* * * * *
The magnificent mansion of Thomery, the sugar refiner, overlooked the
park Monceau. It was approached by a very quiet little avenue, in which
were a few big houses: it opened on to the boulevard Malesherbes, and
was known as the avenue de Valois. All the dwellings there are
sumptuous, richly inhabited, and if the avenue is peaceful and silent by
day, it is no uncommon thing to see it of an evening crowded with
carriages and luxurious motor-cars, come to fetch the owners away to
dinners and entertainments.
On this particular evening the approaches to the avenue de Valois were
full of animation. Motors and broughams succeeded one another in a long
file, putting down the guests of Thomery under an immense marquee,
covering the steps leading up to the vestibule.
All the smart world had been invited to the reception: all Paris swarmed
into the brilliantly illuminated entrance-halls of the mansion.
Two mounted policemen sat as immovable as bronze caryatides on either
side of the entrance, whilst a swarm of policemen made the carriages
move on, and drove away from the aristocratic avenue de Valois the band
of poverty-stricken and ragged creatures who crowded the pavement with
the hope of securing a handsome tip by opening a carriage door or
picking up some fallen object.
It was no easy matter to keep order. One of the police sergeants
accustomed to ceremonial functions remarked to one of his younger
colleagues:
"I have seen balls and receptions enough! Well, my boy, this Thomery
affair is as fine a set out as if it were at the President's!"
Although it was one o'clock in the morning, both on the boulevard
Malesherbes and at the entrance to the rue de Monceau there was movement
and activity. If, as seemed likely, there was a crush in the great
reception-rooms of the Thomery mansion, it was certain that outside the
crowd had to form up in line to get near the counters, where the wine
sellers were serving their customers without a moment's
intermission--serving them with drinks of every description. Thus there
was a hubbub, there was noise and roystering clamour all around. Most of
the chauffeurs, coachmen, and servants knew one another.
Mingling with all this aristocracy of the servant class were
pickpockets, mendicants obsequious and wheedling, who offered themselves
as understudies to these of the upper ten of the servant world, and
these aristocrats were ready to seize this chance of a little liberty,
and at the same time play the generous patron to these poor failures in
life's battle. In fact they gave more generous tips than their masters;
for did they not rub shoulders with misery and thus realise, only too
vividly, the measureless horrors of destitution?
Ernestine and Mimile lost themselves in the noisy crowd. They were all
eyes and ears for everything going on around them, whilst keeping in
view their two accomplices, the Beadle and the Beard. This was more than
usually difficult, because they were disguised almost out of
recognition. The Beard was muffled in a blue blouse and a big soft hat,
which gave him the look of a peasant, who had wandered into a crowd with
which he had nothing in common. The Beadle was capitally disguised as a
coachman in good service who is out of a situation, but who, from vanity
and custom, sports the emblems of office.
He was continually chewing a quid of tobacco; for such is the habit of
coachmen who cannot smoke on their seats, and thus console themselves
with two sous' worth of roll tobacco.
The Beadle stopped beside a chauffeur who had just got down from his
car, a magnificent limousine, lined with cream cloth, while its exterior
was a dark maroon in the best taste.
"Why, it's Casimir!" cried the Beadle, going up to the chauffeur with
hands outstretched and smiling face.
Mechanically the chauffeur, addressed as Casimir, responded to the
offered handclasp. But, after a short silence, he said in a questioning
tone, quite frankly:
"I cannot recall you."
"Can't you remember me!" cried the Beadle. "Why, don't you remember
Cesar--Cesar who was with Rothschild last year?"
No, Casimir could not remember. But he was quite willing to believe that
he knew Cesar, for he had seen and known so many since he had been in
the service of Princess Sonia Danidoff, that there was nothing
extraordinary about his forgetfulness. Besides, Cesar looked quite a
decent fellow, and had a taking face, and one only had to look at that
beaming countenance of his to be sure that an invitation to take a drink
together would soon be forthcoming!
The Beadle, satisfied that he had so easily made a friend of the
chauffeur of Sonia Danidoff, whom he had only known by sight for the
last forty-eight hours, did in fact suggest their taking a glass
together. The Beadle had indeed come up to expectations!
