rage!
XXXIII
RECONCILIATION
"Which do you prefer, Mademoiselle? The multi-coloured cockades or the
bows of ribbon in one shade? We have both in satin of the best
quality."
Wilhelmine de Naarboveck hesitated. The representative from "The
Ladies' Paradise" continued:
"The cockades of various colours do very well: they are gay, look
bright; but the bows of ribbon also produce an excellent effect--so
distinguished! 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 did
her part ably. But Wilhelmine de Naarboveck gave but a perfunctory
attention to this choosing of cotillion accessories.
The saleswoman was more and more astonished. She considered that were
her customer's orders executed to the letter she would have the oddest
assortment of cotillion accessories that could be imagined. She
adroitly called Wilhelmine's attention to this.
Realising that she had been giving orders at random, the absent-minded
girl came to a decision.
"We have every confidence in your house being able to supply us with a
cotillion complete in every detail. You know better than I what is
necessary. I will leave it to you, then, to see that everything is
done as well as possible."
The saleswoman was full of delighted protestations. Though satisfied
with a decision that simplified her task, she was surprised that a
young girl as free to act and order as Mademoiselle de Naarboveck
seemed to be, did not take interest in the details of a fete which, as
rumour had it, was given in her honour.
"Ah!" said the young woman, as she collected the patterns scattered
over a table in the hall, "if all our customers were like you,
Mademoiselle, and allowed us to carry out our own ideas, we should do
marvellous things!"
Wilhelmine smiled, but--would this saleswoman never have done!
"Of course, Mademoiselle, we make similar ribbons for you and your
partner; but would you kindly tell me if the gentleman is tall or
short? It is better to make the ribbons of a length proportionate to
the height."
This question troubled Wilhelmine.... The leader of the cotillion
should have been Henri de Loubersac. Was not their betrothal to have
been announced at the ball?... But the painful interview at
Saint-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 astonished
at 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 her
departure, Wilhelmine went up to the library. Except for the stiff and
solemn household staff, Wilhelmine was alone in the house. Her father
was still absent: Mademoiselle Berthe had vanished.
The house was turned upside down from top to bottom. Decorators and
electricians were in possession. Hammering had been going on all the
afternoon. Furniture had been displaced, pushed hither and thither.
The hall had been denuded of all but the table; even the privacy of
the library had been invaded--and all in preparation for the ball of
the day after to-morrow, to which the baron de Naarboveck had invited
the highest personages of the aristocratic and official worlds.
What a lively interest Wilhelmine had at first taken in this fete!
The baron was giving it to set a public seal on his diplomatic
position, for hitherto he had not been definitely attached to his
embassy; now he was to be the accredited ambassador of a certain
foreign power. Also he intended to announce the betrothal of the young
couple.
Alas! this latter project had suffered shipwreck!
As Wilhelmine sat in lonely state in the library, she saw a dismal
future opening before her. Not only had her heart been torn by the
brusque rupture with Henri de Loubersac, but everything which made up
her home life, such as it was, seemed falling to pieces.... No doubt
the diplomat was obliged to be continually absent, but Wilhelmine
suffered from this solitude, this abandonment.... She had become
attached to the gay and companionable Mademoiselle Berthe, who had
been the life and soul of the house. She had disappeared: no tidings
of her doings or whereabouts had reached Wilhelmine. There must be
some 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 her
outlook. Life seemed a melancholy thing: how gloomy, how helpless her
outlook!
More than ever before she felt in every fibre of her being that she
was not the daughter of the baron de Naarboveck, that she was indeed
Therese Auvernois. But what a fatal destiny must be hers! An existence
open to the attacks of misfortune, at the mercy of a being, enigmatic,
indefatigable, who, time and again, had thrown his horrible influence
across her destiny, was throwing it now--the sinister Fantomas!
Wilhelmine was torn from her miserable reflections by the irruption of
a 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 an
expressionless voice she said:
"Show him in."
When the young officer of cuirassiers appeared, his air was
embarrassed, his head was bent.
"You here, Monsieur?" Wilhelmine's voice and manner expressed
indignation.
But Henri de Loubersac was no longer the arrogant unbeliever of the
Saint-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 to
him, Wilhelmine had avoided a categorical denial of his accusation
regarding her liaison with Captain Brocq, the frantic lover had flown
to Juve and had poured out his soul to the sympathetic detective.
Juve had shown himself no sceptic. He believed Wilhelmine's story and
statements. They coincided with his own prognostications: they
explained why Wilhelmine went regularly to pray at Lady Beltham's
tomb: they corroborated his conjectures, they confirmed his forecasts.
If he did not confess it to de Loubersac, he knew in his own mind that
these statements indicated that between this Baron de Naarboveck and
the redoubtable bandit he was pursuing so determinedly there was some
connection, possibly as yet unfathomed, but in his heart of hearts he
believed he had lighted on the truth. His conviction that de
Naarboveck and Fantomas had relations of some sort dated from the
night of his own arrest as Vagualame in the house of de Naarboveck. He
had gone further than that.
"Yes," he had said to himself: "de Naarboveck must be a manifestation
of Fantomas!"
