Monsieur Henri--a--letter-box--ago-between. " "We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V. And the late Captain Brocq. " These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearerstill to de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee. "Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?" Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player upand down. "Do not meddle with what does not concern you. " "Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to beconfused, nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids. There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing hismoustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said tohimself: "As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine bigmorsel for me! I see what you are driving at!". . . True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was anexchange of hurried words in a low tone. "Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?" "Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?" "Naturally. " Vagualame insisted: "Dangerous, as well?" "Perhaps!" "How much will you pay?" Without hesitation, the officer said: "Twenty-five thousand francs. ". . . Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualameretorted. "Nothing doing!" "Thirty thousand?" The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?" Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added: "It is a lost document!. . . Perhaps it is a case of theft . . . A list ofthe distribution of artillery operatives--Document Number Six!" "But, " cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of thisdocument's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan ofmobilisation?". . . Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow: "I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Canyou recover it?" Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words. "What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more andmore exasperated, shook him by the sleeve. "Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please, " whined the old man, "I was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'" "The disappearance of the document, " continued de Loubersac, "iscoincident with the death of Captain Brocq--so it is supposed. ". . . He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands, simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air ofenjoyment: "Women! Always the dear women!. . . Ah, these dear and damnable women!" He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided. "Monsieur Henri, " he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fiftythousand francs. " "What!" De Loubersac was startled. Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that hisstatement was final. "Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fiftythousand!" Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview. "Agreed to!. . . Be quick about it!. . . Adieu!" VIII A SINGER OF THE HALLS. "Nichoune!. . . Nichoune!. . . Nichoune!" "Be off with you, Léonce! To the door!" It was a regular hubbub! An uproar! It increased! Léonce the comedian had to cut short his monologue! The little concert-hall at Châlons was at its liveliest. There was nota single seat to be had. It was a mixed audience of soldiers andcivilians, and the uniform did not fraternise too well with the garbof the working-man! This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out onleave, would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish theevening on the squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces. On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army wereless satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances, " ofpoor quality, and they accused the management of having filled thehall with civilians in order to secure a good reception for thesemediocre performers. Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made afrightful uproar. "Take the comic man away!" "He shall not sing!" Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performeronly. "Nichoune!. . . Nichoune!. . . Nichoune!" Nichoune was indeed the star of the company! She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rareenough in that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, aboveall, she sang popular ditties so that the audience could join in thechorus. As usual, after every singer, male or female, there were louddemands for Nichoune. Her admirers were merciless: they had noconsideration for her fatigue: they would have kept her on theplatform from eight o'clock till midnight! The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room. "Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurryon. " Nichoune got up. "Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this--well, I shall be off! Youwill see! They will have to have me back, too!" The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matterof profound indifference to him. "Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!" Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouringcrowd panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol wasgoing to sing! Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to thefootlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience instrident tones. "_Les Inquiets!_. . . Music by Delmet. . . . Words also. . . . It is I whosing it!" Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised heraudience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. Shecould not have been in her best form, because when about to start herthird verse she suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started thefourth. This passed unnoticed by her audience, who gave her avociferous ovation at the close. "The programme! the programme!" they yelled. As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among theaudience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes, " and, taking apile of little programmes from the wings, she descended the few stepswhich led from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands wereoutstretched to help her down. She pushed them aside with mockinglooks. Shouts of admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations oflove were rained on her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swungpast with a provocative swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain. Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden ofprogrammes with all speed. Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached thelast row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her nameuttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak. He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme endof the concert-room: he was an aged man. Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who hadcalled her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue onher way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant togive her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across hischest. Immediately the singer went straight towards him. "A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice. He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whisperedlow. "Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!" "Very good, " replied the singer in a submissive tone. Then aloud she queried: "You are a musician, are you?" The man in the cloak gave answer audibly: "Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's notgaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion whichwas slung across his chest. * * * * * Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before heradmirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old manquitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimlylighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow andtortuous streets of Châlons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemedout of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of hisaccordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his longclimbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sortof little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The oldfellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offeredhim a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at thegas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed thedoor carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters werefastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, andleaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it waseasy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of CorporalVinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-assassin. Before long there was a knock at the door. "Who is there?" "I . . . Nichoune!" Vagualame rose and opened to her. "Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend. He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor. "As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried. He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seatedherself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him. "I don't suppose you have come to Châlons just to tell me that!Nothing serious?" Vagualame shrugged his shoulders. "No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?" "That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you. " "Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You arejoking! It's dangerous for imbeciles--not for anyone else! Not a soulwould ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'--theintermediary between me and 'Roubaix. '" "You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune didnot look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears. Vagualame evaded a direct answer. "You have not seen him for a week?" "Roubaix? No. ". . . "And Nancy?" "Nor Nancy. " "Well, " said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter inthe least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass thisway to-morrow morning. ". . . "Belfort? But he is not due then!" "Belfort has no fixed time, " replied Vagualame sharply. "I havealready told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional. " "A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer. "Now you are asking questions, " objected Vagualame. His tone washarsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before. . . . What you do not know you must not try to discover. . . . I myself do notknow all the ins and outs of the organisation!" He continued in a less severe tone: "In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clockand noon. . . . He does not know me--is not aware of my existence. . . . Itis through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also thathe would have something to say to you. . . . Will you, therefore, handhim this envelope?" Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packetsealed with red wax. "Be very careful! This document is important--has been difficult toobtain--extremely difficult!. . . On no account must it go astray!. . . Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible. . . . Well?" Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. Sheremained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her handsburied in her muff. "Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated. At this Nichoune blazed out: "What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don'twant any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!" Vagualame appeared stupefied. "What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be ourfaithful letter-box any more?" "No!" "You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?" "No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously. "But why?" "Because . . . Because I don't want to do it any more! There!" "Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one. " This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once. "Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell youthe truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is threemonths since I began it--since you enticed me into it . . . And life isnot worth living. . . . I am in a constant state of terror--I am afraidof being caught at it. They say: 'Do this--Do that!' I am alwaysseeing new agents . . . You come--you go--you disappear--it's maddening!I have already broken with my lover . . . With Vinson! I don't want tobe on such terms with anyone mixed up in your spying, I can tellyou!. . . In the first place, there's something wrong with my heart, andto live in such a perpetual state of terror is very bad for me . . . Soyou have got to understand, Vagualame--I say it straight out--I don'tgo on with it. . . . I would rather go to the magistrate and put myselfcompletely outside this abominable business--there! That's all aboutit!" It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Herewas not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening toreveal everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear ofbeing taken, who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work--tofollow his nefarious calling. Vagualame gave no sign of surprise. "Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seemsgood to you, and if you have just come in for some money!". . . "No one has left me any money, " interrupted Nichoune. "Oh, well, " replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bringyou every month, that's your business! But I don't suppose you wantto leave your old comrade in a fix, do you?" Nichoune hesitated. "What do you want me to do now?" she asked. "A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us anylonger, you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don'tleave us in the lurch just at this moment! This paper is of the verygreatest importance . . . Be nice--take it, and give it to Belfort--Iwill not bother you again after this. ". . . Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace. "Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you knownow that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!" Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, andpressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door: "I don't mean to be the letter-box of Châlons any more: that'sended--the last collection has been made!" Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then, locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections. * * * * * Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his privatetalk with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little innsituated at the extreme end of the town, and far removed from thetavern where he had passed the night. "Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?" "No, my good man--what do you want with her?" Vagualame gave a little laugh. "Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from herpart of the country to call on her?" The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightenedhimself a little. "Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician wouldcall to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait. ". . . "Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous! What a worker!"Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself. "You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper. "I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I whotaught her to sing!. . . Do you think she will be long, my littleNichoune?" "I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her inher room, you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's notlocked. . . . You will find some picture papers on her table. " "Thank you, kind sir, " said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "Iwill go in and rest for a few minutes, " and, hobbling along, he gainedthe singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut, his whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him. "If there is anything, where is it likely to be?". . . He considered. "Why, in the mattress, of course!" He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, andbegan to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully. "Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact withsomething difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!" Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under thecounterpane. "Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not evenhidden it inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between thepalliasse, and the hair mattress on top--why, she's a child!" He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses. "Oh, " cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!. . . Action mustbe taken at once!. . . Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play adangerous game, a game which is likely to cost you dear!" On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word: "_Belfort. _" This was the document he had handed over to the actress the nightbefore. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichounehad not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an addresswhich Vagualame gazed at reflectively. "Monsieur Bonnett, Police Magistrate. " "She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it!The little wretch!. . . She has scruples, has she!. . . Her consciencereproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson--one of my own sort!" Vagualame was turning the letter over and over. "I must know its contents, " he went on. . . . "Ah, I shall manage to gethold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when. ". . . Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion. "That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he putback the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle ofletters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixedthem with others Nichoune had placed there. "There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to dohonour to your memory!" He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himselfin an arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichouneentered. "Good day!" cried she. Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start. "Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?" "How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. Shelooked surprised. "I have just met him. . . . He told me that he had not come across you atthe usual meeting-place. " Nichoune lowered her head. "I thought I was being followed . . . So, as you can understand, I didnot go. " Vagualame nodded approval. "Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. Youmust give me back my envelope now!" "You want it?" "Why, of course!" Nichoune hesitated a second. "Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between mytwo mattresses! Wait!. . . Here it is!" Nichoune held out his letter. "Thank you, my dear!" Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of themost perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune--stared sofixedly at her that she demanded: "Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?" "I am thinking how pretty you are!" "Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!" "It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but yourhands! They are not pretty!" The singer laughed and held out her little hands. "What is there about them you have to find fault with?" "They are red. . . . It astonishes me that a woman like you does not knowhow to make them white!. . . Don't you know what to do to them?" "No! What must I do?" "Why, " retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to dois as simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your handsevery night with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above yourhead!". . . "How? I don't understand!" "It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall . . . And then youmanage things so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole nightthrough. . . . You will see then . . . Your hands will be as white aslilies in the morning. . . . White as lilies!" Nichoune was extremely interested. "Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, yousay?. . . And you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!. . . I shall try it--shall begin to-night. " A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that hewould not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that sheshould never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he wentalong the streets of Châlons, the dreadful old man chuckled andsniggered. "Hands in the air, my beauty!. . . Just try that, this very night! Withthat little heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be keptwaiting for the consequences of that performance! It will serve as anexample to all and sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!" Vagualame's face took on a wicked look. "I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in thatlittle fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of thatcompromising letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Nota soul must catch a glimpse of me--that's certain!" Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an oldaccordion player. . . . IX WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE "Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard. An orderly stepped gingerly into the room. "An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as tostep downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State. " Hofferman looked up. "Are you sure the message is for me?" "Yes, Colonel. " "Very well. I am coming immediately. " The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute orso, rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, andaddressed Commandant Dumoulin: "The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now. " The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separatinghim from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices weresituated. "What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself ashe entered the Under-Secretary's room. Monsieur Maranjévol, an exceedingly active and immensely populardeputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate taskof serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections. Monsieur Maranjévol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with itsgilding and pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with hisback to the light, was a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven, whose thin hair, turning grey, curled slightly at the nape of theneck. The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and wentstraight to the point. "Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of theSecond Bureau. " The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited thebeginning of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence. Monsieur Maranjévol explained that after a short talk with Juveregarding Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to puthim in touch with Colonel Hofferman. The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last fewminutes, suddenly broke out: "My faith, Monsieur, " declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staringstraight into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity ofmeeting you. I shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, evenvery disagreeably astonished, at your attitude during the past fewdays regarding this wretched drama. Up to now, I have alwaysconsidered that the private personality of an officer, above all, ofan officer on the Headquarters' Staff, was a thing which was almostinviolable. . . . But it has come to my knowledge that at the death ofCaptain Brocq, you have devoted yourself not only to making the mostminute investigations--that, perhaps, was your right and yourduty--into the circumstances accompanying the death, but that you havesearched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without givingus the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanctionthis method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having thisopportunity of telling you so. " During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjévol stared withastonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. Thegood-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at thecolonel's violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to takeit. Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn: "I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a questionof a natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring toyou the documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but, as you probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed--killed in amysterious fashion. I thus found myself in the presence of a crime, acommon law crime: the inquest has restored it to the civil lawjurisdiction, and not to the military: believe me, I understand mybusiness, I know my duty. " Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but theslight tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone whoknew him well, that the detective was maintaining his self-controlonly by a violent effort. The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence: "I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affairwhich concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with theloss of a certain secret document: is it for you or for us toinstitute an enquiry into it?" After a pause, Juve's retort was: "You must permit me to leave that question unanswered. " With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had puthis finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source ofirritation to the detective force and the intelligence departmentalike, when, owing to circumstances, both were called on to interveneat one and the same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflictwas ceaseless. Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the nightbefore, and his last words of command were: "Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!. . . Theremust not be a fuss!" Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turnedtriumphantly to the Under-Secretary: "Not only that, " he continued, "I think there has been far too muchtalk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was thevictim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is tobe said. It really does not matter much. We of the IntelligenceDepartment are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at thepresent moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it:action must be left to us. . . . And, Monsieur, I revert to my firstquestion--what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's--whatbusiness was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogatingto itself more and more powers--powers that cannot be sanctioned, thatwill not be granted or permitted. " Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but nowColonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out. "Monsieur, " he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning tothe Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations--not for amoment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that theassassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysteriousoccurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory ColonelHofferman has just put forward will not hold water--it does not hangtogether! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin atthe beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge, Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most carefulconsideration. " Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorryfor himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act asumpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so, with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear. "Well, gentlemen, " began our detective, who had fully regained hisself-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me tothe discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated?It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn everydetail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he hadintercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he wasaccustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding hispersonality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that heshould disappear. . . . I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille tocollect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down inmy case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq wasregularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able toidentify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I amcertain she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: thecommencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this;but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter wasbegun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama ofassassination was enacted. . . . It is the mauve document, number 42. Itcommences: "'_My darling_'. ". . . Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. ColonelHofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it. Juve continued: "I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding thesuppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what Ideduce from my investigations. . . . Captain Brocq was a simple, modestfellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer:a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had anirregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions;Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was toostraight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising theunion later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?" Hofferman frankly replied: "It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq'scharacter. But I do not see what you are driving at. " "At this, " replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must belooked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of ahigher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more womenof the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, wasthe family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur deNaarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. ThisMademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state ofprofound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far asto pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; butone might easily think so. " "How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at thedeath of Captain Brocq?" "Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck familycircle the day after the drama. " "Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel. Juve smiled slily. "A journalist not like the others--it was Jérôme Fandor, Colonel!. . . He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him bythose in high places. The Minister of War. ". . . The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short. "We know all about that, Monsieur Juve . . . Besides the person whom theMinister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur deNaarboveck's daughter, but her companion--a young woman namedBerthe. ". . . "And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve. "What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary. Juve's reply was an indirect one. "The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe thatWilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress--oh, in the right way, in all honour!--and that in the background, surreptitiously, a thirdperson pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of theirsecret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties withthem. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!. . . Sheis known to have visited Brocq repeatedly. . . . Now, what was she doingthere--what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of whathappened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat ingreat haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi atthe des Saints-Pères, and drove off in pursuit of someone. . . . Why, wedo not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced thewoman was Bobinette. " "What is Bobinette's social position?" "Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is herethat I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery. Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you thatthis woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lackprecise information about her; I await this information withimpatience--I fear it also, for, gentlemen. ". . . Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawingup before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them. His manner was impressive. "Gentlemen, " said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air ofintense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct, Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth--of the lowest--a creaturewho will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band ofcriminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous, the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world--a band Ihave, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed . . . Only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaselessrebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent, hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil--the bandof Fantômas!" Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead. The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence: "Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may verywell have had a mistress--we are all agreed about that--but, inreality, it is simply romance!" There was a discreet knock at the door. "What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an ushershowed itself in the half-opened doorway. He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuseme, sir. " Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sendsme to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has acommunication of extreme urgency to lay before him. " "The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritativetone. But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied: "The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add thatthe communication cannot wait. " The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at theUnder-Secretary. "Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible. " The Under-Secretary addressed Juve: "The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which areassuming enormous proportions. . . . Are you aware that rumours of warare becoming wide-spread?. . . Public opinion is in a most unsettledstate. . . . Things are bad on the Bourse, too--going from bad toworse!. . . Really, it is all most distressing!" With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently: "I cannot help it, Monsieur!" It was noon. Twelve was striking. X AUNT PALMYRA. Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in theprivate office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of _TheThree Moons_ at Châlons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was justbreaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throwlight upon his task. Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voicecalling him insistently from the top of the steps. "Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?" Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, andappeared on the porch. "I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?" The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stoutwoman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut thatthey exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl wasthrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied withstrings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with abunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowerydesign half hid this woman's features: though far from her firstyouth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her facewas covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs ofwhite, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: therewas no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand. "What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, whohad seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground agreat wicker basket filled with vegetables. "Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis!My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my littlepet of a girl?" Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strangevisitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was tohear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars. "Whoever are you?" he asked in a surly tone. "I don't remember you!" "That's not surprising, " cried the visitor, who seemed of a gaydisposition, for she always laughed at the close of every sentence. "My goodness! It would be queer if you did not recognise me, considering you have never seen me before!. . . I am Aunt Palmyra, letme tell you!" The innkeeper, more and more out of countenance, searched his memoryin vain. "Aunt Palmyra?" he echoed. "Why, of course, you big stupid! Nichoune's aunt--a customer of yours, she is! She must have mentioned me often--I adore the little pet!" Father Louis had not the slightest recollection of any such mention, but, out of politeness, he murmured: "Of course! Why, of course!" "Well, then, old dear, you must tell me where she hangs out here! Imust go and give her a hug and a kiss!" Mechanically, the innkeeper directed Aunt Palmyra. "On the ground floor--end of the passage!. . . But you're never thinkingof waking Nichoune at this early hour! She'll make a pretty noise ifyou do!" "Bah!" cried Aunt Palmyra: "Wait till the little dear sees who itis!. . . Just look at the nice things I've brought her!" and, showinghim the vegetables in her basket, she began to drawl in a sing-songvoice: "Will you have turnips and leeks? Here's stuff to make broth of thebest! It will make her think of bygone days when she lived with us inthe country!" "My faith!" thought Father Louis, "if Nichoune opens her mouth!" Aunt Palmyra was knocking repeatedly at Nichoune's door, but there wasno response. "Well, what a sleep she's having!" "Likely enough, " replied Father Louis, "considering she was not in bedtill four o'clock!" All the same, this persistent silence puzzled the innkeeper. He triedto peep through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Then he quietlydrew a gimlet from his pocket and bored a hole in the door. AuntPalmyra watched him smiling: she winked and jogged his elbow. "Ho, ho, my boy! I'll wager you don't stick at having a look at yourcustomers this way, when it suits you!" With the ease of practice the innkeeper glued his eye to the hole hehad just made. He uttered an exclamation: "Good heavens!" "What is it?" cried Nichoune's aunt in a tone of alarm. "Is her roomempty?" "Empty? No! But. ". . . Father Louis was white as paper. He searched his pocket in feverishhaste, drew from it a screwdriver, rapidly detached the lock, andrushed into the room, followed by Aunt Palmyra, who bawled: "Oh, my good lord! Whatever is the matter with her?" Nichoune was stretched out on her bed, and might have seemed asleep toan onlooker were it not for two things which at once struck the eye:her face was all purple, and her arms, sticking straight up in theair, were terrifyingly white and rigid. Approaching the bed, theinnkeeper and Aunt Palmyra saw that Nichoune's arms were maintained inthis vertical position by means of string tied round her wrists andfastened to the canopy over the bed. "She is dead!" cried Father Louis. "This is awful! Good heavens! Whata thing to happen!" Aunt Palmyra, for all her previous protestations of affection for hercharming niece, did not seem in any way moved by the tragic discovery. She glanced rapidly round the room without a sign of emotion. Thisattitude only lasted a moment. Suddenly she broke out into loudlamentations uttering piercing cries: she threw herself into anarm-chair, then sank in a heap on the sofa, then returned to thetable! She was making a regular nuisance of herself. The innkeeper, scared and bewildered, did not know how to act: he was staring fixedlyat the unfortunate Nichoune, who gave no sign of life. Involuntarilythe man had touched the dead girl's shoulder: the body was quite cold. The innkeeper, who had been driven into a state of distractedbewilderment by Aunt Palmyra's behaviour, now bethought him of hisobvious duty: of course he must call in the police, and also avoidscandal. Also he must stop this old woman's outrageous goings-on. "Be quiet!" he commanded. "You are not to make such a noise! Staywhere you are! Don't stir from that corner until I return . . . And, above all, you must not touch a single thing before the arrival of thepolice. " "The police!" moaned Aunt Palmyra. "It is frightful! Oh, my poorNichoune, however could this have happened?" Nevertheless, scarcely had the innkeeper retired than the old woman, with remarkable dexterity, rummaged about among the disorderedfurniture, and seized a certain number of papers, which she hid in herbodice. Hardly had she pushed them out of sight when the innkeeper returned, accompanied by a policeman. It was in vain that Father Louisendeavoured to get the policeman into the tragic room. He did not wishto do anything. "I tell you, " he repeated in his big voice, "it's not worth my whilelooking at this corpse . . . For the superintendent will be hereshortly, and he will take charge of the legal procedure. " At the end of about ten minutes the magistrate appeared, accompaniedby his secretary, and immediately proceeded to a summary interrogationof the innkeeper; but, in the presence of Aunt Palmyra, it wasimpossible to do any serious work. This insupportable old woman couldnot make head or tail of the questions, and answered at random. "Leave the room, Madame, leave the room, and I will hear what you haveto say presently. " "But where must I go?" whined Aunt Palmyra. "Go where you like! Go to the devil!" shouted the exasperatedinspector. "Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to say so, " replied the old woman, looking seriously offended, "but, though you are an inspector, youhave a very rude tongue in your head!" To emphasise her majestic exit, Aunt Palmyra added: "Fancy now! Not one of you have thought of it! I am going as far asthe corner to look for flowers for this poor little thing. " * * * * * Either florists were difficult to find, or Aunt Palmyra had no wish tosee them as she passed by, for the old woman walked right through thetown without stopping. When she reached the railway station she lookedat the clock. "By the saints! I have barely time, " she ejaculated. The old termagant traversed the waiting-room, got her ticketpunched--it was a return ticket--and stepped on to the platform at theprecise moment a porter was crying in an ear-piercing voice: "Passengers for Paris take your seats!" Aunt Palmyra installed herself in a second-class compartment: "_Forladies only. _" * * * * * The train rolled out of the station. An inspector was examining the tickets at the stopping-place atChâteau-Thierry. "Excuse me, sir, " said he, waking a passenger who had fallen fastasleep--a stout man, with a smooth face and scanty hair--"Excuse me, Monsieur, but you are in a '_For ladies only_!'" The man leapt up and rubbed his eyes; instinctively, with the gestureof a short-sighted man, he took from his waistcoat pocket a large pairof spectacles in gold frames, and stared at the inspector. "I am sorry! It's a mistake! I will change into another compartment!" The stranger passed along the connecting corridor, carrying a smallbundle of clothes wrapped in a shawl of many colours!. . . An hourlater, the train from Châlons arrived at Paris, ten minutes behindtime. Directly he stood on the platform the traveller looked at hiswatch. "Twenty-five past eleven! I can do it!" He jumped into a taxi, giving his orders: "Rue Saint Dominique--Ministry of War!. . . And quick!" * * * * * Shortly after the unexpected departure of Colonel Hofferman, Juve, judging it useless to prolong the conversation, had quitted theUnder-Secretary of State's office. Instead of mounting to the SecondBureau, he sent in his name to Commandant Dumoulin. Although theiracquaintance was but slight, the two men were in sympathy: eachrealised that the other was courageous and devoted to duty; both wereenamoured of an active life and open air. Juve was hoping that at all events he would hear something new, if notfacts about the affair he had in hand, at least with regard to theattitude which the military authorities meant to take up. CommandantDumoulin, however, knew nothing or did not wish to say anything, andJuve was about to leave, when Colonel Hofferman entered. Hofferman looked radiant. Catching sight of Juve, he smiled. "Ah! Upon my word! I did not expect to find you here, Monsieur . . . But, since you are, you will be glad to get some news of the Brocqaffair. ". . . Juve's eyes were shining notes of interrogation. "I rendered due homage to your perspicacity just now, " continued thecolonel: "you were absolutely right in your prognostication that Brocqhad a mistress; unfortunately--I am sorry for the wound to yourself-esteem--the correctness of your version stops there! Brocq'smistress was not a society woman, as you thought: on the contrary, shewas a girl of the lower orders . . . A music-hall singer, calledNichoune . . . Of Châlons!" "You have proof of it?" The colonel, with a superior air, held out a packet of letters toJuve. "Here is the correspondence--letters written by Brocq to the girl! Oneof my collaborators seized them at girl's place. ". . . Juve scrutinised the letters. "It's curious, " he said, half to himself. . . . "An annoying coincidence . . . But the name of Nichoune does not appear once in these letters!" "No other name appears, " observed the colonel: "Consequently, takinginto consideration the place where these letters have been found . . . We must conclude. ". . . "These letters had no envelopes with them?" questioned Juve. "No, there were none, but what matters that?" cried the colonel. "Very queer, " said Juve, in a meditative tone. Then raising his voice: "I suppose, Colonel, that your . . . Collaborator, before takingpossession of these letters, had a talk with the person who hadreceived them. Did he manage to extract any information?" Hofferman interrupted Juve with a gesture. "Monsieur Juve, " said he, crossing his arms, "I am going to give youanother surprise: my collaborator could not get the person in questionto talk, and for a very good reason: he found her dead!" "Dead?" echoed Juve. "That is as I say. " The detective, though he strove to hide it, was more and more takenaback. What could this mean? No doubt he would soon secure additionalinformation; but what was the connecting link? where, and who was themysterious person who was really pulling the strings? The sarcasticvoice of the colonel tore Juve from his reflections and questionings. "Monsieur Juve, I think it is high time we had some lunch . . . Butbefore we separate allow me to give you a word of advice. "When, in the course of your career, you have occasion to deal withmatters relating to spies and spying, leave us to deal with them, thatis what we are here for!. . . As for you, content yourself with ordinarypolice work, that is your business, and, if it gives you pleasure, continue your hunt for Fantômas, that will give you all the occupationyou require!. . . Yes, " continued the colonel, while Juve was clenchinghis fists with exasperation at this irony which was like so manyflicks of a whip on his face, "Yes, leave these serious affairs tous--and occupy yourself with Fantômas!" XI THE HOODED CLOAK OF FANTÔMAS Leaning on his window-sill, Jérôme Fandor was apparently keeping astrict watch on the comings and goings of the passers-by, who, havingfinished their Sunday walk, were bending their steps towards dinner, aquiet evening, and a reposeful night. Seven o'clock sounded from aneighbouring clock, its strokes borne through the misty atmosphere, darkened by fog: it was a peaceful moment, made for pleasurablerelaxation ofter the activities of the day. Jérôme Fandor, however, was not enjoying the charm of the hour. Although his attitude wasapparently tranquil, listless even, inwardly he was in a state offury, a condition of feverish enervation. "To be so near success, " he thought; "to be on the point of bringingin a magnificent haul, and then to get myself locked up, like a fool!No! Not if I can help it! Why it would be enough to make me stranglemyself with my handkerchief as they believed that wretched Dollon, ofsinister memory, did in the past!" He smoked cigarette after cigarette, raving to himself, yet nevertaking his eyes off the pavements, where tirelessly, ceaselessly, astream of pedestrians passed up and down the street. "Was I mistaken, I wonder!" he went on. "Still, I cannot help fancyingthat youth--he was fifteen at the most--that sickly young blackguardof the Paris pavements who followed me into the tube, then took thesame train as I did, who was behind me as I crossed the Place de laConcorde, who was continually and persistently on my tracks--I cannotthink he was there by chance!. . . Well, it is no use worrying myselfinto a fever over it!" Fandor found it almost impossible to recover his tranquillity of mind. Again and again, in the course of the day, he had come across the sameindividuals during his peregrinations, which took him from one end ofParis to the other: was it accident, coincidence, fatality, or was avery strict watch being kept over his movements? Thus Fandor had askedhimself whether the Second Bureau had been warned of the part he hadplayed with regard to Vinson? Was he not being watched and shadowed inthe hope of running the treacherous corporal to earth? If the SecondBureau had decided to arrest Fandor, he certainly would not escape. "Ishall be jailed within twenty-four hours, " thought our journalist. "This branch of the detective service is so marvellously organised, that should the heads of it look upon me as Vinson's accomplice theywill arrest me before I have time to parry the blow. In that case, theband of traitors I pursue, and am on the point of unearthing, willgain enough time to take their bearings, make all their arrangements, and disappear, without counting that this miserable Vinson, who relieson my help, will be caught at once. " Suddenly Fandor left his post of observation, shut his window, andwent to the telephone. "I must put Juve in possession of all the facts up to now, then, if Iam caught, Juve will see to it that I am set free--he will put hisheart into it, I know. " Unfortunately, it was not Juve who was at the other end of the line. He had gone out; his old servant took Fandor's message. "Tell Monsieur Juve directly he comes in that I cannot go out, butthat I absolutely must see him. Tell him the matter is most urgent. " * * * * * It was ten o'clock at night. Corporal Vinson was dressing in haste. "Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't wantto miss my train. " Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a timewhen Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of aFrench soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were thevery opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform withlightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporalexamined himself in the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory thathe broke into smiles--undoubtedly his uniform suited him. There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began totremble. "Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure somethingwould happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!" Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoeverwas at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soulin Fandor's flat. Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone whodoes not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the dooris deliberate. "Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager. ". . . Again the bell rang violently. Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal'sface. "By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!" The young soldier rapidly drew off his shoes and tiptoed to thevestibule. Through the keyhole he looked to see who was ringing forthe fourth time, and more violently than ever. No sooner had Vinson looked than he swore softly. "Good Heavens! What I feared! It's an agent from the Second Bureau!. . . I recognise him!. . . I am sold--there's not a doubt of it!" Ghastly from terror, Vinson watched the visitor put his hand in hispocket, then choose a key from his bunch. "Ah! This individual has a master-key! And I--I have an idea!" Vinson leaped backwards, just as the agent was putting his key in thelock, and rushed towards Fandor's study. He locked the door at theprecise moment the agent entered the flat. "Halt!" cried he: Vinson's movements had been heard. The corporal's answer was to double-lock the door. "What you aredoing there is childish!" cried the agent. "I have master-keys! Giveyourself up!" Taking a fresh key, he unlocked the door Vinson had justclosed. The corporal was not in the room. The agent rushed to anotherdoor which led from the study to the dining-room. He opened that door, entered the dining-room; it was empty also: Vinson had fled to theroom adjoining. "You cannot keep at it!" cried the agent. "You see the doors cannotoffer a moment's resistance! I shall corner you!" But Vinson, retreating from room to room, aimed at drawing on hispursuer to the last room of the flat. Directly the agent entered thedining-room, Vinson, quick as lightning, leapt into the corridor, crossed the vestibule at a bound, opened the door leading to thestaircase, slamming it behind him. On the landing he hesitated a second. "Must he go down the stairs?" The agent would follow in his track, the pursuit would develop, for, seeing a soldier in uniform racing along, the passers-by would join inthe running: it would be fatal--Vinson would be caught. "I'll double back, " thought he, "back and up!" Hurriedly he mounted the next flight of stairs, gaining the thirdstory. No sooner had he reached the landing which dominated Fandor'sflat than the agent, in his turn, reached the staircase and ran to thebalustrade to try and catch sight of Vinson on his way down to thestreet. He did not doubt that this was the soldier's way of escape. The agent could not see a soul. "Got off, by Jove!" He was furious. He was about to descend, when someone, belonging to the houseprobably, began to mount the first flight of stairs in leisurelyfashion, someone who could have no suspicion of the pursuit going onin the house. Very likely the agent neither intended nor desired to berecognised for what he was: it was quite probable that he did not wishto be seen, for, on hearing this someone coming up towards him, hestopped short in his descent. . . . It was his turn to hesitate a moment. Then it suddenly occurred to him that this new-comer might be aresident on one of the lower floors and so would not come higher. Withthis, the agent retraced his steps, crossed the landing on to whichFandor's flat opened, and began to mount the next flight leading tothe third floor. This did not suit Vinson: he was on tenterhooks. "If he keeps coming up, " thought the corporal, "much use it will befor me to retreat upwards! He will nip me on the sixth floor! It's adead cert!" Then he had a brilliant idea. He began to walk on the landing withheavy steps, imitating someone coming downstairs. Forthwith, theagent, who was coming up, stopped short. He had no wish to be seen bythe person descending either! The only thing left for him to do was totake refuge in the journalist's flat! Easy enough with his master-key!He reopened the door, closing it just in time to escape being seen bythe resident coming upstairs. Vinson, who had not lost a single movement of the agent's, gave a sighof satisfaction. He had perfectly understood the why and wherefore ofhis pursuer's hesitations; he seemed now in high good-humour; had henot caught sight of the new arrival! He was immensely amused! The person who had just come upstairs was now ringing Fandor's bell. Not getting any answer, he selected a key on his bunch, and it was histurn to let himself in to the journalist's flat. As he was closing the door, Corporal Vinson, from the landing above, gave him an ironical salute. "I much regret that I am unable to introduce you to each other! But, by way of return, I thank you for the service you have unwittinglydone me. " The way was open: Vinson rapidly descended, gained the street, haileda cab. "To the Eastern Station!" "I have missed the express, " he muttered; "but I shall catch the firsttrain for those on leave. " * * * * * Whilst Corporal Vinson was congratulating himself on the turn ofevents, the agent remained in Fandor's flat, feeling as if he werethe victim of an abominable nightmare. No sooner had he hurriedly lethimself into the flat in order to escape the resident coming upstairs, than he heard the bell ring: he felt desperate: "Who the devil wasit!" Assuredly not the unknown who had fled so mysteriously--"Whothen?" When the bell rang a second time, the man cried: "What's to be done?"Well, the best thing was to wait in the journalist's study: it wasmore than probable that, not obtaining any response, the visitor wouldgo away!. . . This was not at all what happened. With the same assurance which he himself had had a few minutes before, the agent of the Second Bureau heard the new arrival slip his key intothe lock, open the door, close it as confidently as though he wereentering his own home; and now, yes, he was coming towards the study! There was no light burning in Fandor's study: some gleams from thegas-lamps in the street dimly illumined the room. The agent, who wasleaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, could not clearlydistinguish the features of the person who now stood in the doorway. It was certainly not the journalist. The intruder was a man of quiteforty; he wore a soft hat turned down at the edges, thus partiallyconcealing the upper half of his face, which was sunk in the raisedcollar of an overcoat. The intruder bowed slightly to the agent, then taking a few steps intothe room, went to the window, looked about outside. He seemed to besomeone on intimate terms with the master of the flat, and might begoing to await his return. "He must be a friend of Jérôme Fandor's, " thought the agent. "He mustthink the journalist will be here shortly, perhaps that he is actuallyin the flat somewhere, and that I too am waiting for him. " Evidentlythe best thing to do was to stay where he was, and not to make anyremark which might attract attention. Some minutes passed thus. Presently, the two men, tired with standing, seated themselves. "The old boy will get sick of waiting, " thought the agent. "He will goaway, and I shall take my departure when he has cleared out. " But the new-comer, making himself very much at home, now relievedhimself of his greatcoat, removed his hat, and, having caught sight ofa lamp on the mantelpiece, took a box of matches from his pocket, andproceeded to light it. At the moment when the match flared up, theman, turning his back on the agent, could not see him: but the agentcould see the man distinctly. There could be no question that the manlighting the lamp was someone the agent had not expected to meet, forthe emissary from the Second Board did the very reverse of what thenew-comer had done: he turned up the collar of his greatcoat! The two men were now face to face in the lighted room. . . . There was asilence which lasted some minutes: the agent broke it. "You await Monsieur Fandor?" asked the agent. "Yes, Monsieur, and you also, no doubt?" "Quite so . . . And I have more than an idea that we shall have to waita long time for him. . . . I saw him a short while ago, he had a piece ofpressing business on hand, and I do not think he will be backbefore. ". . . The agent was quite obviously trying to get the new-comerto retire. "Bah!" retorted the latter: "I am in no hurry. " Whilst speaking theunknown visitor stared strangely at the emissary of the Second Bureau:he was thinking. "Where have I seen that long beard--that remarkably heavymoustache?. . . And then this bundle he has put down!. . . If I am notjolly well mistaken, I know this individual!" "Well, now, " he said pleasantly, "since chance has thrown us into eachother's company, allow me to introduce myself, Monsieur! I amBrigadier Juve of the detective force, from Police Headquarters. " "In that case, we might almost count ourselves colleagues, Monsieur! Iam the agent Vagualame, attached to the vigilance department of theSecret Service!" With that, Vagualame held out his hand to his colleague, Juve! It wasdone with an unmistakable air of constraint. It really seemed as if Juve had been awaiting this very action; for, at the precise moment Vagualame held out his hand, the detectiveextended his, and prolonged the hand-clasp as if he never meant to letgo--a regular hand-grip! Juve was thinking hard. "Vagualame! Here is this Vagualame at Fandor's!. . . It'ssignificant!. . . And then?. . . No, there's no doubt about it! This beardis false! That moustache is artificial!. . . This individual is madeup!" Perceiving that he was face to face with a disguised man, Juve wasabout to hurl himself on this masquerader, when that individual, forestalling the detective's movement, seized the initiative withlightning rapidity. He tore his hand from Juve's tenacious grip, bounded to the mantelpiece, threw down the lamp with a jerk of hiselbow, thrust Juve violently aside, and rushed to the door. Like lightning Juve tore off in pursuit. The masquerader had the advantage by some yards. Banging door afterdoor in Juve's face, he rushed towards the entrance hall, gained thestaircase, racing down it by leaps and bounds, four steps at atime!. . . Juve at his heels, risked breaking his neck in hotpursuit. . . . Vagualame reached the porch of the house door: Juve was close on hisquarry. . . . "I shall get him!" thought Juve: "In the street the people will lendme a helping hand!" Vagualame fled through the doorway: in passing, he seized the massivedoor and pulled it to with a resounding bang. . . . Juve, borne forward by the impetus of his dashing pursuit, staggeredbackwards and rolled to the ground. . . . Instantly Juve sprang to the porter's lodge and demanded the string!In the twinkling of an eye and Juve was out in the street! He wasfurious, he was breathless. . . . The whole length of the pavements not asoul was in sight! Vagualame had vanished! * * * * * Taking advantage of the fact that Fandor's concierge knew him well, and was aware of his standing as an officer of the detective force, Juve, after having explained in a few words to the honest creature thecause of the commotion mounted to Fandor's flat once more. "What the deuce is the meaning of all this?" he was asking himself. "Two hours ago, Fandor telephones me that he must see me on a matterof the utmost urgency . . . He telephones me that he cannot go out, thathe is waiting for me. . . . And now, not only is he not here, but Istumble on an agent from the Second Bureau. . . . I encounter a Vagualamedisguised, who runs as if all the devils of hell were after him . . . Who makes off with extraordinary agility, whose presence of mind inburking pursuit is marvellous!. . . Who is this fellow?. . . What was heup to in Fandor's flat?. . . Where is Fandor?" Our detective had just re-entered the journalist's study. There, onthe floor, lay the bundle which had excited his curiosity whenVagualame was present. "The enemy, " thought he, "has retired, but has abandoned his baggage!" Juve relighted the lamp, and undid the black serge covering of thebundle. "Ah! I might have guessed as much, it is an accordion, Vagualame'saccordion!" Mechanically turning and returning the instrument of music, Juveslipped his hands into the leather holders, wishing to relax thebellows, which were at full stretch. . . . To his surprise the bellowsresisted. "Why, there must be something inside the accordion!" he exclaimed. Juve drew from his pocket a dagger knife and slit open the bellowswith one sharp cut. . . . Something black fell out--a piece of stuff, Juve picked it up, spread it out, and considered it. . . . He grew paleas he looked, staggered like a drunken man, and sank on a chair, overcome. What he held in his hand was a hooded cloak, long and black, such as Italian bandits wear--a species of mask. Sunk in his chair, his eyes staring at this sinister garment, Juveseemed to see rising before him a form at once mysterious and clearlydefined--the form of an unknown man enveloped in this cloak as in asheath, his face hidden by the hooded mask, disguised, by just such acloak as he had exposed to view when he slashed open the bellows ofthis accordion! This form, mysterious, nameless, tragic, thus evoked, Juve had rarelyseen; but each time that figure in hooded black had appeared, it wasin circumstances so serious, under conditions so tragic, that it wasgraven on his memory--graven beyond mistake--graven ineffaceably! Had not Juve been haunted by this form, this figure so mysteriouslyindicated, haunted by this invisible face hidden by its hooded cloakof black--haunted for years! Never had he been able to get close toit! Never had he been able to seize it in his hands, outstretched to graspit! Whenever this sinister garment had met his eyes, it had been the signof some frightful deception! He did not know the countenance it maskedso darkly, but that same cloak he knew!. . . So well did he know it, that never could he confuse it with another hooded cloak ofblack--never! Its shape was peculiar; its cut singular--unmistakable!It was the impenetrable mask of one of those counterfeit personalitiesassumed at the pleasure of that enigmatic, sinister, formidablebandit, whom Juve had pursued for ten years, without cessation, without mercy; there had been no truce to this hunting. Now he turned, and returned, this cloak of dark significance withtrembling hands, as if he would tear its secret from its sinisterfolds. This hooded cloak which his knife had revealed, which he hadtorn from its hiding place in the accordion of Vagualame, was noneother than the cloak of Fantômas. Suddenly there was brought home to Juve the comprehension of all thisadventure signified--a distracting, a maddening adventure! "Fantômas! Fantômas!" Juve murmured. "Great Heavens! I saw Fantômasbefore me!. . . Vagualame! He is Fantômas!. . . Curse it! He has slippedthrough my hands, thrice fool that I am! Never again will he appear asthis beggarly accordion player--never will he dare to show himself inthat make-up!. . . What new form will he take?. . . Fantômas! Fantômas!Once again you have escaped me!" * * * * * Our detective remained in Fandor's flat all night. He awaited thejournalist's return. Fandor did not come. XII A TRICK ACCORDING TO FANDOR It was a November Sunday evening. A crowd of leave-expired soldierswere entraining at the Eastern Station. They would be dropped at theirrespective garrisons along the line of some 400 kilometres separatingthe capital from the frontier. They had dined, supped, feasted with friends and relatives: now theywere voicing regretful farewells by medley of songs and ear-splittingserenades. They scrambled into the third-class compartments, fifteen, sixteen at a time, filling the seats and overflowing on to the floor. Little by little the deafening din of the "wild beasts, " as they werejokingly called, diminished; their enthusiasm died down as the nightadvanced, while the train rushed full steam ahead for the frontier ofFrance. They fell asleep, knowing that kind comrades would awaken them whenthe train drew up at their various garrisons. At Reims, thecompartments disgorged the dragoons pell-mell; at Châlons, so manygunners and infantry had got out that the train was half emptied. AtSainte-Menehould, a large contingent of cuirassiers and infantry hadcleared out. Towards four in the morning the express was nearingVerdun. As the train steamed out of Sainte-Menehould, a corporal of the line, who had been forced to sit up as stiff as a poker for several hours, stretched himself at length on the compartment seat with a sigh ofrelief. But the jerks and jolts of the carriage, the hard seat, madesleep impossible: the epaulettes of his uniform were an added sourceof discomfort. The corporal sat up, rubbed the musty glass of thewindow, and watched for the coming day. On the far horizon, beyond ashadowy stretch of country, a pallid dawn was breaking. Trees wereswaying in a gusty wind. At intervals, when the clatter of theonrushing train lessened, the heavy pattering of rain on the roofbecame audible. "Confound it!" growled the corporal. "Detestable weather! Hatefulcountry!" Whilst attempting some muscular exercises to unstiffen his achinglimbs, he muttered: "And only to think of that wretch Vinson enjoying the benefit of myfirst-class permit!. . . Started off to-night under my name, and is nowrolling along in a comfortable sleeping-car towards the sunny Southwith a nice bit of money in his purse!" The corporal in the inhospitable third-class of the Verdun train mademental pictures of Vinson's progress south. He talked to himselfaloud. "Good journey to you, you jolly dog!. . . In six weeks' time, if youhave a thought to spare for me, you will send your news as wearranged!" The corporal began breathing warm breaths on his numbed fingers. "By Jove! The company is not prodigal of foot-warmers, that's certain!It's an ice-house in here!" He continued to soliloquise: "It's a deuce of a risky business I have let myself in for!. . . To takeVinson's place, and set off for Verdun, where his regiment is doinggarrison duty, the regiment to which he has just been attached!. . . Itwould run as smooth as oil if I had done my military service, but, owing to circumstances, I have never been called up!. . . A pretty sortof fool I may make of myself!". . . After a reflective silence, he went on: "Bah! I shall pull through all right! Have I not crammed my head withtheory the last eight days, and pumped Vinson for all he was worthabout the rules and regulations, and the ways of camp life!. . . All thesame . . . To make my début in an Eastern garrison, in the 'IronDivision, ' straight off the reel takes some nerve!. . . What cheek!. . . It's the limit!. . . But, my dear little Fandor, don't forget you are atVerdun not to play the complete soldier but to gather exactinformation about a band of traitors, and to unmask them at the firstopportunity--a work of national importance, little Fandor, and don'tyou forget it!" Thus our adventurous Vinson-Fandor lay shivering in the night train onthe point of drawing up at Verdun. Having saved the wretched Vinson from suicide, Fandor had made himpromise to leave France and await developments, whilst Fandor, posingas Vinson, studied at close quarters the spies who had drawn themiserable corporal into their net. Fandor could personate Vinson withevery chance of success, because the 257th of the line had never seteyes on the corporal. After a week of perplexity, Fandor had come to a decision the previousnight. Wishing to let his "dear master" know of his audacious project, he had telephoned to Juve on the Sunday evening to ask him to come tothe flat. Then Vagualame had appeared on the scene. Fandor knew him tobe an agent of the Second Bureau. Evidently Vagualame was afterVinson. If Fandor had let himself be caught in the corporal's uniform, which he had just put on, his spy plans would have been ruined, andthe corporal, to whom he had promised his protection, would have beencaught. Fandor fled. The situation would have to be made clear whenopportunity offered. "Certainly, " said Fandor to himself, with a smile: "things are prettywell mixed up at present! That meeting between Vagualame and Juve atthe flat must have been a queer one! Two birds of a feather, thoughdiffering in glory, who would not make head or tail of so unexpected aconference!" To clear up the imbroglio, Fandor had meant to send Juve a wire on hisarrival at Verdun; on second thoughts he had decided against it. Probably the spies, or the Second Bureau, or both, were keeping asharp watch on Vinson: it would be wiser to refrain from anycommunication which might reveal the fact that the corporal Vinson, who joined the 257th of the line at Verdun, was none other than JérômeFandor, journalist. Though stiff with cold and fatigue, Fandor's brain was clear andactive. It is all right! Juve would be surprised, anxious, would makeenquiries at the Company's offices, would learn that on the Sundayevening Fandor had occupied the place reserved for him in thesleeping-car, would be reassured, would not worry about Fandor'sabrupt departure and silence--Fandor was holiday making! "Yes, it is all right!" reiterated Fandor. "What I have to do is tothrow myself wholeheartedly into my part, and play it as jovially aspossible!" The train whistled, slowed down, entered the station of Verdun. Fandor let the crowd of soldiers precede him, as well as one or twocivilians whom the night express had brought to this importantfrontier fortress. Having readjusted his coat, the fringes of hisepaulettes, and put on his cap correctly, this corporal of the 257thline, stepped on to the platform, reached the exit, passed out on to avast flat space, and found himself floundering in a sea of mud. The men who had arrived with him had hurried off: Fandor was alone onthe outskirts of the silent town. What to do? Which way to go? Under the flame of a gas-jet struggling against the onslaughts of thewind, Fandor caught sight of the honest face of a constable envelopedin a thick hooded coat. He eyed Fandor. "Excuse me, " said Corporal Vinson-Fandor, rolling his r's, inimitation of a rustic fresh from the country, "but could you tell mewhere I shall find the 257th of the line?" "What do you want with the 257th of the line?" queried the constable. "It is like this, Monsieur: I was in the 214th, garrisoned at Châlons. I have had eight days' leave, and they inform me I am attached to the257th. " The constable nodded. "And now you want to get to your new regiment?" "Precisely. " "Well, the 257th is in three places: at bastion 14; at the SaintBenoit barracks; and at Fort Vieux--which are you bound for, Corporal?" "I don't know--I've no preference, " murmured Corporal Vinson-Fandor. The two men stood staring at each other in the rain. Despite the chill and melancholy dawn, with its darkly reddeningskies, Fandor felt he was on the very verge of bursting into wildlaughter. "Let us see your route instructions, " quoth the constable. Corporal Vinson-Fandor showed his paper. "That's it!" cried the constable triumphantly. "You are down to reportyourself at the Saint Benoit barracks. You're in luck, my lad! It'sonly fifty yards or so from here!. . . Go down the road, and you willsee the barrack wall on the left. The entrance is in the middle. " Fandor saluted the friendly constable, hurried off, and reached theSaint Benoit gate in a few minutes. "The 257th?" he asked the sentry. "Here!. . . You will find the sergeant in the guard-room. " Fandor entered a smoke-filled room; several soldiers were stretched atfull length on a bench, slumbering: a snoring non-commissioned officerwas lying on three straw bottomed chairs close to a stove. At Fandor's entrance he was wide awake in a moment: he swore: it wasthe sergeant. "What do you want?" he demanded roughly. Adopting a military manner, Fandor announced: "Corporal Vinson, just arrived from Châlons, exchanged from the 214th, sergeant!" "Ah! Quite so. Wait! I will show you your company. " Stretching himself, the sergeant marched to the end of the room, turned up a gas-jet, opened a book, looked through the pages slowly. His finger stopped at a name. "Orderly!" A man presented himself. "Conduct Corporal Vinson to A block, second floor. " Turning to Fandor, the sergeant informed him: "You are attached to the third of the second. " While plodding through the mud of the courtyard, Fandor said tohimself: "The third of the second means, I suppose, that I have the honour ofbelonging to the third company of the second battalion. " Fandor gazed with lively curiosity at the immense building in which hewas to pass his days and nights for he did not know how long a time. As he scrutinised this enormous pile, standing harsh and stark in itsuncompromising and ordered strength, as he took stock of the vastcourtyards and the stony lengths of imprisoning walls, he got an ideaof that formidable organisation called a regiment, which itself is butan infinitesimal part of that great whole we call an army. Appreciating as he now did the importance, the immutability, theregularity of the movements of the military machine, with its wheelswithin wheels, Fandor asked himself if it were possible to carrythrough the programme he had drawn up for himself. Could he, at oneand the same time, trick the French Army and save it?. . . He had takenhis precautions: he had read and reread Vinson's manual, now _his_manual. Mentally he had put himself in the skin of a corporal: he wasletter perfect, and now he must cover himself with the mantle ofVinson--for the greater glory of France! He could not help laughing when he read the list of his facialcharacteristics: chin, round; nose, medium; face, oval; eyes, grey. Vague enough this to be safe! Fandor's hair was dark chestnut:Vinson's was brown. Vinson and Fandor were sufficiently alike as toheight and figure: besides, soldiers' uniforms were not an exact fit. "Here you are, Corporal!" announced the orderly. He pointed to a vastroom at the end of a corridor. The bugle had just sounded the reveilleand the barrack-room was humming like a hive of awakened bees. Theorderly had vanished. Fandor stood at the threshold, hesitating: hisself-confidence had gone down with a run. It was a momentary lapse. Pulling himself together he walked into the room. When giving him his instructions, Vinson had warned Fandor, that whenit came to settling down in barracks he would find nothing to hand. "Among other little items, your bed will be missing. As corporal youhave a right to round on them. Row them hot and good--start reprisalsstraight away. The men will pretend not to understand, butinsist--don't take no for an answer; take whatever you want right andleft--in the end you will get properly settled in. " Fandor carried out these instructions. Before he had been ten minutesin the room, men were rushing in all directions, fussing, jostling oneanother, coming, going, demanding of all the echoes in that hugewhite-washed barn of a barrack-room dormitory: "Where is the palliasse of Corporal Vinson!" "Find me the bolster of Corporal Vinson!" XIII JUVE'S STRATAGEM Whilst Jérôme Fandor was commencing his apprenticeship as a soldier atthe Saint Benoit barracks, Verdun, a sordid individual was followingan elegant pedestrian who, descending the rue Solférino, went in thedirection of the Seine. It was about seven in the evening. "Pstt!" This sound issued from the ragged individual, but the passer-by didnot turn his head. "Monsieur!" insisted the sordid one. As the elegant pedestrian did not seem to know he was being followed, the sordid individual stepped to his side, and murmured in his whitebeard distinctly enough to be heard: "Lieutenant! Do listen!. . . Look here, Monsieur de Loubersac . . . Henri!" The young man turned: he gave the importunate speaker a witheringstare: he was furious. The speaker was Vagualame. "I shall fine you five hundred francs! How dare you accost me likethis? Are you mad?" De Loubersac's voice shook with rage. Lieutenant de Loubersac had just quitted the Second Bureau after anunusually hard day's work. Fatigued by the over-heated offices, he wasenjoying the fresh air and exercise in spite of the chilling mistoverhanging Paris. When his thoughts were not connected on his work, he would dwell tenderly on every little detail of his meetings withpretty Mademoiselle de Naarboveck. Had she not given him permission tocall her Wilhelmine, and did he not cherish the hope of soon makingher his wife? But this Vagualame was insupportable! That he should dare to accosthim without observing the customary precautions--hail him by hisstyle and title in a most public thoroughfare---should so imprudentlycompromise himself and an attaché of the Second Bureau! Well, he knewhow to attack informers and such gentry in their most vulnerablespot--their purse; hence the fine of five hundred francs he hadimposed on Vagualame! The old fellow shuffled along beside the enraged lieutenant, whining, complaining of the precarious state of his finances, but de Loubersacwas adamant. Perceiving this, Vagualame desisted. "I want to talk to you, " said he. "To-morrow!" suggested de Loubersac. "No, at once. It is urgent. " De Loubersac could hardly hear what Vagualame said. Twice he cried, inan irritated voice: "What is the matter with you? I cannot understand what you say. I canhardly hear you. " "I have a severe cold on the chest, lieutenant. " Certainly Vagualame's voice was remarkably hoarse. "If the Government does not give me something regular to live on, Ishall die in hospital. " De Loubersac looked about him anxiously. If his colonel should catchsight of him conferring with an agent so near the headquarters of theSecond Bureau he would incur a sharp reprimand. The interview musttake place; therefore they must conceal themselves. Vagualame, asthough reading the lieutenant's thought, pointed to the steep flightof steps leading to the banks of the Seine. "Let us go down by the river! We shall be undisturbed there!" De Loubersac acquiesced. So the smart young officer and the old beggarin his ragged coat, with the accordion hanging over his shoulder, whomight have been mistaken for Quasimodo himself, descended the steps incompany. Vagualame's eyes gleamed with joy. They were piercing eyes, full of life and intelligence, not the fierce furtive eyes ofVagualame, for this Vagualame was Juve! The day following the famous evening he had passed in Fandor's flat, Juve, as we know, had discovered that Vagualame, agent of the SecondBureau, was cleverly disguised, and was none other than Fantômas!Juve appropriated the accordion left by the fleeing bandit: Juve alsodecided to personate Vagualame and spy on the various persons who hadrelations with this sinister being. As far as Juve was concerned, Vagualame-Fantômas was done for, therefore it was highly improbablethat the criminal, daring to the last degree though he was, would showhimself in his Vagualame guise for some time to come. Therefore Juvemust act at once. His first move must be to meet and talk with theSecond Bureau officer most in touch with Vagualame, and make him talkwithout arousing his suspicions. Juve also meant to mix withVagualame's associates, trusting to luck and his own perspicacity toget on to various trails, trails that would lead him to the solutionof grave problems. Juve had felt anxious as he accosted de Loubersac: no doubt thelieutenant and his secret agent had some set form of greeting, someagreed on method of imparting information. By incurring the fine, Juverealised that he had made a wrong start--perhaps omitted a password. Still, he had obtained the essential thing--a private talk with thisparticular official of the Second Bureau. The talk began with an abrupt question from de Loubersac: "And the V. Affair?" "The V. Affair?. . . Peuh!" "What the deuce does he refer to?" Juve was asking himself. Unsuspecting, de Loubersac came to his aid. "Our corporal must have returned to Verdun to-day?" "Ah!" thought Juve, "our corporal is Vinson!" The further he proceededin his present investigations the clearer grew the connection betweenthe Brocq affair and those of Bobinette, Wilhelmine, de Loubersac:surely they were all interpreters of the tragic drama conceived byVagualame-Fantômas! "His leave expired this morning, " continued de Loubersac. "He left yesterday evening. I have proof of it, " assertedJuve-Vagualame. "Anything new?" "Not so far. " "Are you going to Verdun?" "Possibly. " "How about the document?" "Hum!" murmured Juve-Vagualame. Here was another conundrum he must gowarily. "You are constantly looking for it, of course? You know it is the mosturgent of all!". . . Juve nodded agreement. "Place it in my hands, and I shall give you fifty thousand francs inexchange for it--you know that!" "Less the fine, " put in Juve-Vagualame with a comical grimace. De Loubersac smiled. "We will speak of that again. " There was a pause. "A good deal has happened since the death of Captain Brocq'smistress. " Juve-Vagualame remarked. "Is Captain Brocq's mistress dead, too?. . . Poor girl!" De Loubersac stared hard at the accordion player. "Oh come now, Vagualame! Where are your wits--wool-gathering?" "Wits wool-gathering, lieutenant!" echoed Juve-Vagualame. "There is no lieutenant, I tell you!" cried de Loubersac, with a stampof his foot. "It is Monsieur Henri--just Henri, if you like. How manymore times am I to tell you this?" Juve-Vagualame's reply was an equivocal gesture. "You do not know about the Châlons affair--the assassination of thesinger, Nichoune?" "No--that is to say. ". . . "Well, then?" De Loubersac was staring at Vagualame with puzzled eyes. "Well, then--as to that--no!. . . I had better hold my tongue. " "Speak out!" commanded de Loubersac. "No, " growled Juve-Vagualame. "I order you to do so. " "Well, then, " conceded Juve-Vagualame, "since you must know what Ithink, I consider Nichoune was in no sense the mistress of CaptainBrocq. " "They found letters from Captain Brocq on her. " De Loubersac's laughhad a sneer in it. "Bah!" said the old accordion player, punctuating his remark with somepiercing sounds from his ancient instrument of discordant music. "Itwas a got-up business!" "What is that you say?" objected de Loubersac. After a moment'sreflection he added: "But of course, you must know more about it than anyone, Vagualame, because you saw her just before the end. Didn't you have a talk withNichoune on the Friday, the eve of her death?" Juve-Vagualame was about to speak. De Loubersac added: "The innkeeper saw you!" "Did he now? What is this?" thought Juve. This statement opened up afresh view of things. De Loubersac did not give him time for reflection. "Who, then, do you think killed Nichoune?" Juve would not for the world voice his suspicions just then. With aside-glance at the lieutenant, he remarked: "Faith, what I am inclined to think is, that the guilty person is thatAunt Palmyra. " "Aunt Palmyra!" repeated de Loubersac. "Decidedly my poor Vagualame, you are stupid as an owl to-day! Well, there is no harm in telling youthis--Aunt Palmyra was one of my colleagues!" "I suspected as much, " thought Juve, "but I wanted him to confirm it. " De Loubersac was again the questioner. "Vagualame! You spoke just now of Brocq's mistress: if, as you seem tothink, Nichoune had no such relation with the captain, where are we tolook for his mistress?" "Hah!. . . Look in another direction . . . Among his friends . . . In thegreat world . . . The diplomatic set, for preference . . . Think of thosein the de Naarboveck circle. ". . . "Look out, Vagualame!" exclaimed de Loubersac. "Weigh your wordswell!" "Do not be afraid, lieu . . . Pardon--Monsieur Henri!" "Perhaps you think it is Bobinette?" queried de Loubersac. "No. " "Who then?" Juve shot his answer at the lieutenant, like a stone from a catapult. "Wilhelmine de Naarboveck!" A shout of indignant protest burst from de Loubersac. He could notcontain his fury: he kicked the supposed Vagualame with such forcethat he sent him rolling in the greasy mud of the Seine bank. "Beast!" growled Juve, as he picked himself up. "If I were notVagualame, I should know how to answer him, " he muttered. "As itis!". . . Juve rose, stumbling and staggering like a badly shaken old man, andleaned against the hand railing of the steps. Meanwhile de Loubersac was walking up and down, talking aloud, in astate of extreme agitation. "Disgusting creatures!. . . Low-minded wretches!. . . Degradingoccupation!. . . They respect nothing, and no one!. . . Insinuating suchabominations!. . . Wilhelmine de Naarboveck the mistress of Brocq!. . . How vile!. . . Loathsome creatures!" It was now obvious to the alert Juve, who drank in every word, eachgesture of de Loubersac's that the enraged lieutenant adoredWilhelmine . . . No doubt on that score! When de Loubersac had calmed down somewhat, Juve cried softly: "Oh, Monsieur Henri!". . . Roused from his reflections, de Loubersac shouted: "Hold your tongue, you sicken me!" "But, " insisted Juve-Vagualame, "I have only done my duty. If I spokeas I did, it was because my conscience. ". . . "Have you got consciences--your sort?" cried de Loubersac, casting aglance of withering contempt at the supposed old man. There was a silence. Then de Loubersac walked up to the old accordionplayer and asked anxiously: "Can you give me proofs of the truth of what you have just asserted?" "Perhaps, " was the evasive answer. "You will have to give me proofs, " insisted de Loubersac. "Proofs?. . . I have none, " replied the mysterious old fellow. "But Ihave intuitions; better still, my confidence is grounded on a strongprobability. " This statement came to de Loubersac with the force of a stunning blow:it came from one whom he considered his best agent: he knew Vagualamealways weighed his words: his information was generally correct. "We cannot continue this conversation here, " he said. "To-morrow wemust meet as usual--and remember--do not attempt to accost me withoutusing the password. " "Now, how the deuce am I to know what this famous word is?" Juve askedhimself. Then he had an inspiration. "We must not use it again, " he announced. "I have reason to think ourcustomary password is known . . . I will explain another time . . . It isa regular story--a long one. " "All right, " agreed de Loubersac. "What should it be?. . . Suppose I say_monoplane_?" "I will answer _dirigible_, " said Juve-Vagualame. "Agreed. " De Loubersac rapidly mounted the steps leading to the quay, glad toclose a detestable interview. Juve-Vagualame remained below. He struck his forehead. "Monsieur Henri!" he called. "What?" "The meeting place to-morrow?" De Loubersac had just signalled to a taxi: he leaned over the parapetand called to Juve-Vagualame, who had got no farther than the middleof the steps: "Why at half past three, in the garden, as usual!" * * * * * "Oh, ho!" said the old accordion player. "He will be furious! I shallplay him false--bound to--for how can I keep the appointment--confoundit! What garden? Whereabouts in it?" Then, as he regained the quay, Juve laughed in his false white beard. "What do I care? I snap my fingers at that rendezvous. I haveextracted from him what I wanted to know--it matters not a jot if Inever set eyes on him again! And . . . Now . . . It is we two, Bobinette!" XIV BEFORE A TOMB "This is a surprise!" Mademoiselle de Naarboveck stopped. She smiled up at Henri deLoubersac. "Do you know, I saw in this glass that you were following us, " shesaid, pointing to a mirror placed at an angle in a confectioner's shopat the corner of rue Biot. These artless remarks put the handsome lieutenant out of countenance:he blushed hotly, but he pressed the little hand held out to him sosimply, and with such a look of frank pleasure. He stammered someexcuse for not having recognised her. He bowed pleasantly toWilhelmine's companion, Mademoiselle Berthe. Wilhelmine turned to her. "This meeting was not prearranged: it is one of pure chance. " The tonewas defensive without a touch of the apologetic. Mademoiselle Berthe smiled, and declared that she had not for a momentsupposed that the meeting had been prearranged. De Loubersac gazed considerably at the two girls. Wilhelmine waslooking particularly pretty. Beneath her fur toque shone masses of herpale gold hair, framing a charming little face. A long velvet coatwith ermine stole suggested the youthful contours of her slenderfigure. Mademoiselle Berthe wore rough blue cloth, and a large hattrimmed with wings, which set off her piquant face with its irregularfeatures and ruddy locks. Wilhelmine and Henri de Loubersac strolled on together in thedirection of the Hippodrome. Mutual protestations of love were, exchanged. Presently Wilhelmine asked: "But what brought you in this direction?" "Oh, I was going . . . To pay a visit . . . It is a piece of very goodluck my coming across you like this. " De Loubersac seemed to have something on his mind. Despite hisprotestations he did not look as if he were enjoying this chancemeeting. "Where were you bound for, Wilhelmine?" he asked. She looked up at her lover with sad eyes. Pointing in the direction ofthe cemetery of Montemartre, she replied in a low tone: "I am going to visit the dear dead. " "Would you allow me to accompany you?" begged de Loubersac. Wilhelmine shook her head. "I must ask you to allow me to go there alone. It is my custom to praythere without witnesses. " De Loubersac turned towards Mademoiselle Berthe with a questioninglook--a gesture of interrogation. Wilhelmine replied to it: "As a rule I go to the cemetery alone. You see me with my companionto-day because my father wished it. Since the sad affair which hasthrown a shadow over our life, he is in a constant state of anxietyabout my safety: he does not wish me to go about unaccompanied. Ishall be waited for at the cemetery. " Wilhelmine's candid eyes gazed at de Loubersac, who was gnawing hismoustache with a preoccupied air. "What is the matter, Henri?" she asked. De Loubersac came closer to Wilhelmine, grew red as fire, and withoutdaring to look her in the face, burst out: "Listen, Wilhelmine! I would rather tell you everything. . . . Oh, you aregoing to think badly of me. . . . The truth is--our meeting is notaccidental . . . It is of set purpose on my part. . . . For the last two daysI have been worried--preoccupied--jealous. . . . I am afraid of not beingloved by you as I love you . . . Afraid that there is . . . Or was . . . Something between us--dividing us--someone. ". . . Wilhelmine looked at her lover with the eyes of an astonished child. "I do not understand you, " she murmured. Mastering his emotion, de Loubersac decided to make a clean breast ofit. "I will be frank, Wilhelmine. . . . Your last words have increased mytorture. . . . Have you not spoken of _your_ dear dead, and must I learnthat you are perhaps going to pray . . . At the tomb of Captain Brocq?" More and more astonished, Wilhelmine replied: "And suppose I were going to do so? Should I be doing wrong to prayfor the repose of the soul of the unfortunate Captain Brocq, who wasone of my best friends?" "Ah!" cried Henri de Loubersac: "Is it love you feel for him, then?"He looked so despairing that Wilhelmine, offended, hurt though she wasby her lover's suspicions, pitied his anguish and reassured him: "If you had been following me for some time past, you would have seenthat I have been in the habit of going to this cemetery--have gonethere regularly long before Captain Brocq's death--consequently. ". . . Wilhelmine, with a look of sorrowful disappointment, closed her lips:she was resolutely mute. Henri de Loubersac brightened up, thanked her with a frankness sospontaneous, so sincere, that it would have touched the hardestwoman's heart, and Wilhelmine's was a supremely tender and sensitiveone. Yet, when he again asked for whom she was going to pray, for whomwas the delicious bouquet of violets she was carrying, half hidden inher muff, she murmured: "That is my secret. . . . If I told you the name of the person at whosetomb I am going to pray, it would have no significance for you. " "Wilhelmine! Let me accompany you!" implored de Loubersac. . . . "I loveyou so much--you must forgive my blundering!" The lovers discussed the question: finally, Wilhelmine's hesitationswere overcome: de Loubersac carried the day triumphantly. Mademoiselle Berthe had fallen behind: she had kept a discreetdistance between the lovers and herself, but had watched them with theeyes of a lynx. Now Wilhelmine waited for her to come up with them;then she requested her companion to stay in the quiet avenue Rachelwhile she and Lieutenant de Loubersac went into the cemetery. * * * * * No sooner had they disappeared than Bobinette set off as fast as shecould go in the direction of the boulevard de Clichy. Yes, there wasthe sordid figure of Old Vagualame, bent under the weight of years andof his ancient accordion: he seemed to be stooping more than usual. Had he also followed them? He had. Thus Juve-Vagualame was continuinghis quest with the hope of getting further light on the series ofmysteries he was seeking to solve. He must learn more of Bobinette'srelations with Fantômas, whom she apparently knew only under the guiseof Vagualame. Juve had made himself up so carefully that he feltconfident even the bandit's intimates would not suspect they had to dowith a police officer. Its quality was soon proved: Bobinette cametowards him with not a sign of uneasiness. "There you are, then!" she cried. In spite of her familiar address, Juve noticed the touch of respect inBobinette's voice--Vagualame played the part of master to thisred-haired girl. "What a long time it is since one had the pleasure of seeing you, mydear Monsieur Vagualame!" There was a touch of malicious irony inBobinette's tone. Juve-Vagualame nodded. He would have liked to know what Wilhelmine andHenri were doing in the cemetery, but Bobinette was his query for themoment. Her next remark was startling. "It looks as though you were afraid to show yourself since your lastcrime. " Juve repressed any sign of the satisfaction this declaration gave him. "My last crime?" "Don't play the blockhead, " she went on. "Have you forgotten that youtold me how you had assassinated Captain Brocq?" "That is ancient history, " muttered Juve, ". . . And I am not afraid ofanyone. . . . Besides . . . Did I tell you that now?" he hinted, with thehope of obtaining further details. But Bobinette seemed to think shehad had enough of the subject. She laughed. "What a way of walking you have!" she exclaimed. Juve was purposely exaggerating Vagualame's attitude: it enabled himto conceal his face better. "I stoop so much because my age weighs me down. . . . When you growold. ". . . Bobinette burst into peals of laughter. "You don't think, do you, Vagualame, that I take you for an old man?Ha, ha! I know you are disguised; made up admirably, I dare say, butyou are a young man. . . . I am quite, quite sure of it!" Juve was saying to himself: "This grows better and better!" Juve's conviction was that this old Vagualame, secret agent of theSecond Bureau, murderer of Captain Brocq, the Vagualame he hadencountered at Fandor's flat, could only be a young man in the flowerof his age--could be none other than Fantômas. Juve was about to put more questions to Bobinette, but two figurescame into view, and they were nearing the avenue Rachel. "Make off with you!" cried Bobinette. "There they are coming back!" Juve did not wish de Loubersac to catch a glimpse of him: he would besurprised, suspicious, and would question him about the missedrendezvous. Juve had not gained sufficient information, however. "I must see you again, Bobinette. " His tone was pressing, insistent. "When?" "This evening. " "Impossible. " "To-morrow, then. " Bobinette shook her head. "You know very well that to-morrow I shall be gone. " "Where?" "Where?" The red-haired beauty cried impatiently: "It's you ask me that?. . . Why . . . I go to the frontier. " "Correct, " said Juve. He would have welcomed further details. "Well, then, when can we meet?" pressed this determined accordion player. "How about next Wednesday?" suggested Bobinette. "That will do. We will go to the theatre--a moving picture show!" "Always to places in the dark, eh!" observed Bobinette maliciously. Wilhelmine and Henri were coming nearer. Juve-Vagualame turned as he was making off. "Nine o'clock, before the moving picture place, rue des Poissonniers. "With that, Juve-Vagualame disappeared into a smoky wine shop. De Loubersac, very pale, and Wilhelmine, whose eyes were red, rejoinedBobinette, whose face became expressionless. They went slowly off together. * * * * * When the coast was clear, Juve-Vagualame left the wine shop andproceeded towards the cemetery. Amid the cypresses and tombs of thenecropolis, looming sad and shadowy in the fading light, he made hisway slowly along the principal path, questing for traces of thelovers' footsteps in the sand. He was fortunate enough to come on themat once; the soil being moist, the lovers' footmarks could be clearlydistinguished in the sand of the alleys. Guided by them, Juve turnedinto a little pathway on the right, passing the mausoleums, andpausing before a new-made grave, that of Captain Brocq, a humble tomb. A few fresh violets were scattered around it, from Wilhelmine's bunch, no doubt. The lovers had but tarried there. Juve continued to followtheir footmarks, by many twists and turns, almost to the end of thecemetery. As he advanced he felt more and more certain that he hadcome this way some years ago, when his detective work had led him intoa mysterious network of robberies and murders, the moving spirit ofthem all being Fantômas--the enigmatic Fantômas. Juve was going over in memory those past days of mysterious doingsand strange adventures, when he found himself facing a vault richlydecorated with unusually beautiful sculpture. A bronze plaque wasaffixed to this tomb, and on it, engraved in letters of gold, was aname Juve had had occasion to utter many a time and oft: _Lady Beltham_ Lady Beltham! Lady Beltham? A name Juve associated with strange and terrible events. [3] LadyBeltham had been a sensational creature. [Footnote 3: See _The Exploits of Juve, _ vol. Ii of the FantômasSeries. ] After adventures, one more extraordinary than another, Juve hadsucceeded in identifying this English great lady as the mistress of aformidable criminal, relentlessly hunted down, for ever escaping--theelusive Fantômas! Juve had lost track of both, when the discovery of an extraordinarycrime had led to the identification of the victim, a woman: she wasdeclared to be--Lady Beltham. The corpse had been buried in this verycemetery; distant relatives in England had guaranteed all expensesconnected with the burial and erection of this costly tomb. The public had believed this to be the end of Lady Beltham. Juvepresently discovered that Lady Beltham was not dead: another woman hadbeen buried in her place. He preserved absolute silence convinced thatsooner or later this criminal great lady--for, in conjunction withFantômas, she had committed abominable crimes--would reappear, and hecould then arrest her. Time had passed, but for all his efforts Juvecould not discover the hiding-place of this strangely guilty woman. When he saw a large bunch of violets lying before the door of LadyBeltham's vault, he divined them to be the offering of Wilhelmine. Juve now asked himself if he had not come across this Wilhelmine inthe past, this girl with pale gold hair, and clear deep eyes; if hehad not, in the long ago, met under painful circumstances a littlechild who was now this pretty girl, beloved of Henri de Loubersac. Juve did not dwell on these vague, floating impressions. He turnedhis attention to more definite points. There were people who believed in the death of Lady Beltham; they werein the majority: among these was Wilhelmine de Naarboveck. Why did shecome to pray at Lady Beltham's tomb and bring offerings of fragrantflowers? A mere handful of people knew Lady Beltham was not dead; knew thatanother woman had been interred in her stead. Lady Beltham herselfknew it; her accomplice and lover--Fantômas--must know it. Besides, these two there was Jérôme Fandor who knew of the substitution, andthere was Juve himself. What others could there be? Twilight was deepening into darkness. The cemetery guardians wereclearing it of visitors. Juve became once more the old accordionplayer. As he made his way home on foot, he asked himself: "What are they looking for?" The military authorities, represented by the Second Bureau, want torecover a stolen document. . . . The civil authority, represented byPolice Headquarters, wish to discover a murderer guilty of two crimes:the murder of Brocq--the murder of Nichoune. The murderer of Brocq is assuredly Vagualame: as to the murderer ofNichoune: I do not yet know under what guise he committed his crime, but of one thing I am certain--the author of this double crime is noneother than--Fantômas! XV THE TRAITOR'S APPRENTICESHIP Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the mostpunctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals, although he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability, it was never without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke eachmorning in the vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun. No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a lifemade up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, thestrain of which was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallantbearing. Never having done his military service, since legally he didnot exist--it was the cruelest mystery in our journalist'slife--Fandor had played his corporal's rôle by intuition, combinedwith a trained power of observation, Vinson's manual, and Vinson'sverbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of all, hadutilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through severalturns of the military mill. Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, heasked himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committedsome gross blunder, whether some inferior might not call outironically: "I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to becarrying on like that?" "Suppose I were found out, " he thought, "I wonder if they would shootme forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search ofinformation for police reports?" On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling ofuneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the weekhad drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper. "You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you havemanaged to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove, you must have some powerful backing!" Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed--but not to sleep. "A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the nextmove to be?" he thought. This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant hadhanded him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn theroute from Verdun to the frontier. That was all. He remembered what Vinson had said to him in the flat: "What is so terrifying about this spying business is that one neverknows whom one is obeying, whose orders one ought to follow, who isyour friend, who is your chief: one fine day you learn that you havehad leave granted you: you then receive, in some way or another, directions to go to some place or another. . . . You go there . . . Youmeet people you do not know, who ask you questions, sometimesseemingly trivial, sometimes obviously of the gravest importance. . . . It is up to you to find out whether you are face to face with your spychiefs, or if, on the contrary, you have not fallen into a trap set bythe police to catch spies. . . . You cannot go to a rendezvous with aquiet mind: how do you know that you will not be returned between twogendarmes!. . . It is impossible to ask for information: equallyimpossible to ask for help, should you be in imminent danger. . . . Spiesdo not know one another: they are disowned by whoever employs them:they are humble wheels hidden in an immense mechanism. . . . It matterslittle if they are broken to pieces, they can so easily be replaced!" Fandor's recollection of these statements did not tend to make himcheerful. He summed up the situation, and came to a decision. "I have been given leave I did not ask for: somebody must have askedit for me. This 'someone' is the chief spy, already in touch withVinson, or the chief spy at Verdun, who has been warned of Vinson'sarrival: the post card I received from an unknown individual hasnothing on it but the indications of a route already known to me, thatfrom Verdun to the frontier. I shall follow that route as apedestrian, and I look forward to meeting some interesting persons onthe way. " Surrounded by the noisy disorder of the barrack room, amidst menrising hastily that they might not be reported missing at the morningmuster, which would shortly take place in the courtyard, Fandor-Vinsondressed quickly. He put on his sword-belt, ascertained that hisservant had sufficiently polished the brass buttons on his tunic, hissabre, and other trappings. The adjutant for the week entered. "You are off at once, Vinson?" "Yes, sir. " "Good! I will arrange for the fatigues--very pleased to! Ah, you arenew here, are you not? Well, I will give you a bit of good advice. Bein the barracks on the stroke of the hour. Remember, men on leave mustnot play tricks with punctuality. " "Right, sir!" The adjutant turned sharp about and went off. "He is jolly amiable, that's sure!" was Fandor's comment. . . . "Iwonder, if by chance. ". . . Since Fandor had so rashly mixed himself up in this spy business, hewas inclined to see everywhere traitors and accomplices; but hereminded himself that he must beware of preconceived ideas. * * * * * It was on the stroke of seven when Fandor showed his permit to thesergeant at the gate of the barracks. "Here's one who's going to amuse himself, " grumbled the sergeant. "Pass, Corporal!" Fandor smiled joyously: but the smile did not express his realfeelings. Instead of making directly for the road to the frontier, he strolledabout the town, went by roundabout ways, returned on his steps, assuring himself that he was not being shadowed. The day was fine; a slight violet haze lingered in the hollows; theair, fresh but not chill, was deliciously pure. Fandor walked alongthe high road at a smart pace. He turned over in his mind certainwarnings given him by Vinson. "When an individual knows he is going to a rendezvous he makes a pointof talking to every person he meets whom he thinks likely to be theindividual he is to have dealings with. " But Fandor did not see a soul to speak to. The highway was deserted, and the fields lay empty and desolate as far as an eye could reach. Not a toiling peasant was to be seen. He had been walking for over an hour, quite determined to carry thisadventure through to the end, when, from the top of a hill he caughtsight of a motor-car drawn up on one of the lower slopes of the road. "They may, or may not, be the individuals I am out to meet, " hethought: "but I am glad enough to meet some human beings. . . . I shallstroll near their car, which seems out of action: it will help passthe time. " He went up to the motor-car. There were two people in it; a man cladin an immensely valuable fur coat, and a young priest, so muffled upin rugs and wraps and cloaks that only his two eyes could be seen. Just as he got up to them, he heard the priest say in a tart voice tothe man in the fur coat, now standing in the road: "Whatever is the matter? What has gone wrong with your car now?" The priest's smart companion exclaimed in a tone of comic despair: "It is not the right front tire this time: it is the back tire, theleft one, that is punctured!" "Ought I to get out?" "By no means! Do not stir! I am going to put the lifting-jack underthe car, and shall replace the damaged tire in no time. " Fandor was only a few yards off. The man in the fur coat, evidently his own chauffeur, half turnedtowards the soldier, adding: "Unfortunately, my jack does not work very well, I doubt if I cansucceed unaided in getting it under the wheel-base. " "Can I give you a lift?" asked Fandor. The chauffeur turned with a smile. "That is very kind of you, Corporal. . . . I will not refuse your help. " From a box he extracted a lifting-jack which, to Fandor's expert eye, did not seem to function so badly as all that. The chauffeur slippedit under the car. Fandor lent an experienced hand, and lifted thewheel, whose tire had just given up the ghost. "There, Monsieur! These punctures are the cause of endless delays, "remarked Fandor, for the sake of saying something. The priestshrugged, and said in a disagreeable tone: "Our tires have come to grief twice already this morning!" The chauffeur was busied with his car fiddling with the machinery. Heshot a question at Fandor: "Are we far from Verdun?" "Five or six kilometres. " "No more?" "About that, Monsieur. " The chauffeur stood upright. "It is Verdun, then, we can see over there?" "What do you mean?" queried Fandor. "That belfry in the mist. " "That is not a belfry: it is a chimney, the bakehouse chimney. " "Of the new bakehouse, then?" "Yes, Monsieur. " "I had an idea it was not finished. ". . . "It is not finished, but it soon will be--in a matter of sixmonths. ". . . "Ah! Good!. . . Now tell me is there no railway along the route we arefollowing?" "No. They intend laying down a line for strategic purposes, but theyhave not started on it yet. " The chauffeur smiled approval, while continuing to tinker at hismachine. "Ah, these projects!" he remarked. "They are long in coming toanything--these French administrative projects!" "Well!. . . Yes. " There was a pregnant silence. Fandor thought: "This grows interesting: it is quite on the cards thatthis tourist may be. ". . . "Ouf!" exclaimed the chauffeur, suddenly jumping up. "A stiff jobthis, Corporal! Will you be good enough to lend me a hand again?" "Certainly. " "Oh, not just at once!. . . Let me rest a few moments! Doubled up as Ihave been, my back feels positively broken. " The stranger took a few steps along the road. He pointed to thehorizon. "One has a pretty view here!. . . You know this part of the country, Corporal?" "So, so!. . . Fairly well. " "Ah! Then you can give me some information!. . . What is that other bigchimney down there?. . . Do you see it?. . . Between those trees! Thosetwo trees--there!" "It is the chimney of the bell foundry. " "Ah, yes, I have heard that foundry mentioned, it is true. . . . It seemsto be quite near!" Fandor shook his head. "It seems to be--but, by the road, it is a good eleven kilometresaway. " "As much as that? As the crow flies it is close to. " "Yes. It seems so. " The chauffeur insisted: "But, how far do you think it is, Corporal, from here to it, in astraight line?. . . They ought to teach you to measure distances in yourregiment!" Fandor was no longer in doubt: this man was the spy he was out tomeet! Fandor once again recalled Vinson's words: "When one has to dowith a fresh spy chief, it is a certain thing that he will make youpass a little kind of examination . . . Will put you through a regularcross-examination to ascertain your capacities--what you are madeof!" Corporal Fandor-Vinson replied instantly: "As the crow flies, I calculate it is not more than four kilometres. The road winds a great deal. " "Good! Good!" cried the chauffeur. "I should have said so, also. " It seemed to Fandor that the man in the costly fur coat hesitated, wason the point of asking a question, thought better of it, turned away, went back to his car. He called out: "Look here, Corporal! Since you are so kind, help me with this lever!" That was soon done. The inquisition recommenced. "Have you been long with the Verdun garrison?" "Oh, no! Only a few days!" "You are not bored?" "Why should I be?" "I mean--you do not find the discipline severe?" Fandor tried to find out what the man in the fur coat was driving at. "Oh, I have not much to complain of: I can get leave pretty easily. " "And that is always pleasant, " remarked the man in the fur coat. "Young soldiers in garrison towns have a deuced poor time of it--isthat not so?. . . And they do not know how to amuse themselves when theyhave leave. . . . But, no doubt you have friends here, Corporal?" "I do not know a soul in Verdun. " "Ah, well, since you have been so obliging, it would give me pleasureto introduce you to some people, if you would care for it?. . . Youwould find them amusing. " "You have friends in Verdun, sir?" asked Fandor in his turn. "I know a few people: so does the abbé who accompanies me. I haveit!. . . An idea . . . Corporal, come at six o'clock this evening . . . No, seven o'clock, and very punctually, and ask for me at the printingoffice of the Noret Brothers. They are real good fellows! You willfind some youngsters of your own age there. You will find you havemuch in common. I am sure they will prove useful acquaintances. " The man in the fur coat accented the word "useful. " This told Fandor that there was business on hand at the printingworks--and he was to be involved in it. "You are really too kind, sir!. . . I do not wish to. ". . . "Not at all! Not at all! It is nothing! And you have been soobliging!. . . Come to the Noret's at seven without fear of beingconsidered an intruder!" The man in the fur coat accentuated the word "fear" significantly. Heset his motor going and jumped into the car. "Again, many thanks, Corporal! I do not offer to take you back toVerdun, as my car has only two seats! Till this evening, then!" The car moved off, rapidly putting on speed. "There goes the chief spy!" thought Fandor. "Never set eyes on thefellow before, nor heard his voice, either! Now, whom shall I meetto-night at this cursed rendezvous, and what is the business? Sometraitorous deviltry, of course!" * * * * * It was striking seven when Fandor presented himself at the Noretprinting works. He rang: he was admitted, and shown into a waiting-room. There was atouch of the convent parlour about it. The man who had opened to himasked: "What name shall I give to the gentlemen, Monsieur?" "Tell them it is Corporal Vinson. " Fandor's heart was beating like a sledge hammer as the minutes draggedby: it was an eternity of waiting! A flock of suspicions crowded hismind: might he not have fallen into a trap? At last a tall, thin, red-bearded young man walked into the room: hegreeted Fandor-Vinson with: "Good evening, Corporal. Our mutual friends have informed us that wemight expect you. They have not arrived yet; but there is no need towait for a regular introduction--what do you think?" "You are too kind, Monsieur. A simple corporal like myself is veryfortunate to find friends in a garrison town. " "To pass the time till our friends arrive, what do you say tovisiting the workshops?. . . You will find it interesting . . . Anduseful. " "That word 'useful' again!" thought Fandor. "Decidedly there isbusiness afoot to-night!" His guide expanded. "In Paris they despise provincial industries! They pretend to believethat no good work is done--can be done--in country districts. . . . It isa mistaken notion! Examine our machines!" The red-bearded young man ushered Fandor into the workshops. They wereextensive, spacious. "Here is the machine which prints off _The Beacon of Verdun_!" heexplained. "You can see for yourself that it is the latest model! Doyou know anything about the working of these machines?" Fandor could hardly restrain his laughter. "What would this guide of mine think if he knew that for a good manyyears I have had to cross the machine-room of _La Capitale_ everyevening, and consequently have been able to see and admire printingmachines of a very different quality of perfection to this one he haspraised so emphatically?" Fandor-Vinson played up. "It seems to me a marvellous machine! I should like to see itworking!" The red-bearded young man smiled. "Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in fullwork!. . . Come soon!" He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room. "Do you know anything about linotypes?" Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew thesemachines were out-of-date. "What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query. The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking objectconcealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet forstoring odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff coveredsomething metallic. "See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man. He uncovered the object. "You know what it is, do you, Corporal?" "Not in the least!" "A machine for making bank-notes!" "Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. Histone was non-committal. "You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only madefor the fun of the thing--still, they might happen to proveuseful--one never knows!" Again the marked accent on "useful. " Again Fandor-Vinson played up. "I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!" "I was going to suggest it!" Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion. "Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall seewhat will happen!" Fandor did as directed. "Hold out your hands!" Fandor-Vinson held out his hands. A new fifty-franc note fell into them. "What do you say to that? Is it not a good--a perfect imitation?" Thered-bearded young man's tone was triumphant. Fandor-Vinson examined it. "That it certainly is, " he acquiesced. "Here are more!. . . Look!. . . Take them!" Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinsonof the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun. Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over thisperformance. "Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said thered-bearded young man, smiling. "You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!" Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine. "What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes droppedinto my hands are real!. . . This machine does not print anything!. . . Mynew friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment forfuture treachery, expected betrayals--it is a way of paying me!" Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fullyunderstood the quality of the payment--its real value. Supposing thatno more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views. "Now, Corporal, " said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honourof our meeting?" Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your ownchoosing! The offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. CorporalFandor-Vinson kept a smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talkedtrivialities with his host. At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose: "My leave has not expired, it is true, Monsieur, " he said, "but I havesome rounds to make. Pray excuse me!" The thin, red-bearded young man did not seek to detain him. Theinterview was at an end: the business done for that evening. "You will return, will you not, Corporal?" asked his host. "We are atyour disposal, I and my brother, whenever you have need of us--ourfriends also. They will regret having arrived too late to meet you!. . . And, Corporal . . . We know some officers--if you want leave now andagain--you must let us know--will you not?" Corporal Fandor-Vinson said the expected things, and hastened away, glad to be quit of this red-bearded young spy of a printer. He hurriedoff towards the centre of the town, covering his tracks as Juve hadtaught him how to do. He had time to spare before returning tobarracks. He entered a small café and ordered a drink. "Behold me one of the precious spy circle of Verdun, " thought he. "Imust make the most of my privileges. " His glass remained untouched while he sat thinking long and deeply. XVI AT THE ELYSÉE BALL The ball was in full swing. There was a crush in the brilliantlylighted reception-rooms of the Elysée. Prominent members ofParliament, diplomats, officers naval and military, representatives ofthe higher circles of commerce, and finance, rubbed shoulders with theundistinguished, at the official reception given in honour of Japan'snew ambassador, Prince Ito. The prince was stationed in the centre ofthe inmost drawing-room, gorgeously arrayed in his national costume, adelicate smile on his lips as he watched the President's guests withbright shrewd eyes, while music from an invisible Hungarian bandfloated on the air. In this particular room two men were in earnest conversation: ColonelHofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac. "Well, Lieutenant, I have been too pressed for time to-day to see you . . . But, Heaven knows, I have not forgotten for a moment the matter I entrustedto you. . . . They are causing me the greatest anxiety. ". . . "I can well understand that, Colonel. ". . . "Anything new?" "No, Colonel. . . . That is to say--I ought to say 'No' to you. ". . . "What the devil do you mean?" The colonel stared at his junior amoment; then, taking him by the arm, said in a confidential tone: "Let us take a turn in the garden, it is not cold. . . . We had betterhave our talk away from such a collection as this . . . One does notknow who or what one's neighbours may be. " "Right, Colonel, prudence is the mother of surety. " The colonel shrugged. "I have no desire to pun, but since you speak of La Sûreté, [4] Icannot help noticing that they are blundering terribly over these veryaffairs. Confound those clumsy fools and their meddling! They willinterfere with things which are no concern of theirs--not in theslightest!" [Footnote 4: La Sûreté-Scotland Yard detective service. ] "Are they still investigating?" "No. The warning I myself administered to their famous Juve has taughtthem a lesson. They are keeping quiet at present. Plague take the lotof them!. . . It makes me furious when I think what happened the otherday--creating a scandal about things the public ought to be kept inignorance of--ought never to hear of--never!. . . Those confoundedmeddlers complicate our task abominably. " Colonel Hofferman paused: de Loubersac kept a discreet silence. The two men were walking down the little path which encircles theprincipal lawn of the Elysée Gardens, now almost deserted. The colonel turned to his companion. "What was that you were saying just now?. . . You had something fresh totell me, and you had not. . . . That is the Norman way of putting it!. . . Not like you, de Loubersac!" "It is merely the answer of one who hesitates to speak out, " repliedde Loubersac, laughing, ". . . Who hesitates to give a definite opinion, who, nevertheless. ". . . "Who nevertheless what?. . . De Loubersac, just forget I am yourcolonel--speak out, man!. . . Have you an idea of where the document waslost?" "That?. . . No. ". . . "Then what conclusion have you arrived at? Have you furtherinformation about Brocq's death?" "Hum!". . . "About Nichoune's death, perhaps?" "Colonel! Have you noticed that for some time past I have not handedyou any report from the agent Vagualame?" "The deuce. . . . What do you imagine that means?" "I do not imagine anything, Colonel--I state facts!. . . Nichoune isdead, murdered: there is not a shadow of a doubt about that. . . . Nichoune was the mistress of Corporal Vinson. . . . This Vinson was onthe point of playing the traitor, if he had not already done so; hewas also a friend of Captain Brocq, and Brocq died just when thedocument disappeared--the document confided to him by our service . . . So much for facts. " The colonel was staring fixedly at de Loubersac. "I do not see what you are driving at!" said he. "I am coming to it, Colonel. . . . Nichoune was found dead on Saturday, November 19th, but on the evening of November 18th Nichoune received avisit from our agent, Vagualame, whom I had sent to Châlons by yourown orders to occupy himself with the V. Affair. " "Well?" "Well, Colonel, I do not much like that, but what I like still lessis, that, a few days ago, I had occasion to see Vagualame . . . And thisagent far from bringing me details of Nichoune's death, at first gooff wanted to deny that he had been at Châlons! I could swear he wasgoing to declare he had not been there, when a reply of my own--ablunder, I confess it--I did not take time to think--informed him thatI knew of his visit to Nichoune. " Colonel Hofferman weighed the gravity of de Loubersac's words; hestrode along, head bent, hands clasped behind his back, gazing withunseeing eyes at the pebbles on the path. At last he spoke. "Tell me how you knew for certain that Nichoune had received a visitfrom Vagualame!" "For some time past, Colonel, Vagualame has been under the eye of theofficer charged with the supervision of our spies, de Loreuil. Underthe guise of Aunt Palmyra he discovered that Nichoune had beenmurdered. This was the morning after her interview with Vagualame. Thediscovery, I may tell you, did not take de Loreuil altogether bysurprise. He had observed Vagualame's attitude towards the girl, andhad considered it queer--suspiciously so. " "This is serious, but it is not sufficiently definite, " pronouncedColonel Hofferman. . . . "Let us admit that Vagualame has played adouble game, has been at once traitor and spy. That being so, he mayhave murdered Nichoune; but as to incriminating this agent whom wehave known a long time . . . Well . . . You have merely a vague indicationto go upon . . . The kind of reticence, or what you thought wasreticence, he wished to maintain regarding his journey to Châlons. " "Yes, " admitted de Loubersac, "if that were all I had to go upon, itwould amount to little. " "You know something else?" "I know that I arranged to meet this agent yesterday in the Garden, asour custom is, that I waited there, that he never turned up. " Colonel Hofferman took de Loubersac's arm as they walked slowly backto the reception-rooms. "What you have just told me is exceedingly serious: we must enquireinto this at once--without loss of time. If Vagualame has really fled, the probability is that he is Nichoune's murderer. . . . In that case, there is nothing to prevent our suspecting him of no end of thingswhich I need not particularise. ". . . The colonel pointed to an individual standing by a buffet near theentrance to the great reception-room. "Let us go the other way, " said he. "There is Monsieur Havard! I donot at all want to meet him!. . . If we have to arrest Vagualame, itwould be unnecessary to take Police Headquarters into our confidence. " "Undoubtedly, Colonel. " "Then let us keep clear of Monsieur Havard! Devote your wholeattention to clearing up the questions raised by your talk. FindVagualame for me in three days. If you have not run him to earth, thenset our special enquiry men on his track. . . . I shall see you to-morrowat the Ministry--six sharp. " * * * * * Whilst Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac were having theirtalk, Jérôme Fandor, who was also at the Elysée ball, in his ownproper person, was busying himself with the affairs which had led himto consider that the murder of Captain Brocq was a crime which must beimputed to one of those foreign spies with which France was nowswarming. At Verdun, along the entire frontier, there were nests ofthese noxious vermin. Fandor was, of course, still stationed at Verdun. He had arrived earlyat the ball, hoping to pick up information from some friend as to howthe Second Bureau was taking the disappearance of Corporal Vinson. Didthe Second Bureau suspect anything?. . . What?. . . Had Nichoune's murderbeen explained? Fandor stationed himself near the entrance to the firstreception-room, watching all who entered, seeking the welcome face offriend or acquaintance. Someone slapped him on the shoulder. "Hullo, Fandor! Are you reporting the official fêtes nowadays?" "You, Bonnet? What a jolly surprise! I have heard nothing of you forages. How goes it?" "My dear fellow, good luck has come my way at last!. . . I am policemagistrate at Châlons! There's news for you!" "By Jove, Bonnet! That is good hearing! You arrive here in the verynick of time!" "Old Bonnet at Châlons and police magistrate!" thought Fandor. "What abit of luck for me!" "I want to ask the police magistrate of Châlons most interestingthings, " said Fandor, smiling at his friend. "Information for a report?" queried Bonnet. "Just so. " Fandor drew his "old Bonnet" away from the crowd of eyes and earsaround them. They came on an empty little smoking-room. The veryplace! "Now tell me, my dear Bonnet, have you not been engaged on a recentcase--the death of a little singer, called. ". . . "Nichoune?. . . That is so. My first case at Châlons. " "Ah!. . . Now, just tell me!" The examining magistrate shook his head. "I cannot tell you much, for the good reason that this affair is asmysterious as can be, and is giving me no end of trouble. . . . You knewNichoune, Fandor?" "Yes--and no. . . . I would give a good deal, though, to know who hermurderer is!" "I also, " said Bonnet, smiling. "Would I not like to put my hand onthe collar of that individual!. . . Naturally, I want to carry throughthe enquiry with flying colours!" "Have you no idea as to who the murderer might be?" Police Magistrate Bonnet rose. "That is as may be!. . . It seems that on the eve of her death, thisNichoune received a visit from an old man--a beggar--whom I am unableto identify--who has vanished into thin air. . . . Would you like me tokeep you informed? Rue Richer is still your address?" "Yes. It would be awfully kind of you to write when you have any freshfacts to disclose about this case. I cannot explain to you all theimportance I attach to that, but it is enormous!" "It is understood, then! Count on me. I shall tell you all I canwithout breaking professional secrecy. . . . Shall we take a turn throughthe rooms, old boy?" "If you like, my dear Bonnet. " The two men strolled through the thinning rooms, talking of what allthe world might hear. "Dear boy, I must leave you, " said Fandor suddenly. . . . "Aninterview!. . . Till our next meeting!" Fandor went up to a man standing in a doorway, gazing disdainfully atthe couples revolving in the centre of the room. "Will you grant me a word or two, Monsieur Havard?" asked Fandorrespectfully. The chief of police brightened. "Four, if you like, my good Fandor, I am bored to death. I wouldrather submit to your indiscreet questioning than stick here in abrown study--black, I might say--with only my own thoughts forcompany. " "Good heavens, Chief! What is troubling you to such an extent?" Monsieur Havard laughed. "Oh, I will tell you the reason of this melancholy mood!. . . You are onpretty intimate terms with Juve, are you not?" "You have heard from him, Chief?" "No, it is precisely. ". . . "You are anxious, then?" "No, no! Be easy!" smiled Monsieur Havard. He caught Fandor by the lapel of his coat. "Look here, my dear fellow! It is precisely because you and Juve areon such intimate terms--this friendship between you is a finething--that I should like you to use your influence with Juve. " "With Juve?" "Yes. With Juve. You know how highly I esteem him? He is our bestdetective. Very well he is making a thorough mess of his career: heprevents his own promotion, because he is so obstinately set onsearching for his elusive, fugitive, never-to-be-caught Fantômas!" "I do not understand you, Chief. " "You soon will. Do you know where Juve is at this moment?" "No. " "I am as ignorant of his whereabouts as you are!. . . It is beyondbearing!. . . Juve goes his own way beyond what is allowable. Hedeclared to me, the other day, that he was certain the death ofCaptain Brocq must be credited to--whose account do you think?. . . Whyto Fantômas! And clac! Since then I have not heard a word from him!Juve is pursuing Fantômas! Now, Fandor, how can I tolerate this?" Fandor considered Juve had a perfect right to take his own initiativein this particular matter--he had earned the right if ever a man had. He answered his aggrieved chief with a question. "But suppose Juve is right?" "Right?. . . But he deceives himself. . . . I have proof of it!" "You have proof of it?. . . But who then, according to you, Chief, haskilled Brocq?" "My dear fellow, " said Monsieur Havard, in a positive tone, "for alogical mind that reasons coolly, for one who does not bewilderhimself in a network of Fantômas hypotheses, he who killed Brocq isassuredly he who has killed Nichoune! Brocq, I imagine, was killed bysomeone lying in wait on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Anaccomplice, during this time, or some hours before--it matterslittle--had stolen the document the Ministry are looking for. . . . Brocqknew Corporal Vinson . . . You are aware of that, Fandor?" "Yes, yes! Please continue!" "Good. Vinson had the murdered Nichoune as his mistress. . . . Do you notthink the link between these two names is evident?. . . Brocq andNichoune have died by the same hand. ". . . "But all this does not exclude Fantômas as the guilty person!" "You go too fast, Fandor. I know who killed Nichoune!" "Oh! I say!" "But I do. Deuce take it, you do not suppose I go by what theseofficers of the Second Bureau are doing in the way of a search, doyou?. . . They fancy they are detectives!" "Oh, that is going too far, surely!" expostulated Fandor. "No, " asserted Monsieur Havard. "Who did the deeds?. . . I know. Theinvestigations of my own agents, the information obtained through thePublic Prosecutor and the magistrates, point to one person--Vagualame--anold sham beggar, who has relations of sorts with the Second Bureau. " Fandor could scarcely keep his countenance: he nearly burst intoderisive laughter. Vagualame guilty! Monsieur Havard evidently had notall the facts. Could he possibly realise that Vagualame was one ofColonel Hofferman's most trusted men? Jealous of the Second Bureau and all its works, Monsieur Havard meantto carry off the honours this time: he was going to arrest Vagualameas the murderer of both Captain Brocq and Nichoune! And then what ajolly blunder Police Headquarters would make! What a fine joke! Fandorreally must help it on! He said to himself: "Only let the police paralyse the action of the Second Bureau agent, old Vagualame, and I, the false Corporal Vinson, will be all the morefree to act. " "You have serious circumstantial evidence against this person?" Fandorasked with a grave face. "Very serious. I know for certain that he saw Nichoune the eveningbefore her death: he was even the last person known to have spoken tothe singer. I know that he then left Châlons, and has not returnedthere!. . . I know that he was on good terms with very shady people, some of whom are suspected of spying; and all that. ". . . Fandor interrupted: "If I were in your place, Chief, and knew what you seem to know, Iwould not hesitate a moment. . . . I should arrest Vagualame!" Monsieur Havard's glance was ironical. "Who told you that I had not so decided?. . . At this moment my besttrackers are out on Vagualame's trail. . . . If I run him to earth, hewill not be at large long, I can promise you! It would end abothersome affair, and would open the eyes of Colonel Hofferman whomust be a hundred leagues from imagining that Vagualame is themurderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune. " On this Fandor and Monsieur Havard parted. Dancing went gaily on inthe warm, perfumed atmosphere of the ball-rooms; but Fandor andMonsieur Havard, Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac had hadtheir serious interviews and had gone their respective ways. XVII IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY The curtain with its pictured red cock was down, lights were up in themodern Cinema Concert Hall, rue des Poissonniers. Most of thespectators were on the move. An old white-bearded man ofpoverty-stricken appearance rose from his seat beside a pretty, red-haired girl, elegantly dressed. He murmured: "I am going out for a smoke. " The girl nodded. She stared at the spectators with indifferent eyes. They were mostly women and girls. There was a mingled odour of hotcoffee and orange peel. Drinks and refreshments, for the good of thehouse, were now the order of the evening. The odd-looking old fellow, with a shabby accordion slung over hisbent shoulders, making his way to the exit, was detective Juve, Juve-Vagualame in fact. He had kept the appointment made withBobinette a week ago. This cinema entertainment in an unfashionablequarter suited his purpose exactly. In such an audience his appearancewould attract but little attention, and the long intervals of darknesswere all in his favour. Bobinette must not have her suspicionsaroused. Juve-Vagualame marched up and down outside the hall, rubbing his handswith satisfaction. Things were going well. Bobinette had been with himless than an hour, but she had given him an almost complete account ofher doings during the past week. She announced that her trip to thefrontier had been crowned with success: that the plan arranged withCorporal Vinson had proved astonishingly successful. She could notpraise this wonderful Vinson enough. How intelligent he was? Say buthalf a word and he understood everything. As cynical as you please, he would stick at nothing, declaring himself ready for anything, regardless of consequences! From this, Juve-Vagualame gathered that Corporal Vinson was a daringtraitor, was the most out-and-out scoundrel imaginable. Bobinette also told her supposed chief that the moment for the greatstroke was at hand. She whispered low: "To-morrow Vinson will be inParis!" Juve had already learned that Vinson was stationed at Verdun, wasgranted frequent leave, and that on the morning of December 1st hewould be in Paris. This was the evening of November 30th! Bobinettehad not said exactly what he was coming to do, and Juve feared to askquestions that might arouse the red-haired girl's suspicions. A shrill-sounding bell warned spectators that the interval was over. Juve-Vagualame returned to his seat. He was saying to himself: "I must know exactly what Vinson is coming to Paris for. " After several attempts, he drew an important statement from Bobinette. He played the part of sceptic. The more enthusiastically convincedBobinette was that the "great affair" would be successful, the moresceptical he grew. She committed herself to a statement of extreme importance. "Don't I tell you, old unbeliever that you are, that Corporal Vinsonis to bring the plan of the piece in question?" "The plan!" objected Juve-Vagualame. "That is good, as far as it goes;but that is not sufficient!" Bobinette shrugged her plump shoulders. She was exasperated. The noiseof the orchestra covered the sound of her imprudently loud answers. "Since I tell you I have in my hands the piece of the gun which is togo to the Havre agent! I expect you have forgotten the detailsconcerning this object? The manufacture of it is so complicated that, without the design for its construction, the piece would be much likeany other. . . . We have the piece--I tell you it is in our hands. . . . To-morrow we shall possess the design of it, thanks to Vinson--can wepossibly expect anything more complete than that?" There was a pause. Then Bobinette announced: "If, after that, you do not pay me what you owe me, you can be sure Ishall not serve you ever again!" Juve-Vagualame promised immediate payment. "But, " said he to himself, "her remuneration will not take the formshe expects!" To mislead the curious, the serious talk of this incongruous pair waspunctuated by loud-voiced remarks having no connection with the realmatter in hand. Juve's one idea now was to see this piece of a gun for himself. WhenBobinette, at last, grasped this, she stared at him with bewilderedeyes. "But what are you thinking of, Vagualame? I do not carry the thingabout with me. " "I think, on the contrary, that you keep it well hidden in your ownroom. " "Assuredly, " confirmed Bobinette. "I mean to see it. I expect you to agree to that, " declaredJuve-Vagualame. "You intend to come to?". . . Bobinette looked terrified. "Exactly. " "But when? Do you recollect, Vagualame, that I shall have to hand itover early to-morrow morning?" "There is time for me to see it between then and now! See it, I must!Examine it, hold it in my hands, I will! I have my most excellentreasons for this!" Juve meant to seize the piece of a gun and arrest the guilty girl. Bobinette dared not openly kick against her chief's irondetermination; but she made another attempt to turn him from hispurpose. "You know quite well that I am living in the Baron de Naarboveck'shouse. The least noise, an alarm raised, and I would not answer forthe consequences: we should almost certainly be caught!" "We have nothing to fear. An hour from now I wish to be in yourroom!" "But--how shall you get into it?" asked Bobinette, who was giving waybefore this persistent attack. "You will return alone. You will go up to your room. I knowwhereabouts it is: you will leave the window half open. I will enteryour room by the window. " Bobinette saw this was possible, though risky. A large gutter pipe ranup the whole height of the house; it was fastened to the wall byprojecting clamp-hooks of solid iron. For an agile man this was simplya staircase. Bobinette was aware of this. In the course of heradventurous life, she had been initiated into all sorts of tricks andstratagems; she was practiced in every form of gymnastic exercise. Vagualame could and would reach her room by the gutter-pipe ladder, itwas not too difficult; but it was a risky undertaking, for, andparticularly from the Esplanade des Invalides, a climber might beseen, an alarm raised, and the police would intervene. * * * * * Juve-Vagualame and Bobinette left the "movies" hall at half-past ten. In a taxi they discussed how best to effect an entrance into the deNaarboveck mansion. Juve-Vagualame stuck to his original idea. The taxi drew up at the bridge. Juve-Vagualame paid the driver. Bobinette hurried away, slipped into the house, and went straight upto her room. She busied herself with the preparations agreed on, whereby Vagualame could the more easily effect an entrance in histurn. Safe in her room, Bobinette experienced a strange, a penetratingemotion. She felt as though something around her in which she hadmoved safely, was cracking; with a sudden and terrible lucidity shesaw herself marching forward, powerless to draw back, marchinghelplessly towards an abyss--an abyss which was about to engulf her!She trembled, trembled violently. She was encompassed by vague andagonizing terrors. * * * * * Out in the night Juve, wandering restlessly, awaited his hour! Thistime! Ah, this time! He murmured: "I shall be in the stronghold of the enemy at last!" XVIII IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! The Baron de Naarboveck and his daughter, Wilhelmine, were comfortablyseated before a wood fire in the library. So numerous were theirsocial engagements they rarely had time for a quiet talk together. Wilhelmine was in good spirits. De Naarboveck listened with anindulgent smile to her vivacious account of the little happenings anddoings of her day. Presently a more serious subject came up fordiscussion. The word "marriage" was mentioned. Wilhelmine blushed andlowered her eyes, while the baron sounded her teasingly on herfeelings for de Loubersac. "My dear child, " said the baron; "this young officer has a fine futurebefore him; he is charming; is sufficiently well connected; adequatelyendowed with this world's goods; bears a known name; you would findhim a suitable match. " Wilhelmine kept silence. An anxious, preoccupied look replaced herbright expression: her animation had died down. At last she murmured: "Dear father, I have nothing to hide from you, and I willingly confessthat I love Henri with my whole heart. I know he loves me also; but Iask myself whether he will not raise objections when he learns mylife's secret!" "My dear child, there is nothing in this secret which impugns yourhonor: you are not the responsible party. If, up to the present, Ihave thought it well to introduce you to my friends as my dau. ". . . De Naarboveck stopped short; the library door had opened. A footmanappeared and announced: "A woman has just arrived with her son, and wishes to seeMademoiselle or Monsieur. She says it is the new groom she hasbrought. " The baron looked puzzled. Wilhelmine rose. "I forgot to tell you I was expecting the stable boy this evening. Hereplaces Charles. " She turned to the impassive footman. "Please ask Mademoiselle Berthe to attend to these persons. They comelate--much too late!" "Mademoiselle will please excuse me for troubling her, " replied thefootman, "but Mademoiselle is still out, and. ". . . "In that case I will see them myself, though it is an unconscionablehour--not at all a good beginning. ". . . * * * * * The woman and her son had been shown into the smoking-room. WhenWilhelmine entered, the pair bowed respectfully. The would-be groom was a nice-looking lad, and gave the impression ofbeing superior to the common run of his class and calling. Agreeablysurprised, Wilhelmine asked to see his references: she wished to makesure that they were in order; preliminaries, through the medium of anagent, had been gone into some days before. The woman displayed them, announcing in a loud, harsh voice: "I am his mother!" This mother was as unpleasant to behold as her son was the contrary, thought Wilhelmine. She was a stout, vulgar, clumsy creature, enveloped in a large shawlof many colours which did not hide her obesity. The old termagant'sface seemed all paint and large gold-rimmed spectacles, and peeringeyes. This grotesque visage was shaded by a flowered veil. "What a horrid old creature!" thought Wilhelmine, as she listened withscarcely concealed distaste to the woman's voluble praises of herson's qualities. . . . According to her, he was a marvel of marvels. Monsieur de Naarboveck remained in the library pacing up and down, smoking an expensive cigar. Wilhelmine did not return. Feeling sleepy, he quitted the room and went down the long gallery at a leisurelypace. The reception rooms opened on to it. The spacious entrance hallwas visible from the wrought-iron balustrade bordering this gallery. The baron stopped. He listened. Surely there were voices in animateddiscussion in the vestibule! Yes. Men were arguing with theporter--insisting. . . . The porter was coming up. The baron went down tomeet him. Two men, in derby hats and tightly buttoned overcoats, confronted him. They carried neither stick nor umbrella, their handswere gloveless. There was an air of suppressed haste about them. Theysaluted. One of the two offered his card. The baron read: _Inspector Michel, Detective Force, Police Headquarters. _ "Kindly follow me, gentlemen!" De Naarboveck walked quietly up the grand staircase, his hand on itssuperb wrought-iron balustrade. The two men followed in silence. The baron opened the smoking-room door, saw it was empty, entered, signed to the policemen to follow, and closed the door. "To what do I owe the honour of your visit, gentlemen?" De Naarboveck's tone was icy. Inspector Michel spoke. "You must pardon us, Monsieur. Only a matter of the most seriousimportance--exceptionally serious--could have brought us to your houseat so late an hour. . . . We hold a warrant, and, with your permission, we shall proceed to make an arrest. " De Naarboveck looked fixedly at the policemen. "Gentlemen, that you should invade my house at such an hour, thismatter must indeed be of singular importance, " he said stiffly. Then, in a voice quivering with sarcasm, he enquired: "Am I to be permitted to know what it is all about?" "There is no harm in asking that, Monsieur, " replied InspectorMichel, in a matter-of-fact tone. "The individual we have come toarrest here is a ruffian, wanted for a couple of murders: that of aCaptain Brocq, and that of a little music-hall singer calledNichoune. " That this statement had upset the baron was evident: he had grownwhite to the lips. Inspector Michel realised that the idea of thisdouble-dyed murderer having taken refuge in his house must have giventhe rich diplomat a horrid surprise. He continued his statement. "The individual we have come to arrest is known under the name ofVagualame!" "Vagualame!" stammered de Naarboveck. He staggered slightly and caughtat the mantelpiece for support. "How upset the baron is!" thought Inspector Michel. "Hardly to bewondered at!" He hurried on with his statement. "We were on the watch on the Esplanade des Invalides, about half anhour ago--nothing to do with this affair--when we saw Vagualameapproaching this house. " "You saw Vagualame!" exclaimed the baron, with the amazed, incredulouslook of a man who finds himself suddenly faced by a set of lunatics. "But--it's--it is . . . " he gasped. "It is so, Monsieur, " asserted Inspector Michel. "This old ruffian, after lingering about a few minutes to assure himself that he was notbeing followed--we managed to conceal ourselves sufficiently behindthe trees--Vagualame effected a most suspicious entry into your house, Monsieur. He climbed the wall with the help of a gutter-pipe, andentered the house through a half-opened window on the third floor! Youpermit, Monsieur, that we take action at once!" Without waiting for the baron's authorisation, Inspector Michel made asign to his colleagues. They removed their overcoats, placed them on achair, drew out their revolvers, and left the room. The detectives were on the first steps of the flight of stairs leadingto the third story, when they heard voices just above them. Thepiercing notes of the new groom's mother mingled with the refinedaccents of Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, who, in the absence of hercompanion, was about to show the new groom the room allotted to him. In such matters Wilhelmine was more punctilious than most. * * * * * "Did you hear, Vagualame?" Bobinette paled. Could her overstrung nerves be playing her tricks?No. . . . There certainly were voices, voices on the floor below, strangevoices!. . . Whose?. . . Why? Vagualame was seated at the foot of the bed, much at his ease. Hisaccordion lay on the floor. He met Bobinette's urgency with a shrug. "Bah!" With a despairing gesture, the terrified girl moved close to the oldman. "Don't you understand?. . . They have seen you! They are after you!. . . Master!" Bobinette bent forward, looked Vagualame in the eyes . . . Started . . . Drew back with a jerk. This was not the Vagualame she knew!. . . Not her master!. . . Who, then?. . . Who but an enemy?. . . A police spy?. . . Horror!. . . She wastrapped!. . . Lost! Her heart was beating frightfully--beating to bursting point. Were herknees going to give way?. . . They should not!. . . Play the poltroon?. . . Never!. . . Rage boiled up in her; brain and will were afire. . . . Shesubmit to the humiliation of arrest, the long-drawn-out agonies ofcross-examinations, the tortures of imprisonment in Noumea?. . . NotBobinette!. . . Never, never, never! Almost simultaneously with her backward jerk from the stranger eyes ofthis Vagualame, Bobinette darted to a chiffonier, slipped her handinto a drawer among ribbons and laces, seized a revolver, and snatchedit out. . . . Agile as a panther, Vagualame leaped at the girl, caught her wrist ina grip like a vice. The pain of it was intense--Bobinette dropped herweapon. "No more of this nonsense!" commanded Vagualame in a hard voice. "Keep cool, I tell you!. . . Go on to the landing. Look over. See whatis happening. You are not to be afraid. " Struck speechless, Bobinette stared at the old man, who commanded heras a master, and might stand by her as an accomplice--but--thoseterrifying eyes were not the eyes of her own Vagualame--no! How toact? She was left no choice. The old man was pushing her relentlesslytowards the door. He must be obeyed. Listening, on the alert, Juve-Vagualame remained in the room, ready toconceal himself behind the curtains. Who were these mounting thestairs? Some of the household? Suppose Bobinette's agitation was somarked that it aroused their suspicions, and his presence wasrevealed?. . . Should the position become untenable, he would leave bythe window, close to which he was standing, make his way over theroofs to a neighbouring house--but--confound it!. . . Neither the gunpiece would be in his hands, nor would he have learned where Bobinettehad her rendezvous with Corporal Vinson next morning!. . . Bobinette was swaying in the doorway, as though the landing werered-hot ploughshares to be walked on! The ordeal was beyond her! * * * * * Four persons set foot on the landing. (A peremptory order from deNaarboveck had caused Wilhelmine to descend. ) Inspector Michel and his colleague stared at the individuals in whosecompany they found themselves--the young groom and his amazing mother! With a caricatural gesture of disdain, and an off-handed air, thiscorpulent personage demanded stridently: "Who are these gentlemen?" Inspector Michel looked the outrageous creature up and down. "Who are you, Madame?. . . What are you doing here?" The inspector's tone was severity itself. Juve, behind his window-curtains, breathed a sigh of relief. "Ah, Michel has it in hand! That's all right!" The groom's mother was taken aback--she hesitated; thereupon, Inspector Michel stated his name and rank! On that, the large body ofthis irrepressible personage made straight for him, caught himfamiliarly by the neck, and whispered in his ear. The effect of the whispered words was to put Inspector Michel out ofcountenance: he looked abashed. He was annoyed: his tone was one ofprotest. "I recognise you now, certainly--Monsieur!. . . But since when have youtaken it upon yourself to--to start operations of the kind we have inhand--_we_, the representatives of Police Headquarters?" The woman's retort was haughty. "I belong to the information department of the Second Bureau. " "The Second Bureau does not make arrests--not that I am awareof--Captain!" The obstreperous mother of the pretended groom was--Captain Loreuil! Pointing to his young companion, Captain Loreuil announced: "This gentleman belongs to the secret service department of the HomeOffice!. . . But what really matters, Inspector, is that we are losingtime! Let us effect a capture--the capture is the thing!" The distracted Bobinette, still swaying in the doorway, failed tograsp the full meaning of what these intruders were saying. InspectorMichel marched up to the trembling girl. "Mademoiselle! Are you alone in your room?" Bobinette nodded. She was incapable of speech. The inspector ignoredthe nod, brushed past her, stepped into the room and glanced rapidlyround. Bobinette, wild-eyed with fear, watched the proceedings. She saw the stoutwoman moving the chairs, looking under the bed, shaking the hangings. Thefussy, obnoxious creature tore apart the window-curtains. . . . Vagualame wasexposed to view!. . . He had not escaped, then! They dragged the old fellow from his hiding-place: they promptlyhandcuffed him. "Vagualame! In the name of the law I arrest you!" declared InspectorMichel. Captain Loreuil shouted in his natural voice, which, issuing from thisapparent woman, had a ludicrous effect: "Ha! at last we have got him!" Juve-Vagualame did not budge. With inward joy, he awaited the arrestof Bobinette. "Things go well, " he thought: "if not so well as old Michel believes. Comrade Juve in the bracelets, and Vagualame free! But he holdsBobinette in his hand--the old ruffian's accomplice, unmasked!" What was this? Could Juve believe his ears?. . . Michel apologising tothis guilty creature! Felicitating her on her escape from Vagualame'sclutches! What the deuce?. . . "Ah, Mademoiselle! You never suspected who was so near you, now didyou?" Inspector Michel was saying to Bobinette, whose self-confidencewas beginning to return. "You have certainly had a narrow escape, " he went on with acongratulatory smile. "This old ruffian meant to murder you, I amconvinced. " Pointing triumphantly to Juve-Vagualame, he added: "But Vagualame cannot harm you now! The law has got him! The law hassaved you, Mademoiselle!" Inspector Michel made a sign. His colleague and the Home Officedetective dragged Juve from the room. Juve offered no resistance. "That Michel is an idiot--the completest of idiots, " he thought. "Come along, now! We are off to the Dépôt!" commanded Michel, shakingJuve-Vagualame by the shoulder. Juve was about to tear off his false beard, make himself known, andget Bobinette arrested. He thought better of it. He was pretty surethe girl doubted his genuineness. This arrest under her eyes wouldpersuade her that the Vagualame they were taking to prison was thereal Vagualame. . . . Better that she should cherish this delusion forthe present. Once out of the de Naarboveck house, he could explainmatters to his colleagues. Thinking thus, Juve-Vagualame, encircled by watchful policemen, descended the stairs. On the first floor he caught a glimpse of thebaron and his daughter in the ante-room. De Naarboveck's bearing wasdignified: Wilhelmine seemed terribly frightened. There was a scared, hunted look on her pallid face. Behind Juve-Vagualame in his handcuffs followed the pseudo-mother. Judging it unwise to make himself known to the master and mistress ofthe house, Captain Loreuil played his part vigorously to the last. Close on Juve's heels he came, shouting: "This is a nice kind of shop, this is!. . . You shall not remain here, Sosthène, my child! Come, then, with your mother! She will find you avery different situation to this! My poor Sosthène!". . . Majestically, with a wave of her arm signifying disdainful rejection, the pseudo-mother drew her shawl of many colours about her corpulentperson and sailed out of the de Naarboveck mansion. * * * * * Meanwhile, up on the third floor, a puzzled, confused, batteredBobinette was recovering from the shocks and terrors of the evening. She lay back in an arm-chair trying to piece things together. Two things were clear: Vagualame was arrested; she was free, and withthe famous gun piece still in her possession. . . . To-morrow, she wouldobey orders received: she would take the piece to Havre, accompaniedby Corporal Vinson, who would bring the plan of the apparatus. Bobinette had bent her head to the storm: she now raised it proudly. XIX THE MYSTERIOUS ABBÉ Fandor half opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? This was not the barrackdormitory, with its gaunt white-washed walls and morning clamour. . . . Of course! He was in a bedroom of a cheap hotel in Paris. Cretonnecurtains shaded the window. A ray of light was reflected in a hangingmirror of scant dimensions, decidedly the worse for wear. Below itstood a washstand. On its cracked and dirty marble top could be seen achipped and ill-matched basin and soapdish. A lopsided table occupiedthe middle of the room. On a chair by his bed lay Fandor-Vinson'suniform. His valise reposed on a rickety chest of drawers. Fandor wasloath to rouse himself. His bed was warm, while about the room icydraughts from ill-fitting door and window were circulating freely. He would have to get up presently, dress, and keep his appointment. His appointment! Ah! Wide awake now, our journalist considered thesituation. A couple of days ago the adjutant had announced: "Corporal Vinson, you have eight days' leave: you can quit barracks atnoon to-morrow. " Fandor had been given leave several times already: he merely replied: "Thanks, Lieutenant. " He then looked out for a post card from the spies, appointing arendezvous. A letter was handed to him by the post sergeant. The letter commenced: "_My dearest darling_. ". . . "Ah!" thought Fandor. "Now I am indeed a soldier. I receive a loveletter!" His unknown correspondent wrote: _"It is so long since I saw you, but as you have eight days' leave Ican make up for lost time! Would you not like to arrange a meeting foryour first morning in Paris? You will go as usual, will you not, tothe Army and Navy Hotel, boulevard Barbès? You will find me athalf-past eleven to the minute, in the rue de Rivoli, at the corner ofthe rue Castiglione. We might breakfast together. To our earlymeeting, then! I send you all my kisses. "_ The signature was illegible. Fandor understood the hidden meaning. He was to hand over the designas he had promised; but he had decided to put them off with aconcocted design of his own! He must hasten now to the appointedmeeting place. Fandor rose at once. Whilst dressing he decided: "I shall go in mufti--be Jérôme Fandor, undisguised. Better be on thesafe side--this may be an anti-spy trap. Of course I shall miss myrendezvous; but _they_ will not be put off so easily. They will writeat once, making a new appointment. Then I shall go as Corporal Vinson, if I think it the wisest thing to do. " Fandor ran down the rickety stairs. He learned from Octave, the hotelporter, that his room had been paid for three days in advance. Sayinghe would not be back until the evening, probably, Fandor stepped on tothe boulevard Barbès, and hailed a cab. "Take me to the foot of the Vendôme column, " he ordered. * * * * * Arrived at the rendezvous, Fandor sauntered along, awaitingdevelopments. Presently he noticed in the distance a figure he seemedto know. It was moving towards him. "My word! I was not mistaken, " thought Fandor, watching the youngwoman. She also was sauntering under the arcades of the rue de Rivoli, glancing at the fascinating display of feminine apparel in the shopwindows. Fandor drew aside, watching her every movement, and swearingsoftly. The girl came nearer. Fandor's curiosity made him make himself known, that he might see what she would do. He showed himself, and salutedwith an impressive wave of his hat, exclaiming: "Why, it is Mademoiselle Berthe!" The girl stopped. "Why--yes--it is Monsieur Fandor!. . . How are you?" "Flourishing, thanks! I need not ask how you are, Mademoiselle!. . . Youbloom!" Bobinette smiled. "How is it I find you here at this time of day?" "Why, Mademoiselle, just in the same way as you happen to be here--thefancy took me to pass this way!. . . I often do. " "Oh!" cried Bobinette in an apologetic tone. "Now, I am going to askyou how it is you have never responded to Monsieur de Naarboveck'sinvitation to take a cup of tea with us now and then! We were speakingof you only the other day. Monsieur de Naarboveck said he never sawyour signature in _La Capitale_ now--that most probably you weretravelling. " "I have, in fact, just returned to Paris. Are all well at Monsieur deNaarboveck's? Has Mademoiselle Wilhelmine recovered from the sad shockof Captain Brocq's death?. . . His end was so sudden!" "Oh, yes, Monsieur. " Fandor would have liked to find out the exact nature of Bobinette'sintimacy with the ill-fated officer, also to what extent she was inlove with Henri de Loubersac; but, as she showed by her manner thatshe did not relish this talk, either because of the turn it had taken, or because it was held in a public place, Fandor had to take hisleave. Bobinette went off. Fandor noted the time as he continued hissaunter. It was a quarter to twelve. Of the few passers-by there wasnot one who merited a second glance or thought!. . . Impatiently hewaited, five, ten minutes: at one o'clock he betook himself to hishotel. There he found an express message, unsigned. It ran: "_My darling, my dear love, forgive me for not meeting you this morning in the rue de Rivoli, as arranged. It was impossible. Return to the same place at two o'clock, I will be punctual, I promise you. . . . Of course you will wear your uniform. I want to see how handsome you look in it!