FANTÔMAS MEETS FANTÔMAS
In the drives of the Parc des Princes, as a rule deserted in the
evening, the sombre ways that start from the fortifications and unite
Paris with Boulogne-sur-Seine, ways bordered by sumptuous private
mansions, elegant villas and blocks of luxurious flats, there was
to-night an unaccustomed coming and going of motor-cars, broughams,
and even democratic taxis. All these vehicles were making in the same
direction; and all were swallowed up by the great gates that stood wide
open before a private dwelling standing just half way down the grand
avenue that runs between the city conservatories and the Bois.
There for some months had been living the Grand Duchess Alexandra,
bosom friend of the King of Hesse-Weimar, one of the most noted
personalities of the foreign colony in Paris. No one, in fact, making
any pretence to belong to society, could fail to be acquainted with the
elegant and enterprising grand duchess. All knew her as a pretty woman,
a wealthy woman, and report said a good and charitable one; many a time
her witty sayings had raised a laugh in fashionable drawing rooms,
while she enjoyed a reputation for Parisian _chic_ that was certainly
not unjustified.
Great lady as she was, there was something mysterious, possibly
equivocal, about her personality, and, if life in Paris were not
so stirring, so exacting, so absorbing, many who frequented her
receptions might well have asked who precisely she was, and have
searched curiously through the pages of the Almanach de Gotha to find
the credentials for her ducal blazon. The high rank she held at the
Court of Frederick Christian II was indeed matter of common knowledge,
further, that she was honoured by the very special friendship of the
Prince Gudulfin was whispered in private conclave; but this pretty well
summed up the total of what society in general did know about her.
But it is never the custom, so long as a woman is rich, beautiful
and witty, so long as no open scandal attaches to her name, to be
over-exacting as to details? At any rate, each time the grand duchess
threw open her drawing rooms for one of the superb and sumptuous
entertainments she was in the habit of giving, no eagerness was too
shameless to secure an invitation, no one but was only too proud and
happy to be numbered among her guests.
Though it was already May, the Grand Duchess Alexandra was to-night
giving a fancy-dress ball. This had long been promised, but having been
postponed in consequence of the great lady’s being indisposed, was at
last fixed for this belated period of the season.
It was eleven o’clock, and guests were beginning to arrive, carriages
driving up in rapid succession to the steps of the villa, one after
the other depositing masked figures, some baffling, some charming, in
costumes borrowed from legend, history, in some cases even recalling
contemporary politics. Dancing had not yet commenced, all were devoting
their energies to applauding, enthusiastically applauding, the most
becoming dresses, the most ingenious disguises, as they appeared. The
evening was delicious, the mild spring weather perfect, so that the
masquers could gather under the wide awning that sheltered the steps
and there welcome each new arrival.
The general attention was beginning to flag, and the duchess herself,
abandoning the attempt to shake every new arrival by the hand—their
number made the task impossible—was about to return to the reception
rooms, where the Gipsy orchestra had just struck up one of their
softest and most melodious waltz tunes, when a magnificent automobile
drew up at the steps. The car roused no little curiosity by the fact
that its blinds were drawn down so as to make it impossible to see who
was inside. Instinctively almost, as sometimes happens, the talk grew
hushed; heads were turned and necks craned to see. Staying momentarily
the play of her ever-moving fan, the grand duchess herself seemed to be
puzzled as she eagerly awaited the newcomer, whose very sex was still a
secret.
Then the door of the car opened at last; and suddenly through the
crowd, till then so gay, ran a shudder of distress and terror. “Ah,
ahs!” of amazement could be heard, while even the hostess’s cheek
paled. A striking, an extraordinary figure it was that alighted from
the mysterious equipage. The costume, to be sure, was recognized by one
and all—but who, who had had the hardihood to don it?
In the dazzling illumination shed by the lights scattered everywhere
about the front of the mansion, the newcomer’s figure stood out with
extraordinary clearness. It was that of a man, still young; he was clad
from head to foot in a complete suit of closely fitting black tights;
his shoulders were wrapped in a long cloak, also black, even his face
was hidden beneath a black cowl that prevented so much as a guess at
the colour of his hair.