Corporal Vinson's revelations regarding the den in the rue Monge had
but strengthened Juve's impression. He had said to himself after that,
"De Naarboveck, Vagualame, Fantomas, are but one."
Juve had reassured de Loubersac: he declared that Wilhelmine had
spoken the truth, that she certainly was Therese Auvernois and the
most honest girl in the world.
Juve calmed and finally convinced de Loubersac.
It only remained for the repentant lover to reinstate himself in
Wilhelmine's good graces--if that were possible. Now, more ardently
than ever before, he desired to make Wilhelmine his wife. See her, be
reconciled 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 its
savour. She was in the depths of despair.
De Loubersac, standing before her, as at a judgment bar, again
implored 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 hope
for."
"Will you never be able to love me again?" begged Henri, with the
humble simplicity of a boy.
"No, Monsieur." Wilhelmine's voice was hard.
It was all Henri could do not to burst into tears of humiliation and
despair.
"Wilhelmine--you are cruel!... If you could only know how you are
making 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 sent
to Africa, to the outposts of Morocco. I shall carry with me the
memory--how cherished--of your adorable self, dearest of the dear!...
It shall live in my heart until the day when, if Heaven but hear my
prayers, I shall die at the head of my troops."
With that de Loubersac moved slowly to the door, overwhelmed by the
conviction that he had irreparably wounded the girl he adored, that he
had 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 their
coming 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 is
not here. I am alone!... Indeed, indeed, you must go!"
"Oh," laughed the happy Henri: "Why, of course the baron is not
here!"...
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 FANTOMAS 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, criminal
proprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed it
that he was thus bound, masked, disguised!
That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through Fantomas
thou shalt die!"
Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await the
event!
Fandor's spirit rose once more--indomitable.
He closed his eyes.
He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, of
struggle, of triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all the
thick-packed hours of vivid life. Ah, how Fantomas had haunted him
from childhood onwards!
"'Tis but life's logic," he reflected: "I have fought Fantomas, and
not always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have
called check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with the
irrevocable 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, all
clothed in black and masked in velvet. Their approach over the thickly
carpeted floor was soundless.
Fandor stared at these strange figures.
Solemnly, silently, they ranged themselves in a half circle facing
Fandor. He who was plainly the chief of them remained apart, arms
crossed, head high, considering Fandor. He spoke:
"Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every
means 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, who
bent their heads as he apostrophised them:
"Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than
have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us
the indignant horror of public opinion by an accumulation of hideous
crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I,
Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your
vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver
him up to you!"
The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.
A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur
breathing hate and menaces:
"Fantomas!... Fantomas!"
Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.
"Ah," thought he, "the bandit's last trick!"
Trokoff was Fantomas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent
faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wishing to rid
himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his
companions. Making him pass for Fantomas, he drove them on to murder,
thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them
to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's
assassination.
How Fandor longed to shout:
"I am not Fantomas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!"
But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to
prove to them he was not Fantomas? Who among them could recognise the
unknown, elusive bandit, Fantomas?
These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of
reason. 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 evil
countenance of Fantomas--Fantomas who was gloating over his confusion
and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping
for some act of cowardice.
Never would Jerome Fandor play the coward!
At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a
sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were
about to utter. He awaited the event.
A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.
"Fantomas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say
in your defence?"
Fandor was dumb.
"Fantomas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed
on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood
and 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 right
is mine!"
Trokoff continued, in a quieter tone:
"The police may have been warned of our gathering here! We are spied
on, tracked! You know it well!... Suppose we stay to watch the dying
agony of this wretch! Suppose the police descend upon us! They will
snatch from us our just revenge and will arrest us all!... Hand over
this monster to me and leave the place. If the police are watching you
they will see you go!... Leave Fantomas to me, that, at my leisure, I
may see him die as he deserves to die!"
Fandor shuddered: so a lingering agony, a fearful death was to be
faced!... Yes, Fantomas meant to torture him, extract from his victim
some appeal for pity, for the mercy this monster in human form could
never know nor exercise! Yes, Fantomas had changed his plans: rid of
the 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's
face.
"Collect yourself.... You are to pay the price of expiation soon!"
This menace hurled at his victim, Trokoff drew his fanatical partisans
together, 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 when
Fandor heard a breathless murmur at his ear.
"Quick! Quick! Fandor! Trokoff, you have guessed it, is Vagualame! Is
Fantomas!... Cost what it may we must get the mastery of him!"
Fandor could not turn his head, but he felt his bonds were being
loosened.... A minute or two and he was free! He took a staggering
step or two: his limbs were stiff and numb.... Close to him, watching
his 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! the
bandits!... They took me too! Me also they have condemned to death!
But I managed to escape!... Look out! He returns! We will fall upon
Trokoff!... We will avenge ourselves!"
A heavy step was heard on the stairs; someone was mounting
hurriedly.... Trokoff was about to reappear....
Fandor grasped the revolver de Naarboveck had just handed to him. He
bounded 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 Fantomas, we must take him alive!"
Before de Naarboveck had time to reply, the door was flung back
against him, thus putting him out of action for the moment.