Drink was Casimir's besetting sin. Excellent chauffeur, solid and
serious fellow as he was, he had two defects: he was addicted to
tippling, though he never drank to excess, and never got drunk. Also, he
was fond of a gossip: he could talk for hours without stopping.
The Beadle had been posted up regarding Casimir's little weaknesses and
tastes. Thus nothing was easier than to set trap after trap, into each
of which the simple fellow fell as they were set--fell fatally.
The Beadle introduced the Beard to Casimir under the name of Father
India-rubber: an old codger, whose trade was to buy and sell tyres to
chauffeurs, tyres new and also second-hand. At this moment a young
ragamuffin appeared on the scenes: he asked if he might be left in
charge of the car. It was Mimile. The young hooligan, who had followed
the conversation of the three men, and of Casimir in particular, whilst
keeping in the background, now intervened at the right moment. He made
his offer just as the chauffeur was looking about him in hopes of
finding some poverty-stricken creatures into whose charge he could give
his car. Casimir gave him twenty sous as an earnest of what was to
follow in the way of coin, saying:
"Take great care of my little shanty! Don't let anyone come mouching
around it, and when I return you shall have double what you've just
had!"
"Thank you, master!" cried Mimile, bowing low before the chauffeur: "You
may rest assured I shall keep a good look out!"
Mimile exchanged signs of understanding with his two accomplices, whilst
they, talking as they went, drew the innocent Casimir towards the
nearest tavern, which was crowded with wine-bibbers.
Mimile, as faithful guardian of the limousine, soon got bored, although
big Ernestine was prowling around, and came to have a minute's talk with
him now and again: they dared not be seen together too much for fear of
attracting attention. As time went on, Mimile was surprised that neither
the Beadle nor the Beard came to report progress. But at long last the
majestic outline of the Beard was seen at the corner of the rue Monceau.
The pretended seller of india-rubber was coming out of the tavern.
He hastened to Mimile and, in a low, distinct voice, he gave him some
hurried instructions, for now there was no time to lose:
"That idiot would never get done with his stories about motor-cars, and
all that stuff and rubbish--what's that to us? But--keep your ears open
now, Mimile--it seems there are still fifteen litres of petrol in the
tank, and that would take it a long way, for the motor consumes very
little.... But this shanty has got to stop about five hundred yards from
here, at the corner of the rue de Monceau and the rue de Teheran ...
it's by this way Casimir will take his Baroness back from the ball....
Well, what you have to do is to take fourteen litres and a half from
that tank and pitch them in the gutter!... When Casimir finds that his
petrol has given out, he will have to go in search of more ... it's
during his absence that we will work the trick on the pretty
Princess--we'll perform an operation on her, and amputate
her--jewellery--the whole lot!"
The Beard drew from under his blouse an empty bottle, which he had
stolen in the tavern:
"Here's your measure! Count carefully fourteen litres and a half--that
done, wait quietly till Casimir turns up: your part in the story will be
forty sous, and not to rouse his suspicions; then, while he goes up the
avenue de Valois to take up the Princess, you and Ernestine have to
gallop off to the corner of the rue de Monceau and the rue de Teheran,
then ... wait!"
* * * * *
Mimile, with the agility of a monkey and the ability of a first-rate
chauffeur--for there was nothing he did not know in the way of applied
mechanics, as became an aviator--executed to the letter his accomplice's
orders.
The Beard meanwhile had returned to the tavern and Casimir.
* * * * *
Suddenly, all was activity in the world of carriages and coachmen! The
great ball was drawing to its end. Casimir was once more in possession
of his motor, and had generously tipped his understudy: thereupon the
hooligan had made off as fast as his legs could carry him. Ernestine
joined him at the appointed spot: there the two rogues waited.
"Listen!" cried big Ernestine some fifteen minutes later.
She stared in the direction of the boulevard Malesherbes, with neck
outstretched and straining eyeballs. At last, after an agonising wait,
she and Mimile saw the carriages driving by. "Attention!" cried big
Ernestine in a sharp whisper ... "everybody's on the move at last!"
* * * * *
The Beadle and the Beard, hidden in the crowd which thronged the
approaches to the Thomery mansion, awaited the departure of Princess
Sonia Danidoff: the idea of this rich prey excited them. Then as they
stared at the first outflow of departing guests, the two bandits could
not but notice that far from looking gay and animated as people do who
have danced and supped well, these guests of Thomery showed pale,
dejected faces: in fact, they had all the appearance of people under the
influence of some tragic emotion.