A dreadful costume! a tragic figure! an emblem of fear! The name of
this mysterious masquer passed quickly from lip to lip, set every heart
beating fast and furiously, sounded a grim refrain to every sentence
spoken:
“Fantômas!... it is Fantômas!”
But while his arrival was causing so great a sensation, while
the company, taken by surprise, showed itself afraid, almost,
panic-stricken almost, the unknown himself was advancing to greet the
Grand Duchess Alexandra. Bowing low before his hostess with the manner
of a finished gentleman, in a grave, but agreeable voice:
“I was told, Madame la Duchesse,” he said, “that Fantômas attended
every festivity. No sooner had I landed in France than they swore to
me he was afraid of nothing. That is why I did not think it needful
to warn you of my coming to your fête. That is why I believed myself
justified in visiting you under this ... disguise.”
The Grand Duchess’s voice trembled a little as she questioned him:
“But to whom have I the pleasure to be speaking?”
The masquer replied:
“To Fantômas, madam!”
“To Fantômas, of course!... but besides?”
Clearly it would have been discourteous to carry on the secret further.
Indeed, the unknown had not failed to note the half concealed fear, the
very real distress, his arrival had produced among the grand duchess’s
guests. To prolong this constraint would not have been becoming; the
“Fantômas” therefore answered:
“Very good, madam, as it is your pleasure to unmask me, I cannot
deny your wish, and I put off my cowl ...”—and he lifted the silken
folds concealing his features. Next instant a tempest of applause, a
tornado of acclamation, from all present, greeted the hero of the hour.
It was indeed a fine piece of daring, a splendid stroke of defiance,
something quite Parisian and cynical, this grim disguise adopted by the
man who wore it. In the half minute he stood there unmasked, he had
been recognized. The masquer who had put on the outward semblance of
Fantômas was no other than Fantômas’ declared enemy, no other than Tom
Bob!
Meantime the latter was bowing right and left, then glided swiftly
among the groups of his acquaintance, grasping the men’s hands,
kissing the ladies’, a very gallant gentleman. A curious thing, too,
to observe that, while these fashionable men and women would never
have condescended to clasp hands with a common inspector of the French
Investigation Bureau, they were making much of Tom Bob, just because
he was a foreigner. True, he had originally joined the police as an
amateur, out of curiosity and for the sake of amusement, and it was
only by degrees, after a series of notable successes, that he had
become a professional detective—and the fact was not forgotten.
But the mystery was dissipated. After the inevitable panic created
by this apparition of the terrible figure of Fantômas, a very real
satisfaction, a genuine feeling of relief had been experienced in
learning that beneath this horrid disguise was hidden the man who had
pledged himself to deliver Parisian society from Fantômas! In fact
there was not one of all the grand duchess’s guests but entertained
in his heart a secret dread of the desperate criminal. Ever since the
brigand had sworn to the Parliament to spread terror broadcast, every
man felt himself more or less menaced. The American detective, by
taking up the challenge thrown down by the Minister, had to some extent
relieved these apprehensions, and society was grateful to him.
For half an hour the Grand Duchess Alexandra, like an accomplished
hostess, had been moving through the different rooms, declining to
dance herself, but finding for each an agreeable word, a gracious
phrase of greeting, when in a doorway by chance she came face to face
with the “Fantômas.”
“Monsieur Bob,” she was beginning, when next moment she broke off in
startled surprise. And truly the great lady had good reason to be
amazed. The masquer, whom she was about to congratulate once more on
his clever disguise, had just committed a grave breach of etiquette.
Bowing, he had, without a word, while pretending to kiss her hand,
slipped a note inside her glove. Then, turning on his heels, not giving
the grand duchess time to protest or answer, he had glided off among
the dancers, putting between them the effective barrier of the whirling
couples.
More than surprised, the grand duchess said and did what any woman
would have said and done under the circumstances.
“Tom Bob dares to slip a _billet doux_ into my hand! What insolence!