Fandor shot forward, seized Trokoff by the throat, and, rolling on the
floor with him, yelled:
"To me, Naarboveck! Fantomas, you are taken! Yield!"
Fandor's grip and spring had been so sudden that Trokoff had not been
able to defend himself. He and Fandor struggled, twisted, writhed, in
a 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 to
free himself from Fandor's grip. The stupefied journalist heard a
familiar 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 was
rushing away.
"He escapes! He escapes!"
Fandor did not know who had remained with him, who, had fled, whether
he 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 was
still speaking, calm, mocking.... It was the voice of Juve, saying:
"How exasperating!... These matches are no good at all!... Ah!... this
one has decided to catch!"
In the uncertain light of the match flame Fandor perceived someone
leaning against the wall--it was Trokoff!--Trokoff, who calmly went up
to a table, took a candlestick, and lighted a candle! Throwing himself
into an arm-chair, this Trokoff asked:
"Well now? Why the devil are you got up as Fantomas, my lad?... For a
military 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 bit
and answer me!"
"You, Juve!... You are Juve!" gasped Fandor, exhausted in mind, and
body with the emotions he had experienced.
"So it happens," replied Juve: "Well, I see I must speak first as you
do not seem to be in a condition to talk!... Listen, then!...
"I know these Nihilists, who imagine I am their chief, Trokoff--that
is my latest transformation!... I learned this evening that these
imbeciles, believing they had got hold of Fantomas, were summoned here
to-night to pass judgment on the bandit.... I accompanied them as
Trokoff, who had called them together. When we entered, I can assure
you that, bound to your pillar, you made a striking figure of
Fantomas!... You took in even me--for a while! Luckily I noticed your
hands, the only portions of you visible, covered as you were in that
confounded hooded thing they muffled you up in.... You must know that
the pattern of the veins on the hands is absolutely characteristic and
individual; so much so that the anthropometric service in Vienna is
entirely based on this principle!... That is how I recognized you, my
little Fandor. You can imagine that my one idea then was to get rid of
the Nihilists as soon as possible, and liberate you! But, by Jove,
when I returned, you and Naarboveck between you attacked me so
brutally that you nearly did for me! It was a narrow shave! He was
throttling me! Had you fired your revolver at me you would almost
certainly have killed me, and then you would have fallen a victim
yourself to."...
Juve stopped. He questioned Fandor with a look. "De Naarboveck!... De
Naarboveck, who is Fantomas," replied Fandor, who now understood the
situation.
Juve crossed his arms.
"It is as you say. Vagualame, Naarboveck, Fantomas, are one and the
same: and, be sure of this, we have not set eyes on the real face of
Fantomas yet, for de Naarboveck is as much made up for the part as he
is when playing Vagualame!... Also."...
"Juve! Juve!" interrupted Fandor.... "We are mad to stay talking like
this!... Naarboveck has just vanished. He is certain to go to his
place even if, feeling he is unmasked, he has decided to disappear
forever. 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 is
childish!"...
"But Juve! I tell you de Naarboveck must return to his house! Let us
put 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 of
Fantomas, 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 no
right to reveal this secret, but, take my word for it, Naarboveck is
inviolable!"
Fandor understood that this was an official secret which Juve was not
at liberty to divulge.
"Ye Gods!" he exclaimed.
"Bah! The game is not lost yet, Fandor, my boy! I have still a card to
play against his, and I play it this very night.... Enough of that for
the moment! I am dying to know how you, whom I believed peacefully
reposing at Cherche-Midi, happen to be playing the part of Fantomas in
deserted studios!"
Juve's coolness was infectious. Fandor was himself again. He told Juve
the 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 to
do?... What are you going to do?... You, Fandor, ought to return to
Cherche-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 away
like that was a mistake--a very grave mistake--the falsest of false
moves.... To escape is equivalent to pleading guilty.... You are
innocent.... Return, then, to your prison ... I can promise you that
you will not remain there long."
"And you, Juve?"
Juve rose, yawned.
"Oh!... It is a nuisance, but I must get into evening dress ... and
that I do not like ... I must go by train, too--confound it all!"...
* * * * *
In a sumptuously decorated study an elegantly clad Juve was listening
to a personage. This personage was addressing our detective in a tone
at once friendly and haughty.
"No. It is not possible. It is asking too much of me! You do not take
into consideration, Juve, the many complications which such an
intervention on my part would give rise to if, by chance, you are
mistaken.... I have the greatest confidence in you, Juve, I know your
ability: I have had proof of your loyalty: I have experienced your
devotion, but--you are not infallible!... The story you have told me
is so strange, so--improbable, that I have to take into consideration
the possibility of there having been some mistake, some blunder. I
have to consider the terrible consequences to which I should expose
myself in such a case!"...
Juve frowned slightly.
"With all respect, I should like to point out to Your Majesty that it
is a mere question of a signature to be given."...
"A signature, Juve, which commits me, my kingdom! It might fan the
flame! Worse: it might put a match to the powder magazine."
"Your Majesty might consider that by such a signature the thing would
be settled."