"They look pretty down in the mouth, don't they?" whispered the Beard in
the Beadle's ear.
"That's a fact! You'd think they were returning from a funeral!"
Then a vague rumour began to circulate; confirmation followed, spread
insensibly within the Thomery mansion, was passed on by the lackeys,
spread from the pavements to the avenue. People whispered of
incomprehensible things incredible, but which little by little took
definite shape. It was said that the Thomery ball had just become the
scene of an accident, of a drama, of a robbery, of a crime!... The
police, and of the highest grade, had intervened.... The news spread
like a train of ignited gunpowder.... Nevertheless, if Thomery's guests
were cognisant of the details, they did not take the beggars and
pickpockets into their confidence: among the light-fingered gentry
conjectures were rife.
The Beadle and the Beard, who tried to catch odds and ends of talk
separately, joined each other again, looking crestfallen, discomfited.
The Beadle broke silence, with an oath, adding:
"I am certain we have been done ... someone has got in before us--been
too smart for us!"
Beard nodded: he was of the same opinion.
But who then could have had the audacity to plan such an attempt and
carry it out, too? Who could have had the same idea as he and his
comrades, and to realise it successfully? Whoever it was had proved
himself the better man. In spite of himself the bandit, in thought,
formulated one word:
Fantomas!
VIII
END OF THE BALL
When Sonia Danidoff entered Thomery's ball-room she made a sensation. It
was not far off midnight when she appeared in all her brilliant beauty
and dazzling array, leaning on the arm of her host and fiance, who bore
his honours proudly. Dancers paused to admire this handsome couple; then
the Hungarian band redoubled their efforts, and the whirling, eddying
waltz started afresh, more gay, more inspiriting than before.
In a corner opposite the musicians a group of persons were in animated
talk: among them Sonia Danidoff, Thomery, and Jerome Fandor. Music was
their theme, some admired Wagner and the classics, others voted for the
moderns, for the sugariest of waltzes, for the romantic, the bizarre.
"For the profane like myself," declared Thomery, laughing, "gipsy music
has its charms!"
"Oh," cried Sonia Danidoff, "you are not going to tell me that such
hackneyed things as _The Smile of Spring_ and _The Blush Rose Waltz_ are
to your taste!"
Her tone was reproachful, but her smile was charming.
Nanteuil, the fashionable banker, who was fluttering about the Princess,
hastened to take her side:
"Come now, Thomery, you would not put your signature to that?"
Jerome Fandor, who had just joined the group, declared:
"For my part, I thoroughly agree with you, my dear Monsieur Thomery!"
Sonia Danidoff looked her surprise.
Thomery replied, with a touch of malice:
"Monsieur Fandor is like myself--the Tonkinoise is more to his taste!"
"More than Wagner's operatic big guns!" finished Fandor.
Then turning to the Princess who still wore her air of surprise:
"Yes, Princess, I confess it--my taste in music is deplorable: it comes
from absolute ignorance. I do not understand these modern
symphonies--the simple romantic suits me best!"
"And that is?" ... queried Nanteuil:
"Just some music-hall air or ditty," answered Fandor with a smile as
frank as his confession.
The Princess was amused at this little pseudo-artistic discussion. She
was about to speak when a couple of waltzers broke into the group and
scattered it.
Jerome Fandor slipped away and wandered through the gorgeous reception
rooms. Here and there, when caught up in the throng and forced to halt,
or when pressed against the wall of the ball-room, scraps of
conversation, mingled with the strains of the Hungarian band, fell on
his retentive ears. He took refuge at last in the embrasure of a window;
but his retreat was soon invaded by two young men who, he gathered, had
run across each other in the gallery, and were continuing their talk
about old times and new.
"Come, tell me, dear Charley, what has been happening to you since we
left the school?"
"Bah! I go from the Madeleine to the Opera nearly every evening, and
then back again; I go to bed late and get up late; I go out a good deal,
as you see; sometimes I dance, but very rarely; I often play bridge ...
and that is about all! It's not very interesting; but you, old boy ... I
heard you had got a jolly good billet, my dear Andral!"