_" "I do not like this, " thought Fandor, rereading the message. "Why askme to come in uniform?. . . Do they know I came in mufti thismorning?. . . I shall go again; but I think it is high time I returnedto civilian life!" * * * * * It was two by the clock on the refuge, in the rue de Rivoli. Fandor-Vinson emerged from the Metropolitan and crossed to the cornerof the rue Castiglione. He took a few steps under the arcade, sayingto himself: "Punctual to the tick and in uniform! The meeting should come off allright this time!" A delicately gloved hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said: "My dear Corporal! How are you?" Fandor-Vinson turned sharply and faced--a priest!. . . He recognised theabbé. It was he of the Verdun motor-car. "Very well! And you, Monsieur l'Abbé?. . . Your friend? Is he with you?" "He is not, my dear Corporal!" "Is he at Verdun?" The abbé's reply was a look of displeasure. "I do not know where he is, " he said sharply, after a pause. . . . "Butthat is neither here nor there, Corporal, " he went on in a moreamiable tone. "We are going to take a little journey together. " This news perturbed Fandor-Vinson: it was not to his liking. The abbé took him by the arm. "You will excuse my absence this morning? To keep the appointment wasimpossible. . . . Ah! Hand me the promised document, will you?. . . That isit?. . . Very good. . . . Thank you!. . . By the by, Corporal--there you seeour special train. " The priest pointed to a superb motor-car drawn upalongside the pavement. A superior-looking chauffeur was seated atthe wheel. "Shall we get in? We have a fairly long way to go, and it is importantthat we arrive punctually. " Fandor could do nothing but agree. They seated themselves. The abbéshared a heavy travelling rug. "We will wrap ourselves up well, " said he. "It is far from warm, andthere is no need to catch cold--it is not part of our programme!. . . You can start now, chauffeur! We are ready. " Once in motion, the abbé pointed to a voluminous package whichprevented Fandor from stretching his legs. "We can change places from time to time, for you cannot be comfortablewith this package encumbering the floor of the car like this. " "Oh, " replied Fandor-Vinson, "one takes things as they come!. . . But weshould be much more comfortable if we fastened this rather clumsypiece of baggage to the front seat, beside the chauffeur, who can keepan eye on it!" "Corporal! You cannot be thinking of what you are saying!" Thepriest's reply was delivered in a dry authoritative voice. "I have put my foot in it, " thought Fandor. "I should just like toknow how!" He was about to speak: the abbé cut in: "I am very tired, Corporal, so excuse me if I doze a little! In anhour or so, I shall be quite refreshed. There will be ample time for atalk after that. " Fandor could but agree. The car was speeding up the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. They wereleaving Paris--for what destination? "Does your chauffeur know the route, Monsieur l'Abbé?" "I hope so--why?" "Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of thesesuburbs with my eyes shut. " "Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towardsRouen. " With that the abbé wrapped himself in his share of the amplerug and closed his eyes. Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought herequired. "Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?. . . What is this mysteriouspackage which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?" Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It wasprotected by a thick wrapping of straw. "Then who was this abbé?" His speech showed he was French. He wore hiscassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was thedelicate hand of a Churchman--not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor, plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time. The car sped on its way, devouring the miles fleetly. No sooner out ofParis than Saint-Germain was cleared--Mantes left behind! As they wereapproaching Bonniéres, Fandor, whose eyes had been fixed on theinterminable route, as though at some turn of the road he might catchsight of their real destination, now felt that the abbé was watchingthe landscape through half-closed eyes. "You are awake, then, Monsieur l'Abbé?" observed Fandor-Vinson. "I was wondering where we were. " "We are coming to Bonniéres. " "Good!" The abbé sat up, flung his rug aside. "Do as I do, Corporal. Do not fold up the rug. Throw it over ourpackage. Prying eyes will not suspect its presence. " With the most stupid air in the world, Fandor asked: "Must it not be seen, then?" "Of course not! And at Bonniéres we must be on guard: the police thereare merciless: they arrest everyone who exceeds the speed limit. . . . Nor do we wish to arouse their curiosity about us personally. There isa number of troops stationed here: the colonel is notorious for hisstrictness: he is correctness personified. " Fandor-Vinson stared questionably at the abbé. "But you do not seem to understand anything, Corporal Vinson!" hecried in an irritated tone. "Whatever I say seems to send you into astate of stupefaction!. . . I shall never do anything with you, you arehopeless!. . . Ah, here is Bonniéres! Once outside the town, I will giveyou some useful explanations. " A bare three minutes after leaving Bonniéres behind, the Abbè turnedto Fandor and asked in a low voice: "What do you think is in that package, Corporal?" "Good heavens! Monsieur l'Abbé. ". . . "Corporal, that contains a fortune for you and for me . . . A piece ofartillery . . . The mouthpiece of 155-R . . . Rapid firer!. . . You see itsimportance?. . . To-night we sleep in the outskirts of Rouen . . . To-morrow, we leave early for Havre. . . . As I am known there, Corporal, we shall have to separate. . . . You will go with the driver to the Nezd'Antifer. . . . There you will find a fishing-boat in charge of afriendly sailor . . . All you have to do is to hand over this package tohim. . . . He will make for the open sea, where he will deliver it--intothe right hands. ". . . Involuntarily Fandor drew away from the priestly spy. The statementsjust made to him were of so grave a nature; the adventure in which hefound himself involved was so dangerous, so nefarious, that Fandorthrilled with terror and disgust. He kept silence: he was thinking. Suddenly he saw his way clear. "Between Havre and the Nez d'Antifer I must get rid of this gun piece. However interesting my investigations are I cannot possibly deliversuch a thing to the enemy, to a foreign power! Death forpreference!". . . His companion broke in. "And now, Corporal, I fancy you fully understand how awkward it wouldbe for you, much more so than for me, if this package were opened, because you are a soldier, and in uniform. " Fandor showed an unflinching front, but a wave of positive anguishrushed over him. "This cursed abbé has me in his net!" he thought. "Like it, or not, Imust follow him now. I am regularly let in!. . . As a civilian, asFandor the journalist, I might go to the first military dépôt I cancome at, and state that I had discovered a priest who was going tohand over to a foreign power an important piece of artillery!. . . Thepretended Vinson would have done the trick and would then vanish. . . . But in uniform!. . . They would certainly accuse me of suspicioustraffic with spies. . . . They would confine me--cell me. . . . I shouldhave the work of the world to obtain a release under six months!. . . Another point. . . . Why had they chosen him, Corporal Vinson as theybelieved, for such a mission?. . . Assuredly the spies possessed athousand other agents, capable of carrying triumphantly through thisdangerous mission, this delivery of a stolen piece of ordnance to asailor spy in the pay of a foreign power inimical to France!" It was horrible! Abominable! This spy traffic! Only to think of itsoiled one's soul! Fandor sickened at the realisation of what wasinvolved--that this betrayal of France was not a solitaryinstance--that there must be a hundred betrayals going on at that verymoment! That France was being bought and sold in a hundred ways forJudas money--France! His thoughts turned shudderingly away from such hell depths oftreachery. He brought his mind to bear on other points. "Why, after so much mystery, such precautions, does this Judas of anabbé disclose the contents of that damnable package before itsdelivery? Why this halt in the outskirts of Rouen when a quick run, aquick handing over of the package is so essential?. . . With such apowerful machine, why this stop in a journey of some 225 kilometres?" Fandor felt a cold shiver run down his spine. "Suppose this abbé is playing a trick on me?. . . If yesterday, to-day, . . . No matter when . . . I have betrayed myself? If these people have discoveredmy identity? If, knowing that I am not Vinson, but Fandor, they have mademe put on uniform, placed in the car with me a compromising portion of agun, and are going to hand me over to the military authorities, either atRouen, or elsewhere?" The abbé, comfortably ensconced in the corner, was slumbering again. Fandor cast stealthy glances at his companion, considering himcarefully. Now he came to examine him, surely this priest's face had a queerlook?. . . The eyebrows were too regular . . . Painted?. . . How delicatehis skin?. . . Not the slightest trace of a beard?. . . A shoe--thetraditional silver-buckled shoe of the priest--was visible below thecassock. . . . That was all right . . . But, how slender his ankle?. . . Fandor pulled himself up. What would he imagine next? True, he waswise to suspect everything, everybody--test them, try them--in thisterrible position he had got himself into, nevertheless, he must keepa clear head. The car was passing through a village. The abbé opened his eyes. "Monsieur l'Abbé, " declared Fandor, "I am frozen to death. Would youobject to our stopping a minute so that I might swallow a glass ofrum?" The abbé signalled the driver. The car stopped before a little inn. The innkeeper appeared. "Bring the driver a cognac!" ordered the priest. "Give Monsieur aglass of rum. You may pour me out a glass of aniseed cordial. " "Aniseed cordial!" thought Fandor. "That is a liqueur for priests, youths, and women!" "In an hour, " said the abbé, "we shall be at Rouen. We shall passthrough the town; a few kilometres further on, at Barentin, we shallhalt for the night. . . . I know a very good little hotel there!" Fandor refrained from comment. What he thought was: "A fig for Barentin!. . . If I see the least sign that this littlefellow is going to give me the slip, leave me for a minute--if itlooks as though he were going to warn the authorities--I know someonewho will take to flight . . . And how!". . . XX MAN OR WOMAN Kilometres succeeded kilometres in endless procession. Ceaselessly thelandscapes unrolled themselves like views on a cinema film. Swiftly, regularly, relentlessly, the car sped forward. Again the priest, withhalf-closed eyes, snuggled into his cushions. Fandor felt strangely drowsy. This was due, he thought, to the longjourney in the open air, and to a nervous fatigue induced by the tenseemotions of the day. "The nuisance is, " thought he, "that no sooner shall I lay my head onthe pillow to-night than I shall be snoring like the Seven Sleepers. " The car continued to advance. After a sharp descent, the car turned to the right: the road now woundalong the side of a hill, bordered by the Seine on one side, and onthe other by perpendicular cliffs. High in the grey distance, dominating the countryside, rose the venerated sanctuary ofRouen--Nôtre Dame de Bon Secours. "We have only six more kilometres to cover, " remarked the abbé. Soon they were moving at a slower pace through the outskirts of Rouen. Jolted on the cobbles of the little street, thrown against each otherevery time the car side-slipped on the two rails running along themiddle of the roadway, Fandor and the little abbé were knocked wideawake. "We are not going to stop?" asked Fandor. "Yes. We must recruit ourselves: besides, I have to call at a certaingarage. " "Attention!" said Fandor to himself. "The doings of this little priestare likely to have a peculiar interest for me! At the least sign ofdanger, my Fandor, I give thee two minutes to cut and run!" Our journalist knew Rouen well. He knew that to reach Barentin, thecar, passing out of the great square, surrounded by the new barracks, would follow the quay, traverse the town from end to end, pass nearthe famous transshipping bridge, and join the high road again. "If we pull up at one of the garages along the quays, all will bewell, " thought Fandor. . . . "In case of an alarm, a run of a hundredyards or so would bring me to one of the many electric tramways. . . . Ishould board a tram--devil take them, if they dared to chase and catchme!" The car had reached the bridge which prolongs the rue Jeanne d'Arcacross the Seine. They were now in the heart of Rouen. The chauffeurturned: "Can I stop, Monsieur? I need petrol and water. " The priest pointed to a garage. "Stop there!" The chauffeur began to supply the wants of his machine with the helpof an apprentice. The priest jumped out and entered the garage. Fandorfollowed on his heels, saying: "It does one good to stretch one's legs!" The abbé seemed in no wise disturbed. He walked up to the owner of theplace. "Tell me, my friend, have you, by chance, received a telegramaddressed to the Abbé Gendron?" "That is so, Monsieur. It will be for you?". . . "Yes, for me. I asked that a message should be sent to me here, ifnecessary. " Whilst the priest tore open his telegram, Fandor lit a cigarette. . . . By hook or by crook, he must see the contents of this telegram whichhis travelling companion was reading with frowning brows. But Fandormight squint in the glass for the reflection of the message, passbehind the abbé to peep over his shoulder while pretending to examinethe posters decorating the garage walls: he had his pains for hisreward: it was impossible to decipher the text. . . . He must awaitdevelopments. When the car was ready to start he decided to speak. "You have not received vexatious instructions, I hope, Monsieurl'Abbé?" "Not at all!" "There is always something disquieting about a telegram!" "This one tells me nothing I did not know already--at least, suspected! The only result is that instead of going to Havre we shallnow go to Dieppe. " "Why this change of destination?" was Fandor's mental query. "And whatdid this precious priest suspect?" The abbé was giving the chauffeur instructions. "You will leave Rouen by the new route. . . . You will draw up at anhotel which you will find on the right, named, if my memory does notplay me false, _The Flowery Crossways_. " "A pretty name!" remarked Fandor. "A stupid name, " replied the abbé. "The house does not stand at anycross-roads, and the place is as flowerless as it is possible to be!"There was a pause. "That matters little, however, Corporal: thequarters are good--the table sufficient. You shall judge for yourselfnow: here is the inn!" Under the skillful guidance of the chauffeur, the car turned sharply, and passed under a little arch which served as a courtyard entrance. The car came to a stand-still in a great yard, crowded withunharnessed carts, stablemen, and Normandy peasants in their Sundaybest. A stout man came forward. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball. This was the hotel-keeper. To every question put by the little abbé hereplied with a broad grin which displayed his toothless gums. Hisvoice was as odd as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering. "You can give us dinner?" "Why, certainly, Monsieur le Curé. " "You have a coach-house where the car can be put up?" With a comprehensive sweep of his arm, mine host of _The FloweryCrossways_ indicated the courtyard. The carts of his regular clientswere left there in his charge: he could not see why the motor-car ofthese strangers could not pass the night there also. "And you can reserve three rooms for us?" was the little abbé's finaldemand. This time the face of mine host lost its jovial assurance. "Three rooms? Ah, no, Monsieur le Curé--that is quite impossible!. . . But we can manage all the same. . . . I have an attic for your chauffeur, and a fine double-bedded room for you and Monsieur the corporal. . . . That will suit you--I think?" "Yes, quite well! Very well, indeed!" declared Fandor, delighted atthis opportunity of keeping his queer travelling companion under hiseye. The little abbé was far from satisfied. "What! You have not two rooms for us?" he expostulated. "I have ahorror of sharing a room with anyone whatever! I am not accustomed toit; and I cannot sleep under those conditions!" "Monsieur le Curé, it's full up here! I have a wedding party on myhands!" "Well, then is there no hotel near by, where I can. ". . . "No, Monsieur le Curé: I am the only hotel-keeper about here!" "Is it far to the parsonage?" "But, my dear Abbé!" protested Fandor: "I beg of you to take the room!I can sleep anywhere . . . On two chairs in the dining-room!" "Certainly not!" declared the little priest. He turned to thehotel-keeper: "Tell me just how far the parsonage is from here?" "At least eight kilometres. " "Oh, then, it is out of the question! What a disagreeable businessthis is!. . . We shall pass a dreadful night!" The abbé was greatly put out. "No, no! I will leave the room to you!" again protested Fandor. "Do not talk so childishly, Corporal! We have to be on the road againto-morrow. What good purpose will it serve if we allow ourselves to beover-fatigued and so fit for nothing?. . . After all, a bad night will notlast forever!. . . We must manage to put up with the inconvenience. " Fandor nodded acquiescence. Things were going as he wished. "Dinner at once!" ordered the abbé. An affable Normandy girl laid their table in a small room: a profusionof black cocks with scarlet combs decorated the paper on its walls. The effect was at once bewildering and weirdly funereal. Meanwhile the abbé walked up and down in the courtyard; to judge byhis expression he was in no pleasant frame of mind. When he came to table, Fandor noticed that he forgot to pronounce theBenedicite. He was still more interested when the ecclesiasticattacked a tasty chicken with great gusto. "This is certainly the 1st of December, therefore a fast day accordingto the episcopal mandate, which I have read . . . And behold my littlepriest is devouring meat! The hotel-keeper offered us fish just now, and I quite understood why, but it seems fasting is not obligatory forthis priest--unless this priest is not a priest!" Whilst the abbé was enjoying his chicken in silence, with eyes fixedon his plate, Fandor once again subjected him to a minute examination. He noted his delicate features, his slim hands, his gracefulattitudes: he was so impressed by this and various little details, that when the abbé, after dessert and a last glass of cider, rose andproposed that they should go up to their room for the night, Fandordeclared to himself: "My head on a charger for it! I bet that little abbé is a woman, thenmore mystery, and a probable husband or lover who may come on thescene presently! Fandor, my boy, beware of this baggage! Not an eyemust you close this night!" The priest had had the famous package taken upstairs and placed at thefoot of his bed. Fandor and the abbé wished each other good night. "As for me, " declared Fandor, unlacing his boots, "I cannot keep myeyes open!" "I can say the same, " replied his companion. Fandor's next remark had malice in it. "I pity you, Monsieur l'Abbé! No doubt you have long prayers torecite--especially if you have not finished your breviary!" "You are mistaken, " answered the abbé, with a slight smile: "I amdispensed from a certain number of religious exercises!" "A fig for you, my fine fellow!" said Fandor to himself. "The deuce isin if I do not catch you out over one of your lies!" The little abbé was seated on a chair attending to his nails. Fandor walked to the door, explaining: "I have a horror of sleeping in an hotel bedroom with an unlockeddoor!. . . You will allow me to turn the key?" "Turn it, then!" Locking the door, Fandor drew the key and threw it on to the priest'slap. "There, Monsieur l'Abbé, if you like to put it on your bedside table!" Fandor's action had a purpose. Ten to one you settle the sex of adoubtful individual by such a test. A man instinctively draws hisknees together when an object is thrown on them: a woman draws themapart, to make a wider surface of the skirt for the reception of anarticle and thus prevent its fall to the ground. Fandor was not surprised to see the little priest instinctively act aswould a woman. . . . But, would not a priest, accustomed to wear acassock, act as a woman would? Fandor realised that, in this instance, the riddle of sex was still unsolved. Fandor-Vinson began to undress: the priest continued to polish hisnails. "You are not going to bed, Monsieur l'Abbé?" "Yes, I am. " The ecclesiastic took off his shoes; then his collar. Then he lay downon the bed. "You will sleep with all your clothes on?" asked Fandor-Vinson. "Yes, when I have to sleep in a bed I am not accustomed to!. . . ShouldI blow out the candle, Corporal?" "Blow it out, Monsieur l'Abbé. " Fandor felt sure the little priest was a woman disguised. He dare nottake off his cassock because he was she! Wishing his strange companion a good night's rest, Fandor snuggledunder the bedclothes. Determined to keep awake and alert, he tried topass the dark hours by mentally reciting _Le Cid_! XXI A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING "Let us make peace!" Juve held out his hand--a firm, strong hand--the hand of a trusty man. "Let us make peace frankly, sincerely, wholeheartedly!" Lieutenant de Loubersac signed the pact, without a moment'shesitation: he put his hand into the hand of Juve, and shook itwarmly. "Agreed, Monsieur: we are of one mind on that point!" The two men stood silent, considering each other, despite the violenceof the west wind sweeping across the end of the stockade, bringingwith it enormous foam-tipped waves, rising from a rough, grey sea. The detective and the officer were on the jetty of Dieppe harbour. This chill December afternoon, the sea looked dark and threatening. Since their arrival at Dieppe, Juve and de Loubersac had mutuallyavoided each other. Time and again they had come face to face, eachmore bored, more cross-looking than the other. This mutual, sulkyavoidance was over: they had made it up. * * * * * The evening before, following his arrest under the guise of Vagualame, Juve had been conducted to the Dépôt by his colleagues. No sooner werethey seated in the taxi, under the charge of Inspector Michel and hiscompanion, than Juve made himself known to his gratified, unsuspectingcolleagues. It was a humiliating surprise for the two policemen: theyfelt fooled. Juve, realising that neither Michel nor his colleagues were atpresent likely to lend him their generous aid in the carrying out ofcertain plans, decided to keep silence: nor would he let them into thesecret of his discoveries regarding Bobinette's highly suspiciouscharacter and conduct: that she was an accomplice, a tool of the realVagualame was established beyond a doubt. The crestfallen Michel had to unhandcuff Juve and restore him toliberty; but he extracted a promise from his amazing colleague that hewould see Monsieur Havard next morning, and give him an account of allthat had passed. Accordingly, at seven o'clock next morning, Juve was received byMonsieur Havard. Juve had hoped for a few minutes' interview, then a rush to the EastStation, there to await the arrival of Corporal Vinson. The interviewwas a long one: Juve was too late. But he had not lost time at Headquarters. The Second Bureau hadtelephoned, warning Police Headquarters that Corporal Vinson, arrivedin Paris, was going to Dieppe very shortly, where a foreignpleasure-boat would take possession of a piece of artillery, stolen, and probably being taken care of by the corporal. This information coincided with what Juve had learned from Bobinette, and completed it. He must start for Dieppe instanter. If he had anyluck he would arrest the soldier, and Bobinette as well. She wouldconvey the piece to Vinson in the morning, and would accompany him toDieppe. She was daring enough to do it. At the Saint Lazare station Juve had caught the train for Dieppe whichmeets the one o'clock boat, bound for England. He had just settledhimself in a first-class compartment, of which he was the solitaryoccupant, when he recognised an officer of the Second Bureau walkingin the corridor--Lieutenant Henri de Loubersac! The train was barely in motion when de Loubersac seated himselfopposite Juve. The recognition had been mutual. A few hours before, Henri de Loubersac had learned of theextraordinary arrest of the false Vagualame. He then understood thatit was with Juve he had talked on the quay near the rue de Solférino. The officer of the Second Bureau was profoundly mortified: he had beentaken in by a civilian! He declared: "It is the sort of thing one does not do! It is unworthy of anhonourable man!" In the Batignolles tunnel Juve and he began discussing this point: deLoubersac angry, excited; Juve immovably calm. The discussion lasted until their train ran into Dieppe station. Theyhad exhausted the subject, but had scarcely touched on the motives oftheir journey to this seaport. The two men separated with a stiffsalute. Obviously both were keeping a watch on the approaches to the quay:they encountered each other repeatedly; it became ridiculous. Beingintelligent men devoted to their duty, they determined to act inconcert for the better fulfillment of this same duty--duty to theirrespective chiefs--duty to the State--duty to France! So they made it up! After their cordial handshake, Juve, wishing to define the situation, asked: "Now what are we after exactly--you and I? What is the common aim ofthe Second Bureau and Police Headquarters?" De Loubersac's reply was: "A document has been stolen from us: we want to find it. " Juve said: "Two crimes have been committed: we wish to seize the assassin. " "And, " continued de Loubersac, with a smile, "as it is probable themurderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune is none other than theindividual who stole our document. ". . . "By uniting our efforts, " finished Juve, "we have every chance ofdiscovering the one and the other. " There was a pause. Then Juve asked: "Nevertheless, Lieutenant, since I find you here, I fancy there issome side development--some incident?. . . In reality, have you not cometo Dieppe to intercept a certain corporal who is to deliver to aforeign power a piece of artillery of the highest importance?" "You have hit it!" was de Loubersac's reply. "I see you know aboutthis gun affair!" Juve nodded. The two men were slowly returning towards the town by way of the outerharbour quays. They approached a dock, in which was anchored a prettylittle yacht flying the Dutch flag. Juve stared hard at this elegantcraft. De Loubersac enquired if yachting was his favourite sport. Juvesmiled. "Far from it! Nevertheless, when that yacht weighs anchor, it would bemy delight to inspect her from stem to stern, accompanied by theCustom House officials. It is my conviction that Corporal Vinson willsoon turn up, slip aboard with the stolen gun-piece, conceal it insome prepared hiding-hole below: his otherwise uninteresting personwill be hidden also. " "I am of the same mind, " declared de Loubersac. As the two men strolled they exchanged information. De Loubersac told Juve that, according to the latest messages from theSecond Bureau, Vinson had left Paris with a priest, in a hiredmotor-car, and had taken the road to Rouen, that in all probabilitythey would reach Dieppe before nightfall, and when they arrived!. . . "It is precisely at that moment we shall arrest them. I have made allarrangements with the local police, " finished de Loubersac. "Ah!" murmured Juve. "What a pity Captain Loreuil and Inspector Michelcame on the scenes last night and arrested me prematurely, thinkingthey had got the real Vagualame, for now I can never make use of theruffian's disguise to pump the different members of the great spyorganisation we are on the track of!" "But what prevents you now from masquerading as Vagualame?" demandedde Loubersac. "Why, when no one knew I was a false Vagualame, I could make up in hislikeness: now they know the truth; not only is it known by thefollowers of Vagualame by this time, but--I am certain of it--I wasrecognised by the real Vagualame himself!" "Did he see you then?" "I would stake my life on it!" asserted Juve. "Just when?. . . Where?. . . In the street?" de Loubersac was keenlyinterested. "No--just when I was arrested. " "But, from what I have heard, there were very few of you!" cried deLoubersac. "Then the real Vagualame must have been at the Baron deNaarboveck's?" "Hah!" was Juve's non-committal exclamation. "Whom do you suspect?" Juve kept silence. Suddenly he concealed himself behind a deserted goods waggon. DeLoubersac did the same. Both fixed examining eyes on a couple comingin their direction. They were not the expected pair of traitors. "Who?" again asked de Loubersac. Juve was impenetrable. "I am inclined to think that the companion, Mademoiselle Berthe, otherwise Bobinette, has played, and perhaps still plays, anincomprehensible part in these affairs. " "You find it incomprehensible?" Juve burst into laughter. "I do not!" "Well then, were I in your place, I should not hesitate to arresther!" "And then?" "Oh, explanations could follow. " Juve considered his companion a minute: then, taking his arm infriendly fashion, continued their walk along the quay. "I have a theory, " said Juve; "that when dealing with such complexaffairs as these we are now engaged on, affairs in which the actorsare but puppets, acting on behalf of the prime mover, a master-mind, ungetatable, or almost so, we should aim at first securing the primemover. To secure the puppets and leave the prime mover free is toobtain but a partial success: the victory is then more apparent thanreal. . . . I might have arrested Bobinette as we shall probably arrestCorporal Vinson before long; but would her arrest furnish us with themaster key to this problem? Have we not a better chance ofdiscovering the powerful head of this band if we allow hiscollaborators to perform their manoeuvres in a fancied security?" The prime mover of these mysteries? Juve was convinced that the primemover of these nefarious mysteries, the murderous master mind was, andcould be, none other than--Fantômas! Juve paused abruptly. A man was coming to meet them--an investigating agent attached to thegeneral commissariat department at Dieppe. "They are asking for Monsieur Henri on the telephone, " he announced. De Loubersac rushed to the police station. Over the telephone, a WarOffice colleague informed him that the fugitive corporal, accompaniedby a priest, had during the last hour arrived at a garage in Rouen. Meanwhile Juve had received a cypher telegram at the police station, confirming the news, with the addition that, after replenishing themotor with petrol, they had set off again at once--they had received atelegram. Juve and de Loubersac returned to the quay. "Our beauties will not be so long now, " said he. With twilight the tempest had died down, night was falling fast. Thewaters in the docks reflected the light from the quay lamps on theirshining, heaving, surface. Now, for some time, Henri de Loubersac had been longing to ask Juve aquestion, longing yet fearing to voice it--a question relating to hispersonal affairs. Had not Juve, as Vagualame, clearly insinuated thatWilhelmine de Naarboveck must have been the mistress of Captain Brocq?Had not de Loubersac protested vehemently against such an odiouscalumny? But now that he knew this statement was Juve's, he was in astate of torment--his love was bleeding with the torture of it! At last he summoned up courage to put the question to Juve. Juve frowned, looked embarrassed. He had foreseen the question. He didnot believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had been Captain Brocq'smistress; but he knew there was an undecipherable mystery in thisgirl's life, and he had an intuition that the discovery of thissecret would probably throw light on certain points which, as far ashe was concerned, had remained obscure. Was this fair-haired girlreally the baron's daughter? Since he had learned that Wilhelminevisited Lady Beltham's tomb regularly--this notorious Lady Beltham, mistress of Fantômas--he had been saying to himself: "No--Mademoiselle Wilhelmine is not the daughter of de Naarboveck, therich diplomat! But who, then, is she?" Juve knew it was useless to say this to de Loubersac, blinded by loveas he was; but his aim--a rather Machiavellian one--was to sow seedsof suspicion in the heart of this lover, which would drive him toprovoke an explanation, and force Wilhelmine to speak out, for shemust surely know the facts relating to her identity! This Machiavellian Juve did not hesitate to say to de Loubersac: "You remember what the false Vagualame told you when you talked withhim on the banks of the Seine?. . . You are to-day in the presence ofthis false Vagualame--of me, Juve--as you know. . . . Well, I am sorry totell you that, whatever outside appearance I adopt, my way ofthinking, my way of seeing things seldom changes. " Henri de Loubersac understood: he grew pale: his lips were pressedtightly together: he clenched his fists. Satisfied with this result, Juve repeated to himself this celebratedaphorism of the Bastille: "Slander! Slander! Some of it always sticks!" It was dark. In a little restaurant near by, the two men dinedfrugally: it was a mediocre repast, not too well cooked. Anxiousquestionings tormented them. The fugitives were long in coming: hadthey got wind of what was afoot? Had Vinson and the priest been warnedthat detectives were hot on their trail? If so, it was all up with thearrest! De Loubersac remained on the watch. Juve returned to the policestation. He was crossing the threshold when the telephone shrilled. News from the police sergeant at Rouen! The corporal and the abbé, leaving Rouen, had taken the road toBarentin, had dined at _The Flowery Crossways Hotel_, and, accordingto the chauffeur's statement, they would pass the night there: theywould reach Dieppe next morning at the earliest possible moment. Juve hurried with the news to de Loubersac. After a short consultationthey separated: each pretended he was going to his own particularhotel to get some rest. * * * * * Juve did not quit the neighbourhood of the quay. Installed in a customhouse official's sentry box, he stolidly set himself to pass the nightwith only his thoughts for company. An hour passed. Juve cocked alistening ear; there were furtive footsteps--stealthy movements closeby!. . . Juve thrilled!. . . If it were the traitor Vinson? The steps camenearer, nearer. Juve slipped out of his shelter. Someone rose upbefore him--and . . . Mutual recognition, and laughter! De Loubersac was on the watch as well! Jovially, Juve summed up the situation: "Lieutenant, we can truly declare that, civilian or soldier, inpursuit of our duty we are ever on a war footing!" Philosophically resigned to a wakeful night, the pair marchedstolidly, persistently, doggedly up and down the Dieppe quay--up anddown--up and down--an interminable up-and-down! XXII HAVE THEY BOLTED? Whilst Juve and Henri de Loubersac were watching through the midnighthours for the arrival of the traitors, Fandor in his hotel was also onthe alert. He did not mean to sleep a wink. The noise of themerry-making below helped him in that. . . . The revellers retired atlast, and silence fell on _The Flowery Crossways_. Fandor, feigningsleep, lay as still as a mouse; but how interminable seemed the hours! "Ah!" thought Fandor, "if only my abbé were sleeping, I should decamp;but that little bundle of mystery is wide awake: I can sense hiswakefulness!" Fandor lay listening for the next eternity of an hour to strike andpass into limbo. . . . At last dawn began to break: the window curtainsbecame transparent, a cock crowed in the yard below, the voice of astable-boy sounded loud in the stillness of early day. "You are awake, Corporal?" asked the priest in a low voice. "Quite, Monsieur l'Abbé. You feel rested?" "I only dosed off a little. " "Liar!" thought Fandor. He replied: "That is just what I did!" Fandor yawned loudly. "Will you get up first, Corporal? When you have finished dressing Iwill start. . . . In that way we shall not interfere with each other. " "But, Monsieur l'Abbé, I do not want to keep you waiting. . . . Do get upfirst!" "Certainly not! No, no! Do not let us stand on ceremony. " Fandor did not insist. He was too pleased with his room-mate'srequest. In next to no time--with a kind of barrack-room lick andpolish--Fandor-Vinson had washed his face, had dressed, was ready. "My dear Abbé, " said he, "if you would like me to, I will ascertainwhether your chauffeur is up, and will tell him to get ready tostart. " "I was going to ask you to do that very thing, Corporal. " As the door closed on him, Fandor turned with an ironic salute towardsthe little priest. "Much pleased!" said he to himself. "And with the hope of nevermeeting you on my road without Juve on my heels to offer you a pair ofhandcuffs--the right bracelets for you, and richly deserved. " Fandor did not awaken the chauffeur. He went into the yard: there heencountered the hotel-keeper. A brazen lie was the safe way, hedecided. "We have passed a very good night, " declared he. "My companions aregetting ready. . . . I am going to see if the car is in order for ourstart. " To himself Fandor added: "As my little priest's window looks in theopposite direction he cannot see what I am up to. " Fandor was an expert chauffeur. The car was fully supplied with petroland water--was in admirable order. The hotel-keeper was watching him. "If they ask for me, " said Fandor-Vinson, "tell them I have gone for atest run, and will be back in three minutes. " With that he jumped into his seat, set the car in motion, passedbeneath the archway and on to the high road. He turned in thedirection of Barentin. Fandor felt the charm of this early drive through the pastoral landsof Normandy. Hope rose in him: was he not escaping from the terrifyingconsequences of his Vinson masquerade! "Evidently, " thought he, "I must definitely abandon the rôle ofsoldier: the risks are too great: if the military authorities laid meby the heels, it would be all up with Fandor-Vinson!. . . The realVinson is certainly in foreign parts by now, and safe from arrest. . . . I know by sight the head spies at Verdun, the Norbet brothers: theelegant tourist and his car, and that false priest!. . . I can continuemy investigations better in my own shoes, and I can get Juve to helpme!" His thoughts dwelt on the mysterious abbé. "I would give a jolly lot to know who this pretended abbé really is!" He tore through the village of Barentin at racing speed. A covered cart full of peasants stopped the way. Fandor drew up. Headdressed the driver: "Monsieur, I have rather lost my bearings: will you kindly tell me inwhich direction the nearest railway station lies?" The driver, who was the mail carrier for Maronne, answered civilly: "You must go to Motteville, Corporal. At the first cross-roads youcome to, turn to the right--keep straight on--that will bring you tothe station. " Corporal Fandor-Vinson thanked the man, and started off in thedirection indicated. "All I have to do now, " thought he, "is to discover some nice, lonelyspot for. ". . . Shortly after this he sighted a grove with a thick undergrowth. Itbordered the road. Fandor rushed his machine into a field, and broughtit to a stand-still in the centre of a clump of trees. He alighted. "That motor is a good goer, " said he, "but it is too dangerous acompanion--too conspicuous a mark. " As he thought of the stranded bundle of mystery at _The FloweryCrossways_ he laughed. Then he started for the station at a steadypace. * * * * * The chauffeur woke. He saw it was nine o'clock. "Good lord!. . . I shall catch it hot! We were to start at eight!" He dressed hastily; ran down to the yard; stared about him: his carhad vanished. Was he still dreaming?. . . He ran round to the front ofthe hotel--no car! Was the car stolen?. . . Had they set off withouthim?. . . The hotel-keeper was marketing in Rouen. . . . The stablemencould throw no light on this mystery. "Probably one of your masters has gone for a turn, " suggested a man. The chauffeur's anger grew. "If they've dared to!" he shouted. "It is not their car!. . . I'm not intheir service!. . . That curé came to my garage yesterday and hired mycar for an outing. . . . What business has this curé or his soldier tomove my car?. . . I'll teach them who and what I am!". . . The farm boys, stable lads and men were shouting with laughter at thechauffeur's fury. Said one: "You know their room, don't you?. . . Why not see if they are in it?. . . Make sure you have cause for all this dust up!" The chauffeur rushed upstairs four at a time! He banged on the door ofthe room taken by his temporary employer and the corporal--banged andthumped!. . . No response!. . . He tried the door--unlocked!. . . He openedit, looked in--empty! Cursing and raging, the chauffeur clattered downstairs and collidedwith the hotel-keeper. "Where is my curé?" shouted the chauffeur. "Your curé?" echoed the good fellow, staring. "Yes, my curé. Or his corporal!. . . Where are they?. . . Where, I say?" "Where are they?" gaped the hotel-keeper. The entire hotel staff was grouped in the background, laughing. "It's my car! I can't find it!. . . Do you know where it is?" "Your car!" exclaimed the hotel-keeper. "But the corporal went off twohours ago and more! He was going for a 'trial spin, ' was what he toldme!" "Was the curé with him?" "No. The curé left just after him, saying he was going to send off atelegram. Was it not true?" The chauffeur sank on a chair. "Here's a low-down trick!. . . Those dirty thieves have cut off with mycar! Let me catch them! I'll give them beans and a bit!" The hotel was in an uproar; the wildest suggestions rained on thedistracted chauffeur. He pulled himself together; rose; called to thehotel-keeper, who was mechanically searching the yard for the vanishedcar: "Where is the police station? I must warn the police. That priest andcorporal cannot have got so very far in two hours! They did not leavetogether: they had to meet somewhere: they may not know how to managethe car . . . That means delay--a breakdown, perhaps!" Mine host of _The Flowery Crossways_ was all the more ready to helpthe chauffeur in that he had been cheated! Such fugitives would neverpay him the eighteen francs they owed him for bed and board unlessthey were caught and made to disgorge. "I will come with you to the police station, " he announced. "I have mycomplaint to make also!" At the police station they saw the police sergeant himself. Thechauffeur had barely begun his tale of woe when the sergeantinterrupted with the smile of one imparting good news: "You state that you have lost a motor-car. Does it happen to be red, and will seat four persons?" "Yes. That's it! Have you seen it?" "Does it happen to have for number 1430 G-7?" "Exact!. . . Has it passed this way?" "Wait!. . . Were there not goatskin wraps inside?" "Yes!. . . Yes!" The sergeant laughed silently. "Very well, then! I should say you were in luck! Now I am going totell you where your car is!" The chauffeur beamed. "You know where my car is?" "I do--a bare fifteen minutes ago it was found in the--open fields, onFather Flory's land, some seventeen hundred yards from the Mottevillestation. . . . Father Flory saw it when driving his cattle to pasture: heasked himself if the car had not fallen from the skies during thenight!" The hotel-keeper and chauffeur stared at each other. What hadpossessed the fugitives to steal the car and then cast it away in theopen fields, so near the scene of their theft?. . . The devil was in it? The hotel-keeper had an idea they had fled to avoid paying his bill. The chauffeur cared only to get to the car as quickly as possible, toassure himself that it was his car, and was not injured beyond repair. After much haggling it was arranged that a little cart and horseshould take him to the desired spot. Meanwhile the hotel-keeper was togo about his duties at _The Flowery Crossways_. The chauffeur mustneeds return and telegraph to his garage in Paris for funds: hedeclared he had not a sou on him. Finally the chauffeur set off; perched on a big white mare which hadbeen rejected time and again by the Remount Department, he took theroad at a galloping trot. When he reached Father Flory's field he gavea sigh of satisfaction. He recognised his car. It proved to be in goodcondition. Whoever had driven it knew what he was about. "It was the corporal, " decided the joyful chauffeur. "That little curéwould be afraid of spoiling his little white hands!" Surrounded by a crowd of peasants who had hurried from all the farmsin the neighbourhood, to see the motor-car which had grown up in asingle night in Father Flory's field, the chauffeur set his car inmotion. Hard work! The car had been driven deep into the soft soil. . . . At last he got to the road. "A very good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted to thepeasants who, with ironic grins and hands in pockets, had watched himat work. Not one had come forward to help him! He set off at top speed for _The Flowery Crossways_. * * * * * Meanwhile the police sergeant, important, in full official uniform, had started for _The Flowery Crossways_, accompanied by thehotel-keeper. "This affair requires looking into, " he announced. "The law will havemore than a word to say about it. I must get further information andmake notes. " He, with the hotel-keeper at his heels, mounted to the little roomwhere Fandor and the little priest had passed the night. The policemanuncovered on entering what he considered a sumptuous, superblydecorated room. He had not the least idea how to set about hisinvestigations in order to get the best results. He seated himself inan arm-chair. He fixed his eyes on the hotel-keeper. "Do you know the name of these individuals?" The hotel-keeper, thinking of the eighteen francs he had lost, and ofhow he could indemnify himself, paid scant attention to the sergeant'sso-called investigations. "Look here!" he cried. "That's a good thing! In their haste they haveforgotten to take this package!. . . There may be things of value init!. . . I may be able to pay myself out of them!" The policeman rose: he also examined the package. "In the name of the law I shall open this package to ascertain exactlywhat is in it. " The two men undid the rope tightly bound round the covering; butwhilst mine host of _The Flowery Crossways_ had no idea of what thecontents of the package signified, the sergeant, who had formerlyserved in the artillery, went white: his voice was stern. "This is serious--very serious--it is the mouthpiece of a largegun--larger than any I have come across!" * * * * * The recovered motor-car drew up before _The Flowery Crossways_ with aflourish. The beaming chauffeur jumped down and went towards thehotel-keeper and the police sergeant. "It was my car all right!" he cried. "And I believed that never againshould I set eyes on it!. . . When I think. ". . . The chauffeur stopped short; the unresponsive hotel-keeper and thepolice sergeant were staring at him fixedly. Not a word did theyutter. The chauffeur stared in turn: then he asked: "Well?. . . What is it?. . . Are you frozen, you two?. . . What's the matterwith you?. . . I inform you that I have found my motor, and that's howyou take it!" The police sergeant answered: "I must ask you to give us some highly necessary information andexplanations. . . . Do you know anything about the priest and the soldierwho hired your car and you?" There was a questioning pause. The chauffeur broke it. "I have already told you that I do not know them. . . . If I did, thingswould not have happened as they have!. . . Now, why have you asked methat question?" The policeman's reply was another question: his tone was stern. "Then you declare you had no idea of what they were taking with themin your car?" "What they were taking with them in my car?" repeated the chauffeur ina tone of bewildered interrogation. The police sergeant marched up to him. "Look here, now! It is incredible that you do not know what is in thatcorded-up package you carried in your car! And now your masters havedisappeared; we are to believe that you know nothing about thateither!. . . And now you return!. . . What is the reason of that?. . . Andis it to be supposed that I am going to allow you to make off againwithout asking you to explain yourself and this extraordinarysituation?" The chauffeur saw that the hotel-keeper sided with the policesergeant: there was no support to be got in that quarter. "Explain yourself, policeman!" burst out the chauffeur. "What's allthis humbugging claptrap you are giving me?" "In the name of the law!" declared the offended police officer, insolemn tones: "I think it advisable to arrest you!. . . You may consideryourself my prisoner!". . . As the astounded chauffeur could not find words to answer this, thesergeant added: "Ah! My fine fellow! This is the way, then, you steal guns to helpthe Germans to shoot the French? It's a mercy I spotted you!" "But you are mad!--mad!--mad!" protested the chauffeur. . . . "You. ". . . The police sergeant cut him short. "That is enough!. . . I am going to take you to Rouen!. . . You canaccount for yourself to the magistrates!" XXIII LONDON AND PARIS Juve and Henri de Loubersac passed the night on the quay. Daybreakfound them marching side by side, keeping their weary watch and ward. De Loubersac had fallen silent; monosyllabic replies to Juve's remarkshad given place to no remarks at all. Juve looked at Henri and smiled. "He has gone to the country of dreams: he sleeps standing. " In brotherly fashion, the policeman guided the young man towards theshelter: settled him in, and left him. He was within call if needed;meanwhile, he could have his sleep out. Filling his pipe afresh, Juve resumed his walk along the quay. He wasuneasy; he was also in a bad humour. Why did Vinson and this priesttarry on the way? Why should Corporal Vinson, bearer of thiscompromising artillery piece, plant himself at a little hotel in Rouenfor the night? Had they been warned and stopped? Juve feared so. "Evidently these men are acting for Fantômas, " said he to himself:"Fantômas must be watching the police: he knows them, but they do notknow him. . . . Suppose he knows of our arrival at Dieppe?. . . Suppose thetwo traitors, being warned, have given our men the slip on the way?Suppose this stop at Rouen was caused by the telegram they received atthe garage?. . . If our arrival here has been signalled, our watch willbe fruitless: neither Vinson nor the priest will show themselves onthis quay!" As he kept his tireless vigil. Juve eyed the yacht swinging gently onthe rising tide. Could he find a pretext which would take himaboard--justify a thorough investigation of boat and crew?. . . Theanswer to more than one tormenting problem might lie hidden there! Then Juve recalled his talk with de Loubersac. Had he been happilyinspired to speak so to him of the girl he loved, the enigmaticWilhelmine? Suppose de Loubersac, instead of questioning her, brokewith her? "It would be abominable of me to spoil this child's love affair forwhat are less than suspicions on my part--only the vaguesthypothesis!" Juve smoked and ruminated as he paced the lonely quay. "I need not worry, " concluded he at last. "Granting that we shallclear up all these mysteries, Wilhelmine's innocence, her candour, will be made manifest; that being so, Henri de Loubersac will be thefirst to acknowledge it, the first to beg her forgiveness!. . . Lovers'quarrels are not serious quarrels--so!". . . Juve continued his tireless promenade. Sailors seeking their fishing-boats swung past him in the growinglight of day. Juve looked at his watch. "I told them to put on a special for the night, and they haveinstructions to send me any telegrams. . . . Still, it is six o'clock. . . . I will see if there is anything fresh!" Juve found de Loubersac fast asleep in the sentry box, and shook himby the shoulder. "Lieutenant!. . . Lieutenant!" he shouted: "Wake up! I want you to keepwatch while I run to Headquarters here. . . . There may be news!" De Loubersac jumped up, wide awake in a moment. He took his turn onthe quay at once. Juve hurried to the police station. He was on thedoorstep when a telegraph boy rode up with a telegram. It was for ourdetective. The paper shook in Juve's hands as his eyes devoured themessage: it was in cypher. _"Corporal Vinson taken refuge in London--recognised and identified by me this morning at four o'clock when leaving Victoria Station. I followed him and know where he is. What to be done next? Awaiting your orders. "_ Juve wondered whether he was on his head or his heels. Vinson inLondon! Left Victoria Station this morning! What did it mean? "The wire is precise in its details. The man who sends it is a sharppolice spy--never hesitates, never makes a blunder!. . . It seemsevident that Vinson has given us the slip! He must have reached thecoast at some point, and, in an unnoticed boat, has passed under ournoses this very night!. . . Here's a go! The very deuce of a go!" Intensely irritated, excited, Juve read and reread the telegram, fussed and fumed about the police station under the scared eyes of thepoliceman on guard duty. That worthy began to think the detective fromParis was an unmitigated nuisance. Juve did not take this humble colleague into his confidence. He issuedorders. "You must not stir from here till the superintendent arrives. You willhand him this telegram addressed to me here. I will wire instructionsin the morning where they are to be forwarded to me in England. " "In England!" "Yes, I am crossing immediately by a Cook's excursion steamer, whichgoes in an hour, unless I am mistaken!" Juve found de Loubersac pacing the quay. He had been smoking cigarafter cigar to clear his head. Juve handed him a sheet of paper; on ithe had copied the text of the telegram. "Read that!" he cried. . . . "These confounded spies have found means toescape our attentions--but this is not the end of the game!" Lieutenant Henri was thunderstruck. "What are you going to do, Juve?" "Reach London with all speed. Will you come, Lieutenant?" De Loubersac considered. "No, " he decided. . . . "In the first place, I have no right to leavethe country unless authorised to do so. I am not free to act accordingto my own good will and pleasure: besides, I have an idea there iswork for me in Paris. . . . To watch that little intriguer, Bobinette, will be an interesting task: from what you told me yesterday, she isup to the neck in those villainous plots and plans! While youinvestigate in London, Paris shall be my field of operations. Youapprove of this, Juve?" "I think you are right. " Juve accompanied the lieutenant to the station: de Loubersac was in ahurry to be off. He would not wait for the noon express: he took theslow train. As it began to move, he and Juve exchanged a cordialhandshake. "Good luck!" cried he. "Thanks, Lieutenant. Good courage!" The latter admonition was given with a purpose; for Juve was under noillusion as to de Loubersac's feelings. "At any other time, " thought he, "de Loubersac would have seen it tobe his duty to accompany me to London: he could have secured anauthorisation from his headquarters if required; besides, attached tothe Second Bureau as he is, no doubt the ordinary military rules andregulations would hardly apply to him: to a large extent he must beallowed a free hand in emergencies. This is an emergency--an importantone!. . . No, he wishes to see Wilhelmine: he is in love, is worried, suspicious: he wishes to clear up the mystery surrounding Wilhelmine'sidentity: he is determined to know what exactly were her relationswith Captain Brocq: also, he wants to find out all there is to findregarding Bobinette and her doings. . . . To get to the bottom of thesedark mysteries, unravel the tangled threads needs a clear head and abrave heart, for his feelings are deeply involved, and they may yet becut to the quick!. . . He is a straight goer, that young man!" wasJuve's concluding thought. . . . "He will do his duty: and when one doesone's duty, with rare exceptions, the result is happiness. " * * * * * Whilst Juve returned to the jetty to await the departure of theexcursion steamer, Henri de Loubersac, alone in his compartment, reflected sadly on his relations with Wilhelmine. . . . He had loved hera long time. A frank, a sincere affection for her had gradually growninto a love which filled his whole heart and mind. Juve's words hadtroubled him profoundly. This spy chase had been a momentarydistraction, but now his anxieties, his suspicions, his fears, swarmedand buzzed among his thoughts: he could not banish them! His reflections so absorbed him that he lost consciousness of time andplace: when the train came to a stand-still in Rouen station, he couldhave vowed they had left Dieppe but a few miles behind! He would stretch his limbs on the platform. He jumped out; but, as hestrolled past the kiosks, gazing at the papers and magazines exhibitedin them, his mind was haunted but by one vision: Wilhelmine. . . . The train was about to leave: the porters were shouting: he hastenedto his compartment: his foot was on the mounting board: it might havebeen nailed there, for the moment!. . . A young woman was seated in thefurther corner. She had lowered her window, and, with head out, waseither saying good-bye to someone or was watching the comings andgoings of the station. Her attitude, the lines of her figure, were familiar to de Loubersac. He felt sure he knew her. He took his seat and awaited the turning ofher head. A piercing whistle and the train began to move. The young woman drewback, pulled up the window, and sat back in her seat. Henri de Loubersac saw her. She made a movement of surprise. "You! Monsieur Henri!" "You! Mademoiselle Bobinette!" "By what chance?" began de Loubersac. Bobinette interrupted: "It is rather I who might ask you that, Monsieur Henri!. . . As for me, I have been spending four days with my family at Rouen. . . . I asked fora holiday and Monsieur de Naarboveck very kindly granted it . . . Butyou?" De Loubersac was nervously chewing the end of his blonde moustache. With a shrug he replied: "Oh, I! It is never surprising to meet me in a train: I am constantlyon the move: here--there--everywhere!. . . You have news of MademoiselleWilhelmine?" "Excellent news. You are coming to Monsieur de Naarboveck's soon?" "I think of calling on the baron this evening. " Talk continued, commonplace, desultory. What questions crowded to hislips, sternly repressed! "She lies, " thought he, while listening to the details of her familyvisit. "She certainly lies!. . . I must pretend to be her dupe--themiserable creature!" His whole soul revolted at the thought that this Bobinette, involvedas she must be in disgraceful adventures, abominable tragedies, sharedWilhelmine's home, was her so-called friend! He was seized by a maddesire to grip Bobinette by the throat--silence her lyingtongue--arrest, handcuff her on the spot--render her powerless! He had noticed a vague line of black showing below her light colouredtaffeta skirt. It might be the frill of a petticoat just too long. Thinking no more of it he continued to chat of indifferent things. . . . Presently, a quick movement of Bobinette's raised her skirt a littlemore. This time the watchful de Loubersac could not be mistaken: hehad seen clearly that what showed beneath Bobinette's skirt, every nowand again, was a priest's cassock! Bobinette's dress concealed the disguise of a priest. Too well he understood the part this perverse creature had beenplaying! Now he could account for their meeting in this train comingfrom Rouen!. . . She had recently associated with Corporal Vinson as apriest. She had seen him off, no doubt, and, anxious to rid herself ofher ecclesiastical exterior as quickly as might be, she had slipped ona dress over her ecclesiastical garment. What was all this but a painful confirmation of Juve's words?. . . Howcould Wilhelmine be entirely ignorant of this dreadful creature'scharacter? How could Wilhelmine be wholly innocent of the terriblycompromising actions of her daily companion? Did Wilhelmine lackintuition? Was she without that delicate sensitiveness which is thebirthright of all nice women? How could a pure girl breathe themiasmic atmosphere which must emanate from the soul of this abominablewoman? It was terrible! The desultory commonplace chat went on, whilst de Loubersac wasconsidering how best to act. Arrest Bobinette? Yes. He must not, dare not, hesitate. It was his duty. If he held thisyoung woman at his mercy, it was, perhaps, the only way, painful as itwas, to ultimately clear up the position of Wilhelmine. How proceed? Whilst still chattering of this and that, Henri de Loubersac made uphis mind. "Being a soldier, and not a policeman, I cannot myself arrest thiswoman. The scandal would be tremendous! I should get into the hottestof hot water with my chiefs: it is not my job. . . . Directly we arriveat the Saint Lazare station I will manage to signal one of the plainclothes men always on the watch there! Two of them will have her fastbefore she knows where she is!" This seemed the easier because Bobinette had a heavy valise with her:she would have to call a porter and give him instructions--this wouldgive him time to act. Reassured, Henri de Loubersac continued to laugh and joke, though itwent sorely against the grain. . . . At last! Saint Lazare station! The train stopped. "I will say good-bye, Mademoiselle Bobinette. . . . I must hurry away!. . . You will excuse me?" De Loubersac leaped on to the platform, jostling the passengerscrowding his path. He must reach the platform exit without a second'sdelay!. . . As he handed his ticket to the collecter, a hubbub arose. Passengers were stopping, turning back, running--something sensationalmust have happened! He paused. He heard a porter at his elbow say in a low voice: "Don't stop, Monsieur Henri--you may be noticed. " De Loubersac identified the speaker as a man in the employ of theSecond Bureau. He handed his wraps to this detective, dressed as anordinary porter. "What is happening, then?" he asked. "An arrest, ordered by the Second Bureau. There was a man, or a woman, in your train. " "Ah, Bobinette must have been identified at Rouen when she got intothe train--Juve's men must have wired from there!" Henri de Loubersacrejoiced. How he hated this creature, whose detestable influence mustharm Wilhelmine, whose wickedness might work woe to the girl he loved!This traitorous wretch would be under lock and key now! Splendid! With mind relieved, he thanked the informer and prepared to leave thestation. But, as he descended the steps leading to the Cour du Havrehe stopped. Two police detectives whom he knew well were walking oneither side a soldier in corporal's uniform--Vinson, of course! Theymust be taking him to the Cherche Midi prison. De Loubersac realised what had happened. "By-Jove! The telegram Juve had received at Dieppe must have beenfalse!. . . Vinson and Bobinette, discovering that they were underobservation, had found means to send Juve a telegram announcing thatVinson had been met in London: having thus drawn Juve over to Englandthey had returned to Paris. . . . The traitors must have separated: thiswould lessen their chances of being recognised. . . . They must havearrested Vinson as he was leaving the train. . . . Bobinette, becomeunrecognisable when her cassock was hidden, must have escaped!" De Loubersac ran back. He hunted the station all over. He jumped intoa taxi and drove up and down all the adjoining streets; but the chasewas a useless one! Bobinette was invisible--Bobinette had seized heropportunity. She had disappeared! XXIV AN APPETISER AT ROBERT'S BAR "Have another whisky, old sport?" "Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is. " "You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seemsmore beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching. " Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail ofthe bar the two topers solemnly clinked glasses. The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at onego, but his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven, and slightly bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contentsescaped on to the floor. The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilledso quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank onand on automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companionbarely wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor. It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was ananimated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar. Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The greatplace for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight, and does not close them till the small hours are well advanced. Whenevening falls, the scene grows animated: business men and women ofpleasure crowd the rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitancharacter. A band of Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductivemusic. The crush increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst thisbabel of voices, the racket, the din, the barmaids ply their tradewith calm determination: they flirt with their customers and egg themon to drink glass after glass of wine and spirits for the good of thehouse, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke. Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latestevening editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixednationality who, for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue, partly French, partly English. In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking togetherfamiliarly. The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to theconfidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinarynature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked: "But what is your profession, then?" "But I have already told you, " replied the fat man. "I am a clown--amusical clown. . . . I interpret comic romances. . . . I dress up as anegro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an airwhich was the rage of the moment. The dark young man interrupted with another question: "What is your native country, Tommy?" "Oh, I am a Belgian. . . . And you, Butler?" The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what hadto pass for an account of himself. "I . . . I'm Canadian--just come from Canada--hardly three months ago. " "As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy. Butler seemed upset by this question. "Yes, yes!. . . And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my wayabout, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, tryas I will . . . It seems no use. ". . . "What can you do?" "A little of everything. " "That is to say--nothing!" Butler said slowly: "I can do book-keeping. " The clown burst out laughing. "That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds ofstick-in-the-muds at that job!" "What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler. His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder. "There is only one career in the world--the theatre!. . . There is onlyone profession worth following, that of artiste!. . . See how I havesucceeded! And without having received the least instruction, for myparents never cared a hang for my future--I soon earned plenty money;now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on thepoint of making a fortune!" The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age--nochicken. His companion gazed at him admiringly. Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in abulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts. "I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre, " said Butlerwith a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!" The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face wasflushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glassesof whisky were having their effect. Tommy murmured into Butler's ear: "I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, andalready I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it thesame on your side?" Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glassand declared: "I swear it!" "Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselvesmarvellously well. . . . Just fancy! When walking on the ThamesEmbankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known thislong while . . . A very good fellow, called Paul. . . . Naturally we had aglass together. . . . Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paulexplained that he did not need a clown, but a professor. . . . I promisedto find him one if I could. . . . Would you like to be this professor?" "Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growingintoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughedat the question. "You would never guess who would be your pupils!. . . You would have toteach Japanese canaries to sing!" Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clowndeclared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canariesto sing. . . . The important point was that the professor of singingJapanese canary birds would receive immediate payment. Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind--for hehad persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one--the clownfidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air from _Faust_ in afalsetto voice. The clown stopped. "Come, Butler, is it settled?" Butler hesitated. "I am not sure that I had better. " "But yes, certainly you had better, " insisted the clown. "And, as ithappens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in theroom downstairs. . . . I will go and look for him!. . . We three could meetand talk the thing over. " "Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?" "To Belgium, of course, " replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like myself--we are compatriots. " The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left him, saying: "I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will behis professor of Japanese singing canaries. " Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky. Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room, the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shavenman seated before a full glass: it was untouched. "Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice. Juve nodded. "Captain Loreuil?" "That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you areMonsieur Paul, theatrical manager. . . . That is according to ourarrangement, is it not?" "Quite so. . . . Anything fresh?" Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man. " "Sure of it?" Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low. "He calls himself Butler . . . Says he is Canadian. . . . He declares he hasbeen in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise himperfectly. I had already seen him at Châlons, when he had a connectionwith the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author ofthe leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff. " "That is Corporal Vinson, then?" "Consequently you must intervene, " said Loreuil. Juve reflected. After a short silence he said: "Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, andthere is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused ofmurder, simply of treason. "I like that word 'simply, '" remarked Loreuil ironically. "Don't take that in bad part, " smiled Juve; "but it has its importancefrom an international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in Englandon the pretext that he is a spy. " "Happily we have foreseen that difficulty, " said Loreuil. "Butler willaccompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium meansFrance, as far as we are concerned--the three of us!" Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at ScotlandYard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend, informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officerof the Second Bureau. Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their headstogether. They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering tohis description had been in London several weeks. This was the truth. Juve would not admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in Englandonly a few hours ahead of him. Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest of Vinson, considered he had done his part as soon as he had identified thecorporal. Juve would do the rest. "We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler asPaul, the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer ofcanaries . . . The rest you can manage for yourself. . . . Be circumspect!The fellow is on the lookout!" "He must leave with me to-night--it is urgent!" insisted Juve. . . . "Youmust help me, Captain!" Captain Loreuil frowned. "I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he. "But this affair is more serious even than you know, " said Juve. "ThisVinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vastnetwork of mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind. " Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinistercomedy; to make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to theauthorities for punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juveovercame his hesitations with the words: "It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a questionof National Defence. " "I will help you, Monsieur, " was the captain's answer to this, adding: "Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out. " XXV THE ARREST The Dover Express, the Continental Mail, was moving out of CharingCross station. Three travellers were seated in a first-class compartment. They weresmoking big cigars: their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed; theylooked like big men who had dined well. These were Butler, Tommy andPaul, leaving for Belgium: otherwise Juve, Loreuil and Vinson boundfor France! Copious libations of generous wines and strong liqueurshad reduced Butler-Vinson to the condition of a maudlin puppet: Tommyand Paul had made Butler most conveniently drunk. The train rushed forward through station after station, brilliantlylighted, then plunged into the obscurity of the country. A stupefyingwarmth from the heating apparatus impelled slumber. UnfortunateButler-Vinson, lulled by the regular movement of the train, was soonfast asleep. Juve and Loreuil kept vigil. They were sitting side by side facingtheir captive. "Dover will be the difficulty, " whispered Juve, who had drawn closerto the captain. "Yes, that is the crucial point, " agreed Loreuil. . . . The express was entering the tunnels pierced in the precipitouscoastline of the Channel near Dover. There was a short stop at DoverTown station before it drew up on the Pier. There the travellers wouldembark. Of these there were two distant streams: those crossing toBelgium: those bound for France. Butler-Vinson still slept soundly. Juve was waiting till the last minute. Then he would awaken hisprisoner as he already considered him and shepherd him aboard theCalais boat. Captain Loreuil got out and went on ahead. "Come along, Butler!" Juve cried suddenly. He shook the slumberingtraitor sharply. Butler-Vinson leaped to his feet with frightened eyes and gapingmouth. "What is it?" he stuttered. "What do you want with me?" Juve's smile was a masterpiece of hypocrisy. "Why, old fellow, you must wake up! We must go aboard our boat!" The corporal heard men shouting: "Steamer _Victoria_ for Ostend! Steamer _Empress_ for Calais!" "We must hurry!" cried Juve, pushing the bemused Butler-Vinson out ofthe compartment. There was a sea fog growing denser every minute. Without theirpowerful electric lights it would have been impossible to recognisethe boats or the gangways leading to them. Juve had Butler by the arm: a necessary precaution, for the wretchedman could scarcely keep on his feet. Juve propelled him towards agangway: a minute later both were on the boat. Vinson caught sight of the inscription _Empress_ on the lifebuoys. Aflash of reason illumined Butler-Vinson's drink-soddened mind. Hehesitated, drew back with a frightened look. "Didn't I hear just now that this boat goes to Calais?" A passing sailor heard this question. He was about to enlightenButler-Vinson, but Juve pushed him aside--this imbecile was going tospoil everything! "No, old fellow, you are quite mistaken! It is the _Victoria_ thatgoes to Calais: we go to Ostend with the _Empress_. " Butler-Vinson accepted this statement as true. An ear-piercing whistle sounded; the cables were drawn up: a vibratorymotion told the passengers they were off. The mast-head light was extinguished: the mail-boat silently made itsway out to sea. There was a dense fog in the Channel. The fog-horn sounded itslugubrious note. The sea was rough: a strong wind from the south-west had been blowingall the afternoon. The boat began to pitch and toss: the passengerswere drenched. Though nothing of a sailor in the nautical sense, Juve took hisduckings with equanimity: a bit of a pitch and toss would keep Vinsonoccupied. The fog was Juve's friend: it lent an air of vagueness, of confusion, to Butler-Vinson's surroundings. The vagaries of the steamer wouldfurther distract what thoughts he was capable of. Still, they were onan English boat, and should the corporal grasp what was happening andrefuse to disembark, Juve would be in a fix. Butler-Vinson must bekept in ignorance of the truth till they were on French soil. Captain Loreuil had remained at Dover, declaring he still had much todo in England. Besides, he could not be brought to consider that toarrest criminals came within the scope of his duties: to mark themdown, point them out, yes. Thus he had tracked down the traitor andleft him in good hands. Meanwhile, Butler-Vinson was suffering from a severe attack ofsea-sickness. His head seemed splitting with throbbing pain. "How long shall we be getting across?" he asked in a faint voice. "Three hours, " said Juve: this was the crossing time between Dover andOstend. Heavy cross-seas were running. Those who braved the buffetings anddrenchings above deck were now few: it was a villainous crossing! At the end of an hour and a half the odious waltz of the steamerslowed down. The fog-horn was silent: the _Empress_ moved alongsidethe jetties of Calais. The gangways were let down; porters invaded the deck, carrying awayluggage to the trains awaiting the travellers in the terminus station. "Now for it!" thought Juve. Once on French soil it was all up with the liberty of Corporal Vinson!His arrest would be immediate. Juve considered the miserable heap collapsed on a side bench: thistraitorous rag of humanity had once been an upright man--a truesoldier of France! It was terrible! It was piteous! Juve raised Butler-Vinson. The wretched fellow could hardly stand up. Juve signed to a sailor, who took the corporal's left arm while Juvesupported him on the right. Vinson disembarked. He set his feet on thesoil--the sacred soil of France! The crowd was pouring into the great hall, where customs officers wereexamining the small baggage. Juve drew Butler-Vinson to the left: the traitor must not catch sightof the French uniforms. An individual seemed to rise out of the groundin front of them: Juve said to him in a low voice: "Our man!" * * * * * Revived by a cordial, Vinson gradually recovered his senses. Painfullyhe raised his heavy eyelids: he looked about him curiously, anxiously. He was in a large, square room, dimly lighted, almost empty, with barewhite walls. "Where am I?" he asked Juve. Three men surrounded him. Juve's was thesole face he knew. Juve wore a solemn look: his words were gently spoken. "You are at Calais, in the special police quarters connected with thestation. Corporal Vinson, I am sorry to have to tell you that you areunder arrest. " "My God!" exclaimed the traitor. He attempted to rise, but fell backon his seat: his eyes were staring at the handcuffs on his wrists! Heburst into tears. Juve felt pity for this miserable being, huddled up there in thedepths of humiliation and terror. But the dreadful factremained--Vinson was a criminal, a traitor! Perhaps his errors weredue to a bad bringing-up, to deplorable examples, alas!. . . Juve wasnot there to pass judgment, but to deliver the guilty wretch into thehands of the authorities. "Come now!" he said, tapping Vinson on the shoulder. "Come, we areleaving for Paris!" Corporal Vinson, traitor, raised supplicating eyes to Juve: then, realising all resistance was vain, he rose painfully: he assumed anair of indifference. A policeman from Headquarters had joined Juve. The three men got intoan empty second-class compartment. In a voice quivering with shame, Vinson begged Juve not to allowanyone to enter. "I should be so ashamed, " he muttered, with hanginghead and hunched shoulders. "We shall do our best to prevent it, " Juve assured him. After anexplanation with the station-master, the compartment was labelled"_Reserved_. " The train started. Vinson was wide awake now, and dejected to the lastdegree. After a hand-to-mouth existence, but still a free one, inEngland, he had allowed himself to be nabbed by the police, like theveriest simpleton! The papers would be full of it! Vinson, who had been led into criminal ways by his love for a badwoman, troubled himself much less regarding the punishment to be metedout to him than about the dreadful distress his arrest would cause hismother. The old Alsatian mother, when she learned that her son was inprison charged with treason to France, would die of grief. Vinsonwished with all his heart that he had stuck to his firstdecision--that he had killed himself rather than make confession tothe journalist, Jérôme Fandor, who had wished to save him, and hadhelped him to escape, but who had really done him a bad service, since, deserter as he was, he had been caught like the most vulgar ofcriminals! The train stopped at a station. "I am dying of thirst, " mumbled Vinson. Juve sent his second in command for a bottle of water from therefreshment buffet. Vinson thanked Juve with a grateful nod. Refreshed, Vinson pulled his wits together. Juve, noticing this, began questioning him, promising to treat him aswell as he possibly could, if he would speak out, in confidence;assuring him of the leniency of the judges if he consented to denouncehis accomplices. When Vinson realised that he was to stand his trial for spying, forbetraying his country, as well as for desertion, he was only too gladto obey Juve's suggestion. "Ah!" murmured he, while tears rolled down his cheeks, "Cursed be theday when I first agreed to enter into relations with the band ofcriminals who have made of me what I am to-day!" Vinson gave Juve a full account of his temptation, his errors;nevertheless he did not tell the detective of his relations withJérôme Fandor. Had he not promised absolute secrecy? Traitor and spyas he was, Vinson had given his word of honour, and this journalisthad been kind to him in return, had given him a chance to escape andstart afresh: not for anything in the world would he have betrayed hisoath! Juve was a hundred leagues from suspecting the substitution which hadtaken place between Vinson and Fandor. He was convinced he hadCorporal Vinson before his eyes; but he also thought he had his gripon the individual who had left Paris the night before, accompanied byan ecclesiastic, for the purpose of handing over to a foreign power amost important piece of a gun stolen from the Arsenal, as well as thedescriptive plan that went with it. But when he cross-questioned Vinson on this point, the corporal didnot in the least understand what he was driving at! Juve, who had beencongratulating himself on his prisoner's frankness, grew angry withwhat he believed was a culpable reservation. Why did the corporal, who, up to this, had spoken so freely, now feign ignorance of the gunpiece affair?. . . Well, he would find out his prisoner's reasonspresently. . . . Not wishing to scare him, Juve changed the subject. . . . He had any number of questions to ask the culprit. Did he not knowVagualame, the real Vagualame? Vinson told him many things about the old accordion player with thepatriarchal white beard which he already knew; but one remarkparticularly impressed him. "If only the police knew all that goes on in the house in the rueMonge!". . . Vinson stopped short. This remark opened new horizons to Juve. When they arrived at theNorth station, some hours later, and Juve had transferred his prisonerto a cab, giving the driver the address of the Cherche-Midi prison, our detective had learned that Vagualame-Fantômas was in the habit ofvisiting a mysterious house in rue Monge. Here he met many of hisaccomplices. It was here the band of spies and traitors, of which heseemed chief, disguised themselves, issuing forth to ply theirnefarious trade and mock the police. Juve made a compact with himself. "As soon as I have handed my corporal over to the military jailors, Iknow where I shall go to smoke a cigarette!" XXVI WILHELMINE'S SECRET "You are alone, Wilhelmine?" Mademoiselle de Naarboveck had just left the house in the rue Fabert. It was three in the afternoon, and she was going shopping. At thecorner of the rue de l'Université she came on Henri de Loubersac. It was a delightful surprise. She had not seen him for several days. She was aware of the difficult and dangerous nature of her futurefiancé's duties; that they frequently took him from Paris for days ata time; that they forbade him writing even a post card to let her knowwhere he was!. . . Now she felt delightedly sure that he had takenadvantage of his first free moment to pay her a visit. How charming ofhim! The truth was that de Loubersac, whose anxieties and suspicions hadincreased hour by hour, till he was suffering the tortures of thedamned, had made up his mind to have a decisive talk with Wilhelmine. A clear and final explanation he would have, cost what it might! Full of joy at the meeting, Wilhelmine did not seem to notice hisanxious looks, his strained expression. She answered his question witha welcoming smile. "I am alone. " "Your father?" "Went away this morning: the calls of diplomacy are numerous, andfrequently sudden, you know!" "And Mademoiselle Berthe?" Wilhelmine raised her beautiful bright eyes and met her fiancé'squestioning glance. "No news of her for several days. Berthe seems to have disappeared. "Her tone was grave. De Loubersac did not speak: mechanically he fitted his step toWilhelmine's. Presently he asked: "Where do you think of going?" "I was going to do a little shopping . . . Nothing much . . . There is nosort of hurry!" She felt that Henri wished to discuss something important with her:hers was too direct a nature to put him off with flimsy excuses whenhe desired a serious talk. "Should we walk on a little, talking as we go?" she suggested, with acharming smile. To walk and talk with Henri was such a pleasure! De Loubersac agreed. The young couple crossed the Esplanade des Invalides, and by way ofthe rue Saint-Dominique, the boulevard Saint-Germain, and rueBuonaparte, reached the Luxembourg Gardens. Here they could talk atease. A few casual remarks, and Henri de Loubersac came to his point. "Dear Wilhelmine, there is a series of mysteries in your life which Icannot help thinking about: mysteries which trouble me greatly!. . . Forgive me for speaking to you so frankly!. . . You know how sincere myfeeling for you is!. . . My love for you is strong and deep. . . . My onedesire in life is to join my fate, my existence, to yours. . . . Butbefore that, there are some things we must speak of together, seriousthings perhaps, about which we must have a clear understanding. " Wilhelmine had grown strangely pale. Despite the protestations of lovein which her future fiancé had wrapped his questions, she was greatlytroubled. The painful moment she had waited for had come: she musttell Henri de Loubersac the secret of her life: no very grave secretif considered by itself; but the consequences of it, and theinnumerable deductions that could be drawn from it, might reactunfavourably on their relations to each other! Wilhelmine must speak out. They were just outside the church of Saint-Sulpice. Some large dropsof rain fell. "Let us go into the church!" said Wilhelmine: "It will be quiet there. If what I have to say to you is said in that holy place, you willfeel that I am speaking the truth. It is almost a confession. " Thepoor girl's voice trembled slightly as she uttered these decisivewords--words that frightened de Loubersac. What shocking revelationsdid they foreshadow? He acquiesced: the lovers entered the porch. As he stepped aside to let Wilhelmine pass, he noticed a cab withdrawn blinds which had that minute drawn up not far from the space infront of the church. He examined it anxiously. "It seemed to me we were being followed--shadowed, " replied deLoubersac. "It is of little importance, however--we must expect thatin our service. " "Yes, you also have secrets, " remarked Wilhelmine. "They are only professional ones: there is nothing about mypersonality to hide: my life is an open book for all the world toread!" De Loubersac's tone was hard. It hurt Wilhelmine. * * * * * For some while they had been seated behind a pillar, in the shadow:Wilhelmine had been speaking: Henri had been listening. She told him she was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, thather real name was Thérèse Auvernois. [5] [Footnote 5: See _Fantômas_: vol. I, Fantômas Series. ] This told de Loubersac nothing. Wilhelmine explained that her childhood had been passed in an ancientchâteau, on the banks of the Dordogne, with her grandmother, theMarquise de Langrune. One fatal December day the Marquise had beenassassinated. They were led to believe the assassin was a young man, son of a friend of the family, by name, Charles Rambert. This tragedyhad altered the whole course of the orphan girl's life. She was takencare of by the father of the supposed murderer, a worthy old man, Monsieur Etionne Rambert. He recommended her to Lady Beltham, whosehusband had been murdered some months before; thus the bereaved girlcame to live under Lady Beltham's wing, and grew very fond of her. Then Monsieur Etionne Rambert disappeared in a shipwreck, andWilhelmine went with Lady Beltham to her castle in Scotland. Two peaceful years passed. Among other friends and visitors, Wilhelmine met the Baron de Naarboveck, a foreign diplomat. Then LadyBeltham went to France, and one sad day the orphan girl learned thather mother by adoption had died there![6] [Footnote 6: See _The Exploits of Juve_: vol. Ii, Fantômas Series. ] Six dreary, anxious months followed. Then the baron, the only personin the whole world who seemed to care whether she lived or died, cameto find her. He took her to Paris. There he decided to pass her off ashis daughter, declaring he had very grave reasons for doing so. Though making her the centre of a mystery, for undeclared reasons ofhis own, de Naarboveck was very good to her, helped her to unravel herfinancial affairs, and informed her that she was the owner of a largefortune. He told her that some day she would have to go to a foreigncountry to take possession of this fortune--the baron did not saywhere. Wilhelmine stopped her narrative, jumped up, pointing to a shadowmoving across an altar. "Did you see?" she questioned anxiously. "I think I did, " answered Henri de Loubersac. "It is the shadow ofsome passer-by thrown into relief on the light background. " "Oh, I hope we are not being spied on!" "Of whom are you afraid?" asked de Loubersac. Wilhelmine--or Thérèse Auvernois, as she had confessed herself tobe--glanced about her. There was not a soul within hearing! Now shewould speak her mind to Henri--her dear Henri--and tell him all. "You want to know, dear one, why my existence has been surrounded withso many mysterious precautions of late years! You wish to know why thebaron is so determined that my real identity should remain hidden! Youare right; for I have long asked myself the same question. When Ispoke to the baron about this for the first time--it was only a fewweeks ago, and told him that I wished to appear as what I really am, Thérèse Auvernois, my father by adoption--I may call him that, seeinghow good, how kind he has been to me--began by telling me it wasimpossible--that the most terrible misfortunes would result from sucha revelation. . . . I insisted. I wanted to know what these dreadfulmisfortunes would be, and why they would follow as a matter of course, were it made known that I am Thérèse Auvernois. Thereupon the barontold me astonishing things. "According to him, from the time of my poor grandmother's death, I, and those near to me, all those about me, were pursued, not only by aterrible fatality, but also by a being, who, for unknown motives, wished to sow perpetual death and terror among those intimatelyconnected with us. "The baron did not want to talk of all this, but I made him speak out. Bit by bit, I learned the details of one of those tragedies whichtouched my life when a child. I went to the National Library, secretly, and looked through the newspapers of that period. I noticedthat in whatever concerned us, whether legally or privately, closelyor distantly, one name appeared and reappeared, a terrifying andlegendary name, the name of a being we think of but dare notmention--the name of Fantômas!" Henri de Loubersac was staggered. This statement of the girl he knewas Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, far from impressing him favourably, seemed to him an improbable story invented, every bit of it, for thesole purpose of putting him on the wrong track. He had learned to love this charming girl, believing her to besincere, honest, pure, brought up as a young girl should be, amidstelegant and distinguished surroundings: now, behold an abyss openedbefore his eyes, separating him from one whom he was now inclined toconsider an adventuress. He remembered Juve's words! Granting the truth of her statement, that a tragedy had shadowed heryoung life and altered her existence, this did not prevent her fromhaving been seduced by Captain Brocq! Rather, her early experienceswould tend to break down the barriers, behind which nice girls livedand moved!. . . There were things that called for an explanation! Forinstance, how explain the intimacy existing between de Naarboveck, hisso-called daughter, and this Mademoiselle Berthe, whose part in theaffair engaging de Loubersac's attention was open to the gravestsuspicions?. . . Wilhelmine continued what she called her confession, thinking aloud, opening her heart, confiding in her dear Henri, whose silence she tookfor sympathy and encouragement. "Fantômas, " she murmured: "I cannot tell you how often I have thoughtover this maddening, this puzzling personality, terrifying beyondwords, who seems implacably bent on our destruction!. . . Again andagain I have had reason to fear that his ill-omened influence has beendirected against my humble self!. . . As if he guessed something ofthis, the baron has frequently sought to reassure me; yet, throughsome singular coincidence, each time we have spoken of Fantômas atragedy has occurred, a dreadful tragedy, which has reminded us ofmonstrous crimes committed by him in the past!" Wilhelmine's statements were impressing de Loubersac less and lessfavourably. "Play acting--and clumsy play acting at that!" decided Henri: "Done toavert my suspicions, imagined to feed my curiosity!. . . She thinksherself a capable player at the game! She does not know the person sheis playing with!" De Loubersac came to a decision. He rose, stood close to Wilhelmine, who also rose, instinctively, looked her straight in the face, andasked, point-blank: "Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, or Thérèse Auvernois--it matters little tome--I wish to know the real truth. . . . Confess, then, that you wereCaptain Brocq's mistress!" "Monsieur!" exclaimed the startled girl. She met de Loubersac'sinquisitorial look proudly. His penetrating stare did not falter. Suddenly Wilhelmine's lips began to tremble. She grew deadly pale: shemight have been on the verge of a fainting fit. She had realised theincredulity of the man to whom, in her chaste innocence, she had givenher heart. In the pure soul of this loving girl an immense void madeitself felt. It was as though a flashlight had revealed to her thelamentable truth: that the strange position in which destiny hadplaced her--a position strange but not infamous--had made of her abeing apart, had put her outside the ordinary life of humanity, outside the law of love!. . . A desire to explain, to convince, tojustify herself, the desire of a desperate creature at bay, burned upin her like a flame: it flashed and died. Henri had no confidence inher! He believed this odious thing of her--this abominable, incrediblething!. . . Her heart was full to bursting with an agony of grief, ofoutraged innocence. . . . She looked him straight in the eyes--her ownflashing fury. "You insult me!" she cried. . . . "Withdraw what you have just said!. . . You will apologise!" De Loubersac said in a low, distinct voice: "I maintain my accusation, Mademoiselle, until you have furnished mewith absolute, undeniable proofs!". . . De Loubersac's voice failed him. Wilhelmine had turned from him. Shehurried to the door, descended the church steps, and threw herselfinto a passing cab. De Loubersac had followed her. In tones of contempt she had flung at him the words: "Farewell, monsieur--and for ever!" Henri's answer was a shrug of the shoulder. As he stood there, an outline, a shadow, appeared under the churchporch: a something, a being, indescribable, appeared, disappeared, running with spirit-like swiftness, vanishing. Henri de Loubersac hada clear conviction that during his conversation with her who mighthave been his fiancée in days to come, they had been shadowed, spiedupon! XXVII THE TWO VINSONS There were strange happenings elsewhere on the day Henri de Loubersacand Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had parted in grief and anger. It was on the stroke of noon when Corporal Vinson heard a key turn inthe lock of his cell. Two military jailors confronted him. "Butler?" The traitor answered to that name. Juve, for reasons of his own, had not revealed the prisoner's truequality. Vinson had therefore been entered in the jail book as Butler. One of the jailors, an old veteran, whose uniform was a mixture of thecivil and the military, took the word. "Butler, you are to be transferred to a building belonging to theCouncil of War: there you will occupy cell 27. . . . Our prison here isfor the condemned only, so you cannot remain. You belong to theaccused section. " All that mattered to Butler-Vinson for the moment was--he had to reachhis new quarters by crossing the rue Cherche-Midi between twojailors. . . . He would be exposed to the curious glances of the public!He shuddered at the thought!. . . And there was worse to come! This wasbut the commencement of his purgatory. . . . As he had not known how todie at the right moment, he must arm himself with courage to expiatehis cowardice!. . . He must leave the shelter of his cell!. . . With anintense effort of will he stretched out his arms, was handcuffedwithout a murmur, and, marching between his two jailors, he quittedthe prison. The bright light of noonday made him blink. On reaching the pavementhe recoiled with a convulsive movement: the jailors pulled himforward. It was the crowded hour, when men leave offices and shops for a middaymeal. But the public of these parts, accustomed to such comings andgoings of prisoners and their jailors, paid no attention to thispitiful trio. The prisoner seemed so overcome with emotion that, after uttering along sigh like a death rattle, he sank, a dead weight, into the armsof his jailors. They were forced to support him. They carried him to the courtyard ofthe Council of War. Some, whose curiosity was aroused by the unusualpallor of the prisoner, wished to follow, but the jailors closed thegreat doors of the courtyard. Before leading him to his cell, they dumped their inanimate prisoneron a chair in the porter's lodge. . . . The porter brought vinegar. Theyrubbed Butler-Vinson's temples with it. A jailor slapped his hands. Invain! The prisoner showed no signs of life! "You had better take him to his cell, " advised the porter. "Perhaps hewill come to his senses if laid on his palliasse? In any case, run forthe medical officer. " The jailors, who could make nothing of their prisoner's mysteriouscondition, transported him to cell 27. They laid him on his palliasse. * * * * * "Lieutenant Servin?" "Commandant?" "Will you help me to reduce these papers to order? It is half-pasteleven: I want to go to breakfast!" The lieutenant brought a pile of documents to his superior's table andrapidly classified them. His superior, Commandant Dumoulin, had been chief assistant at theSecond Bureau. He had passed long years at his post there. Previous tothat, he had acted as Government Commissioner on the Councils of Warin the various garrisons where he had been stationed. . . . Some sixmonths ago Dumoulin had sent in his request to the Minister of War fora change of billet. His record being an excellent one, the Ministerhad appointed him Government Chief-commissioner attached to thePrincipal Council of War, sitting in Paris. Dumoulin had recently taken up his new duties, and was counting ongetting peacefully into the run of things, when, the evening before, he had been warned at his own home by a private note from theMinister, that a deserter, accused of treason, had been arrested, andthat Corporal Vinson was the man in question. At the sight of this name Commandant Dumoulin thrilled withexcitement. As former Under-Secretary at the Second Bureau he had theaffair at his finger ends, and well knew how tangled, how obscure itwas, how bristling with dangers, how rich in complications. . . . TheVinson affair, it was the Captain Brocq affair, the singer Nichouneaffair . . . The story of a plan of mobilisation stolen, of a gun piecelifted from the Arsenal!. . . He was in for a big affair--a sensationalcase!. . . The commandant passed a wakeful night and arrived early at his office. He must get to work! Fortunately, among his deputies he had found acompetent and zealous helper in Lieutenant Servin. He turned to himnow. "Our next proceeding will be to establish the identity of CorporalVinson. We must examine him on that point without delay. . . . Send forhim immediately, Lieutenant!. . . According to the prison register, heoccupies cell 26. " "Excuse me, Commandant; Vinson, who was registered this morning at theCherche-Midi prison, must actually be in the Council buildings, wherehe occupied cell 27. " The commandant adjusted his eye-glasses, looked closely at a yellowpaper, and corrected in his turn: "That is an error: in cell 27 is an individual named Butler. " "Yes, Commandant: Butler--he is Vinson!" "I do not understand, " objected Dumoulin. "You must have made amistake. Corporal Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazarestation: he was brought here and was registered for cell 26; besides, I was immediately informed of this arrest by a private telegram. " "Commandant, " persisted the lieutenant: "Corporal Vinson, who hidhimself under the name of Butler, was arrested early this morning atthe Calais station, when he landed from England. The arrest waseffected by Inspector Juve, who took his prisoner to Cherche-Midiabout six o'clock; and this Vinson occupied cell 27. " "Come, now, Lieutenant, you have lost your head!" grumbled thecommandant: "Since Vinson was arrested yesterday at the Saint Lazarestation, it is evident that he was not arrested last night at Calais!Vinson and Butler--that makes two. " "I beg your pardon, Commandant: that makes only one!" The commandant looked severely at his subordinate. "That is enough, Lieutenant!. . . Send for Corporal Vinson who occupiedcell 26. " "Right, Commandant!" Some minutes later there was a knock at the door: two warders with aprisoner stood on the threshold. The commandant assured himself with a glance that the non-commissionedofficer, acting as reporter, was at his post, and that LieutenantServin was seated at the desk next his own. "Enter!" he commanded. Dumoulin solemnly opened the voluminous bundle of papers set beforehim, looked through the documents, affecting not to see the prisonerstationed before him. . . . Ready at length to begin the interrogation, the commandant raised his head, straightened himself, and ordered: "Approach!" The prisoner, a warder on each side of him, took a step forward. "You are truly Corporal Vinson?" "No, Commandant!" Dumoulin was silent a moment, choking with anger, his hand tremblingslightly--did the fellow mean to mock him?. . . He frowned. He did notlike the manner of this fellow, with his bright, piercing eyes, hisscornful looks. He repeated: "Are you Corporal Vinson?" "No, Commandant. " Dumoulin was boiling with rage: he was about to explode. LieutenantServin approached: in a low voice he said: "Commandant! Someone wishes you to see him immediately. " Servin handed his superior a card. On it the commandant read: _Inspector Juve, Detective Force, Police Headquarters. _ "What does he want?" "He is the detective who arrested Vinson. " "Well, " exclaimed the exasperated Dumoulin, "he arrives at the rightmoment! Let him come in!" Juve entered and saluted Dumoulin with an amiable smile. He did nottake any notice of the prisoner, who was standing with his back to thelight. "It is I, Commandant, who arrested Corporal Vinson; consequently, Ihave come to place myself at your disposal. " "You have done the right thing!" cried Dumoulin. "Now, will you getthis prisoner to own up? Make him tell us whether or no he is CorporalVinson!" Dumoulin pointed an irate finger at the prisoner. Our detective stood rooted to the ground!. . . The prisoner movedquickly towards him. "Fandor!" "Juve!" "What does this mean, Fandor?" "It means, Juve, that I am arrested in the place of Corporal Vinson!" "Nothing of the sort!. . . I arrive from London. I arrested Vinsonyesterday evening at Calais!" Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter. "My dear Juve, " said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortalhours before you would understand a word of this business!" Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice ofthe most exquisite politeness: "Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not CorporalVinson!. . . I am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: JérômeFandor, on the staff of _La Capitale_. . . . If you see me in thisuniform, this disguise, that relates to a series of events, details ofwhich I will give you with pleasure, as soon as I have reduced my ownideas to order. . . . As things stand, I am fortunate in meeting myfriend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the truth of mystatement. " Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective, at the journalist, at his reporter. . . . With face red as a boiledlobster, he turned to Lieutenant Servin. . . . When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office, and had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned. The lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just thatmoment returned to the commandant's office. Lieutenant Servin looked upset. "Commandant!" he gasped out. He turned to our detective. "Monsieur Juve!" He continued staring first at one man, then at the other. "An incredible thing has happened!. . . I have just heard of it!. . . Ihad given the order to have Corporal Vinson brought hereimmediately--the real Corporal Vinson--he whom Monsieur Juve arrestedunder the name of Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that onentering his cell they found him--dead!" "What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together. "I say that he is dead, " repeated the lieutenant. "But how?" questioned Juve. The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge. "Go for the medical officer. " Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions. A young assistant surgeon appeared. "Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin. The surgeon spoke. "My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to aprisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue duCherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could notrevive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on hispalliasse. When I arrived the man was dead. " "Dead of what?" demanded Dumoulin. "A bullet in his heart, " replied the surgeon. . . . "I ascertained thiswhen undressing him. The bullet will be found at the post-mortem: ithas probably lodged in the vertebral column. " Dumoulin rose: paced the floor: he was greatly agitated. "Oh, come, come!" he cried. "People are not killed like that in theopen street!. . . It is unheard of! Unbelievable!. . . A bulletpresupposes a revolver--a weapon of percussion of some description--adetonation!. . . There is a noise, a sound!" Dumoulin went up to the young surgeon. There was a note of suspiciouscontempt in his question: "Are you quite sure of what you say?" "I am quite sure, Commandant. " During this discussion Juve had approached Fandor. When the surgeonmade his statement, Juve murmured in Fandor's ear: "Vinson shot through the heart by a bullet!. . . Like Captain Brocq!. . . Killed undoubtedly by a noiseless weapon . . . When crossing thestreet!. . . Here, again, is--Fantômas!" Things calmed down somewhat. Fandor addressed Dumoulin: "Excuse me, Commandant, for having troubled you. I should be mostgrateful if you would set me at liberty. One tragedy follows hard onanother! It is phenomenal!. . . I shall have to. ". . . Commandant Dumoulin burst out: "By Heaven!" he shouted, thumping the table with his fist: "You arethe limit!. . . The take-the-cake limit!. . . You flout me! You practiseon my credulity!. . . Now you would steal a march on me! Try it on--willyou?. . . Ah! You are not Corporal Vinson!. . . No?. . . You are ajournalist!. . . You have got to prove that!. . . Even if you do proveit, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle by your fooling, bymaking a laughing-stock of the entire army in your own preposterousperson--by assuming that uniform!. . . "Guards!" shouted Dumoulin. "Take this man back to his cell! Be sharpabout it!. . . Double his guard!" Fandor was not allowed time to protest: he was marched off at thedouble. Juve tried to get in a word of explanation. "I assure you, Commandant, it is certainly Jérôme Fandor you aredeal----" "You!" yelled the commandant. "Get out! Foot it!. . . Leave me in peace, can't you!. . . Out with you, or I'll know the reason why!. . . Begone!". . . Dumoulin was apoplectic with rage. XXVIII AT "THE CRYING CALF" "What's your drink?" "What's your offer?" Hogshead Geoffrey, also nicknamed "The Barrel, " thumped the table witha formidable fist, at the risk of upsetting a pile of saucers, which, at this advanced hour of the evening, showed clearly how he had spentthe hours passed in the wine-shop. "What do I offer?" he retorted. "I offer what's wanted. I don'thaggle. When I ask a fellow: 'Old man, what do you want to wet yourgullet?' that means: 'Choose. ' There now!" Hogshead Geoffrey's companion merely said: "Pass the programme!" Once in possession of the wine-list--if such could be called thecrumpled, dirty paper on which the owner of the house had scribbled inpencil the fresh drinks, composed of indescribable mixtures speciallyrecommended to his clients--the guest of Hogshead Geoffrey becameabsorbed in the list of strange beverages. So mean-looking an individual was this guest that he had beennicknamed "The Scrub. " He also answered to the more aristocratic titleof "Sacristan. " Once he had been sacristan at the church ofSaint-Sulpice, but intemperate habits had led to his dismissal. Whatodd link there was between this sorry little fellow and the robustGeoffrey?[7] [Footnote 7: See _Fantômas_: vol. I, Fantômas Series] The Scrub ordered: "A thick 'un--jolly thick!" He eyed his host. "What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!" Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his headagainst the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, hestared at the ceiling. The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with theodours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, theshop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room. "Well, old Scrub, " said Geoffrey at last. "You haven't seen me becauseyou haven't!. . . You remember I passed the Markets' test and wasnominated market porter?" "Jolly well I do!. . . We had a famous drinking bout that time!" "That's so, Scrub!. . . And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!. . . Youremember I was rejected?. . . Well, I got into the Markets all thesame!. . . Then--one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regularknock-down-and-outer!" "You did?" "Just didn't I?. . . I gave him such a oner--just like this!". . . Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down onthe table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board wassplit from end to end! Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides. "Ho! ho! Nothing can resist me!" shouted Hogshead Geoffrey. . . . "Giveme anything you choose!. . . Every table in the room! No matter what!I'll break it in two--man or woman! Wood or stone!. . . It's all one tome!" True or not, Hogshead Geoffrey, when not too much in liquor, was agentle soul, a simple, kind creature; quick-tempered, kind-hearted. Liable to sudden gusts of anger, he was equally capable of knockingthe life out of a comrade with his gigantic fist or of comforting somesniveling street urchin crossing his path. Well did the Scrub know it. He too was a contradictory mixture. Thismean little human specimen had been newsboy, seller of post cards, opener of cab doors, Jack of any little trade, the companion ofpickpockets and other light-fingered gentry, also adored the goodmanners of bygone vestry days, the polished phrases, the benedictorygestures! When in hospital, chance had given him Hogshead Geoffrey forbed-neighbour. It did not take him long to realise that he would bethe gainer by a friendship with this kindly giant: it would be apartnership of brain and muscle. . . . The Scrub commanded: Geoffreyexecuted. When the admiration for his prowess had died down, Hogshead Geoffreycontinued his story: "When I had given the chief the knock-out, the next day they gave methe order of the boot, if you would believe me!. . . I was properly downand out! I hadn't saved a sou--was in debt right and left, to thewine-shops--was all but run in!". . . "What did you do?" enquired the Scrub. "Bobinette helped me. " "Your sister?" "Oh, she's a sharp one!. . . She's studied, too!. . . She did the bandagesat Lariboise!. . . She had the sous!. . . I told her my troubles!. . . Shelet me have the dibs, so I could hang on!" "Until you got a billet at _The Big Tun_?" "No!. . . Bobine said: 'Here's gold, little brother! It's all I have . . . Don't come for more!. . . You must find a way out of the mess!'" "And you did?. . . How?" Hogshead Geoffrey hesitated: he sipped his absinthe. "Oh . . . Well . . . I found a way out. ". . . "How? I ask you. ". . . "I tell you I managed all right! And then I got my job at _The BigTun_. " "Where you are now?" "Where I am. " "You paid back your sister?" Hogshead Geoffrey roared with laughter. "I paid her back so little that I didn't know what had become ofher!. . . She had turned her back on Lariboise without leaving anaddress. . . . Thought she must have kicked the bucket!. . . I would havebeen sorry for that!. . . She's a good sort!. . . But yesterday I had wordfrom her. . . . Bobinette asked me to meet her. ". . . "You told her to come here?" "Sure!" "And how did she know your address?" Hogshead Geoffrey scratched his big head. "Lordy! I don't know!. . . Probably she saw my name quoted the other dayin the _Petit Journal_, among the conquerors in the Who's StrongestCompetition. She wrote putting the number of my old shanty, rue de laHarpe!. . . No good being astonished at what she does!. . . I tell you shehas education--she has!". . . It was half an hour after midnight. The owner of _The Crying Calf_shouted in a stentorian voice: "Now, boys! It's only seven sous drinks now!" It was the accustomed warning, taken as a matter of course. Protesting in a squeaky voice that his constitution was weakly, thathis doctor had ordered him not to sit up late, the Scrub, who feared ameeting with Bobinette, knowing she had little liking for him, nowtook himself off. Geoffrey ordered two drinks. He was bored. Bobinette was behind herpromised time. He would have left, but Bobinette would pay for hisdrinks--a nice little total! At last she appeared: an out-of-breath Bobinette, and somewhatflustered. She was quietly dressed--almost shabby. This was no place for one ofthe elegant toilettes affected by Mademoiselle de Naarboveck'scompanion!. . . After her Rouen journey, after her meeting withLieutenant de Loubersac in the train, she had thought it wiser not togo back to the baron's house. She had written to say she was ill. Thenshe had taken refuge in a quiet little inn in la Chapelleneighbourhood, there to await events. Vagualame's arrest had made a terrible impression on her. . . . Vagualamehad not betrayed her; but she sensed snares, pitfalls all about her:she might be trapped any minute: she must disappear! After Vagualame'sarrest she had had but one idea: to get rid of the gun piece, hand itto the foreign power, and receive the promised reward. . . . When, instead of Corporal Vinson, whom she had summoned in accordance withher orders, she had perceived Fandor, she was puzzled, suspicious. If Bobinette went to the meeting place in her own undisguised person, and met Fandor as Fandor, it was because she had had the same idea asthe journalist. "I will walk through the arcades as Bobinette, and I shall see ifCorporal Vinson is there, or if, by chance, he is not alone!" That same day at Rouen she had had a bad shock. The telegram she hadreceived at the garage was from Vagualame!. . . How could an arrestedVagualame send her a telegram, and such a telegram? This telegram, in their usual cypher, informed her that at all costs, and at once, she must separate herself from Corporal Vinson, who wasnot the real Vinson, but a counter-spy!. . . Bobinette all but faintedfrom fright. . . . She must escape from this counter-spy!. . . Yet, owingto the false Vinson's insistence, she had been forced to share hisroom!. . . He did not mean to let her out of his sight, that wasplain!. . . No sooner had the false Vinson gone down to the car in the morningthan Bobinette had slipped off, hot foot for Rouen. The gun piece wasleft behind! The chauffeur would bear the brunt of that, thoughtBobinette, as she sped on her way. Later, she read of his arrest andrelease. Her meeting with Lieutenant de Loubersac and the sight of the falseVinson's arrest at the Saint Lazare station showed the terrified girlthat things had gone mysteriously, hopelessly wrong!. . . Without resources, Bobinette had pawned her few jewels. Then a letterfrom Vagualame had reached her. She had obeyed the instructions itcontained. . . . That he had learned her address did not surprise her:she knew he never lost track of those it was to his interest to keepan eye on. Before Vagualame's note reached her she had been worried and bored. "I must make sure of shelter and protection if needs be, " shereflected: "I will look up Geoffrey. We will meet at _The CryingCalf_, it is safe there!" "Sit you down here, little Bobine!" suggested Hogshead Geoffrey. . . . "And now, what will you take?" Bobinette ordered a gooseberry syrup. "Quite the lady's drink, " remarked mine host of the wine-shop with ahumorous air. Brother and sister exchanged confidences. . . . The good Geoffrey told ofhis fight, of situations obtained and lost, of fisticuff encounters, of quarrels and blows. . . . Bobinette went so far as to say that she wasvery happy, very much at her ease. "Just imagine, " said she: "I am companion to an old lady, a Russian, who in her time has had trouble with the police of her country, Ithink. " "The police? I don't like the police!" interrupted her brother. "Who does?" ejaculated Bobinette. "Lots of people come to her house. Igo to all the dinners, all the parties!" "Ah, then, you'll foot the bill, Bobine, if you have such a richsituation?" "I will pay, Geoffrey, " said Bobinette: "This old lady, I think. ". . . Bobinette stopped. She went white as a sheet. . . . An old man had justentered the wine-shop. His steps were uncertain, his back was bentunder the weight of an old accordion. It was Vagualame. . . . XXIX I AM TROKOFF Bobinette's astonishment was so evident that Hogshead Geoffrey, whosepowers of observation were small, was struck by his sister'sexpression. "You know that old fellow?" he asked. "If he bothers you you've but topass the word, you know, and I'll soon put him on the other side ofthe door!" This amiable offer terrified the girl. She felt sure Vagualame was notat _The Crying Calf_ by chance. He had probably followed her--wishedto have a word with her. . . . She must fall in with his wishes. She mustcut short this interview with her brother. After all, it was only topass the time she had come. "Keep quiet, Geoffrey, " she said: "I do not know the old boy, and youdeceive yourself if you think he annoys me!. . . Besides, my dearGeoffrey, I must be off!" "Be off!. . . Whatever's come to you, Bobine?" "I have business on hand elsewhere. . . . And now that I know you arequite well, Geoffrey, I shall continue my walk. " "True?" protested the bewildered giant: "You're going to cut yourstick already?" "Call the governor!. . . There's a twenty-franc piece for you! Pay foryour drinks and keep the rest, " was Bobinette's effective reply. Hogshead calmed down at once. "As long as you pay up, Bobine, I've nothing to say; but, all thesame, you have queer ideas. . . . You bring me here to keep anappointment, and then, we're not five minutes together, when up youget on the trot again!" Bobinette caught her brother's huge fist in a quick handshake, madefor the door of _The Crying Calf_, turned out of rue Monge at a slowpace, convinced that Vagualame would join her. The street was deserted. Bobinette kept in the shadow, avoiding thebright patches cast on the silent roadway from the wine-shops andtaverns still open and alight. She had been walking about five minutes when she felt that someone waswalking behind her, hastening to overtake her. . . . A hand was laid onher shoulder: Vagualame was beside her, regulating his steps by hers. "Is that species of giant your brother?" he asked. Bobinette nodded. "You are free, then?" she asked, breathing hard. "It looks like it!" "Who released you?" "Let us hurry!" said Vagualame: "Let us seek shelter. " "Where?" "You will see--with friends. " What did it matter to Bobinette where they were going while strangedoubts and horrid fears filled her mind? "Who released you?" They were passing beneath a street lamp. Vagualame noted thatBobinette was regarding him with defiant eyes. Was this reallyVagualame? Was he an impostor? Vagualame read her thoughts. "Bobinette, you are nothing but a fool!" announced the old accordionplayer: "The man arrested at your place was a detective, who had gothimself up like me to take you in!. . . You let him trick you! You arean imbecile!" Bobinette stopped. "But then . . . If a detective made himself up to resemble you, it meansthey know you are guilty! It means they are after you! Why, it's a madthing you are doing, coming to meet me in that rig out! Why have younot disguised yourself?" Vagualame smiled. "Possibly I have reason for it, a plan you know nothing about, Bobinette!. . . But, let us return to the false Vagualame. How was ityou did not detect the fraud, if only by the voice?. . . How is it youhave not guessed the truth since?. . . When you received my telegram atRouen it should have been as clear as daylight to you!. . . Eh!" Bobinette kept silence. "Well, we will not dwell on the past, " declared Vagualame, with an airof magnanimity: "Fortunately your extraordinary simplicity has not hadany particular consequences--save the stupid way you let them get holdof the gun piece, and allowed the false Corporal Vinson to escape!". . . In a menacing tone he said: "We will return to that question later. " "But, " faltered Bobinette: "How could I act otherwise?" Vagualame threw her such a look, a look so charged with fiercecontempt that she could no longer doubt that she was face to face withher master. This master would not allow argument, discussion: well sheknew that! She screwed up her courage to ask: "How did you learn my address?" "That is my business!" he declared: "What I want to know I get toknow--you must have seen that by this time!" "How is it, then, you called at _The Crying Calf_ to-day?. . . Geoffreydid not know you: he alone knew I was coming to see him!. . . Youfollowed me?" "Suppose I did follow you?". . . Vagualame's tone changed: it becameimperious. "Have you quite finished asking me silly questions?. . . I consider itis my turn to put a question or two to you--What are you doing?" Bobinette bent her head. "You have a right to know, " she murmured: "When you sent me thatletter, after I took refuge in La Chapelle, telling me to go to thehouse of a Madame Olga Dimitroff and present myself for the post ofcompanion, I went. She engaged me. I am still with her. " "To take refuge in an hotel was an idiotic thing to do, Bobinette. . . . The police could easily have nabbed you there if they had had a mindto. That is why I sent you to one of my old friends--to a person towhom I could recommend you!. . . Well, Bobinette, you will have toleave that house!" The young woman bent her head, mastered, ready to accept any orders ofVagualame's before they were issued. All she asked, in a timid voice, was: "Where am I to go then?" "Far from here. " "Why?" Vagualame's smile was evil. His reply was like a series of swordthrusts. "Because Juve has good eyes; because Fandor also begins to seeclear. . . . The net begins to tighten. . . . I shall find means to slipthrough it!. . . I am not of those who are caught like a mouse in atrap. . . . But, as for you--you with your simplicity--it is high time toput you out of reach of the police!. . . I am going to give you somemoney. Five days hence, disguised as a gipsy, you are to be on theroad from Sceaux to Versailles, at eleven o'clock at night, by thefirst milestone on the left side after the aeroplane garage. . . . Youhave followed me?" Bobinette was trembling. "Disguised as a gipsy, Vagualame? Why?" "That is no concern of yours!. . . You have only to do as I tell you. Igive orders, but not explanations!" Vagualame felt in his pockets. He held out a note-book. "You will find two fifty-franc notes in this. It is more than you needfor a suitable disguise. I will give you more money when you startoff, because I am going to send you to a foreign country. " Whilst talking, Vagualame and Bobinette had gone a long way from _TheCrying Calf_. By a labyrinth of little streets, all darkness andmystery, Vagualame had led his companion to a kind of blind alley: atall house blocked the end of it. A large shop on the ground flooroccupied half the front of it. Although the iron shutters had beendrawn down, light from the interior penetrated through apertures tothe street--thin rays of light. Vagualame laid a brutal hand on Bobinette. "Attend to what I say: it is no joking matter. You are coming in withme. I am going to introduce you to my many friends here, whom I haverecently got to know: they may say things that will astonish you, butdo not show surprise. . . . I bring you here that you may know where tofind me during the five days you remain in Paris. . . . You have only towrite a letter and bring it to the woman who keeps this library. Address to Vagualame: it will reach me. " "Yes, " replied Bobinette. Vagualame knocked three separate times, then twice quickly, on theiron shutters. A key turned in the lock: the door opened. Vagualamethrust Bobinette across the threshold. Out of the obscurity of thestreets whipped by an icy wind and torrents of rain, Bobinette foundherself in a brilliantly lighted book-shop. She stood dazzled. A young woman came forward. "Good evening, Sophie, " said Vagualame: "Anything new?" "Nothing new, Vagualame!" Bobinette looked about her. She saw piles of books and collections ofmagazines and papers. The shop was crowded with them. "Sophie, I bring a new friend--a sure friend--who may have to bringyou a letter for me one of these days, " said Vagualame. The proprietress looked curiously at Bobinette. All she said was: "Have our brothers been warned, Vagualame?" "They have not been told yet; but I shall present my friend to them atthe first opportunity. " There was loud knocking at the shutters! Voices were heard shouting: "Open! Open! Open! The police!" Bobinette grew ashen with terror. "It is all up!" thought the desperate girl: "They will see Vagualameis free! They will find me with him! We are caught!" She turned frantically to Vagualame. He stood calm and collected. "Ah!" said he with a touch of raillery, looking at the proprietress:"They have been warned that you are again breaking the work law!" Shaking a threatening finger at the rigid Sophie, Vagualame went tothe shop entrance. He looked through the large keyhole to see who wasdemanding admittance at this late hour. . . . A look, and Vagualameturned, caught Sophie by the arm, and whispered: "Detective Juve!. . . Inspector Michel!. . . Keep cool, Sophie! Theycannot know all the ins and outs of your place. " Two strides and Vagualame joined Bobinette. He dragged her to the endof the shop, reached a corner, turned it, and they were standing onboards clear of books: it was hidden from the main part of the shopand from the entrance. "Draw your skirts between your legs!" he commanded. "Don't utter asound!. . . Don't be afraid!" * * * * * Vagualame was right. The police had surrounded the mysterious shop. Noiselessly, gliding past the houses like shadows, revolver in hand, dark lantern at waist, fifteen detectives in plain clothes hadconverged on the tall house in the blind alley. Juve was speaking low. "Careful, Michel! We have seen our birds enter. They are inside. . . . Ishall follow them!. . . Meanwhile, do not stir from this door. . . . Thereis no other issue. . . . Do not allow a soul to pass--not one!" "Never fear, Juve!" Information dropped by Corporal Vinson, who had been taken to _TheCrying Calf_ by Vagualame, more than once had caused Juve to keep astrict watch on the wine-shop for some days. He had seen firstBobinette and then Vagualame enter the place. . . . When Bobinette cameout, almost immediately, he felt sure she had not had time for a talkwith Vagualame. . . . When Vagualame soon followed, Juve had shadowed theold accordion player in the darkness: behind him followed his men onthe trail of both. When he saw Vagualame and Bobinette enter the library he exclaimed, inthought: "I have them!. . . I know the house! I am going to arrest Fantômas andhis accomplice!" Cool as a cucumber now that the decisive, ardently-longed-for momentwas at hand, Juve repeated his instructions: he did not mean to leaveanything to chance. "You understand then, Michel, not one single person is to leave thesepremises. Even I can only be permitted to pass when I say to you: 'Itis I, Juve, . . . Let me pass!' You thoroughly understand?" "Perfectly, " replied Michel. Juve turned to his four picked men: "Gentlemen! Are you ready?" Revolver in one hand, lantern in the other, Juve knocked loudly on theshuttered shop door. "In the name of the law! Open! Open! Open!. . . The police!" A bare three minutes had elapsed between Juve's first summons and theopening of the library door. Vagualame had made profitable use of the three minutes. "Don't utter a sound! Don't be afraid!" Vagualame had repeated toBobinette: "They will not take us this time!" Hustled, dragged to the spot already described, Bobinette now felt theground giving way beneath her. She rolled on to a steeply inclinedplane. Gliding down into the void, clutching Vagualame, she heard adull sound: it was the trap falling to. "Quiet!" repeated Vagualame, as Bobinette rolled on to the woodflooring of a sort of cellar piled high with books. He signed to thegirl to listen. "Yes! They are searching the shop, knocking the books about, imaginingwe are hidden among them!. . . But, from what I know of Juve, in a veryshort time he will have ferreted out the trap door and will descend aswe have done. He will never be such a fool as to think we have gonedown the shop stairs. " "Oh!" groaned Bobinette: "Whatever shall we do?" Vagualame calmly turned on his pocket electric torch, approached animmense pile of illustrated magazines stacked in a corner. He struckthree blows on it, saying in a low clear voice: "Open! Open to brothers!" Bobinette, frightened past speech, saw the immense pile of volumesoscillate, then noiselessly divide, disclosing a secret door. Vagualame pulled her towards it, saying in a joking tone: "You see how useful it is to have friends of all sorts! Your employer, Olga Damitroff, was well advised when she once told me when and wherethe Nihilists gather together in Paris to plot against the Czar!" Vagualame brought her into a large room, lit by torches, where a scoreof young men were assembled. They rose and reverently salutedVagualame, who approached them with outstretched hand. When Juve entered, he soon satisfied himself that only Sophie remainedin the library. He gave orders to keep strict guard over theproprietress, notwithstanding her loud protestations. "Do not permit anyone to leave the premises, " he repeated to the menstationed at the door--"except myself, of course. " He turned to others. "Move all these volumes! There may be a hide-hole concealed behindthem. . . . Keep guard at the top of the little staircase. It is the onlyway of escape . . . I am going to make a tour of the cellars and expectto run my game to earth by this staircase. ". . . Sophie again protested. "There is nothing in my cellars that ought not to be there! I don'tunderstand what the police want here!" Juve paid no attention to these protestations. He went towards thecorner at the farther end of the shop. Juve knew all the dens in Paris; there was not a secret society he didnot know of--societies, political and otherwise, holding mysteriousmeetings in these places: he knew of the existence of this trap-doorand slide which led to the cellars below this library. "We will go down to the Nihilists, " said he. Before the interested eyes of his subordinates, Juve set the trap inmotion. A counter weight closed it over his head. Juve rolled into the cellar but a few seconds after Vagualame andBobinette had escaped from it!. . . To tell the truth, Juve did not knowof the hidden entrance to the secret room. Dizzy from his rapid glidedownwards, Juve raised his lantern. He was not surprised to find thisretreat empty. He knew the slide led to second and lower series ofcellars. . . . His eye caught a movement. The huge stack of magazines, looking as ifit would topple over, so much on the slant was it, was slowly movinginto an upright position again! He leaped forward, thrusting hisrevolver between the opening of the two portions, and prevented themfrom joining completely!. . . What was going on behind this tricky collection of magazines, whichhad undoubtedly just opened to give passage to Vagualame andBobinette? Juve glued his ear to the fissure which marked the edge of the hiddendoor. . . . Ah!. . . Voices of men in discussion!. . . Juve could notdistinguish all that the voices were saying, but a word reached hisear, clear, unmistakable--_Fantômas_! He listened intently. "You are right, " remarked an invisible speaker: "It is to Fantômas weowe all these police visits and annoyances--his crimes exasperate thepolice--and to justify themselves in the opinion of the public theytrack us down more vigorously than ever!" Another voice answered: "I know for certain that these coppers are after Fantômas to-night!" Shouts and hoots resounded. Menacing voices repeated: "Since Fantômas is indirectly our persecutor, let us avenge ourselveson Fantômas!. . . What matters one life compared with the cause wedefend--the cause of a whole people!. . . If Fantômas is in our way, troubles us, let us kill him!. . . Trokoff will be here to-morrow, thisevening perhaps! Trokoff will guide us! Trokoff will find thismysterious bandit who does us so much harm! Trokoff is a valiantman!. . . We do not know him, but we know what he has done!" Juve smiled a sardonic smile. He thrust his hand into the openingwedged apart by his revolver, widened the space, opened the secretdoor, and entered the assembly room of the Nihilists. "God save Russia!" Juve pronounced these words with unction, in a solemn voice. "God save Poland, " was the reply. The oldest man present, who had thusbeen spokesman for the assembly advanced towards the stranger. "Who are you?" he demanded. Without the quiver of an eyelid, an eyelash, Juve answered: "I am hewhom you have awaited. . . . He who will direct your arms--guide you! Iam Trokoff!" "Let but one of these inspired fanatics, who hold life cheap, guessthat I belong to the police, and they would kill me without mercy orpity, " thought Juve, as he faced the assembly of revolutionaries witha serene countenance. There were no threatening looks. They believed themselves to be in thepresence of Trokoff. Had he not opened the door?. . . Only Trokoff, theexpected, the longed for, could have done that! The assembly acclaimed him: "Trokoff! We for Russia welcome you! God be with you, Trokoff! Heavenguard you!" "God be with you, brothers!" Juve advanced, scrutinising each in turn: neither Vagualame norBobinette were among them. Juve addressed them: "My brothers! You know that the police are now searching the shopoverhead: it is a serious moment!" One of the Nihilists stepped forward. "We know it, Trokoff! Our brother, Vagualame, accompanied by a youngdisciple, came to warn us but a minute ago. Be assured, brother! Thepolice are not searching for us this evening. . . . It is the vile wretchFantômas they are after!. . . A criminal ruffian, foe of all liberty, whom we have condemned to death. . . . Therefore we are not disquieted. Vagualame has just left us. . . . He will direct the suspicions of thepolice into another channel. He told us he knew a way of quietingtheir suspicions. ". . . "If only Michel does not allow this arch-bandit to slip through hisfingers!" reflected Juve, as he listened with unmoved countenance tothese remarkable statements. Before the Nihilist could say more, Juvemade a declaration: "Vagualame deceives himself, brother. I must go up at once to give himthe aid of my strong arm, otherwise we are finished!. . . I know onlythe secret entrance here: guide me to the other exit, so that I maynot attract the attention of the police: we do not want our secretentrance discovered!" "It shall be as you desire, brother. Follow me; but be prudent. " Marching at the Nihilist's heels, after many twists and turns, Juvearrived at the foot of a quite ordinary staircase. "You have only to mount, brother Trokoff. These stairs lead straightinto the shop. If the police ask where you come from, you have only tosay that you were looking in the first cellar for a book!. . . But whatmatters it if they do visit the cellars! They will never find thehidden door!" Juve bent his head. "Thanks, brother! Peace be with you!" The Nihilist turned away. No sooner was he out of sight than Juve toreup the stairs to complete the arrest of Vagualame and Bobinette! Inspector Michel had not stirred from his appointed place by the doorleading to the street. He had been on guard about half an hour when Juve, livid, frantic, rushed towards him. "You have let them go out, Michel!" he shouted: "They are not here!" "No one has gone out at this door, Chief! I give you my word on it!. . . But, may I ask how you managed to slip back again without my havingnoticed you! Deuced clever, I call it!. . . No one, I say, has leftthese premises either before or after you!" "What's that you say?" Juve stared at Michel as if he had taken leaveof his senses. "What I say, Chief, is--the only individuals whom I have allowed topass out are you and your woman prisoner. " "I and my woman prisoner?" Juve could have howled with rage. He caughtthe calm, collected Michel by the coat collar, and dragged him outsidethe shop. Juve looked so desperate, so at his wit's end, that Michelwondered. "Come now, Chief!" he remonstrated; "I am not dreaming, am I?. . . Tenminutes ago you came to me here, and you said: "'Don't move, Michel! Let me pass. I am Juve! I take a prisoner to thestation and will return. '" Juve had grown deadly calm. "I was disguised, Michel, was I not?" "Yes. You had put on your Vagualame disguise. " Juve bit his lip till the blood came. That arch-bandit had done himagain! Juve could not but admire his coolness and resource. He hadknown how to take in Michel, because Michel had arrested Juve whendisguised as Vagualame at de Naarboveck's house. . . . Michel wouldnaturally think his chief had again assumed the Vagualame disguise fora purpose! Oh, it was the devil's own cleverness! Juve glared at Michel. "It was the real Vagualame, I tell you!" shouted Juve. . . . "It was notI disguised as Vagualame!. . . It was Vagualame in person, I tellyou!. . . It is Vagualame himself whom you have allowed to escape!" There was a pause--terrible, heart-sickening. Michel drew himself up. "What then, Chief?" Juve's anger gave place to compassion. "It is really not your fault, my poor Michel. How could you imaginethe infernal trick this bandit was playing on you?. . . I bear you nogrudge for it, Michel!" But Michel was inconsolable. He had committed an irreparable blunder! Juve slipped his arm through that of his miserable subordinate. Thepair made their way to Headquarters at the head of the little columnof subordinates who, understanding that Juve had not found what hesought, were cursing inwardly at the failure of their expedition. . . . The moment Juve realised that Michel had allowed Vagualame-Fantômas toescape, he had called off his men. He did not wish the Russianrevolutionaries cornered and arrested at present. . . . PossiblyVagualame believed Juve and his men had come to find the Nihilists, and, having failed, had left the premises in a rage! Sophie would report to the bandit--but she had not heard everything!Thought Juve: "He will hardly guess that I entered the assembly below by the secretdoor and made them believe I was Trokoff!. . . It leaves a way open forfuture transactions!. . . Some day, not so far ahead, I may return, mayfind that devil's Will o' the Wisp of a bandit there and nab him atlast!". . . Did Michel suspect there were Nihilists on the premises? "Tell me, " questioned Juve: "Did you overhear any suspicious talk?. . . This Sophie did not say anything interesting?" "Nothing whatever, Chief. " "Your men, Michel, do not know what individual we are after?" Michel laughed. "Oh, they are a hundred leagues off the truth!. . . That they were outto arrest Fantômas!. . . Just imagine, Chief! This afternoon, acomplaint was lodged at Headquarters with reference to the theft of abear! The theft was committed at Troyes, at the fair. . . . Our men arepersuaded that to-night's search has to do with this bear-stealingcase!. . . All the more so because, just as we started on thisexpedition, one of my men, whose home is at Sceaux, told us that hisbrother, a driver down there, had been ordered to go in five days'time, with two horses, and at five in the morning, on the road toRobinson, and take a gipsy van twenty kilometres from there!. . . Hethought there was something very queer about such a rendezvous asthat!" Juve's interest in this piece of news was keen! XXX APPALLING ACCUSATIONS "But, Commandant, you cannot possibly maintain that I am not JérômeFandor, journalist!" The interview between Commandant Dumoulin and Fandor had alreadylasted an hour. It was unlike that which had taken place six daysbefore, when Dumoulin had dealt summarily with the Fandor-Vinson case. Since then Fandor had occupied cell 27, and had had no communicationwith the outside world. Fandor had raged furiously against things ingeneral, against Dumoulin in particular, and against himself most ofall. He acknowledged that Juve had done his utmost to extricate himfrom the tangled web he had involved himself in as Fandor-Vinson. Each day brought him one distraction which he would willingly haveforegone: he passed long exhausting hours in Commandant Dumoulin'soffice. He found the commandant detestable. Dumoulin was hot-blooded, noisy, unmethodical, always in a state of fuss and fume! He wouldbegin his interrogations calmly, would weigh his words, would belogical, but little by little, his real nature--a tempestuousone--would get the upper hand. For the twentieth time Fandor had insisted on his identity, andDumoulin, tapping the case papers with an agitated hand, had replied: "I recognise that you are Jérôme Fandor, exercising the profession ofa journalist--since it seems journalism is a profession! But that isnot the question; the problem I have to elucidate! I have to ascertainwhen, and at what exact moment, one Jérôme Fandor took the personalityof Corporal Vinson!". . . "I have already told you, Commandant!. . . Please read my deposition ofthe day before yesterday. I will recapitulate: "Sunday, November 13th, at five o'clock in the evening, at mydomicile, rue Richer, I received the visit of a soldier whom I did notknow. He stated that he was called Corporal Vinson, and informed methat he had become part and parcel of the spy system; that heregretted it, and, not being able to extricate himself, he was goingto commit suicide. . . . Desiring to give this unfortunate a chance ofrehabilitating himself, desiring also to come to close quarters withthis gang of spies, I decided to assume his personality, and takeadvantage of his entrance into a regiment where he was not known, andto go there in his place. It was in these conditions that I left eightdays after, on Sunday, November 20th, for Verdun. " "You maintain that you did not assume the personality of Vinson beforethat date?" "I do maintain that, Commandant. " "But that is the pivot of the whole business, and the important pointyet to be proved!" "That is not difficult, " declared Fandor: "I have alibis who willsupport my statement. " The commandant raised his arms to heaven. "Alibis! Alibis!. . . What do they prove, after all?" "The truth, Commandant. . . . When I am in Paris it is evident I am notin Châlons or Verdun. " Dumoulin was evidently trying to find an argument to meet theaccused's logic. "Peuh!" declared he: "With fellows like you, who are perpetuallydisguising themselves, changing their faces as I change my collars, one never knows. ". . . Suddenly Dumoulin's face lighted up. "Tuesday, November 29th, you were in the shoes of Vinson--is that so?" "Yes, Commandant. " "Very well. This same Tuesday, November 29th, you were at the Elyséeball as Jérôme Fandor! So you see!" Dumoulin was triumphant. "I had twenty-four hours' leave, Commandant--quite regular!" protestedFandor. "Ah!" growled the commandant, glancing knowingly at Lieutenant Servin, who with impassive countenance was listening to this discussion:"Don't talk to me about leave!. . . Heaven alone knows how easily youspies succeed in obtaining leave!" Fandor was about to protest vehemently against being numbered with thespies, when the commandant started another subject. "Added to this, there is something very serious in your case. " "Good Heavens! What now?" ejaculated Fandor. Dumoulin looked mysterious. "We will speak of it later on. . . . The next step is to confront youwith certain witnesses: Lieutenant Servin, see if the witnesses arethere!" Fandor himself had demanded this confrontation. He did not deny havingassumed the personality of Corporal Vinson, dating from the day whenthe corporal entered officially on his duties as a unit of the 257thof the line, in garrison at Verdun. But the enquiry wished toestablish that, anterior to this, Fandor had already taken the placeof the real Vinson: the military authorities seemed to attach immenseimportance to this point. Fandor had then decided that the simplestway was to be brought face to face with soldiers who had known Vinsonat Châlons: they would state that the Vinson presented to them in theperson of Fandor was not the Vinson they had known. Thereupon Dumoulin had sent for two men who, as orderlies at Châlons, had lived side by side with Vinson. There was a momentous silence while Lieutenant Servin went to the endof the corridor and signed to the two waiting witnesses to comeforward. The two men entered the commandant's office, facing Dumoulinin true military style. Dumoulin, reading out the names of the two witnesses from a paper, started his interrogation with a haughty air. "Hiloire?" "Present, Commandant. " "What is your name?" The soldier opened his eyes wide, and thinking he had to give hisChristian name, stammered: "Justinien!" "What?" growled the commandant: "You are not called Hiloire?" The bewildered man attempted some confused explanations, from which itcould be gathered that Hiloire was his surname and Justinien hisbaptismal name! "Good!" declared the commandant, who proceeded to question the secondsoldier as to his identity! When it was made clear that he was oneTarbottin, baptismal name Niccodème, the commandant questioned themtogether. "You are soldiers of the second class in the 213th of the line, andfulfil the functions of staff orderlies?" "Yes, Commandant. " "You know Corporal Vinson?" "Yes, Commandant. " Dumoulin pointed to Fandor. "Is he Corporal Vinson?" "Yes, Commandant, " repeated the two soldiers. Lieutenant Servin intervened. He pointed out to his chief that thewitnesses had replied in the affirmative without turning to look atthe supposed corporal. The commandant cried angrily: "What kind of imbeciles are you? Before saying that you recognise aperson you must begin by looking at that person! Look at thecorporal!" The two soldiers obeyed: they turned with precision and stared atFandor. "Is that man Corporal Vinson?" "Yes, Commandant. " "You are sure of that?" "No, Commandant. " Despite the miserable position he found himself in, Fandor could nothelp smiling at the bewilderment of the two soldiers: it was evidentthey could be made to say anything. The commandant was growing more and more exasperated. "What's that!" he shouted: "I will give you eight days in the cells ifyou continue to play the fool like this!. . . Try to understand what youare doing! Do you even know why you are here?" After consulting each other with a look as to who should answer, Tarbottin explained: "It is the sergeant who told us that we were being sent to Paris torecognise Corporal Vinson--well, then?" "Well, " continued Hiloire: "we recognised him!" Then, speaking together, with an air of proud satisfaction: "Yes, we got our orders. We have carried them out!" The commandant was scarlet. With a violent blow of his fist he sentthree sets of case papers flying to the ground. He turned toLieutenant Servin. "I fail to understand why the staff captain has expressly sent us thebiggest fools he could lay hands on. . . . What the deuce can you get outof such a pair?. . . Has the counter verification been carried out? Havethey been shown the body of the real Corporal Vinson?" Lieutenant Servin replied that this had been done. "And what did they declare?" "Nothing definite. . . . I may say they were very much moved at the sightof the corpse--also, that it is decomposing rapidly. " Here Fandor broke in: "Commandant, I am extremely surprised that you thought it necessary tosummon only two soldiers! It is at least strange!. . . I have the rightto expect that in the conduct of the enquiry connected with the actionyou wish to bring against me you should proceed more seriously thanyou are doing at present. . . . A magistrate should be impartial!". . . The commandant had risen. He bent towards Fandor across hiswriting-table. Fandor also had risen--Dumoulin's air was threatening:he was furious. "What do you mean by that?" he shouted. "I mean to say, " burst out Fandor, "that for the last forty-eighthours you have given proofs of a revolting partiality--against me!" For a minute Dumoulin drew himself up, crimson, choking: he was anembodied protest. Suddenly he dropped the official and became thefellow-citizen. He cried: "But I am an honest man!" Dumoulin was a worthy official of the old school. Whatever histemperamental drawbacks, he undoubtedly aimed at a conscientiousconduct of any case he had in charge. Fandor had made an exceedinglybad impression on him. He had been scandalised that a civilian, a merejournalist, had dared to treat the army with contempt, by so lightlytaking the place of a real soldier. Unquestionably there were gravepresumptions of Fandor's guilt: that was Dumoulin's opinion. Considering the importance of the affair, the terrible consequenceswhich might ensue for the accused were the case to go against him, itwas imperative that the enquiry should be thorough down to theminutest detail. . . . The commandant well knew the weak points in hisprocedure. There was this confrontation, with the absurd testimoniesof the two soldiers: it had proved a ridiculous fiasco. Also, he wouldhave great difficulty in showing conclusively that Fandor had been acertain time at Châlons under Vinson's uniform. Dumoulin, mastering his emotion, resumed his official tone. "Fandor!". . . He stopped short, glared indignantly at the two soldiers planted inthe middle of the room. "What are you two up to now?" he cried. The ridiculous pair saluted, but did not reply. "Lieutenant, remove those men! We do not want any more of them here!Take them out of my sight!" growled Dumoulin. The commandant felt he must have a breath of fresh air, collect histhoughts, and calm down before resuming conduct of the case. "We shall continue this interrogation in ten minutes' time, " heannounced and left the room. * * * * * The short interval had done its work. The commandant had calmed down, Fandor had regained his self-possession. No longer was it an irascibleofficer facing an inimical accused: two men, fellow-citizens, wereprepared to argue and talk together. . . . The formal interrogationrecommenced. "Fandor, " began the commandant in an amiable tone, "you have evidentlybeen drawn on by unforeseen events to commit irregularities. Name youraccomplices!". . . Fandor replied in a similar tone. "No, Commandant, I have not been drawn into the spy circle really, norhave I practised spying. . . . I considered it right to assume thepersonality of Corporal Vinson solely to obtain information regardingthe relations this unfortunate maintained, compulsorily and quiteagainst his better judgment, with the agents of a foreign power. WhenI had obtained the facts I sought, my intention was to leave the lawto deal with them. " "In other words, " said Dumoulin: "you aimed at playing thecounter-spy!" "If you like to put it so!" The commandant smiled ironically. "They always say that!. . . In the course of my career, Monsieur Fandor, I have had to examine three or four spy cases: well, the defence ofthe guilty man is always the same--you have taken up an identicalposition: I sell secret documents in exchange for more importantones!. . . This system of defence will not hold water!" "I cannot take up any other position!" declared Fandor. "The Council will take that at its proper value, " announced thecommandant. Fandor was asking himself how he was going to get out of a positionthat was growing worse, and that in a very curious way! The commandant's next question struck a shrewd blow at the accused. "Fandor--How about those accomplices you refuse to name?. . . Have theynot remunerated you for your pains?" "What do you mean to imply by that?" demanded Fandor. "Have they not given you money?" "No!" "Think carefully, and be frank!" Fandor ransacked his memory. . . . Ah!. . . What of that interview in theprinting works of the Noret brothers? Would it be best in accordancewith his aims to deny it? It went against the grain of his naturallyfrank nature to tell such a lie. . . . Nevertheless he had vowed tohimself a well-considered vow that he would not reveal what he hadlearned: it would be a grave mistake at present. He lowered his head as he persisted in his declaration: "No, Commandant! I have not received money from the spies. " The commandant called to the reporter: "Make a special note of that: underline it with red pencil. This is amost important statement!" The commandant turned over some papers in his drawer, drew out asealed envelope, opened it, extracted another envelope. Fandor asked himself, with a thrill of foreboding, what this new moveof the commandant's meant. From a third envelope, Dumoulin took out several bank-notes, yellowedand crumpled. He held them up for Fandor to see. "Here are three fifty franc bank-notes--new ones!. . . They bear thefollowing numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108. They were found, withothers, concealed in your baggage at the Saint-Benoit barracks atVerdun. Do you recognise these notes as having been in yourpossession?" "How do you think I can know that?" countered Fandor. "One bank-noteis not distinguishable from another!" "Yes they are: by the numbering, " asserted the commandant. . . . "Iwillingly admit that it is not usual to write down for reference thenumber of every bank-note which passes through one's hands!. . . We havea better way of demonstrating that the notes I have in my hand were inyour possession. " "What exactly is he going to spring upon me now?" Fandor askedhimself. There was an impressive pause. "These notes, " declared Dumoulin, "have been carefully examined by theanthropometric service. It has been demonstrated that they beardistinct traces of your finger-marks. . . . I hope, Monsieur Fandor, thatyou do not contest the exactitude of the Bertillion method?" "No, " replied Fandor simply. "I accept the evidence of theanthropometric method. " The commandant looked more and more satisfied. "You acknowledge then, that these notes were in your possession?" "Yes, I do. " The commandant again addressed the reporter: "Note that important confession! Underline it with red pencil!" Dumoulin fired a point-blank question at Fandor. "Did you know Captain Brocq?" "No. " "You did know him, " insisted the commandant. "No, " repeated Fandor. He questioned in his turn: "Why?" "Because. ". . . The commandant hesitated, then continued: "You are not ignorant of the fact that an important document wasstolen from the domicile of this mysteriously murdered man?" "I know it, " admitted Fandor. "That is not all, " continued Dumoulin: "A certain amount of money wasalso stolen from this unfortunate officer. Now, Brocq was in the habitof putting down in his pocket-book the exact sums he possessedand--mark this well--also entering the numbers of his bank-notes!. . . Now, bank-notes have disappeared from his cash drawer. The missingnotes bear the numbers: A 4998; O 4350; U 5108; the very notes foundin your pocket-book!" There ensued a dreadful silence. Fandor was thunderstruck. . . . Everything seemed in league against him. . . . Oh, he was caught like amouse in a trap!. . . These must be the notes that the red-beardedman--probably one of the Noret brothers--had slipped into his hand!. . . Evidently, from the time of his leaving Paris in Corporal Vinson'suniform, the traitorous gang he meant to expose had known him for whathe was! Without suspecting it, he had been the hunted instead of thehunter: and this chaser of damaged goods and trumpery wares had beencaught in his trap like a fool!. . . These unscrupulous wretches hadhatched an abominable plot against him!. . . Fandor felt that eachinstant saw him deeper in the toils! His whole being was invaded by aterrible anxiety, an immense fear. Who could be so powerful, sosubtle, so formidable as to have made a fool of him in such a fashion, to have led him into such traps that even Juve himself could donothing to save him? One being, and one only, was capable of such a diabolically cleverperformance; and Fandor, who would not believe it some weeks before, when discussing the question with Juve, had now to accept hishypothesis as a certainty: his acts caused his unseen personality tohit you in the eyes! Only one person could pull the strings with sucha demon hand!. . . Yes, Fandor could no longer doubt that his desperateplight was due to the terrific, odious, elusive Fantômas! Our journalist was now in the lowest depths. He attempted to keep calmand cool, but he had lost grip of himself. . . . He stammered, he mumbledconfusedly, justifications, excuses, charging the Noret brothers withhaving given him those terrible bank-notes. Dumoulin, on his side, was convinced that his examination had made animmense step in the right direction. He considered that theinterrogation might well end with a last word, a last sentence. Heturned to the wretched, over-strained Fandor, and in tones of theutmost solemnity administered his finishing stroke. "Jérôme Fandor, not only are you accused of the crimes of treason andspying, but, taking into account the formal avowals you have justmade, I, here and now, declare you guilty of the assassination ofCaptain Brocq, of the theft of his documents, and of his money!" XXXI A CARAVAN DRAMA The night was dark and stormy. On the Sceaux road a gipsy was bravingthe tempest, making difficult headway in the teeth of a gale whichflapped her long cloak with impeding force, soaked her to the skin, dashed masses of water in her face, plastered streaming locks to herforehead, taking her breath with its suffocating rush. Shielding hermouth with her hand, the gipsy pressed steadily forward. A church struck eleven slow strokes, borne on the wind. Lashed by thetempest, the gipsy pressed on, muttering as she moved: "Vagualame told me that he would be at the first milestone beyond theaviation sheds. . . . I must get there! I will get there!" It was Bobinette, struggling on in blind obedience to him whom sheconsidered her master, towards the strange meeting-place fixed by thebandit five days ago. Under her looks of Parisian delicacy, Bobinette had a valiant spirit, a high-strung temperament and a will of steel. . . . Bobinette wished toreach the appointed trysting-place: she would reach it. But gipsy Bobinette had her fears. She was painfully impressed by theobscurity of the night--sinister, menacing. From the marshy fieldsflanking her to right and left unaccustomed sounds, weird noisesreached her straining ears through the gusty darkness. Then what did her master want with her here, and at such an hour? Never had Bobinette confessed to herself that Vagualame's realidentity was unknown to her. What dark personality was hid behind thatfamiliar figure? She asked herself that now, with shudderingapprehension. She had remarked certain coincidences, noted certaindetails: she divined that this enigmatic accordion player might wellbe none other than--Fantômas. Fantômas! That name was it not a frightful symbol of all the crimes, all the atrocities, the monstrous synthesis of unpunished evil? In her tormented brain those three syllables of sinister intent weresounding like a funeral knell. . . . At thought of Fantômas and Vagualameco-mingled, Bobinette's terror-filled heart fainted within her. Yet, prey to haunting terrors as she was, Bobinette pressed unfalteringlyforward towards what Fate held for her. One reassuring thought came to hearten her. At every step she took thesequins of her gipsy circlet moved and shook and tinkled on herforehead. They reminded her of the words chanted by the oldsecond-hand dealer when he sold her the string of sequins, words fromthe celebrated song of the Andalusian gipsies. : _"The coral shines on my skin so brown-- The pin of gold in my chignon: I go in search of my fortune. ". . . _ Was she truly hastening towards good fortune through this night ofwind and rain?. . . Why not? Bobinette felt comforted. She said toherself that since Vagualame had summoned her to meet him in gipsycostume, it must be because he intended to help her to escape:otherwise why had he foreseen the necessity for such a disguise? To make sure of finding the rendezvous, she had taken a reconnoiteringjourney along the Sceaux road the night before. . . . She knew now shewas close to the famous milestone. Bobinette jumped as though she would leap out of her skin! On the left side of the road tall trees, stripped of their leaves, stood swaying like skeletons in the wind. Just there her eyes had seensomething dark, a black patch, blacker than the surrounding night. What was it? A strange sound issued from the darkness, a low, dull, deep, complaining sound breathed from some infernal throat! Was it a cry, agrowl, a snarl?. . . She halted, shivering with fright, her earshumming, her heart contracted in the grip of an indescribable terror, doubting her senses, doubting the reality of the sound she had heard. Bobinette stood motionless. The wind whistling through the branches conveyed another sound to hersenses. She heard a mocking voice, harsh, imperious, a menacing voice, a voice whose orders she had obeyed many a time and oft, a voice shehad never heard without secret terror, the voice of hermaster--Vagualame! "Go forward, you fool! Why do you halt?" As though galvanised, Bobinette with a supreme effort of will obeyed. A few seconds and she was by the side of Vagualame, who had come tomeet her. "Did you hear?" she gasped. "I heard the bellowing of the wind, " laughed Vagualame: "I heard thesound of sleety rain, I heard the noise of trees writhing and creakingin the wind--nothing more!" "Someone or something cried out!" "Who could?. . . We are alone here!. . . Bobinette you are alone here withme!" There was a pause. Vagualame's voice was once more mocking. "Am I to think you are afraid?" "No, Vagualame, I am not afraid; but. ". . . "But you are trembling like a leaf!" cried Vagualame, with a burst oflaughter which sounded strangely false. He seized Bobinette in an irongrip and forced her forward. "Come! Come under shelter!" They moved towards the black blotBobinette had not yet identified. Almost directly they were leaningagainst a gipsy van drawn up at the side of the road. "Your future domicile, " said Vagualame, showing the van to thebewildered Bobinette. "But this is not the time to installyourself--there are things to be said first--between you and me, Bobinette!" The bandit was enveloped from head to foot in a dark cloak. AllBobinette could see of him was his profile: his features wereconcealed by a soft felt hat with turned-down brim, which showed atintervals against the sky when the lightning flashed and flickered. The girl shivered: her master's last words were full of some darkmenace. "What do you want to say?" she murmured. Vagualame took a few steps forward, then returned to where the girlwas leaning against the van. "Listen to me, Bobinette, listen, for, by Heaven, the words I am aboutto utter are the last you will ever hear. " Before Bobinette could interrupt, Vagualame continued: "Tell me, do you know of anything more wicked, more contemptible, morevile, more shameful than treachery, than betrayal, than a trap set, asnare laid to catch one who has always been your friend, yourdefender?. . . Tell me, Bobinette, who is more hateful than the Judaswho sells you with a kiss?. . . Tell me, Bobinette, who is less worthyof pity than the cowardly criminal who betrays his accomplice?. . . Thanthe bandit who delivers up his chief for money, perhaps for less thanmoney--because of fear--who betrays his master to save his ownskin?". . . Bobinette did not seem to understand one word of this apostrophe. Shekept silence, terrified, crushed, in front of the awful abyss shedivined. Vagualame seized her by the shoulders and shook her brutally, thrusting her fiercely against the side of the van. "Speak! Reply, Bobinette! I command you!" "I do not understand you! I am afraid!" A shout of ferocious laughter burst from Vagualame. "You do not understand me! You are afraid?. . . Ah! If you are afraid itis because you understand well enough!. . . Bobinette! You know wellenough what I have to reproach you with!. . . What I have to force youto expiate!". . . A hoarse cry escaped the girl's parched lips: "You are mad, mad, Vagualame!. . . Pity!. . . Pity!" In a voice so hard, so biting, that the words seemed arrows piercingher quivering flesh, the bandit addressed his victim: "Bobinette, you deceive yourself strangely! I am not of those to whomone cries for pity!. . . I know not the word, nor such weakness. I havenever had it, and never shall have it for any living soul. " The bandit paused. Then, in a tone of rising anger, he continued: "And you think me mad? But what sort of woman are you, Bobinette, totry and deceive me? What madness is yours to think, to imagine you candupe me?. . . To confess that with such words and speeches as yourfeminine mind can think of you are going to ensnare me, make me altermy decision, turn me from my vengeance--that you should decide how Ishall act--I?. . . I?. . . Vagualame?" The bandit pronounced "I?" with such an accent of authority, with suchterrific pride, that Bobinette, with a sound as though the deathrattle were in her throat, cried: "Vagualame! Who are you? Tell me!. . . Tell me!". . . "You ask me who I am?. . . You wish to know?. . . It be according to yourwish!. . . Who am I?. . . Look!". . . Slowly, with a movement firm and dignified, Vagualame unfolded thelong cloak which enveloped him. He tore off his hat and flung it athis feet. With arms crossed he apostrophied Bobinette: "Dare to utter my name! Dare to name me!" Before Bobinette's distracted eyes a terrifying outline showeditself. . . . The beggar of a moment ago, his cloak removed, his hatthrown to the ground, appeared no more a bent old man: he stood there, upright, young, vigorous, superbly muscular. He was sheathed from headto foot in a tight-fitting garment, black as Erebus! Bobinette could not see his face, a black hood covered it: twogleaming eyes alone were visible, eyes that to the distraught girlseemed lit by fires from hell! This vision, the vision of this man without a face, resembling noother man, this apparition with nameless mask, its body like somestatue cut from solid darkness, was yet so definite in its mysterythat Bobinette, uttering the indescribable cry of some inhuman thing, articulated: "Fantômas!. . . You are Fantômas!" The bandit spoke: "I am Fantômas!. . . I am he for whom the entire world is searching, whom none has ever seen, whom none can recognise!. . . I am Crimeincarnated!. . . I am Night!. . . No human sees my face, because Crime andNight are featureless!. . . I am illimitable Power!. . . I am he who mocksat all the powers, at all the efforts, at all the forces!. . . I ammaster of all, of everything; of all times and seasons. . . . I amDeath!. . . Bobinette, thou hast said it--I am Fantômas. " His wretched listener could not breathe. She felt death in her veins:she felt the earth dissolving into dust. . . . She sank on her knees. "Pity, master! Pity!. . . Fantômas, have pity!". . . "You join those words together!. . . Fantômas and Pity!". . . A furiousanger seized the bandit. "Fantômas knows not what mercy is, I tellyou!. . . Fantômas ordains that whoso resist him shall perish--shalldisappear!" "But, Master!. . . What have I done?. . . Master!. . . Fantômas, what have Idone?" Slowly the bandit enveloped himself once more in his cloak. . . . Bobinette was on her knees, as one nailed to the earth!. . . Fantômashad hypnotised her into immobility, as the bird is hypnotised by thecat watching its prey. He played with her. He could seize and masterher at his pleasure. In a voice cold and hard as the nether millstone, he denounced hisvictim: "Bobinette, you aimed at my betrayal!. . . You pointed out theNihilist's haunt to Juve, to Fandor, to my most personal enemies, tothose who would hound me to the guillotine!" "I never did!. . . I did not do it!. . . I swear it!" shrieked themaddened girl. Fantômas, convinced that Bobinette, and she alone, was the traitorhere. . . . "You are to die; but not by my hand!. . . The hand of Fantômas does notdeal death to those who once served him, to the traitorous wretchesonce in his employ!. . . But you shall die, Bobinette! I deliver you todeath!". . . Fantômas laughed. He laughed because the body of this woman, huddledin the mud, crushed to the earth, was a pleasing thing, becauseFantômas was happy when he made human creatures suffer, when hetortured, when he wrought sweet vengeance. . . . Far away sounded the church bells. . . . The carillon was ringing. . . . Church bells were chiming through the night. To Bobinette, the abjectcreature grovelling in the mire of the roadway, the bells soundedvaguely serene, far, far away. . . . She seemed to be floating in some indefinable element, floating likethistledown on an irresistible breeze. . . . Suddenly she had thesensation that she was sinking, falling, that she was rolling down, down, into the depths of a bottomless abyss. . . . When she opened her eyes, tried to move, sat up, she knew she was notdreaming. . . . She knew she had lost consciousness and was coming backto life. . . . She asked herself could she possibly be alive? Fantômashad threatened her with death, and yet she lived. . . . Where was she?. . . Bobinette felt so weak and giddy that she remained in a sittingposture. . . . What exactly had happened?. . . Ah!--yes!--when Fantômas hadannounced she was to die, she had fallen down on the road: her skirtwas still wet and muddy, her testing fingers told her that! She wascold! What had happened since?. . . Bobinette heard the wind blowingrain as still falling, but she noticed none fell on her face. "Where am I?" she asked aloud. Clear came the mental answer: "Fantômas has shut me up in this van! I am imprisoned in this van!". . . She felt about her with her fingers. She was certainly sitting onrough boards. . . . She knelt, she stretched out her arms: she touchedrough boards. . . . Yes, this was the van she was in!. . . Was Fantômasquite near? He might appear again! She was not saved!. . . But inBobinette who, terrified at being confronted with Fantômasself-confessed, had tasted the bitterness of death, a powerfulreaction had set in: she was becoming mistress of herself once more. Fantômas had said to her: "Thou shalt die!" She now decided that shewould live, would save herself!. . . She must escape! "If Fantômas were there I should hear him, " she thought. "He must havegone. . . . I must at all costs escape from this prison before hereturns. " Bobinette got up. . . . The van must have a door, a window. She wouldforce her way out somehow. She was strong, and she was fighting forher life!. . . She would make a tour of the van!. . . She felt her way byfingering the wooden side of her prison. . . . The van must be empty, shethought, for she had not encountered any furniture--when, suddenly, she felt her hand come into contact with something soft and warm, which moved. What was it?. . . Bobinette jumped back. . . . She must be mad to imagine!. . . She waited afew moments--she stepped forward--anew her fingers touchedsomething. . . . She could not say what!. . . But while she tried to definethe strange object her fingers touched, she felt the unknown thing wasdrawing back--was avoiding her caress!. . . The van was now filled with a formidable growling. She recognised itas a repetition of the sound she had heard when nearing her sinisterrendezvous. Bobinette understood!. . . She knew!. . . It was a bear!. . . It had beenasleep. She had waked it! Fantômas had shut her in with a bear: she was to be devoured alive! Bobinette softly withdrew to the other side of the van. She waited. Nogrowling sound reached her. The bear must have gone to sleep again. She could hear its heavy breathing. As the air became exhausted in theconfined space the noisome odour of the beast caught her by thethroat. . . . What was she to do? Bobinette asked herself this again andagain as the slow and dreadful hours of that night wore on. "The bear sleeps, " she said to herself; "but he will wake in themorning hungry: he will hurl himself on me and I shall be done for!" After interminable hours of waiting, of aching immobility, of dullagony of mind, the interior of the van was becoming slowly visible. . . . She had listened to the lessening fury of the wind: the rain hadceased. The wan light of early day came through the cracks in theplanking. Bobinette could see the bear waking up: it turned, yawned:suddenly it fixed its eyes on her and crouched. What should she do? What could she do? Bobinette had once read that the human eye could frighten a wild beastinto submission: she forced herself to stare at the animal withconcentrated energy. Alas! she was too frightened herself to terrify aferocious animal into harmless submission! The bear licked itself. As though sure of its prey, which he wouldpresently fall upon and rend, he took his time and proceeded to makehis toilette. It was grotesquely tragic, the leisurely tranquillity of this beastface to face with this girl who could count the seconds of liferemaining to her. * * * * * Now and again Bobinette could hear the rapid passings of motor-cars onthe high road outside, speeding to Paris or Versailles, passing thevan abandoned, left derelict by the wayside. Far, indeed, were thesepassers from suspecting the terrible drama of which it was thetheatre. Call out? That were madness! Her cries might pass unheeded. Why should shesuppose the drivers of these cars racing on their appointed way wouldstop, locate the cry, and succour her? No, it would but excite theanger of the bear, rouse it to action, thus hasten her own dreadfulend!. . . * * * * * A man was walking on the Sceaux road--walking fast. He wore theclothes of a working man. He was leading a sorry nag. . . . The manhalted and let the nag go free. A sound had caught his ear--a growlingsound. He listened intently. "Did I imagine it?" he murmured. Again that growling, punctuated by a woman's sharp scream. The man wasoff at racing speed towards the van, which was but a hundred yardsaway. "Great Heaven! Shall I arrive too late?" ejaculated the man. Reaching it, breathless, he glued his ear to the door. The van shookwith the movement and growling of some beast of prey about to spring. The man drew back, rushed forward, hurled himself against the door anddrove it inwards. A shot broke the silence of the morning. The man rolled over the body of the bear, shot dead through the heart. The man freed himself; escaped the convulsive movement of its limbs, and crawled towards a crumpled heap huddled in a corner of this tragicstage. Bobinette's poor face, exposed to view, was slashed and torn:it bore the dreadful claw-marks of the bear. The man placed his hand on her heart. "She lives!" he said softly. Supporting her with infinite gentleness, the man addressed her in avoice trembling with emotion: "Do not be afraid, Bobinette! You are saved! It is Juve who is tellingyou so! It is Juve!" XXXII FREE AND PRISONER Isolated in the cell which had served him as dwelling-place for thepast fortnight, Jérôme Fandor had had his ups and downs, hours ofdeepest depression, hours of violent exasperation when he suffered anintolerable martyrdom between his four walls--suffered morally andphysically. Yet his imprisonment had been rendered as tolerable as possible. Hecould have his meals brought in from outside and obtain from thelibrary such books as there were. How he longed for a talk with Juve; but that detective was rigorouslyexcluded from the prison. Juve was to be a witness at the trial. As Fandor was to conduct his own case there were no consultations withhis counsel to relieve the monotony of the days; nor were newspapersallowed him. He had no friends or relatives to visit and console himor divert him. In his sleepless hours Fandor's thoughts would revert to his past, tothe frightful drama of his boyhood, to the assassination of theMarquise de Langrune, when he, a youth of eighteen, had beensuspected, had even been accused of committing this murder, theaccuser being his own father![8] [Footnote 8: See _Fantômas_: vol. I, Fantômas Series. ] He remembered that, commencing the very day after the discovery of thecrime, his existence had been that of a pariah flying from the police, from those who knew him; remembered how he had assumed disguise afterdisguise, denied by his father, ignored by his mother, an unfortunatewoman who had lost her reason and was shut up in a lunatic asylum. The only gleam of happiness which had come to illumine the drearydarkness of his youth resolved itself into a memory picture of a paledawn when the lad, Charles Rambert, leaving a wine-shop, had beencaught by Juve, who, believing in his innocence, had taken him underhis protection, had given him the name of Jérôme Fandor, and helpedhim to start a new life. [9] [Footnote 9: See _The Exploits of Juve_> vol. Ii, Fantômas Series. ] From then onwards that timid lad, disheartened by his misfortunes, hadregained courage and hope, and had boldly plunged into the struggle tolive. His heart and soul were in his journalistic work. Of an enquiring turnof mind, Fandor had not been content with the episodic work of a merereporter: he eagerly pursued the guilty, took a lively interest in thevictims, and became Juve's valuable collaborator, with whom the bondsof friendship strengthened day by day. Thus Fandor, in Juve's company, was drawn into the hurly-burly, intothe troubles and torments of criminal affairs so mysterious, sophenomenal, that, for several years in succession, they created asensation, not only in Paris but throughout France. He constituted himself one of the most implacable enemies of Fantômas. The more so, because he was satisfied that the "Genius of Crime, " asthis monster had been called, had had a considerable share in thevicissitudes and troubles of his own life. Fandor felt that thismonster's sinister influence was still being exercised against him. Too often, in those wakeful hours when he reviewed his life, followingthe course of it in a kind of mental cinematograph, did Fandor thinkof Elizabeth Dollon. It was with sad yet sweet emotion, with apiercing regret, but with an unfailing hope, that he saw before hisinner vision the charming, the adored face, and figure of ElizabethDollon, for whom he had felt, and felt still, an affection profoundand sincere. He loved her: he would always love her. [10] [Footnote 10: See _Messengers of Evil_: vol. Iii, Fantômas Series. ] He thought of her brother's death and the extraordinary disappearanceof his body, of his own pursuit of the assassin, of the discovery, made with Juve, that the murderer of Jacques Dollon was none otherthan the elusive Fantômas. Assuredly that ill-omened bandit was responsible for the suddendeparture of Elizabeth, immediately after Fandor had obtained from hercharming lips the sweet avowal of her love. . . . He owed to Fantômasthat he had been unable to join his life to that of this exquisitegirl: to Fantômas he owed it that he could not trace her to herunknown retreat. Was she still in the land of the living? It wasultimately to Fantômas that he owed his present dreadful position--tothis thrice accursed Genius of Crime--Fantômas. * * * * * That evening Fandor's absorbing reflections were broken into by theturning of a key in the lock of his cell at an unusual hour. Throughthe half-opened door he heard the close of a conversation between hisjailor and an unknown person. "I also give notice, my good fellow, that my secretary will come tojoin me presently, " said the strange voice. The jailor replied: "That is quite understood, Maître. I will warn my colleague, who willcome on guard in my stead in ten minutes' time. " Fandor saw a barrister entering his cell. He supposed him to be theofficial advocate prescribed by the Council of War. . . . Not in theleast disposed to unbosom himself to this defending counsel imposed onhim by law, Fandor was about to give him a freezing reception, but atsight of the new arrival's face our journalist stood speechless. Herecognised under the barrister's gown someone whose features weredeeply graven on his memory, though he had not met him but once. "Naarbo. ". . . Escaped his lips. A brusque warning movement of the new-comer cut Fandor short. At thesame time he closed the door with a lightning quick movement. Thepseudo advocate then approached Fandor, saying in a low tone: "Do not seem to recognise me. Yes, I am de Naarboveck. . . . It isthanks to a subterfuge that I have been able to get near you. ". . . Fandor was nonplussed. A hundred questions rose to his lips, but hedid not speak. He had better await developments. As de Naarboveck hadrun such risks to enter his cell so disguised, he must have somethingextraordinary to say to the prisoner, Jérôme Fandor! De Naarboveck seated himself on the one bench the cell contained. Heinvited Fandor to sit close to him, so that they might converse in lowtones. "Monsieur, " began the baron, "I obtained a permit to visit you as theofficial advocate allotted to you by the president: that official'svisit is due to-morrow. . . . Well, a favour is never lost when one isnot dealing with the ungrateful!. . . Some weeks ago, when you came tointerview me with regard to the deplorable assassination of CaptainBrocq, I spoke freely to you, and at the same time asked you to giveme your word not to put into print a number of those personal detailswith which journalists like to sprinkle their pages. ". . . "I remember, " agreed Fandor. "I confess I did not put much faith in your discretion, being ajournalist, " went on the baron. "I was then agreeably surprised tofind that I had been interviewed by a man of tact. Since then I havefollowed with sympathy the tenebrous adventures in which you have beeninvolved. . . . It was not without emotion that I learned of the grievousposition you are now in. I will come straight to the point--I am hereto extricate you from that position. " Fandor caught de Naarboveck's hands in his, and pressed them warmly. "Can what you tell me be true?" he exclaimed. The diplomat hastily withdrew his hands from Fandor's grasp, opened aheavy portfolio such as advocates carry, and drew from it a black gownlike his own, an advocate's cap, and a pair of dark coloured trousers. "Put these on as quickly as possible, " said de Naarboveck, "and wewill leave here together. " Fandor hesitated: de Naarboveck insisted. "It is of the first importance that you leave here! I know whereproofs of your innocence are to be found. . . . We have not a minute tolose: besides, as a member of the diplomatic service, it is of theutmost interest to me that the document stolen from Captain Brocqshould be recovered. . . . I know where it is. I want you to return it tothe Government. That will be the most striking proof possible of yourinnocence. " Fandor's critical faculties were momentarily suspended: he seemedmoving in some dream. Mechanically he clothed himself in the get-upwhich the baron had thought good to bring him. Fandor had seen so many extraordinary things in the course of hisadventurous existence, that he did not stay to question the reason forthis diplomat's interest in his poor affairs--an interest so strongthat he had run serious risks to reach the prisoner and make himselfthe accomplice of that prisoner's flight. Out of prison, free, Fandor could and would act! The two apparent men of the law gently opened the cell door. DeNaarboveck cast a rapid glance up and down the corridor, on to whichhalf a dozen cells opened. . . . The corridor was empty and silent. DeNaarboveck and Fandor stepped out, gently closing the cell door. "The opening of the prison door is our next difficulty to beovercome, " whispered de Naarboveck: "I warned the jailor that Iexpected my secretary. Let us hope he will take you as such and let uspass out unmolested. " * * * * * The military prison of the Council of War of Paris is not like otherprisons: that is why de Naarboveck's plan had a fair chance ofsuccess. It would certainly have failed had it been attempted at LaSanté or at La Roquette. . . . This building had been a private hotel ofthe old style. On the first floor, the former reception-rooms had been divided intosmall offices, and the principal drawing-room had been transformedinto a court-room. On the ground floor, what were evidently thekitchens and domestic offices in the last century now constituted theprison proper, for in these quarters are arranged the cells where theaccused await their appearance before their judges. No oneunacquainted with these arrangements would suspect that the low door, scarcely noticeable in the vestibule facing the staircase leading tothe first floor is the entrance to the prison. Yet those who pass through this low door find themselves in thecorridor lined with prison cells. At the door of the prison a warder is posted, whose rôle is not somuch to watch the prisoners and prevent any attempt at escape as toopen to persons needing to enter that ill-omened place. At night-timesupervision is relaxed. The warder has to keep the offices in goodorder, and when he has his key in his pocket, certain that the heavybolts and locks cannot be forced, he comes and goes about the house. De Naarboveck was not only well posted in these details, but was awarethat up to the day of Fandor's trial, in view of the extra coming andgoing, it had been decided to give the guardian an assistant, and thatthis assistant would be at his post from six o'clock onwards. It was past six o'clock. The chances were, that when the false advocates knocked from theinside, the prison door would be opened to allow them egress by thesupplementary guardian. De Naarboveck tapped on the peephole made inthe massive door. The noise of heavy bolts withdrawn was heard; the prison door was halfopened: the warder's face appeared. Fandor stifled a sigh ofsatisfaction: it was a jailor who did not know him: it was thesubstitute counted upon. "Ah!" cried he, saluting the gentlemen of the long robe: "Why, thereare two of you!" "Naturally, " replied de Naarboveck: "Did not your colleague let youknow that my secretary had joined me?" "I knew he was coming, but I did not understand that he had alreadycome, " replied the man. De Naarboveck laughed. "We leave together--what more natural?" "It is your right, " grumbled the man: "Have you finished yourinterrogation of the accused Fandor?" As he asked this pertinent question, the jailor made a movement toenter the prison and make sure that the prisoner's cell was locked. DeNaarboveck caught his arm. "Look here, my man, " said he, slipping a silver coin into the jailor'shand: "We are not suitably dressed for the street, and our ordinaryclothes are at the Palais de Justice. Will you be kind enough to stopa cab for us? We can get into it at the courtyard entrance!" The jailor decided that he could safely postpone his visit to Fandor'scell. He went out into the courtyard with the two apparent advocates. Standing on the step of the courtyard gate he looked out for a passingcab. A taxi-driver scented customers. He drove alongside the pavement. In amoment de Naarboveck and Fandor were seated inside it, and, whilstwaving his hand to the respectful and gratified warder, he instructedthe driver in a clear voice: "To the Palais de Justice!" As soon as they reached the rue de Rennes, de Naarboveck changed hisdestination. . . . * * * * * He turned to Fandor. "Well, Monsieur Fandor, what have you to say to this?" "Ah, Baron, how can I ever express my gratitude?" De Naarboveck smiled. . . . He gazed at the journalist. There wassomething in the situation he found amusing. . . . Following the baron's directions, the taxi went up the rue Lapic, andreached the heights of Montmartre. It stopped at last in a littlestreet, dark and deserted, before a wretched-looking house, whosefront was vaguely outlined in a small neglected garden. De Naarboveck paid the driver, passed under a dark arch, crossed thegarden, and reached a kind of lodge. He let himself in, followed byFandor. They went up a cork-screw staircase to the floor above. DeNaarboveck switched on a light, and Fandor saw that he and his rescuerwere in a studio of vast proportions, well furnished. Thick curtains hung before a large glass bay: it was a lofty room withvery slightly sloping walls. Two or three rooms must have been thrown into one, for several thicksupporting columns of iron crossed the middle of the studio. Fandor failed to find either piece of furniture or picture he couldrecognise: everything in the place was new to him. De Naarboveck had slipped off his gown at once. He was in elegantevening dress. Fandor also threw off the advocate's gown. He wore the black trousersde Naarboveck had brought him, but was in his shirt sleeves. TheVinson uniform had been left in the cell. Having sufficiently enjoyed the surprise of his protégé, the baronasked: "Do you know where we are, Monsieur Fandor?" "I have not the remotest idea. " "Think a little!" "I do not know in the least; that is a fact!" "Monsieur, " said de Naarboveck, coming close to Fandor, as though hewas afraid of being overheard: "You know, at least, by name a certainenigmatic individual who plays an important part in the affairs ofwhich we both are victims, in different ways. . . . I will no longer hidefrom you that we are in this individual's house!" "And, " gasped Fandor, "this individual is called?". . . "He is called Vagualame!" "Vagualame!" Fandor was aghast! Had the devil himself appeared before him he couldnot have been more dumbfounded. Vagualame, the agent of the SecondBureau--Vagualame, whom Fandor, for some time past, had taken to be aspy with more than one string to his bow--it was he, then, who was theauthor of the crimes for whom search was being made, in whose steadFandor himself was suffering humiliation and imprisonment, withfurther dreadful possibilities to come! Fandor recalled hisconversation with Juve the day after Captain Brocq's assassination: inthe course of their conversation Juve had asserted that Fantômas wasthe criminal. Fandor himself had not followed the mysterious evolutions of thissinister accordion player as had Juve; but now he wondered whetherthere might not be a connection between Vagualame and Fantômas. . . . Allthis was obscure: Fandor felt he was groping amid dark mysteries. . . . De Naarboveck was moving hither and thither in the studio: at the sametime he was observing Fandor, listening to what he had to say: heseemed to be reading Fandor's thoughts. "Your friend, Juve, has been hotly pursuing this Vagualame for sometime, " remarked De Naarboveck: "Famous detective as he is, he hassuffered more than one check, has been routed, rebuffed, discomfited, on several occasions by this same Vagualame, who has proved that he isnot such a fool as he looks! Possibly Juve will soon have a furtheropportunity of realising the truth of this--however. ". . . Fandor interrupted: "I hope my friend, my dear friend, Juve, does not run any risk!. . . Ibeg of you, Monsieur, to tell me whether he is in danger!. . . You see, I am free now. ". . . "Attention, Monsieur Fandor!" de Naarboveck cut in. "Bear in mind thatyou are an escaped prisoner, that your flight must not be known! Be onyour guard, then! As to your friend, Juve, be reassured on thatpoint!" Abruptly he changed the subject. "Vagualame had a collaborator, a young person whom youknow--Mademoiselle Berthe, called Bobinette. . . . Bobinette has donewrong, very wrong, but we will speak no more of her--peace to hermemory--she has expiated her crime!" "Is Bobinette dead, then?" asked Fandor. . . . Immediately a convictionseized him that the girl had fallen a victim to this mysteriousassassin whom no one could lay hands on. The studio clock struck ten. The lights went out. Fandor stood startled, in deepest darkness. Before he could utter an exclamation, move a finger, he was swathed ina cloth, seized, bound, with the utmost brutality. Mysterious handsfixed a supple mask on his face, pressed something on his head. Dragged violently along, the cords cutting his flesh, Fandor realisedhis attackers were fastening him to something which held him stifflyupright. It must be one of the iron columns. Fandor thought he heard a receding voice mutter: "As Bobinette died, so shalt thou die--through Fantômas!" Had he heard aright? Was it some illusion of sense and brain?. . . Wasit not he himself who had cried it? For Fandor, whose mind had beenfull of Vagualame, had, at the moment of attack, spontaneously thoughtof Fantômas. Fandor strained at his bonds and thought of the baron. "Naarboveck--To me! Help!" he shouted. No answer came through the darkness. Did he hear a distant, stifled groan? Dazzling light flooded the studio. Fandor, who could see through the eyeholes of the mask, supple asskin, stared about him with intense curiosity. This extraordinary studio revealed a blood-freezing spectacle. Facing him, immobile, rigid, was stationed a being whom Fandor had hada fleeting glimpse of two or three times in his life. He had seen thisenigmatic and formidable being under circumstances so tragic, onoccasions so phenomenal, that this being's outline was graven on hismemory for ever! There was the cloak of many folds, dense black; the hooded mask, thelarge soft hat shading the eyes; the strange inimitable outline!. . . Fandor was facing Fantômas! Fantômas! With bent shoulders and straining muscles, Fandor made desperateattempts to free himself, the while his eyes were fixed on theterrifying apparition confronting him! It was a mocking Fantômas he saw; for the abominable bandit wasmocking him--was imitating his every gesture to the life!. . . Fandor's gaze was fixed in an observing stare. . . . Did he not see cords binding the limbs of Fantômas? cords binding himabout the middle, constricting his whole body? Was he in some hell nightmare?. . . Was he mad?. . . Who was this facinghim?. . . Why, _himself_!. . . Fandor, whose image was reflected in a mirror facing him a yard or twoaway! Fandor had been endowed with the outline of--Fantômas!. . . From the throat of this Fandor-Fantômas issued a long-drawn howl ofrage! XXXIII RECONCILIATION "Which do you prefer, Mademoiselle? The multi-coloured cockades or thebows of ribbon in one shade? We have both in satin of the bestquality. " Wilhelmine de Naarboveck hesitated. The representative from "TheLadies' Paradise" continued: "The cockades of various colours do very well: they are gay, lookbright; but the bows of ribbon also produce an excellent effect--sodistinguished! Both articles are in great demand. " Wilhelmine answered at random: "Oh, put in half of each!" "And what quantity, Mademoiselle?" "Oh, three hundred will be sufficient, I should think. " The shopwoman displayed her assortment of cotillion objects. She didher part ably. But Wilhelmine de Naarboveck gave but a perfunctoryattention to this choosing of cotillion accessories. The saleswoman was more and more astonished. She considered that wereher customer's orders executed to the letter she would have the oddestassortment of cotillion accessories that could be imagined. Sheadroitly called Wilhelmine's attention to this. Realising that she had been giving orders at random, the absent-mindedgirl came to a decision. "We have every confidence in your house being able to supply us with acotillion complete in every detail. You know better than I what isnecessary. I will leave it to you, then, to see that everything isdone as well as possible. " The saleswoman was full of delighted protestations. Though satisfiedwith a decision that simplified her task, she was surprised that ayoung girl as free to act and order as Mademoiselle de Naarboveckseemed to be, did not take interest in the details of a fête which, asrumour had it, was given in her honour. "Ah!" said the young woman, as she collected the patterns scatteredover a table in the hall, "if all our customers were like you, Mademoiselle, and allowed us to carry out our own ideas, we should domarvellous things!" Wilhelmine smiled, but--would this saleswoman never have done! "Of course, Mademoiselle, we make similar ribbons for you and yourpartner; but would you kindly tell me if the gentleman is tall orshort? It is better to make the ribbons of a length proportionate tothe height. " This question troubled Wilhelmine. . . . The leader of the cotillionshould have been Henri de Loubersac. Was not their betrothal to havebeen announced at the ball?. . . But the painful interview atSaint-Sulpice seemed to have put an end to all relations between them! Who, then, would lead with her? Little she cared! "Really, Madame, " replied Wilhelmine to the woman, who was astonishedat her indifference: "I do not know how tall or short my partner is, for the very good reason that I do not know who he is!. . . Provide, then, a set of ribbons which may suit anybody!" When the representative of "The Ladies' Paradise" had taken herdeparture, Wilhelmine went up to the library. Except for the stiff andsolemn household staff, Wilhelmine was alone in the house. Her fatherwas still absent: Mademoiselle Berthe had vanished. The house was turned upside down from top to bottom. Decorators andelectricians were in possession. Hammering had been going on all theafternoon. Furniture had been displaced, pushed hither and thither. The hall had been denuded of all but the table; even the privacy ofthe library had been invaded--and all in preparation for the ball ofthe day after to-morrow, to which the baron de Naarboveck had invitedthe highest personages of the aristocratic and official worlds. What a lively interest Wilhelmine had at first taken in this fête! The baron was giving it to set a public seal on his diplomaticposition, for hitherto he had not been definitely attached to hisembassy; now he was to be the accredited ambassador of a certainforeign power. Also he intended to announce the betrothal of the youngcouple. Alas! this latter project had suffered shipwreck! As Wilhelmine sat in lonely state in the library, she saw a dismalfuture opening before her. Not only had her heart been torn by thebrusque rupture with Henri de Loubersac, but everything which made upher home life, such as it was, seemed falling to pieces. . . . No doubtthe diplomat was obliged to be continually absent, but Wilhelminesuffered from this solitude, this abandonment. . . . She had becomeattached to the gay and companionable Mademoiselle Berthe, who hadbeen the life and soul of the house. She had disappeared: no tidingsof her doings or whereabouts had reached Wilhelmine. There must besome very serious reason for this. . . . The mysterious occurrences of the past weeks had altered her world, shaken it to its insecure foundations, and inevitably affected heroutlook. Life seemed a melancholy thing: how gloomy, how helpless heroutlook! More than ever before she felt in every fibre of her being that shewas not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that she was indeedThérèse Auvernois. But what a fatal destiny must be hers! An existenceopen to the attacks of misfortune, at the mercy of a being, enigmatic, indefatigable, who, time and again, had thrown his horrible influenceacross her destiny, was throwing it now--the sinister Fantômas! Wilhelmine was torn from her miserable reflections by the irruption ofa domestic, who announced: "Monsieur de Loubersac is asking if Mademoiselle can receive him!" Wilhelmine rose from the divan on which she had been reclining. In anexpressionless voice she said: "Show him in. " When the young officer of cuirassiers appeared, his air wasembarrassed, his head was bent. "You here, Monsieur?" Wilhelmine's voice and manner expressedindignation. But Henri de Loubersac was no longer the arrogant unbeliever of theSaint-Sulpice interview. "Excuse me!" he murmured. "What do you want?" demanded Wilhelmine, her head held high. "Your forgiveness, " he said in a voice barely audible. De Loubersac had come to his senses. His intense jealousy had distorted his judgment. Desperate after the Saint-Sulpice interview, when, so it had seemed tohim, Wilhelmine had avoided a categorical denial of his accusationregarding her liaison with Captain Brocq, the frantic lover had flownto Juve and had poured out his soul to the sympathetic detective. Juve had shown himself no sceptic. He believed Wilhelmine's story andstatements. They coincided with his own prognostications: theyexplained why Wilhelmine went regularly to pray at Lady Beltham'stomb: they corroborated his conjectures, they confirmed his forecasts. If he did not confess it to de Loubersac, he knew in his own mind thatthese statements indicated that between this Baron de Naarboveck andthe redoubtable bandit he was pursuing so determinedly there was someconnection, possibly as yet unfathomed, but in his heart of hearts hebelieved he had lighted on the truth. His conviction that deNaarboveck and Fantômas had relations of some sort dated from thenight of his own arrest as Vagualame in the house of de Naarboveck. Hehad gone further than that. "Yes, " he had said to himself: "de Naarboveck must be a manifestationof Fantômas!" Corporal Vinson's revelations regarding the den in the rue Monge hadbut strengthened Juve's impression. He had said to himself after that, "De Naarboveck, Vagualame, Fantômas, are but one. " Juve had reassured de Loubersac: he declared that Wilhelmine hadspoken the truth, that she certainly was Thérèse Auvernois and themost honest girl in the world. Juve calmed and finally convinced de Loubersac. It only remained for the repentant lover to reinstate himself inWilhelmine's good graces--if that were possible. Now, more ardentlythan ever before, he desired to make Wilhelmine his wife. See her, bereconciled to her, he must! He arrived at a favourable moment. The poor girl, lonely and alone, was a prey to the most gloomy forebodings. Life had lost all itssavour. She was in the depths of despair. De Loubersac, standing before her, as at a judgment bar, againimplored her forgiveness. "Oh, how I regret the brutal, wounding things I said to you, Wilhelmine!" he murmured humbly, sorrowfully. The innocent girl, so bitterly wronged by his thoughts and words, crimsoned with indignation at the memory of them. Her tone was icy. "I may be able to forgive you, Monsieur, but that is all you can hopefor. " "Will you never be able to love me again?" begged Henri, with thehumble simplicity of a boy. "No, Monsieur. " Wilhelmine's voice was hard. It was all Henri could do not to burst into tears of humiliation anddespair. "Wilhelmine--you are cruel!. . . If you could only know how you aremaking me suffer! Oh, I know I deserve to suffer! I recognise that!. . . All I can say now is--Farewell!. . . Farewell for ever!" Wilhelmine sat silent, her face hidden in her hands. Henri went on: "I leave Paris shortly. I have asked for an exchange. I am to be sentto Africa, to the outposts of Morocco. I shall carry with me thememory--how cherished--of your adorable self, dearest of the dear!. . . It shall live in my heart until the day when, if Heaven but hear myprayers, I shall die at the head of my troops. " With that de Loubersac moved slowly to the door, overwhelmed by theconviction that he had irreparably wounded the girl he adored, that hehad destroyed for ever the love she had borne him! A stifled cry caught his ear. "Henri!". . . "Wilhelmine!" They were in each others' arms and in tears. How the lovers talked! What plans they made! How happy would be theircoming life together! What bliss! Wilhelmine broke off: "Henri, do you know that it is past midnight?" "I seem only to have come!" cried her lover. "Ah, but you should not have stayed so late, my Henri!. . . The baron isnot here. I am alone!. . . Indeed, indeed, you must go!" "Oh, " laughed the happy Henri: "Why, of course the baron is nothere!". . . Wilhelmine, all smiles, shook a finger at Henri. "Be off with you!. . . Do, do be off with you!" "Wilhelmine!". . . "Henri!". . . The lovers kissed each other--a long, lingering kiss. . . . XXXIV A FANTÔMAS TRICK Fandor stared at himself with wild eyes. . . . He must be in an abominable dream, a mad nightmare!. . . He must be!. . . What was behind all this? This outrage? This Vagualame, criminalproprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed itthat he was thus bound, masked, disguised! That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through Fantômasthou shalt die!" Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await theevent! Fandor's spirit rose once more--indomitable. He closed his eyes. He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, ofstruggle, of triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all thethick-packed hours of vivid life. Ah, how Fantômas had haunted himfrom childhood onwards! "'Tis but life's logic, " he reflected: "I have fought Fantômas, andnot always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I havecalled check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with theirrevocable checkmate. Well, I have lost. I pay. " The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace. Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise. . . . The studio door swung open noiselessly. Some twenty men appeared, allclothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thicklycarpeted floor was soundless. Fandor stared at these strange figures. Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facingFandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, armscrossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke: "Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by everymeans in your power! Do you swear it still?" The voices of the masked men vibrated as one: "We swear it!" "Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?" "We are prepared. " The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, whobent their heads as he apostrophised them: "Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us thanhave all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against usthe indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideouscrimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!. . . This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak yourvengeance on him!. . . Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliverhim up to you!" The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor. A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmurbreathing hate and menaces: "Fantômas!. . . Fantômas!" Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene. "Ah, " thought he, "the bandit's last trick!" Trokoff was Fantômas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardentfaith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to ridhimself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of hiscompanions. Making him pass for Fantômas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving themto reap what consequences might follow from the journalist'sassassination. How Fandor longed to shout: "I am not Fantômas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!" But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How toprove to them he was not Fantômas? Who among them could recognise theunknown, elusive bandit, Fantômas? These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds ofreason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was? It would be madness to attempt it! For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evilcountenance of Fantômas--Fantômas who was gloating over his confusionand despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hopingfor some act of cowardice. Never would Jérôme Fandor play the coward! At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without asound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they wereabout to utter. He awaited the event. A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor. "Fantômas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to sayin your defence?" Fandor was dumb. "Fantômas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazedon your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!. . . Your hoodand mask--I tear them off you!" Trokoff rushed forward, crying: "Do not lay hands on him!. . . This wretch belongs to me!" Turning to his fellow-conspirators, Trokoff demanded: "My hand should strike the fatal blow! I brought him here! The rightis mine!" Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone: "The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spiedon, tracked! You know it well!. . . Suppose we stay to watch the dyingagony of this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They willsnatch from us our just revenge and will arrest us all!. . . Hand overthis monster to me and leave the place. If the police are watching youthey will see you go!. . . Leave Fantômas to me, that, at my leisure, Imay see him die as he deserves to die!" Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to befaced!. . . Yes, Fantômas meant to torture him, extract from his victimsome appeal for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form couldnever know nor exercise! Yes, Fantômas had changed his plans: rid ofthe Nihilists, he could have it all his own way with Fandor! The disciples, as with one voice, cried: "We are thy faithful followers. What thou ordainest that we do!". . . Trokoff turned to Fandor. He shook a threatening fist in Fandor'sface. "Collect yourself. . . . You are to pay the price of expiation soon!" This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisanstogether, made them quit the studio, and vanished with them. . . . "He will return, " thought Fandor: "And then it is all up with me!Courage to face the worst!" The door of the studio had barely closed on Trokoff and his dupes whenFandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear. "Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! IsFantômas!. . . Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!" Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were beingloosened. . . . A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggeringstep or two: his limbs were stiff and numb. . . . Close to him, watchinghis first difficult movements with an expression of ardent sympathy, our journalist perceived--Naarboveck. . . . "You, " said he. "I!. . . Fandor, I will explain!. . . Hold! Here is a revolver!. . . Ah! thebandits!. . . They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death!But I managed to escape!. . . Look out! He returns! We will fall uponTrokoff!. . . We will avenge ourselves!" A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mountinghurriedly. . . . Trokoff was about to reappear. . . . Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. Hebounded to the door, ready to leap on the entering man. De Naarboveck was ambushed on the side opposite to Fandor. Suddenly Fandor shouted: "Do not kill him! If it is Fantômas, we must take him alive!" Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung backagainst him, thus putting him out of action for the moment. Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on thefloor with him, yelled: "To me, Naarboveck! Fantômas, you are taken! Yield!" Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not beenable to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, ina terrible embrace; panting, livid, with eyes of hate and horror! De Naarboveck had laid hold of Trokoff, shouting: "You shall die! You must die!" This frightful struggle lasted but a few moments. Trokoff managed tofree himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard afamiliar voice crying: "Look out, Fandor! It is Naarboveck we must take! Go it! Go it!" The studio was plunged in darkness: a door banged: Fandor staggered, driven violently back into the middle of the studio. He felt a man wasrushing away. "He escapes! He escapes!" Fandor did not know who had remained with him, who, had fled, whetherhe was on his head or his heels!. . . It was a momentary bewilderment;for the voice he had heard when the struggle was at its height wasstill speaking, calm, mocking. . . . It was the voice of Juve, saying: "How exasperating!. . . These matches are no good at all!. . . Ah!. . . Thisone has decided to catch!" In the uncertain light of the match flame Fandor perceived someoneleaning against the wall--it was Trokoff!--Trokoff, who calmly went upto a table, took a candlestick, and lighted a candle! Throwing himselfinto an arm-chair, this Trokoff asked: "Well now? Why the devil are you got up as Fantômas, my lad?. . . For amilitary prisoner this is not at all correct!" Could Fandor believe his ears? his eyes? Trokoff was Juve! Fandor looked so bewildered that Juve-Trokoff laughed a merry laugh. "Come now, my Fandor, try to gather your wandering wits together a bitand answer me!" "You, Juve!. . . You are Juve!" gasped Fandor, exhausted in mind, andbody with the emotions he had experienced. "So it happens, " replied Juve: "Well, I see I must speak first as youdo not seem to be in a condition to talk!. . . Listen, then!. . . "I know these Nihilists, who imagine I am their chief, Trokoff--thatis my latest transformation!. . . I learned this evening that theseimbeciles, believing they had got hold of Fantômas, were summoned hereto-night to pass judgment on the bandit. . . . I accompanied them asTrokoff, who had called them together. When we entered, I can assureyou that, bound to your pillar, you made a striking figure ofFantômas!. . . You took in even me--for a while! Luckily I noticed yourhands, the only portions of you visible, covered as you were in thatconfounded hooded thing they muffled you up in. . . . You must know thatthe pattern of the veins on the hands is absolutely characteristic andindividual; so much so that the anthropometric service in Vienna isentirely based on this principle!. . . That is how I recognized you, mylittle Fandor. You can imagine that my one idea then was to get rid ofthe Nihilists as soon as possible, and liberate you! But, by Jove, when I returned, you and Naarboveck between you attacked me sobrutally that you nearly did for me! It was a narrow shave! He wasthrottling me! Had you fired your revolver at me you would almostcertainly have killed me, and then you would have fallen a victimyourself to. ". . . Juve stopped. He questioned Fandor with a look. "De Naarboveck!. . . DeNaarboveck, who is Fantômas, " replied Fandor, who now understood thesituation. Juve crossed his arms. "It is as you say. Vagualame, Naarboveck, Fantômas, are one and thesame: and, be sure of this, we have not set eyes on the real face ofFantômas yet, for de Naarboveck is as much made up for the part as heis when playing Vagualame!. . . Also. ". . . "Juve! Juve!" interrupted Fandor. . . . "We are mad to stay talking likethis!. . . Naarboveck has just vanished. He is certain to go to hisplace even if, feeling he is unmasked, he has decided to disappearforever. Do not let him escape! Juve, for Heaven's sake, hurry!" Juve did not stir. "How very violent you are, and how simple, my little Fandor! Look now, it is quite three minutes since de Naarboveck disappeared from here, and you imagine there is still time to catch him?. . . It ischildish!". . . "But Juve! I tell you de Naarboveck must return to his house! Let usput a watch on him and trap him!" Juve's voice trembled as he made answer: "We cannot arrest de Naarboveck!". . . "Why?. . . What do you mean?". . . "Because, though I have the right to place my hand on the collar ofFantômas, I have no power to arrest de Naarboveck!". . . Fandor's reply to this was an uncomprehending stare. "It's Greek to you, I see! Trust me, Fandor! At present I have noright to reveal this secret, but, take my word for it, Naarboveck isinviolable!" Fandor understood that this was an official secret which Juve was notat liberty to divulge. "Ye Gods!" he exclaimed. "Bah! The game is not lost yet, Fandor, my boy! I have still a card toplay against his, and I play it this very night. . . . Enough of that forthe moment! I am dying to know how you, whom I believed peacefullyreposing at Cherche-Midi, happen to be playing the part of Fantômas indeserted studios!" Juve's coolness was infectious. Fandor was himself again. He told Juvethe story of his escape. At the close he asked abruptly: "Now what are we going to do?" Juve shook his head. "Attention, my lad! Don't mix up the questions!. . . What am I going todo?. . . What are you going to do?. . . You, Fandor, ought to return toCherche-Midi straight away, and ask them to put you back in your cell. That is the wise thing to do, believe me, dear lad!. . . To get awaylike that was a mistake--a very grave mistake--the falsest of falsemoves. . . . To escape is equivalent to pleading guilty. . . . You areinnocent. . . . Return, then, to your prison . . . I can promise you thatyou will not remain there long. " "And you, Juve?" Juve rose, yawned. "Oh!. . . It is a nuisance, but I must get into evening dress . . . Andthat I do not like . . . I must go by train, too--confound it all!". . . * * * * * In a sumptuously decorated study an elegantly clad Juve was listeningto a personage. This personage was addressing our detective in a toneat once friendly and haughty. "No. It is not possible. It is asking too much of me! You do not takeinto consideration, Juve, the many complications which such anintervention on my part would give rise to if, by chance, you aremistaken. . . . I have the greatest confidence in you, Juve, I know yourability: I have had proof of your loyalty: I have experienced yourdevotion, but--you are not infallible!. . . The story you have told meis so strange, so--improbable, that I have to take into considerationthe possibility of there having been some mistake, some blunder. Ihave to consider the terrible consequences to which I should exposemyself in such a case!". . . Juve frowned slightly. "With all respect, I should like to point out to Your Majesty that itis a mere question of a signature to be given. ". . . "A signature, Juve, which commits me, my kingdom! It might fan theflame! Worse: it might put a match to the powder magazine. " "Your Majesty might consider that by such a signature the thing wouldbe settled. " "Juve! For the hundredth time I repeat I cannot give you this order!However far back in our annals you might go, I am convinced you couldnot find a precedent for this!" "Your Majesty will not forget that with his name, a line of hiswriting, all difficulties would be cleared away. " "Oh, as to that!. . . Have you considered that if this decree beunmerited, this document will be a shameful one, and will reflectshame not only on me but on my country? Do you not know that a kinghas no right to put his signature, his seal to an injustice?" "Sire, I know that a king should be Justice! Sire, I know I asknothing Your Majesty may not grant! Sire, I have urged, entreated! ButYour Majesty must excuse me when I say that I am no longer asuppliant. . . . Your Majesty understands me?. . . It is Juve who requeststhe signature of Your Majesty!" The king was visibly hesitating. At last he replied: "I understand you, Juve. You would remind me of that official visit toParis when you saved my life and the life of my queen at the risk ofyour own. I told you then that I should never refuse you anything youasked of me! It is to that you allude, is it not?" "Sire, I should never call upon your Majesty to pay a debt you did notacknowledge. . . . I did not then foresee that a decree from Your Majestywould prove the solution of the most formidable problem I have everhad to solve! I would far rather not recall the debt. . . . Your Majestyhas forced me to remind you of your given word. ". . . The king had risen and was pacing the room. "If I grant you this decree, Juve, will you take it to theChancellor's Office as soon as you reach Paris?" "Yes, Sire!" "You will not wait, Juve, to have further proofs of what you assert?" "No, Sire!" "I must, then, rely solely on your word for it, your certainty, yourconviction?" "Yes, Sire!" "Juve! Juve! If you exact this in the name of the promise I once madeyou, I will sign this decree for you--but--you will forfeit myfriendship! You will have taken my good faith by storm! Decide then, Juve! Exact this--I grant it you!" There was a silence. . . . Juve broke it. "Surely Your Majesty does not wish to put me on the horns of such adilemma? Lose Your Majesty's friendship, confidence, or let pass aunique opportunity?" "Yes, Juve. . . . That is what I wish. " "In that case, Sire, I do not exact payment! But Your majesty isbreaking to pieces all that my life means! Sire, my own honour willsit that I bring this business to a conclusion, cost what it may! WithYour Majesty's support it was possible. . . . With only my own resourcesto depend on all is lost!" It evidently cost the king something not to give Juve the satisfactionhe implored. "Juve, this is cruel! I would rather you had exacted the decree. . . . But all is not ended. . . . I will order an investigation in afortnight's time. ". . . "In a fortnight's time? Your Majesty knows it will be too late. " The king continued his pacing up and down. He was considering thequestion. "Juve, can you bring me face to face with this man? Can you convicthim of his imposture in my presence?" "What exactly does Your Majesty mean?" "I mean, Juve, that whatever might be the scandal, the humiliation itmight result in for me, I would grant you here and now the decree youclaim if I were assured that you had not made a mistake. . . . You bringme suppositions, Juve, but no proofs! Arrange so that this man throwsoff his mask, if but for an instant, and I will allow your justice totake its course!. . . Juve, forget that you are speaking to a king:think of me as your friend!. . . Whatever the risks to be run, can youbring us face to face under such conditions that the truth will beapparent to me?" Juve reflected. He raised his head and looked at the king. "Your Majesty, " said he slowly: "I am going to ask you to take anextraordinary step. . . . I am going to ask Your Majesty to perhaps riskyour life. I am going to ask Your Majesty. ". . . Juve's emotion was such that he could scarcely speak. Mastering it, hesaid in a low voice: "I am going to ask Your Majesty to accompany me in three days' time . . . When. ". . . XXXV AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR "The Council, gentlemen!. . . Stand up!" "Shoulder--arms!" "Rest--arms!" The seven military judges of the Council of War advanced solemnly, insingle file. They were in full dress uniform--sabres, epaulettes, regulation plumes on helmets and caps. With all due ceremony they tooktheir respective places at a long green-covered table. This opened at one o'clock, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth ofDecember. The president was a colonel of dragoons, a smart, distinguished-looking man, whose fair hair was slightly tinged withgrey at the temples. On the right of the tribunal, before a bureau piled with voluminouscase papers, was seated Commandant Dumoulin, redder in the face thanever. The place next him was filled by Lieutenant Servin, who showedhimself the very pink of correctness and meticulous elegance. Seatednear the lieutenant was a white-haired officer acting as clerk ofcourt. The government commissioners had their backs to the court windowswhich looked on to a very large garden; facing them was the dock, guarded by two soldiers with fixed bayonets; behind the dock was thetable which stood for the bar where the counsel for the defence wouldplead. The centre of the room was occupied by an enormous cast-iron stove, shedding cinders on every side, whose ancient pipes were scaly withage. Behind the line of soldiers cutting the room in two were narrow seatsand still narrower desks, where the representatives of the legalpress were seated as best they could. Behind the journalists pressed a tightly packed crowd, restless, overflowing with curiosity, leaning on the press-men's shoulders, peering between their heads, for whom the authorities had shown butscant consideration, and for whom the poorest accommodation wasprovided. All Paris had done their possible to be present, begging cards ofadmittance, a favour which could be granted to a very limited number. As soon as the interest aroused by the appearance of the members ofthe Council of War had died down the crowd's attention wasconcentrated on the hero of this sensational adventure: his doings hadbeen the one prevailing topic of conversation during the past fewdays. Jérôme Fandor, modest, reserved, appeared indifferent to the mutequestioning of the hundreds of eyes focussed on him. Our journalistwore Corporal Vinson's uniform. He had begged the authorities to lethim appear in civilian clothes: demands and entreaties had been somuch breath wasted. The counsel assigned him was a shining light of the junior bar, MaîtreDurul-Berton. The audience on the whole was favourably disposed towards thiswell-known contributor to _La Capitale_. They knew that on manyoccasions this well-informed journalist had rendered immense servicesto honest folk and to society in general by placing his intelligenceand energy at the service of every good cause. Then there was one strong indisputable point in his favour. Though hehad escaped from prison with the help of an unknown person, he hadreturned, had given himself up, declaring he would not leave theCouncil of War except by the big door with head held high, hisinnocence established. The president announced: "We shall now call the names of the witnesses. " There was silence in the court-room while a sergeant who filled theoffice of crier to the court, read out the names from a list in hishands. The call-over lasted ten minutes. Most of the witnesses wereofficers and men belonging to the garrisons of Verdun and Châlons. Among these witnesses as they defiled before the tribunal Fandorrecognised some whose faces were graven on his memory during his briefsojourn in the Saint Benoit barracks. The first call resounded through the court-room: "Inspector Juve!" Juve approached the tribunal, proved he was present, then, inconformity with the law, left the court-room, as did the otherwitnesses called. The presence of Juve reassured and comforted Fandor. Had not Juve saidto him: "You must face your judges, little son; but I am greatly deceived if acertain incident which will occur in the course of the hearing willnot alter the speech for the government from the first to the last!" More than this Juve could not be got to say: he had put on his mostenigmatic manner and closed his lips. The president of the Council addressed Fandor: "Accused! Stand up!" The president stared hard at the prisoner with his pale clear eyeslike porcelain expressing neither thoughts nor feelings. Fandor stood erect, waiting. An hour had gone by. Juve, the first witness called, was finishing his evidence. Of all thewitnesses, he alone could give precise details which would confirm ornullify Fandor's statements. Juve had given a rapid sketch of Fandor's adventurous career, but hadcarefully omitted to mention that Fandor's real name was CharlesRambert. [11] [Footnote 11: See Fantômas Series: vols. I, ii, iii. ] His defence of his friend was a eulogy. Nevertheless, the revelations of Juve did not simplify the problem asregards the grave charges of murder and spying brought against theprisoner. When Juve had finished his panegyric, the president spoke to thepoint: "All this is very well, gentlemen, very well--but the affair growsmore and more complicated, and who will come forward to elucidate it?" From the back of the court came a sound, sharp-cut, clear: "I!" The sensation was immense. Members of the Council looked at oneanother. There was a disturbance at the back of the room: the crowdswayed, and peered, and whispered. The colonel-president frowned. He scrutinised the close-packed swayingmass. He shot a question at it. "Who spoke?" Sharp, distinct, a monosyllable was shot back. "I!" Someone, pushing a way through the audience, was approaching themilitary tribunal. A murmur rose from the crowd. "Silence!" shouted the colonel. He swept the crowd with an angry eye:he threatened. "I warn you! At the least manifestation, favourable or otherwise, Ishall have the room cleared: we are not here to amuse ourselves. I donot authorise anyone, either by gesture or by speech, to comment onwhat is taking place within these walls. " Having obtained comparative quiet, the colonel looked squarely at theperson who had approached the witness-stand and was facing themilitary tribunal. This would-be witness was a young woman, elegantly clad. She woreblack furs, and a dark veil partially concealing her features, butrevealing the strange pallor of her face. The audience, who had a viewof the newcomer's back, noted her masses of tawny red hair, set off bya fur toque. The colonel put her to the question at once. "You are the person who said 'I'?" The young woman was greatly moved, but she answered firmly: "Yes, Monsieur. That is so. " "Who are you, Madame?" The witness collected her forces, pressed her hand to her heart asthough to still its frantic beating: paused. In a clear strong voiceshe made her declaration: "I am Mademoiselle Berthe: I am better known as Bobinette. " Exclamations from the crowd, craning necks, peering eyes, murmurs. When the excitement was suppressed, the colonel interrogatedBobinette. "Why have you taken upon yourself to interrupt the proceedings of thecourt?" "You asked, Monsieur, who could clear up this unfortunate affair. I amready to tell you everything. Not only is it a duty imposed on me bymy conscience, it is also my most ardent wish. " The judges were in earnest consultation. Commandant Dumoulin wasshaking his head. He was angrily opposed to this witness being heard, a witness who had appeared so inopportunely to trouble the majesty ofthe sitting. The counsel for the defence intervened. "Monsieur the president, I have the honour to request an immediatehearing for this witness. . . . It is your absolute right, Monsieur thepresident: you have full discretionary powers. " "And if I oppose it?" growled the commandant behind his desk, with avicious glance at the defender of his adversary. Maître Durul-Burton replied with calm dignity: "If you oppose it, Monsieur the commissaire, I shall have the honourof immediately deposing on the bureau of this tribunal conclusiveevidence which will bring this sitting to a close forthwith. " An animated discussion ensued between the members of the council. Itresulted in the colonel's announcement: "We will hear this witness. " He addressed Bobinette: "You are allowed to speak, mademoiselle. Swear then to speak thetruth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Raise your righthand and say: 'I swear it!'" With a certain dignity Bobinette obeyed. "I swear it!" Then, in a low trembling voice, trembling from excess of emotion butnot from timidity, Bobinette began her story. A child of the people, honestly brought up, she had not alwaysfollowed the straight path of virtue: there had been lapses. Intelligent, longing to learn, she had been well educated, and hadintended to take a medical degree. . . . Again, at the hospital, she hadsuccumbed to temptations, had led a life of idleness, and hadrenounced all idea of working for her doctor's diploma. Instead, shehad become a hospital nurse. [12] [Footnote 12: See _Fantômas_: vol. I, Fantômas Series. ] Here the colonel interrupted: "What can these details matter to us, Mademoiselle? What we want to know isnot your own history, but that of the guilty person--information pertinentto the case in hand. " In a strangely solemn voice, Bobinette replied: "You would know the history of the guilty person?. . . Listen!" The tribunal was impressed: the members, silent, attentive, let thewitness have her way. Bobinette touched on the various stages of her life up to the day whenshe came in contact with the Baron de Naarboveck. The care she hadlavished on the youthful Wilhelmine gained the gratitude of the richdiplomat and his daughter. From that time they treated her as one ofthemselves: she became Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's companion. "Ah, cursed be that day!" cried Bobinette. . . . "Misfortunes, tragedies, date from then. The worst is--I must confess it--I was the cause ofthem!" "What do you mean by that?" interrupted Commandant Dumoulin. "I mean to say that if Captain Brocq died by an assassin's hand, theblame is mine!. . . I mean to say that if a confidential documentdisappeared from his rooms, it is because I took it!. . . I was hismistress!. . . I am responsible for his death!" There was a gasping silence: the sensation was intense. Juve, halfhidden behind the cast-iron stove, alone remained unmoved. Bobinette continued: "My evil genius, gentlemen, was a bandit of the worst kind: you knowhim under the name of Vagualame. Vagualame, agent of the SecondBureau, and officially a counter-spy. Quite so. But, gentlemen, Vagualame was equally spying on France, a traitor in the pay of aforeign power: worse still, he it was who assassinated Captain Brocq:you know he was the murderer of the singer, Nichoune!. . . "This Vagualame made of me his thing, his slave! Alas! I cannotpretend that it was under the perpetual menace from this monster Ibecame a traitor! I have so many betrayals that must count against me:betrayal of my country, betrayal of Captain Brocq's love for me! Irobbed him in every kind of way: I stole the document referring to themobilisation scheme: I stole his money--bank-notes--with the excusethat it was to put the police on the wrong scent and make them believeit was an ordinary burglary. "These notes, gentlemen, were found in the possession of theunfortunate Jérôme Fandor. It seems they constitute an overwhelmingcharge against him. Know then, that after having been stolen by myhands they were given to Jérôme Fandor by one of our agents, for thepurpose of compromising the false Corporal Vinson. . . . But if I haveacted thus, it was not so much through a desire for the money theygave me for my treachery, not so much for the fallacious promises ofeventual riches which Vagualame was always trying to dazzle mewith--it was through rancour, spite, hate, it was through love!" Maître Durul-Burton rose and, bending towards the half-faintingBobinette, cried: "Speak, speak, Mademoiselle!" Bobinette went on slowly: "Through love--yes. And it is an avowal which touches me nearly, wounds me in the depths of my soul, in my most intimate thoughts. . . . "Yes, I have given away to the vile suggestions of Vagualame, if Ihave let myself be drawn by him into horrible by-paths of spying andtreason, it is owing to the spite and rage of an unrequited love, ofan intense passion, intense beyond expression, which I have felt for aman--a man whose heart was given to another--for the betrothed ofMademoiselle de Naarboveck--for Lieutenant Henri de Lou----" The colonel-president, with a brusque gesture, interrupted thisconfession. "Enough, Mademoiselle . . . Enough!. . . You are not to mention nameshere!. . . Be good enough to continue your deposition only as it relatesto facts connected with spying. " Bobinette then recounted how she had consented to hide the famous gunpiece brought to her one day by Vagualame; how she had helped thebandit to concoct the daring plan by which this piece was to be handedto a foreign power; how she had disguised herself as a priest in orderto take Corporal Vinson to Dieppe. She did not know, at first, thatshe was dealing with Jérôme Fandor. Enlightenment came throughVagualame's telegram. She only then realised that the traitor Vinsonand the soldier in her company were two distinct persons. "And, " cried she, "who killed the real Corporal Vinson but a few daysago in the rue du Cherche-Midi? I know. It was the murderer of CaptainBrocq, the murderer of the singer, Nichoune--it was Vagualame . . . Vagualame!" Bobinette was working herself up to a paroxysm ofexasperation, shouting out her revelations like an apostle who meansto convince, shouting his convictions as a martyr might at the worstmoment of her anguish. "Vagualame? You ask who he is, and you search among the thieves, thereceivers of stolen goods and light-fingered gentry, you search amongthe secret agents, among that low unclean crowd which gravitates toyour Staff Offices and circulates about them, forever on the watch, onthe prowl to surprise some secret, to buy over some conscience, tosell and bargain over some purloined document!. . . Look higher thanthat, gentlemen--much higher! Look higher than the Staff Offices, thanthe leaders in the political world, than members of the Government, even--fix your attention on the accredited representatives of foreignpowers. ". . . Bobinette was unable to continue. . . . Commandant Dumoulin had been tooexcited to remain in his seat. He rushed towards the witness, who wasmaking what he considered to be wild and outrageous statements: he puthis big hand over her mouth, effectually silencing her. . . . The commandant turned to the colonel, shouting: "Colonel! Monsieur the president!. . . I demand that this case be nowheard in camera! Such accusations must not be heard in public!. . . Ibeg you to order that the rest of this case be heard behind closeddoors!" The counsel for the defence rose in his turn, and in a calm tone, which contrasted with the violence of Commandant Dumoulin, declared: "I am in agreement with this demand, Monsieur the President. . . . Willyou order that the further hearing of this case be in camera?" Here Commandant Dumoulin, to whom Lieutenant Servin had made asuggestion, intervened anew: "Monsieur the President, gentlemen, having regard to the gravedeclarations made by this witness, I require her immediate arrest!" Hardly had this demand been voiced when a loud cry rang out, electrifying the whole court. Bobinette had swallowed the contents ofa small phial hidden in her muff! Juve, guessing Bobinette's intention, had rushed to her, but, in spiteof his rapid action, he reached her only in time to receive thefainting girl in his arms. "She has poisoned herself!" shouted Juve. The public broke bounds, knocked over chairs and benches, rolled in asurge of excited curiosity to the very feet of the Council of War, crowding round this fresh centre of interest--Bobinette! Fandor was too stunned by the avalanche of incidents to move. "The hearing is suspended!" shouted the colonel in an angry voice. There was nothing else to be done: the court was in an uproar! It was nine in the evening, and a crowd as large and densely packed asbefore awaited the verdict. Since Bobinette attempted suicide--she had been removed to theinfirmary with the faint hope that life was not extinct and she mightyet be saved--the hearing had been conducted in camera. But therevelations of the guilty girl had not only upset Dumoulin's course ofprocedure, but had also convinced the judges of Fandor's innocence. Hehad once more explained why he had concealed his identity beneath theuniform of Corporal Vinson. The Council of War had come to the conclusion that they could notconsider Fandor accountable to their tribunal. At nine o'clock then, after a short deliberation, the Council of Wardelivered judgment through the mouth of its president, deliveredjudgment according to the solemn formula, commencing thus: "_In the name of the French People!_" Jérôme Fandor was acquitted. The news of his acquittal was received with hearty cheers. * * * * * Fandor was free. Congratulations, hand-shakings, questions followed. Mechanically he responded, though he had a smile for Lieutenant Servinwhen he murmured, with a touch of irony: "The judgment made no mention, Monsieur Fandor, of the clothes--theborrowed clothes--you are wearing: but it seems to be established thatthey do not belong to you. Be kind enough, then, to return them to theauthorities as soon as possible! Otherwise we shall be obliged tosummon you afresh for appropriation of military garments!" The lieutenant had had his little joke, and departed laughing. The crowd melted away. Only a few of Fandor's colleagues remained. Tothem he talked more freely of his troubles and trials. Then Juvearrived on the scene again. He was no longer the impassive listenerof the trial: he was friend Juve, beaming and joyous. He embraced his dear Fandor effusively, murmuring: "Now, old Fandor, this is not the moment to linger! We must be offinstanter. I shall see you to your flat, where you can change intoclothes of your own; for this evening we have our work cut out forus!" "This evening?" Fandor's curiosity was aroused. Juve, as they went off together, became mysterious. "Ah! you will understand presently!" XXXVI AMBASSADOR!. . . ?. . . "Hurry up, Fandor! We must be off!. . . We shall be late!" Jérôme Fandor slipped on his overcoat and took the stairs at a rush inthe wake of Juve. "Well, I like that, old Juve! Here have I been waiting for you a goodquarter of an hour!. . . You will have to give the coachman an address, anyhow, and that will tell me where you are taking me, why you havemade me get into evening clothes, and why you are in that unusualget-up yourself--it's unheard of!" "It is true, lad! I amuse myself making mysteries!. . . It is stupid. . . . Well, Fandor, we are going to a ball. ". . . "A ball!" "Yes--and I think we shall lead someone there a fine dance, or I ammuch mistaken. " "Who, then?" "The master of the house!" "You speak in riddles, Juve!" "Not at all! Do you know where we are going, Fandor, lad?" "I ask you that, Juve. " "Well, then--we are going to the house of--Fantômas--to arrest him!" "Ye gods and little fishes!" cried Fandor. Juve crossed the pavement and jumped into a carriage, making room forhis dear lad beside him. "But, Juve, " remonstrated Fandor: "You declared to me the other daythat it was impossible to arrest de Naarboveck--that he wasinviolable--but you did not tell me why. . . . Isn't that true?" "It is true. " "And it is so no longer. " "It still is so. " After all he had been through, Fandor was in a state of high tension. He caught Juve's hand and beat it with angry impatience. "Don't quibble, Juve!. . . It is too deadly serious!. . . What do youreally mean?. . . We know that de Naarboveck is Fantômas, but you sworeto me that it is impossible to arrest Naarboveck. You still assertthis: nevertheless, you now declare that we are going to arrestFantômas! What the deuce do you mean?. . . I've had more than enough ofyour ironical mockery, old man!" Juve took out his watch and, with finger on the dial, said: "Look! It is half past ten. We shall reach de Naarboveck's about aquarter past eleven. It would be impossible for me to arrest him justthen; but at a quarter to twelve, midnight at latest, it will be quiteeasy for me to put my hand on the collar of de Naarboveck--Fantômas! Ishall not bungle it!" "Juve! You and your mysteries are maddening!" "My dear Fandor, do pardon me for not being more explicit. I told youNaarboveck was out of reach as far as arresting him goes. I also toldyou that we were going to arrest Fantômas. It is exact; because allthat is subordinate to a will--a will I happen to have at my commandfor the moment, but also a will which may raise some preventingobstacle at the last moment, and so stop me from capturing the banditstraight away, enabling the monster to brazen it out in perfectsafety. " "Whose will, Juve?" "My lad, do not question me further! I cannot say more. " Fandor desisted: Juve's sincerity was obvious. "All serene, Juve! I leave it to you. Whatever happens. I shall trynot to lose sight of you. I shall stick to you like a leech--if youhave need of me. " Juve held out his hands. "Thanks, dear lad!" With fast-beating hearts, thrilling with excitement, expectation, anxiety, the friends embraced. "You know, dear lad, " said Juve in quiet tones: "We are going to riskour skins?. . . I am sure of the final victory unless a stupid ball froma revolver. ". . . Fandor was his old teasing self once more. "Oh, that's all right! You are not going to frighten me with that oldblack bogey of yours!". . . At this moment the carriage turned the corner at the end of theAlexander bridge. . . . * * * * * The Baron de Naarboveck's mansion was brilliantly illuminated. Themuch-talked-of fête was at its height. Below, the spacious hall had been turned into a magnificentsupper-room--a veritable transformation scene--while dancers throngedthe rooms above. . . . The end room only was deserted: it was thelibrary. It had been made the receptacle of an overflow of furniturewhen the reception suite was cleared for dancing. An orchestra, concealed by foliage plants, discoursed seductivewaltzes in the principal ballroom, whilst crowds of lovely women anddistinguished men listened, chatted, and looked on. Madame Paradel, wife of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was talkingto her host. Observing Wilhelmine, all grace and smiles, she murmured: "What a charming girl she is!" Turning again to de Naarboveck, she remarked: "But you must be in the depths of desolation, dear Baron! Have I notheard that the young couple are leaving for the centre of Africa?" "Oh, that is an exaggeration, " laughed the Baron. "As a matter offact, my future son-in-law, de Loubersac, is leaving the Staff Office, and with the rank of captain. His chiefs are sending him, not, as youthink, to the wilds of Central Africa, but only to Algiers! Anexcellent garrison!" "Well, Baron, I like to think you will soon be paying a visit to yournewly married pair. " The Baron bowed, and, as Madame Paradel moved away, he went towardsthe entrance of the gallery commanding a view of the hall and stairs. The figures of two advancing guests had caught his eye. In a tone at once enigmatic and perfectly correct, de Naarboveckaccosted them: "You are among my guests, gentlemen. " "That is obvious, is it not?" replied one of the new-comers. . . . "Youmay be assured, Baron, that neither my friend Fandor nor I would haveallowed ourselves the liberty otherwise. ". . . "I know! I know, Monsieur Juve!. . . Besides--I was expecting you!" Anironic smile curved the lips of de Naarboveck. "We should have reproached ourselves, Baron, had we not come thisevening to offer you the felicitations to which you have a right. " "Really?. . . No doubt you refer to the marriage of Wilhelmine?" "No, Baron. I reserve such congratulations for Monsieur de Loubersacand Mademoiselle Thérèse--pardon, for Mademoiselle Wilhelmine. " When making this deliberate mistake in the name, Juve looked squarelyat the diplomat--but de Naarboveck made no sign. "What, then, do you refer to, Monsieur Juve?" he asked. "I mean, my dear Baron, that I have recently heard of your new office, heard that your credentials have just been presented, heard that theywill be ratified to-morrow. . . . From this evening, Baron, are you notthen the representative of the kingdom of Hesse-Weimar?. . . I fancy, Monsieur the Ambassador, that you are satisfied with this nomination?" De Naarboveck, smiling that ironical smile, bowed. "It carries with it some advantages, certainly. " "Among them, Baron, the privilege of inviolability--ah, that famousinviolability!" Juve laid stress on the word _inviolability_. De Naarboveck did not seem to understand the insinuation conveyed. "It is quite true, Monsieur, " he said in a matter-of-fact manner: "Ido enjoy the right of inviolability; it is one of the privilegesattached to my office. " On a bantering note he added: "An appreciable advantage, is it not?" "Appreciable indeed!" was Juve's reply. A wave of fresh arrivals surged up the grand staircase and separatedthe speakers. The master of the house stepped forward to greet them, whilst Fandor drew Juve by the sleeve into the corner of a windowrecess. Speaking low, he asked: "Juve! what is the meaning of this comedy?" "Alas, Fandor! it is no comedy!" "De Naarboveck is an ambassador?" "For the kingdom of Hesse-Weimar, yes. He has been that for over aweek--since that evening we failed to arrest him in the rue Lepic. " "And he is inviolable?" "Naturally. In conformity with international conventions, everyrepresentative accredited to a foreign power as ambassador is anuntouchable, inviolable person--wherever he may be. . . . Therefore, Fandor, when in this mansion, situated in the heart of Paris, we areno longer legally in France, but in Hesse-Weimar. You can understandthe kind of consequences which must follow from such a state ofthings. . . . But all is not over. . . . Ah! excuse me . . . There issomething I must see to immediately!". . . Leaving Fandor, Juve made his way through innumerable dress-coats andmagnificent toilettes, moving with difficulty in the press. He approached a guest stationed apart, watching all that was going onabout him. This guest, who stood unobtrusively aloof, was adistinguished-looking man of about thirty-five; he wore a blondemoustache turned up German fashion. Juve bowed low before this personage, and murmured with profounddeference: "Ah, thank you, thank you for coming, Majesty!" "Here, Monsieur, I am incognito--the Prince Louis de Kalbach: respectmy incognito and do whatever you have to do quickly. My presence inParis is not suspected. As you are aware, I am fortunately not knownpersonally to my--to this individual. " Juve was about to assure the king that his wishes would be respected, but someone touched him on the arm. Juve, with a respectfulinclination, turned away. "Ah, Monsieur Juve, how delighted I am to see you!. . . But I wasforgetting. . . . Monsieur Lépine was looking for you just now!". . . Juve was facing beaming Lieutenant de Loubersac. "I will go to him at once . . . But let me take this opportunity ofcongratulating you, my dear Lieutenant. ". . . Juve slipped away to join the popular chief commissioner of police, who was standing apart in the gallery overlooking the hall. Despitethe amiable smile he cultivated, Monsieur Lépine looked anxious. "Juve, are you on duty here?" he asked. "Yes and no, Monsieur. " Monsieur Lépine looked his surprise. "I will explain this to you later, Monsieur, " said Juve. . . . "Thingsare still very complicated. " Wilhelmine de Naarboveck came into view. She was one beam of happinessand radiant beauty. "Ah, Monsieur, I perceive you are not dancing, " she said, playing thegood hostess to Juve. "Will you not allow me to introduce you to somecharming girls?" "This is not the time, " thought Juve: "and there is my age to beconsidered. " Making an evasive reply, Juve beat a retreat in good order, andfollowed Colonel Hofferman, who was talking to de Naarboveck. "The work of the Second Bureau, " declared that officer. Juve heard no more--Monsieur Lépine confronted him. The chiefcommissioner of police was plucking at his pointed beard with nervousfingers. Drawing Juve aside, he asked: "Juve, what is Headquarters thinking about?" "I do not know, Monsieur. " "What! There is a visitor here, unnoticed. . . . Are you also ignorantof the fact that the Baron de Naarboveck receives a king hereto-night?" "Oh, as to that, I know it--Frederick Christian II. " Monsieur Lépine was incensed at the detective's calm. "You know it! You know it!" he grumbled, "and the administration knowsnothing about!. . . Well, since you know so much, what is he doing hereyour king?" "He comes to see me. " "Juve, you are mad!" "No, Monsieur, But. ". . . Juve cut short the conversation, approached the king, and said a fewwords to him in a low voice. The chief commissioner of police was surprised beyond words when hesaw the king listening attentively to what Juve had to say, then nodacquiescence, leave the ballroom and enter the gallery on to whichseveral rooms opened, including the library at the far end. Juve glanced discreetly at his watch. He was startled. His expressionaltered. It grew severe, determined. He glanced about him, discoveredde Naarboveck not far off, and went up to him. "Monsieur de Naarboveck, " he said: "shall we have a few minutes' talk?Not here--somewhere else. . . . Should we say?". . . "In my library?" proposed de Naarboveck, who looked the detective upand down--a measuring glance, cold, contemptuous. Their glancescrossed, hard, menacing. "You are set on it, Monsieur?" De Naarboveck's tone was ironyincarnate. . . . "And what may I ask is your aim in forcing thisconversation, Monsieur?" Juve's reply came, distinct, determined: "Unmask Fantômas!" "That shall be as you like, " was the diplomat's reply. In the library, unusually full of furniture, Juve and de Naarboveckmet for their duel of words and wits. They were by themselves. Juve had made the Baron pass into the roombefore him. He knew there was but one exit--the door. If in order toget clear away, de Naarboveck meant to employ force or trickery, hewould first have to remove Juve from the door, before which he hadstationed himself. Juve did not budge. Certainly there was the window at the other end of the room looking onto the Esplanade des Invalides. Curtains were drawn across the window, but Juve did not fear to see his adversary escape in that direction:he knew--and he alone knew it--that between this window and thecurtains there was an obstacle--someone. ". . . "Do you remember, Monsieur de Naarboveck, that evening when the policecame here to arrest Vagualame?" "Yes, " replied de Naarboveck with his ironic smile: "and it was you, Monsieur Juve, who got yourself arrested in that disguise!" "That is a fact. " Juve's admission was matter-of-fact. "Do you recalla certain conversation, Monsieur de Naarboveck, between detective Juveand the real Vagualame at Jérôme Fandor's flat?" "No, " declared the Baron: "and for the very good reason that theconversation--you have just said so--was a dialogue between twopersons: Juve and Vagualame. " "Nevertheless, this Vagualame was none other than Fantômas!" "What then?" De Naarboveck was smiling. Juve, after a short silence, burnt his ships. "Naarboveck!" he cried: "It is useless to double like that! Vagualameis Fantômas: Vagualame is you, yourself: Fantômas is you, yourself. . . . We know it. We have identified you; and to-morrow the anthropometrictest will prove in the eyes of the world what to-day is the convictionof a certain few only. "This long time past you have known yourself pursued, tracked: youhave noted that the ring has been drawn closer, tighter each day: so, playing your last trump card, attempting even the impossible, you haveplanned this abominable comedy, which consists in duping a noble kingand getting yourself nominated as his ambassador, that you might takeadvantage of diplomatic inviolability--an advantage, let me tell you, you are in desperate need of!. . . Quite a good idea! Was it not?" During Juve's virulent apostrophe de Naarboveck had maintained anironic self-possession. "You confess, then?" "And suppose it were so?. . . No doubt, Monsieur Juve, you intended todenounce me, to prove that the Baron de Naarboveck is none other thanFantômas. . . . Well, it pleases me to admit your cleverness. I will evengo as far as allow that you may quite well obtain authorisation toarrest me--in a few days' time. " "Not in a few days' time, " interrupted Juve: "but now at once!" "Pardon, " objected de Naarboveck, cool, collected, while Juve haddifficulty in containing himself: "Pardon, but the credentials Ipossess are authentic, and no one in this world can deprive me of myfunction, of my official position, and what pertains to it. " "Yes!" Juve flung the word at de Naarboveck as though it were a stonefrom a sling. De Naarboveck's gesture might mean anything: "Who?". . . Juve hurled another two stones in the shape of words. "The king!" De Naarboveck's nod was malicious. "Frederick Christian alone can take from me my style and title ofambassador. . . . Let him come and do it!" Juve lifted a finger slowly towards the far end of the library, in thedirection of the window. De Naarboveck, who had followed this movement mechanically, could notrestrain a cry of stupefaction, a cry of anguish. The window curtain had just been gradually drawn apart: slowly beforethe miscreant's eyes appeared the majestic form of King FrederickChristian II, King of Hesse-Weimar. The king was livid with suppressed rage. Juve approached him, his eyes on de Naarboveck. The king took a largeenvelope from an inner pocket and handed it to Juve. "I am the victim of this monster's imposture, but I know how torecognise my mistakes and rectify them. . . . Monsieur Juve, here is thedecree you asked me for, annulling the nomination of--Baron deNaarboveck. " During this brief scene, Naarboveck-Fantômas had gradually backedtowards a corner of the room, his face was pallid and drawn: he hadthe look of a trapped beast of prey. But at the king's last wordsNaarboveck-Fantômas drew himself up to a semblance of stateliness. Healso took from an inner pocket a document. He held it out to the king:his lips were curved in a smile of bitter irony. "Sire, " he said: "I, in my turn, hand you this! It is the plan stolenfrom Captain Brocq--the mobilisation plan for the whole French army--aplan your emperor. ". . . "Enough, Monsieur!" shouted the king. The paper fell to the ground. Juve bent quickly and picked up the document. The king, as though to anticipate the suspicion which might be putinto words, said: "Juve, this plan belongs to your country. Never have we wished. ". . . The eyes of Juve met those of the king in a deep, questioning glance. A question was asked and answered then. But five seconds in time hadpassed. Juve's glance went back to Naarboveck-Fantômas. . . . The bandithad disappeared! Juve kept his head. "Michel!" he called: "Michel!" Michel entered the library on the instant. He had been posted in thegallery close by. Behind him appeared several gentlemen in eveningdress: they were detectives despatched on special duty fromHeadquarters. "Fantômas is there, Michel, " Juve cried: "concealed, but notescaped. . . . There may be some hiding-place in these walls--we mustsound them--but no passage, no exit: I am sure of that. Let us carryout these pieces of furniture, which form a veritable barricade. " Some moments passed, tense with expectancy. At Juve's earnest requestthe king had left the room. He had fulfilled his promise and had bestbegone. Juve and Michel were guarding the door. The situation wasdangerous, and well the policemen knew it! They had come to gripswith a formidable criminal, to whom nothing was sacred, who wouldstick at nothing! Protected by some piece of furniture, he could takeaim at his leisure, shoot his opponents through the heart, and couldgo on shooting till he had emptied his revolver. "Start in!" cried Juve. With six men to aid him, Juve began a systematic turn-out of thelibrary, moving the furniture piece by piece, leaving no hole, nocorner unsearched. No Fantômas! Yet Juve felt confident, felt sure he held the miscreant in the hollowof his policeman's hand: the library contained no trap-door, no secretdoor, no sliding panel covering his retreat: the floor had no openingin it: the ceiling was not movable. "Take these pieces of furniture into the gallery, " commanded Juve:"every one of them! Fantômas is not a being without weight andsubstance, though, for the moment, he is invisible. He cannot haveleft the room; therefore he must be in it!" It was no easy task to move quickly, noiselessly, these heavy piecesof furniture into the gallery by way of the narrow library door. Soonthey had carried out a comfortable leather arm-chair of unusualproportions, four other chairs, a stand, and various smaller pieces ofsubstantial make. And all the while, dancers whirled on in the ball-rooms, seductivestrains of music were wafted on the air, mingled with the hum ofjoyous talk and gay laughter; yet in the background were these darkhappenings with tragedy ahead! Wilhelmine de Naarboveck appeared in the doorway, staring at thedisorder organised by Juve. . . . Juve paused: speech failed him at sightof her. "Monsieur Juve, " said she, in quite ordinary tones: "I am so glad Ihave found you! The Baron de Naarboveck has sent me to you. ". . . "Who sent you, did you say, Mademoiselle?" Juve started forward. "The Baron de Naarboveck asks for me?. . . Where? Since when?" "Why Monsieur Juve, I have just this moment left him at the entranceto the ball-rooms. He had just come out of here!. . . But why are youputting all this furniture in the gallery?" "What of the Baron, Mademoiselle?" cried Juve, on tenterhooks. "Ah, yes! The Baron said to me: 'Wilhelmine, I feel a little tired, and am going up to my room for a few minutes; but go to Monsieur Juve, and tell him. '". . . Not waiting to hear more, Juve rushed out to the gallery, but only tostop dead. . . . He had run up against a large, an unusually large, arm-chair standing apart. Thus isolated, it was remarkable. Juvepaused to examine it. This arm-chair was astonishing, extraordinary!Yes--it opened in the middle--a kind of a double chair! Why--theinterior could hold a man who knew how to pack himself in! It had afalse bottom with a spring! One in hiding could escape that way!. . . Once closed on the person concealed within, the chair looked empty. Amost ingenious hide-hole! Juve now knew the answer to the riddle ofthe bandit's disappearance. Within an ace of arrest, he had seized thechance offered by Juve's interchange of glances with the king, andwith an acrobat's agility had slipped inside this chair! No sooner wasthe chair abandoned in the gallery than de Naarboveck-Fantômas hadslipped out and away. When leaving his magnificent house forever, andall the securities and privileges of his position, he had sentWilhelmine to announce his escape to Juve! Could cynicism--couldmordant irony go further? Juve felt crushed. It was too, too much. "What ails you, Juve?" asked a gentle voice beside him. It was Fandor, who, knowing nothing of what had passed, but suspecting there wasmischief afoot, had come in search of Juve. Had he not seen thediplomat whom he knew to be Fantômas, and Fantômas on the point ofbeing arrested, cross the ballroom rapidly and disappear in the crowdof dancers? Juve could not find words for speech. Great tears rolled down his cheeks, hollowed and lined with an immensefatigue. At last he gave low utterance to his feelings. "Fantômas! I had got him!. . . And it was I who had that cursed chairtaken out of the library--I did it . . . I!. . . It is thanks to me!" Juve could not continue. He burst into tears in the arms of hisdevoted friend. . . . Once again Juve had suffered shipwreck when coming into harbour! Onceagain the bandit had escaped! Ah, decidedly Vagualame, Naarboveck, Fantômas, were one! Fantômas the evasive, the elusive, the shadowy Fantômas, genius ofevil, had flitted by them, had disappeared! Whither?. . . Would Juve ever have his revenge? The future alone would decide. . . . THE END * * * * * A NEST OF SPIES FANTÔMAS DETECTIVE TALES By Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain * * * * * I FANTÔMAS The Adventures of Detective Juve in pursuit of a master in crime. II THE EXPLOITS OF JUVE In this continuation Fantômas appears as the leader of a gang of Apaches, and as a physician of standing. Juve tracks the criminal to his secrethiding-place, but Fantômas escapes. III MESSENGERS OF EVIL Filled with hair-raising incidents this tale is a fascinating recital ofremarkable happenings in the life of the master-criminal of Paris. IV A NEST OF SPIES In this volume Fantômas is an ambassador for a foreign power engaged inParis in obtaining important military secrets for Germany. Detective Juveunmasks him, but the criminal again escapes. * * * * * 12mo. Cloth. $1. 35 net per volume * * * * * BRENTANO'S NEW YORK * * * * *