Most certainly I will go and throw it down at his feet, this execrable
token of bad taste!” Then she reflected that, before getting rid of
the scrap of paper she could feel under her glove, it would perhaps be
amusing to cast a glance at it, and, her lips curling in a disdainful
smile, the grand duchess, leaving the dancing rooms for a moment, went
up to her private apartment. There, hastily turning on the electric
light, she hurriedly glanced at the extraordinary letter.
At first she thought she must be dreaming. The writing was not Tom
Bob’s: nor was it the detective, that was certain, who had written on a
corner of the paper by way of address, and there was no other, the five
words, “For pity’s sake, read this!” Who was it then? Whose messenger
had Tom Bob constituted himself? The grand duchess did not hesitate a
second longer; unfolding the note, she read, and the contents instantly
blanched her cheeks:
“_Madam_,” the letter ran, “_you will pardon the means I take to
bring myself to your notice in consideration of the feelings that
prompt me. In the name of all you hold dear, in the name of whatever
pity your woman’s heart may know for an unhappy lover, I beseech you
to grant me your attention for a few minutes this very evening. It is
no enemy who writes to you, albeit my name may make you shudder; it
is an unhappy man, an unhappy being who loves a young girl whom you
know, one who cherishes no hope save in the influence you can exert
over her, one who, amidst these merry-makers, under the black mask
that veils his features, will be impatiently waiting the moment when
you shall accord him the brief interview he asks, the brief minutes
of confidence he craves._
Jérôme Fandor.”
Jérôme Fandor! The grand duchess thought she was dreaming, was it
indeed possible it could be Jérôme Fandor who had written to her?...
Jérôme Fandor, the ally of Juve? Jérôme Fandor, the implacable enemy
of Fantômas? Jérôme Fandor whom all the world accused of the vilest
crimes, but whom _she_ well knew to be innocent! Jérôme Fandor, how
that name evoked at once fear and pity in the breast of that beautiful
and mysterious personage, the Grand Duchess Alexandra. What memories
did it not call up of the saddest tragedies of her life?
Jérôme Fandor, perhaps the only living being who could possibly share
with Juve the knowledge that she, the Grand Duchess Alexandra, was in
reality named Lady Beltham, was in reality the mistress of Fantômas!
And now it was this same Jérôme Fandor, to-day her lover’s implacable
foe, to-morrow no doubt his accuser, who came asking the favour of an
interview! who asked the boon in the name of love!
Lady Beltham stood trembling, her breath coming quick and fast as she
read and re-read the brief note just passed to her. Then suddenly,
shaking off all doubts, she made her decision. Yes, seeing it was in
the name of love that Jérôme Fandor wrote, seeing he besought her pity,
she would not refuse his prayer.
“My life, my unhappy life,” thought Lady Beltham, “has but one
excuse—love. Whensoever I hear that name invoked, I shall be found
ready to recognize the only sentiment I feel some little respect for!”
But a bewildering, a terrible problem still confronted the great lady;
with what surprise, with what agitation she realized that Fandor was in
her house, and must be there, the very terms of his letter showed it,
disguised as Fantômas—in the same disguise as Tom Bob? There were two
“Fantômas” then among the dancers, the American detective and Jérôme
Fandor.
It was quite possible, quite probable indeed, as she soon came to see.
The costumes the detective and the journalist had donned must obviously
be alike, if they were correct: was it not therefore allowable to
suppose there were two “Fantômas” in the rooms without anyone having
so far noted the fact: naturally people would conclude it was the same
masquer they saw each time. Why, she herself was deceived just now,
believing herself in the presence of Fantômas-Tom Bob, when she was
actually standing before Fantômas-Fandor!
Eventually Lady Beltham returned to the dancing rooms, thinking to
herself:
“I will go presently into the conservatory; he is sure to be watching
me and will join me there.”
* * * * *
While the grand duchess in the retirement of her private apartments
was reading the strange note slipped into her hand by Fandor, who had
likewise come, as she had guessed, disguised as Fantômas, a diverting
scene occurred in the dancing rooms below! The fact is Fantômas-Fandor
had caught sight of another Fantômas.
“Halloa!” the young man told himself, “someone has had the same idea as
myself, it’s really capital!”