"Oh, hardly that, dear fellow; but I am well on the way to one, I
fancy. I had the good luck to be introduced to Thomery, and it so
happened he was wanting a young engineer for one of his sugar
plantations in San Domingo."
"Good Lord! At San Domingo, among the niggers?"
"That's right! Not so bad, though it and the boulevards are a few miles
apart! But, on the other hand, I am interested in my work, and I am
married to a charming woman--Spanish."
"Won't you introduce me to your wife?"
"When we are nearer to her, old fellow! I came to Paris by myself to
talk big business with Thomery. I am only here for a fortnight.... Now
do point out some of the celebrities--you know everybody!"
Charley adjusted his eyeglass and looked about the room:
"Ah, there's an interesting pair! That old fellow and the young one, who
are so extraordinarily alike--the Barbey-Nanteuils, bankers for
generations in the financial swim, and mixed up in all sorts of big
affairs, sugar, among them.... Look here! That's the widow of an iron
master, Allouat--she is passing close to the orchestra--not bad looking
in spite of her mahogany-coloured hair, granddaughter of a famous French
peer, Flavogny de Saint-Ange.... Ah, I breathe again!... It's a detail,
but I am quite delighted! General de Rini's daughters have at last found
partners: they are ugly, poor things, and they've dressed themselves in
rose-pink as though they were schoolgirls: a fine name, a distinguished
position, but no fortune, and no husband!... Ah, now there's someone who
looks as if he were in luck--and he is, too--matrimonial luck. The
affair is settled this evening, it's whispered. It will interest you
particularly, for the lucky fellow is none other than Thomery!"
"What! Thomery?"
"Yes, Thomery! Although he is well over fifty, he means to commit
matrimony! I quite envy him his future wife, my Andral! There she is!
That stately dame who is going towards the last of the reception rooms
all alone, rather haughty, but a noble creature--it's Princess Sonia
Danidoff, related to the Tzar in some distant way and with an immense
fortune. Just look, dear boy, at those splendid jewels on that beautiful
neck of hers! They say she's got on seven hundred thousand francs'
worth--and the rest to match--millions to swell the sugar refiner's
pouch! She is to lead the cotillion with him, so there's no doubt about
the betrothal. By the by, you are going to stay for the cotillion?"
"Hum! I..."
"But you must! You simply must! We must sit together at supper, we have
still so much to say!... Besides, if you hurry off like that, I fancy
Thomery won't be best pleased. Oh, I say, there he is, coming our way!
There's no denying it, he is a fine figure of a man, though he is in the
fifties--but!... but!... but do look! What is the matter with him? He
looks as if he had seen a ghost."
* * * * *
Sonia Danidoff, who had been waltzing with Thomery, was a little out of
breath. A quick glance in a mirror showed the lovely Princess that her
cheeks were rather flushed:
"I am scarlet," she thought, with that touch of feminine exaggeration
characteristic of her! She was a true daughter of Eve!
At that exact moment she felt a slight tug at the bottom of her skirt,
and at the same time a black coat was making profuse apologies: it was
Monsieur Nanteuil:
"I am in despair, Princess!" cried the banker. "But no one is quite
responsible for his movements in such a crush!... I am very much afraid
that I have stepped on the muslin of your ravishing toilette and have
slightly torn it!"
The Princess protested that it did not matter in the least, and the
banker moved away, bowing low and pouring out apologies and regrets. As
soon as he had left her the Princess showed her annoyance: how could she
lead the cotillion with this tear in her dress, slight though it might
be--and the cotillion would begin in less than half an hour! Then she
remembered that her fiance had led her, on her arrival, to a little
drawing-room, quite away from the reception rooms at the end of the
gallery, that she might leave her cloak there, saying:
"Dear Princess, I have prepared this boudoir for you, and _you only_."
Sonia decided to retire to this boudoir at once and repair the damage to
her dress. As she passed the cloak-room on her way a maid offered her
services. The Princess refused them. If she could not have Nadine, she
preferred to manage for herself, besides, she saw that two pins,
concealed in the silk muslin, would put her dress to rights; and a touch
of powder to her cheeks would bring her colour down to a becoming tint.
She was considerably amused at the veritable arsenal of flasks and boxes
of perfumes which Thomery, as became an attentive lover, had placed
there in her honour: the little boudoir had been transformed into a
comfortable ladies' dressing-room. Everything was provided, down to a
glass of sugar and water, down to a little phial of alcohol and mint!