Then he disappeared in the crush, ready to keep a watchful eye on Lady
Beltham. But now the second Fantômas, Fantômas-Tom Bob, had also noted
his double, and the news was flying fast from mouth to mouth:
“You know, there are two Fantômas!... a highly original idea, don’t you
think?”
“Why yes, highly original!” all agreed.
Yet no one observed that not merely two Fantômas were at the dance, but
perhaps three or four, or even more!
A few minutes afterwards, the lovely Sonia Danidoff was waltzing with
one of the men wearing the grim black cowl when the second masquer clad
in the same tragic garb knocked against the couple; a dialogue verging
on the ludicrous ensued.
“Sir!” the first Fantômas, Sonia’s partner, was saying, “I think it a
very bold proceeding to have adopted my costume!”
“And why so, sir?” retorted the other Fantômas in the same emphatic
tone.
“Because, sir, it is a heavy costume, and a dangerous one, to wear! No
brigand, save myself, had ever dreamt of adopting it till you.”
To this the second masquer replied in a tone of raillery: “You are
in the wrong to complain, sir; it would more become _me_ to protest
against _your_ audacity. You are an impostor, you carry a disguise. _I_
am the genuine Fantômas!”
“Easy talking, sir!”
“Easier still to prove, sir!”
“So it’s a quarrel, is it; we must settle between us, arms in hand?”
“As you please, sir!”
“Now, at once?”
“At once!”
A laughing group had gathered round, finding a new and piquant
diversion in this altercation between the two masquers, each defending
with apparent seriousness his title to be the true Fantômas.
“The vanquished,” cried Sonia, merrily, “shall take off his cowl for
the rest of the evening.”
At this one of the disputants wheeled round, and in answer to the gibe:
“No, madam,” he said, “the vanquished will not appear again, for one
good reason—he will be dead.”
* * * * *
“Madam, I will use no empty words of compliment to thank you for
granting me this interview. Words are incapable of translating my
feelings, and between us they would be yet more vain than with others.”
The “Fantômas” who uttered the words bowed low with infinite respect
before the Grand Duchess Alexandra, whom he had just come upon in one
of the little nooks of greenery, so quiet and retired, so convenient
for flirtations or confidential talks, which the great lady had
contrived in the superb winter garden, opening out of her drawing
rooms. The masquer went on:
“I will not thank you, madam, for on us, alas! weighs a past too
heavy to allow soft words to do aught but call up sad memories in our
hearts. That past you do not disown any more than I do, but I ask your
permission to remember in speaking to you two facts, that you, you,
the Grand Duchess Alexandra, are Lady Beltham, and that I, under this
travesty of Fantômas, am Jérôme Fandor.”
In a weak, trembling voice, Lady Beltham questioned:
“Speak, sir! But first, why this disguise? why, why do you, you of all
men, wear that cowl?”
“Because, that mask, madam,” returned Fandor, in a broken voice, “that
mask lets me remain nameless among your guests. Probably you forget,
Lady Beltham, that at this present moment Jérôme Fandor is held by
general consent to be a criminal. And, besides this, madam, yet another
reason—you will forgive my naming it—led me to adopt this disguise. Was
I not certain you would accord a few minutes’ talk to the man wearing
this costume. I could not tell if it would be possible for me to give
you the letter; but I felt convinced if as Fantômas I asked to speak
with you, you would not refuse your lover three minutes’ conversation.”
Lady Beltham, pale and trembling, made no reply—what answer could the
unhappy lady find to give Fandor, the man who at that very time was
suffering the direst torments at the hands of the real Fantômas, her
lover? She could only repeat again: “Speak, sir, what do you want of
me?”
“A small thing, madam,” returned Fandor, “a small thing, and yet
of infinite moment—_happiness_. I am going to beg you to say three
words—three words that will assure me the chiefest joy of my life.”
Almost on the defensive, in a voice of fear, Lady Beltham said for the
third time: “Speak, sir, speak!”
“Madam,” Fandor resumed in trembling accents, “I love deeply, with all
my heart and all my soul, an unhappy young girl whose name you know,
for it bears a melancholy renown. Elisabeth Dollon, I mean. Madam, by
your lover’s doing—nay, never protest, all denial is in vain between
us—by your lover’s doing, I, I Jérôme Fandor, am deemed by Elisabeth
Dollon, as by all men, to be Fantômas. She would love me if she knew
me innocent, now she hates me, fears me, flies from me! Madam, I have
always been to you, and even to him who is dear to you, an honourable
foe, the dreadful penalty I suffer to-day as the result of the war I
wage is the more cruel as it is undeserved. What hurt can it do you,
Lady Beltham, what hurt can it do Fantômas, even should I enjoy a
little happiness, should I win Elisabeth’s love?... This is the prayer
I would make to you; she is single-hearted, she is enthusiastic, she
sacrifices my life to you; madam, I pray you, I beseech you, go to
Elisabeth and tell her I am not Fantômas, and that she can love me!”
Such profound feeling inspired Jérôme Fandor’s words, his voice
vibrated with such deep emotion, as he spoke, that Lady Beltham
herself could not help being greatly moved. Yes, Jérôme Fandor was
surely right, he had always been an honourable enemy. Surely he was
right again in describing his position with Elisabeth as horrible.
Surely again, what harm could it do Fantômas for him to enjoy a little
happiness?
Lady Beltham was touched, won over; she burst out suddenly:
“I know you are Jérôme Fandor, sir; I know it, and I need only know
that! I decline to understand the allusions you have made. But if you
beseech the Grand Duchess Alexandra to go to Elisabeth Dollon, the
grand duchess is verily too much your friend, too well persuaded of the
depth of your love for Mlle. Dollon, to refuse the boon you ask of her.”
“Oh! madam,”—and Fandor, with a quick almost instinctive movement,
seized Lady Beltham’s white, ungloved hand. But the great lady drew
back, manifestly she could not prolong for ever her talk with this
masquer, this “Fantômas.” None had come to disturb them, but their
conversation was bound to have attracted notice; the place was lined
with mirrors, they were at the mercy of every chance reflection.
“Where can I see Elisabeth Dollon?” asked the grand duchess.
“The poor girl,” replied the other, “in spite of her enemies, still
lives an honest, hard-working life; I know—I learnt this only a day or
two ago—she is engaged as cashier, I think at one of the restaurants in
the Bois, the restaurant on the island in the lake.”
Lady Beltham had already risen and was moving away when she threw these
words by way of adieu to the young man:
“By all I hold most sacred, sir, I swear that Elisabeth Dollon, no
later than to-morrow evening, shall know that Jérôme Fandor is worthy
of her love.”
* * * * *
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fantômas!”
“You mean?”
“I mean to say that costume is heavy for your shoulders.”
After Lady Beltham’s departure, Jérôme Fandor had stayed behind in
the conservatory, motionless, wrapt in absorption. The great lady’s
promise had given him the wildest hopes. If the grand duchess saw fit
to convince Elisabeth Dollon of his innocence, it was easy enough for
her to do so; if she kept her promise, and Jérôme Fandor never doubted
she would, a happy future, a future of love lay before him! But as he
was thinking these rosy thoughts, plunged in an ecstasy of anticipation
a disquieting incident befell.
The young man was standing in the centre of the winter-garden, on the
very spot where he had talked with Lady Beltham. On every side of him,
on the walls, between the interlacing boughs of palms, araucarias
and kentias, hung mirrors reflecting his own image and that of his
surroundings. Now, amid these reflections, appeared one, a second
“Fantômas,” that moved and gesticulated and presently advanced, while
the same mocking words, spoken now for the second time in the course of
the evening, struck on Fandor’s ear:
“That cloak is heavy for your shoulders, sir!”
The journalist felt a cold sweat bedew his temples. Who was this other
“Fantômas”? for it was in very truth, a second “Fantômas” advancing to
meet him! the same perhaps he had observed among the dancers just now?
or else, perhaps, another, or else ... or else.... In a supercilious,
defiant tone, Jérôme Fandor retorted:
“If the cloak is heavy for my shoulders, sir, is it, pray, any lighter
for yours?”
“They are, at least better used to wearing it.”
Fandor started at the words, but before he had time to answer,
suddenly, in an instant, with an unparalleled swiftness and violence
that disarmed all power of resistance, a savage dagger thrust caught
him immediately over the heart. A red mist blinded the young man’s
eyes, as he staggered under the force of the blow. A buzzing filled his
ears, and a curse, a cry of fury, escaped his quivering lips. Then
slowly the place began to turn round and round, darkening and taking on
fantastic shapes; Jérôme Fandor was fainting.
But he was too energetic, too brave a man, to lose consciousness
for long. Three seconds after the blow was struck, his senses were
returning to him. “Fantômas! Fantômas!” he stammered: “it was the real
Fantômas stood there before me!” He struggled painfully to his knees,
then rose to his feet in spite of the sharp pain, and forced himself
to look round—the conservatory was empty! Stumbling forward, he took
two or three steps, his hand pressed to his breast, then sank into a
rocking-chair, muttering in a weak and still bewildered voice:
“Lucky for me, all the same, the coat of mail I took the precaution to
wear under my disguise withstood the stab! I knew, when I put on this
Fantômas costume, I was risking the brigand’s anger; I was well advised
to guard against it as I did. Verily, I believe this time I have looked
death close in the face!”
Meantime in the ballrooms the festivities were still in full swing
while these untoward events were happening in the winter-garden, but at
last the dance was now drawing to a close. Four o’clock was striking,
and the wan, pallid light of day peeped in at the doors half open into
the park: the loveliest faces began to look faded, the smoothest locks
ruffled, it was time for pretty women to beat a retreat, under pain of
seeming positively plain.
Then suddenly, no one knowing whence the news came, all stood frozen in
rigid horror at a dreadful report that circulated from group to group.
There was a general rush for the park, while broken phrases passed
between the hurrying guests.
“Wounded?”
“Dead!”
“You are sure, madam?”
“It was a chauffeur found the body.”
“Yes, a dagger was still stuck in the heart.”
“Appalling!”
“So it wasn’t Tom Bob, then?”
“Who _was_ the victim?”
“It is not known.”
“Where are the ‘Fantômas’?”
“One of them has just gone.”
“Who? which?”
“The cloak-room attendant recognized him; it was Tom Bob.”
“It seems he was wounded?”
“Yes, the attendant said he had blood on his sleeve; he had actually
turned back the sleeve and looked at his arm; there was a long, red
gash there.”
“But Tom Bob is no assassin!”
“Ah! but was it really Tom Bob? that is just the question, my dear sir.”
Fandor still lay exhausted in the conservatory, still dazed from the
attempt on his life he had only just escaped. But in a moment he sprang
up with a start, the Grand Duchess Alexandra, Lady Beltham, stood
before him. She looked agitated, she was panting and frightfully pale.
“Fly! fly!” she cried distractedly.
Jérôme Fandor looked at the great lady in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Fly! fly!” she could only repeat. “Oh! for pity’s sake, begone! It is
horrible, appalling they have just found in the park a man dressed as
Fantômas lying dead, stabbed to the heart—an officer of the Criminal
Investigation Bureau!”
Fandor listened without a word, while Lady Beltham went on again,
wringing her hands:
“But fly, I tell you, fly! Don’t you understand they will accuse you?
You were seen just now, dressed as Fantômas, leaving the rooms with
another ‘Fantômas’, they will make sure the first masquer was the
murderer, that is you!”
Still dazed as he followed Lady Beltham, who was leading him towards a
hidden door, Fandor asked:
“But then there were three ‘Fantômas’?—Tom Bob, myself, this officer?”
“There were four or five,” replied Lady Beltham, “I cannot tell how
many: there was you, there was Tom Bob, there was an officer of the
Bureau ... there was ...”
Fandor finished the sentence the grand duchess dared not complete.
“There was ... there was,” he hesitated, “there must have been the true
Fantômas!”
A malediction rose to Jérôme Fandor’s lips, but all ready to make his
escape as Lady Beltham urged him, he yet stayed his flight an instant;
he had heard, like a benison the unhappy woman murmur a parting word.
“To-morrow, to-morrow! I have promised you Elisabeth shall know you are
innocent!”