Sonia opened a powder box; then, like all the women of her race, having
a passion for perfumes, she took up a scent sprayer and lavishly
sprinkled her throat and the lower part of her face with what was
labelled, "essence of violets."
The Princess may have suffered from the intense heat of the ball-room,
and required rest without realising it, for she felt slightly faint, a
little sick--almost a desire to sleep.... She slipped down on to a low
divan, which occupied a corner of the room: she drew deep breaths,
breaking in the perfume, a sweet rather strange scent, from the
sprayer.
"This scent is sickly," she thought. "If only I had some
eau-de-Cologne!"
Without rising, for she felt a real lassitude stealing over her, she
looked round for the eau-de-Cologne she wanted: Thomery's arsenal did
not contain any. There was only one sprayer and that Sonia Danidoff held
in her hand.
She sprinkled herself a second time, hoping that the perfume would
revive her; but, on the contrary, her fatigue increased: her eyes closed
for a moment.... When she opened them again the room was in darkness.
Sonia tried to rise from the divan. An overpowering torpor, though not
disagreeable, was benumbing her whole body, and before her eyes bright
lights seemed to float, succeeded by thick darkness. Her head turned
round and round ... she strove to cry out, but her voice stuck in her
throat: her body jerked with a feeble convulsive movement. She heard
indistinctly an unknown voice murmuring:
"Let yourself go!... Sleep!... Have no fear!"
Sonia Danidoff essayed a momentary resistance, then she succumbed and
lost all consciousness of her surroundings....
Absolute silence reigned in the boudoir Thomery had reserved for the
sole use of his beautiful betrothed, when he arrived to lead her to the
cotillion. He found the door shut. He knocked discreetly. There was no
reply. Repeated knocking evoked no audible answer. Thomery opened the
door. The room was in total darkness. He switched on the electric light:
the boudoir was brilliantly illuminated.... The sight that met his
startled eyes was so moving that he grew livid with horror and rushed to
the side of his betrothed.
Sonia Danidoff was extended on the divan motionless and pale as death. A
hoarse and laboured breath came from her heaving bosom at irregular
intervals: on the exquisite skin of neck and breast were spattered
streaks of blood!
Beside himself, Thomery rushed away in search of help.
It was at this terrible crisis that the fiance of Sonia Danidoff had
attracted the attention of Charley, whose friend, the young engineer
Andral, was the protege of the man whose awful pallor and distracted air
spelt tragedy.
Thomery, his countenance ravaged by intense emotion, his hands clenched,
shaken by nervous tremors, hastened, with unsteady steps, in the
direction of the gallery leading to the anteroom.
Suddenly a woman's shrieks broke in on the charming harmonies of a slow
waltz, which the orchestra was rendering at the moment.... There was an
irresistible rush towards the boudoir, where two half-fainting women had
collapsed on chairs, and the famous surgeon, Dr. Marvier, was doing his
utmost to prevent the crowd from entering the room. The word went round
that a tragedy had taken place--a death! Princess Sonia Danidoff was in
the room lying dead! The words "crime" and "murder" were freely bandied
about: murmurs of "assassin," "robber," "assassination" could be heard.
Some twenty of the guests who had entered the boudoir could give
details. The dreadful rumours were true. Sonia Danidoff, they declared,
was stretched out on the floor covered with blood, her breast bare, her
pearls had vanished--a horrible sight!
The uproar died down; an icy silence reigned. The dancers drew together
in groups discussing the terrifying tragedy.... Several women were still
in a fainting condition; pallid men were opening windows that fresh air
might circulate in the overheated rooms; on all sides they were watching
for the return of their host.
Thomery remained invisible.
General de Rini called his two daughters to his side and spoke words of
affectionate encouragement, for they were much upset. The old soldier
marched off with them in the direction of the grand staircase and
towards the cloak-room on the landing. As he was preparing to take over
his coat and hat, one of the footmen went up to him and said a few words
in a low voice:
"What!... What!" cried the General. "What's the meaning of this?... Not
to leave the house!... But, am I under suspicion then?... It is
shameful!... I never heard of such a thing!"
A butler approached the irate General and said, very respectfully: