Fandor unfolded his plan once more. It fluttered in the night breeze, as he carefully numbered all the chimneys opening on to this roof; then, one by one, he identified them with the real chimneys before his eyes. He exclaimed joyfully:

"There, now! It's just what I suspected!"

He had discovered there was one chimney not down on the plan: "Whither did it lead?" At all costs he must find out—make sure. He hastened to this extra chimney. Its orifice was large enough to allow of the passage of a man; also, here again, stones had been recently loosened, and a rope had rubbed against them:

"What the deuce is this chimney?" thought Fandor. "Another mystery! This chimney is not a chimney; there is not a trace of soot on it, even old soot!"

After a moment's reflection, he added:

"Can it be for ventilation only? But a ventilation hole could only communicate with one of the apartments in the Palais itself, and how the deuce could they drop a corpse down there? It would have been in the highest degree imprudent to attempt it! No, it is not by that road they have carried off Dollon's body! But then by what way?"

He glued his ear to the chimney. After a while, Fandor could make out a vague, intermittent sound—could catch a little, far-away, plashing sound.

"Can the chimney communicate with the Seine?" he asked himself. "No, we are too far off it. Why this opening, then?... Ah, I have it! It is a drain, a sewer, it communicates with!"

To verify that, there was nothing for it but to descend this chimney, which was no chimney! So be it!... Fandor took off his coat, and uncovered the long, fine cord, rolled round and round his middle. Weighting the cord with a flint, he let it slide down the chimney, testing the straightness of the descent by the balanced oscillations of the stone, and so ascertaining the even size of the opening, as far as the line would go. This was the work of a few minutes.

Fandor did not hesitate: he was eager to embark on the descent.

"After all," he murmured, "though I may find myself face to face with a band of assassins—what of it? It is all in the night's risks!"

He fastened the end of the cord to one of the neighbouring chimneys—fastened it firmly; then, his revolver handily stuck in his belt, Fandor seized the cord, twisted it round his legs, and let himself slowly down through the narrow opening.

It was a perilous descent! Fandor did not know whether his cord was long enough, and, lost in the darkness, with only the gleam of light from his lantern to guide him, he was naturally afraid of reaching the end of his rope unawares, and of falling into the black void beneath. But what he observed in the course of his descent excited him so much that he almost forgot the danger he was running. To those at all practised in police detective work, it was clear as daylight that men had passed this way, and recently.

"Here is a dislodged stone," muttered Fandor. "And here are scrapes and scratches—fresh ... and ... that mark looks like blood!"

Pushing his knees and his shoulders against the wall to support himself and stay his movements, he examined the mark. There was no doubt possible: Fandor's sharp eyes and the lantern's light had picked out a little red patch, which sullied one of the projecting stones in the chimney walls:

"This," reflected our amateur detective, "only confirms Dollon's death: if the wound which caused this mark had been made by a living body, the mark would have been larger, and there would have been others, for it must come from an abrasion of the skin made during the descent. But this blood mark has resulted from a dead body knocking against the stones of the wall: it is not a mark make by flowing blood, but by blood crushed out."

He descended a few yards further:

"Here's a find!" he cried. He had just perceived some hairs sticking to the rough surface of the stones. Again, with arched shoulders and bent knees, he supported himself against the wall, examined his discovery, left half the hairs where they were, took the rest, and carefully placed them in his pocket-book:

"The police must not be able to say that I have arranged this for their benefit," Fandor remarked. "Cost what it may, if I do not come across Dollon's corpse below, I must find out to-morrow whether these hairs resemble his."

Fandor went on descending, and first in one place, then in another, he saw on the walls of this chimney whitish patches such as might have been caused by the passage of a heavy mass or body, hanging at the end of a rope, and striking against the walls on its way down. Whilst he still believed himself to be some distance off the end of his downward journey, he felt a point of resistance beneath his feet. At first he mistook it for firm ground, much to his surprise. He was about to leave go of his cord when a remnant of prudence restrained him:

"How do I know there is not an abyss depths upon depths below me—down into the very bowels of the earth! I had better take care!"

What Fandor had taken for firm ground was nothing but an iron staple projecting from the wall. Fandor seized it, stopped for a minute or two's breathing space, ascertained, by drawing it up, that of his cord there were only a few yards remaining; but he also perceived, and with what relief, that from where he was resting, downwards the chimney was, as far as he could see by his lantern's light, marked off into regular spaces by these iron staples which are sometimes placed there for the use of chimney cleaners and masons. Fandor found them a most convenient kind of ladder. The descent now became easy, and in a short time our adventurous journalist reached the bottom of the chimney. At first he could not understand where he had got to. In the thick gloom around him his lantern's gleam of light showed him a kind of vaulted wall of massive masonry. He advanced a step or two with noiseless tread, listening, on the alert. Not a sound could he hear: he decided to expose the full light of his lantern.

The brighter light showed him that the chimney from which he was now standing some yards away ended in a kind of sewer, evidently no longer in use; and the plashing sound he had heard on the far up heights of the Palais roofs proceeded from a thin and muddy stream of water flowing in the middle of the sewer channel in the direction of the Seine. Kneeling at the foot of the chimney Fandor could distinguish marks of steps made by human feet; much deeper and very different indentations were visible also:

"Not only have men passed this way but a short while ago," he murmured, "but they were carrying a heavy burden: there are two kinds of footmarks, made by two kinds of shoes, and the heels have made much deeper marks in the soil than have the tips—yes, these men bore a heavy burden!"

Fandor was so pleased that he mentally rubbed his hands over this discovery. His quest was a success so far: he was on the track of Dollon's body! And what copy for La Capitale! Then a sad thought came to dim his delight:

"Poor, poor Elizabeth Dollon! I swore to her I would get at the truth—and a lamentable truth it is! Her brother is dead: he died in the Depot: he was done to death—it was no suicide!"

Whilst talking to himself Fandor was scrutinising every inch of the ground as he moved forward: there might be fresh clues:

"It's a queer kind of sewer," he went on. "This streamlet is as much mud as water, is almost stagnant. Evidently this underground sewer way is no longer used—has been abandoned!"

A horrid spectacle struck him motionless. His lantern made visible a struggling, heaving mass of rats, fighting tooth and claw, enormous rats devouring some hidden thing!

Fandor's stomach rose at the sight.

Oh, horror! Could it be Jacques Dollon's body?

Fandor snatched up a stone and flung it furiously among the unclean beasts. They fled. On the ground he could distinguish a mass, a red, formless mass, saturated with congealed blood:

"Assuredly, if the corpse has disappeared, it is there the assassins must have cut it in pieces, that they might carry it more easily, and those vile creatures are in the thick of feasting on the poor victim's remains!... Pouah!"

Fandor moved on, only to discover another pool of blood almost as large, also besieged by rats:

"Evidently I shall find nothing else," thought Fandor: "the corpse no longer exists!"

He continued his advance, determined to find out what this underground way ended in. His lantern was flickering to a finish when he arrived at the end of the sewer and found, as he had foreseen, that its opening had been cut in the steep bank of the Seine:

"That's a bit of luck! I can get out this way instead of having to climb back the way I came, up to the Palais roof and down again!"

It was still night; darkness reigned save on the far horizon, where a faint, whitish line indicated the early dawn of an April day.

Fandor was just asking himself by what gymnastic feat he could regain the quay, and he was leaning over the opening of the sewer, his body bending far forward over the inky waters of the Seine. Before he had time to turn, before he could regain his balance, a brutal blow from behind half stunned him, and a vigorous thrust precipitated his body into the Seine.



V

MOTHER TOULOUCHE AND CRANAJOUR

"Come along, Cranajour! Let's have a sight of what they've given you for the frock coat and the whole outfit!"

The person thus challenged rummaged in the pockets of his old, much-patched and filthy garments, and after interminable fumblings and huntings, finished by extracting a certain number of silver pieces, which he counted over with the greatest care, finally he replied:

"Seventeen francs, Mother Toulouche."

Mother Toulouche showed her impatience:

"It's details I want! How much for the coat? How much for the whole suit? I've got to know, I tell you! I've got to write it all down, and I've got to see how much I've to hand over to each of the owners of the duds!... Try to remember, Cranajour!"

The individual who answered to this odd appellation reflected. After a silence, shrugging his shoulders, he replied:

"I don't know. I can't make myself remember—not anyhow!... And it's a long time since I sold the goods!"

Mother Toulouche shrugged in turn:

"A long time!" she grumbled. "What a wretched job! Why, it's only two hours since—barely that!... It's true," she went on, with a pitying look at the shabby, down-at-heel fellow, who had spread out his seventeen francs on the table, "it's true that you're known not to have two ha'p'orths of memory, and that at the end of an hour you have forgotten what you've done!"

"That's right enough," answered Cranajour.

"Let's have done with it, then," cried Mother Toulouche.

She held out a repulsive-looking specimen of old clothes:

"Be off with you! Go and pawn this academician's cast-off! When the comrades catch a sight of this bit of stuff to the fore, they'll understand they can come without danger!... No cops about the store on the lookout, are there?"

Mother Toulouche took the precaution to advance to the threshold of her store, cast a rapid glance around—not a suspicious person, nor a sign of one to be seen:

"A good thing," muttered she, "but I was sure of it! Those police spies are going to give us some peace for a bit!... Likely the whole lot of them are on this Dollon business! Isn't it so, Cranajour?"

As she retreated into her store again Mother Toulouche knocked against that individual, who had not budged: he had hung over his arm respectfully the miserable bit of stuff that had been styled an academician's robe:

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked she sharply.

"Nothing...."

"What are you going to do with that?"

Cranajour seemed to reflect:

"Haven't I told you," grumbled Mother Toulouche, "to go and stick it up outside?... Don't say you've gone and forgotten already!"

"No, no!" protested Cranajour, hastening to obey orders.

"What a specimen!" thought Mother Toulouche, whilst counting over the seventeen francs.

Cranajour was a remarkably queer fish, beyond question. How had he got into connection with Mother Toulouche and her intimates? That remained a mystery. One fine day this seedy specimen of humanity was found among the "comrades" exchanging vague remarks with one and another. He stuck to them in all their shifting from this place to that: no one had been able to get out of him what his name was, nor where he came from, for he was afflicted with a memory like a sieve—he could not remember things for two hours together. A feeble-minded, poor sort of fellow, with not a halfpenny's worth of wickedness in him, always ready to do a hand's turn for anyone: to judge by his looks he might have been any age between forty and seventy, for there is nothing like privations and misery to alter the looks of a man! Faced by this queer fish, with a brain like a sieve, they had christened him "Crane a jour"—and the nickname had stuck to this anonymous individual. Besides, was not Cranajour the most complaisant of fellows, the least exacting of collaborators—always content with what was given him, always willing to do his best!

As to Mother Toulouche; she kept a little shop on the quay of the Clock. The sign over her little store read:

"For the Curiosity Lover."

This alluring title was not justified by anything to be found inside this store, which was nothing but a common pick-up-anything shop: it was a receptacle for a hideous collection of lumber, for old broken furniture, for garments past decent wear, for indescribable odds and ends, where the wreckage of human misery lay huddled cheek by jowl with the beggarly offscourings of Parisian destitution.

Behind the store, whose little front faced the edge of the quay and looked over the Seine, was a sordid back-shop: here the pallet of Mother Toulouche, a kitchen stove out of order, and the overflow of the goods which were crowded out of the store were jumbled up in ill-smelling disorder. This back-shop communicated with the rue de Harlay by a narrow dark passage; thus the lair of old Mother Toulouche had two outlets, nor were they superfluous; in fact, they were indispensable for such as she—ever on the alert to escape the inquisitive attentions of the police, ever receiving visitors of doubtful morals and thoroughly bad reputation.

Mother Toulouche's quarters comprised not only the two stores, but a cellar both large and deep, to which one obtained access by a staircase pitch dark, crooked, and everlastingly covered with moisture, owing to the proximity of the river. The floor of the cellar was a kind of noisome cesspool: one slipped on the greasy mud—floundered about in it: for all that, this cellar was almost entirely filled with cases of all kinds, with queer-looking bundles, with objects of various shapes and sizes. Evidently the jumble store of Mother Toulouche did not confine itself to the rough-and-ready shop in the front; and, into the bargain, this basement might be used as a safe hiding-place in an emergency, a precious refuge for whoever might feel it necessary to cover his tracks, and thus escape the investigations of the police, for instance!

Mother Toulouche, as a matter of fact, needed such premises as hers: if she took ceaseless precautions it was because she had a reason for her uneasy watchfulness.

Mother Toulouche had already come into involuntary contact with the police; and her last and most serious encounter with them went as far back as those days of renown when the band of Numbers had as their chief the mysterious hooligan Loupart, also known under the name of Dr. Chaleck.[4] She had been arrested for complicity in a bank-note robbery, had been tried, and had been sentenced to twenty-two months' imprisonment.

[Footnote 4: See The Exploits of Juve.]

Not turned in the slightest degree from the error of her ways, and possessing some money, which she had kept carefully hidden, Mother Toulouche had decided to set up shop close to the Palais de Justice, that Great House where those gentlemen of the robe judged and condemned poor folk! She would say:

"Being so close to the red-robed I shall end by making the acquaintance of one or two of them, and that may turn out a good job for me one of these days!"

But this was merely a blind, for other considerations had led to Mother Toulouche renting this shop on the Isle of the City, in opening on the quay of the Clock, a quay but little frequented, her wretched jumble store of odds and ends. She had kept in touch with the band of Numbers, which had gradually come together again as soon as the various numbers of it had finished serving their time.

For a while they had lived unmolested, but lately misfortunes had laid a heavy hand on the group. Still, as the band began to break up, other members came to replace those who had disappeared, either temporarily or for good and all.

At any rate, they could safely count on the assistance of an individual more valuable to them than anyone; this was a man named Nibet, who although he intervened but seldom, could, thanks to his influence, save the band many annoyances. This Nibet held an honourable official position; he was a warder at the Depot.

* * * * *

Whilst Mother Toulouche, from the back of her store, was watching with a derisive air the good-natured Cranajour fasten up the Academician's robe in a prominent position on the front of her nondescript emporium, someone stepped inside, and warmly greeted Mother Toulouche with a:

"Good day, old lady!"

It was big Ernestine,[5] who explained volubly that for a good half hour she had been prowling about near the statue of Henry IV, keeping the store well in view, but not daring to approach until the usual signal had been displayed. Those who frequented the place knew that when the store was under police observation and Mother Toulouche feared a raid she took care to hang out any kind of old clothes; but if the way was clear, if no lurking police were on the lookout, then the rallying flag would be hoisted, the flag being the old, patched, rusty, musty Academician's robe.

[Footnote 5: See The Exploits of Juve.]

Ernestine had arrived looking thoroughly upset:

"Have you heard the latest?" she cried, "the bad news?"

"What news? Whose news?" questioned Mother Toulouche.

"Why, that poor Emilet has come down a regular cropper!"

"The poor fellow!... He isn't smashed up, is he?" Mother Toulouche lifted her hands.

"I haven't heard anything more than what I've told you!"

Consternation was on the faces of the two women.

Their good Mimile! He who knew how to take care of himself without leaving a comrade in the lurch, who stuck to them, working for the common good.

A few years previous to this Mimile, having refused to conform to military law, had been arrested in the tavern of a certain Father Korn during a particularly drastic police raid, and the defaulting youth had been straightway put under the penal military discipline administered to such as he. Instead of making himself notorious by his execrable conduct as those in his position generally did, he behaved like a little saint. Having thus made a reputation to trade on, he was twice able to steal the money from the regimental chest without a shadow of suspicion falling on him, and, what was worse, two of his innocent comrades had been accused of the crime, had been condemned and shot in his stead! Owing to his good conduct Mimile had been transferred to a regiment stationed in Algiers, and having a considerable amount of spare time on his hands, he got into close touch with the aeroplane mechanics.

He was very much at home in this branch of work: could not Mimile demolish a lock as easily as one rolls a cigarette? He was daring to a degree, and, as soon as his time in the army was up, he began to earn his living as an aviator, and rightly, for he had become an able airman. Nevertheless, Mimile become Emilet, had aspired to greater things: a humdrum honest livelihood was not to his taste!

He had come to the conclusion that provided he went warily nothing could be easier than to carry on a lucrative smuggling trade by aeroplane: he could fly from country to country under the pretext that he was out to make records in flying. Custom-house officials and police inspectors in the interior would never think of examining the tubes of a flying machine, to see whether or no they were packed with lace; nor would it occur to them to overhaul certain cells fore and aft to discover whether things of value had been secreted in them, such as thousands of matches or false coin.

So, from time to time, Mimile would announce that he was off on a trial trip to Brussels from Paris, from London to Calais, and so on.

For mechanics Mimile had two brokendown sharpers, who served as connecting links between the aviator and the band of smugglers and false coiners who gathered at the lair of Mother Toulouche under the seal of secrecy. This was why big Ernestine was so anxious when she heard of Mimile's accident. Had the aeroplane been totally wrecked? Would the very considerable prize of Malines lace they were expecting reach its destination safe and sound?

For some time past ill-luck had pursued them, had seemed to pursue implacably these unfortunates who took such pains and precautions to carry through their unlawful operations to a successful issue. Already the Cooper, a member of the confraternity who had had his glorious hour in the famous days of Chaleck and Loupart, had scarcely left prison retirement before he had been nabbed again, owing to the far too sharp eyes of the French custom-house officials on the Belgian frontier. Others of the band were also under lock and key again: it really seemed as if Mother Toulouche and her circle were being strictly watched by the police ... and now here was Emilet who had come a regular cropper in his aeroplane—no doubt about it!

Mother Toulouche was set on knowing the rights of it:

"But what has happened to Emilet exactly?"

She called Cranajour. The queer fellow came forward from the back store, where he had been loafing: he had a bewildered air.

"Cranajour," said Mother Toulouche, putting a sou in his hand, "hurry off and buy me an evening paper! Now be quick about it!... Don't forget.... Make a knot in your handkerchief to remind a stupid head!"

"Oh, don't be afraid, Mother Toulouche," declared Cranajour, "I shan't forget!" He nodded to big Ernestine, and vanished as by magic into the darkness, for night had fallen.

Scarcely had Cranajour gone, than a surly looking individual slipped into the store, not by the quay entrance, but through the back store, to which he had gained access by the dark passage leading to the rue de Harlay.

His collar was turned up as though he were cold; his cap was drawn well over his eyes, thus his face was almost entirely hidden.

Having barred the door on the quay side of the store, Mother Toulouche joined big Ernestine and the newcomer:

"Well, Nibet, anything fresh?" she asked.

Removing his cap and lowering his collar Nibet's crabbed visage glowered on the two women: it was the Depot warder right enough:

"Bad," he growled between his teeth: "Things are hot right at the Palais!"

"Things to worry about—to do with comrades committed for trial?" questioned big Ernestine.

Nibet shrugged and threw a glance of disdain at the girl:

"You're going silly! It's this Dollon mess-up!"

The warder gave them an account of what had happened. The two women were all ears, as they followed Nibet's story of events which had thrown the whole legal world into a state of commotion: incomprehensible occurrences, which threatened to turn an ordinary murder case into one of the most mysterious and most popular of assassination dramas.

Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew much more than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibray affair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nasty mood—nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety!

"It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were to turn up this evening too!"

"Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine.

"The Sailor," declared Nibet.

"And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche.

"I and the Beadle," answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think of it," went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where is that man of yours—the Beadle?"

* * * * *

Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had been gone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up panting before the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the den of Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead of rejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuous staircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed up to the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered an attic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof.

This poverty-stricken chamber was the domicile of the queer fellow who passed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbing with a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolen goods.

Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened his shirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with cold water, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust off his big shoes.

It was a clear starlight night. To freshen himself up still more he put his head and shoulders out of the half-opened window. He was gazing at the roofs facing him; suddenly he started, and his eyes gleamed. They were the roofs, outlined against the night sky, of the Palais de Justice. There was a shadow on the roof of the great pile, a shadow which moved to and fro, passing from one roof ridge to another, now vanishing behind a chimney, now coming into view again. Anxiously Cranajour followed the odd movements of the mysterious individual who was making his lofty and lonely promenade up above there.

"What the devil does it mean?" soliloquised the watcher. Whoever could have seen Cranajour at this moment would have been struck by the marked change produced in his physiognomy. This was not the Cranajour of the wandering eye, the silly smile, the stupid face, known to Mother Toulouche and her cronies; it was a transformed Cranajour, mobile of feature, lively of movement, a sharp, keen-witted Cranajour! Veritably another man!

Puzzled by the vagaries of the promenader on the Palais roofs, Cranajour followed his movements intently for a few minutes longer. He would have remained at the window the whole night long had the unknown persisted in his peregrinations; but Cranajour saw him climb to the top of a chimney, a wide one, lower himself slowly into the opening of it, and then vanish from view!

Cranajour waited a while in hopes that the unknown would not be long in coming out of his mysterious hiding-place again. He waited and expected in vain: the roofs of the Palais resumed their ordinary aspect: solitude reigned there.

* * * * *

Not long afterwards Cranajour re-entered the back store.

"What a time you have been!" cried Mother Toulouche: "You've brought the newspaper, haven't you?"

Cranajour looked at the little company with his most stupid expression and then lowered his eyes:

"My goodness, I've forgotten to buy one!" he cried.

Nibet, who had paid but scant attention to the new arrival, continued his conversation with big Ernestine: they were talking about her lover, nicknamed the Beadle.

He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggested a peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation he had won as a "bell-ringer"; but the bells big Ernestine's lover was in the habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob and half murder, beating them unmercifully about the head and body. Sometimes he would beat them to within an ace of their last gasp: occasionally he would beat the life out of them altogether if they tried to resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache[6] of the first order of brutality.

[Footnote 6: Hooligan.]

Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on the Beadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlook was so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for.

Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair.

Cranajour cocked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a great bundle of old clothes in order.

But Nibet replied:

"The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business.... I know what I know about all that.... He's afraid of getting what the Cooper got, so he keeps away. He's not far out either—you've got to be careful these days—queer times!"

Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bewailed the Cooper's fate:

"Poor fellow! No sooner out of quod than back—only a fortnight's liberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him—smuggling and coining!"

Nibet tried to relieve their minds:

"Haven't I told you," growled he, "that I'm going to get Maitre Henri Robart to defend him? He knows how to get round juries: he'll get the Cooper off with an easy sentence."

Nibet looked at his watch:

"It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will be there before long, at the mouth of the sewer!"

Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were to be unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet:

"You'll never be able to manage it by yourself!"

Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:

"Since there's no one else, couldn't I take Cranajour with me?"

At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, so that the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour had never been up to dodges of this kind: so far he had been kept out of them; besides, he was such a senseless cove, he might give things away, make a hash of it!

Nibet smiled:

"Why, it's just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn't a mite of memory that we can use him safely!"

"That's true!" said Mother Toulouche, somewhat reassured.

She called to Cranajour:

"Come along, Cranajour, and just tell us where you dined this evening!"

The simpleton seemed to make a prodigious effort of memory, seized his head between his hands, closed his eyes, and racked his brains: after quite a long silence, he declared emphatically and with a distressed air:

"Faith, I can't tell you now!"

Nibet, who had closely watched this performance, nodded:

"It's quite all right," he said.

The cellars below Mother Toulouche's store were extensive, dark, and ill-smelling. The walls glistened with exuding damp, and the ground was a sticky mass of foul mud, of all sorts of refuse, of putrefying matter.

Nibet, followed by his companion, made his way down to them: it was no easy descent, for they had to climb over cases of all kinds, and over bales and bundles that moved and rolled about. They passed into a smaller cellar, around which were ranged long boxes of tin with rusty covers.

Cranajour, who had been given the lantern to carry, was attracted to these boxes: he lifted the cover of one of them and drew back wonderstruck, for the box was full of shining gold pieces! Nibet, with a jab and thrust in the back, interrupted Cranajour's contemplation of this fortune:

"Nothing to faint over!" he growled. "You're not such a simpleton then! You know the value of yellow boys? All right, then, I'll give you one or two, if you do your job all right! But," continued the warder, leading his companion to the further end of the second cellar, "you will have to look out if you present your banker with one of those pieces, for the little bits of shiny won't pass everywhere—you've got to keep your eye open—and jolly wide, too!"

Cranajour nodded comprehension:

"False money! False money!" he murmured.

There was a very strong big door: an iron bar kept it closed. Nibet raised it with Cranajour's help. Through the door the two men passed into a long dark passage, swept by a sharp rush of air. The floor of it was paved, and at the side of it flowed a pestilential stream, carrying along in its slow-moving water a quantity of miscellaneous filth: it was thick as soup with impurities.

"The little collecting sewer of the Cite," whispered Nibet. Pointing to a grey patch in the distance he put his mouth to Cranajour's ear:

"See the daylight yonder? That's where the sewer discharges itself into the Seine: it's there the boatman and his load will be waiting for us presently."

Nibet stopped dead; drew Cranajour back by the sleeve, and stepped stealthily backwards to the massive doors of the cellar. An unaccustomed noise had alarmed the warder. In profound silence the two men stood listening intently. There was no mistake! The sound of sharp regular steps could be clearly heard coming from that part of the sewer opposite the opening.

"Someone!" said Cranajour, who was all on the alert, as he had been in his attic, watching the shadow and its vagaries on the roofs of the Palais de Justice.

Nibet nodded.

The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of the subterranean passageway.

"Come inside," murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, with infinite precaution, he closed the massive portal between the cellar and the sewer-way.

In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: they had extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badly joined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved into view. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of the sewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore a small moustache!

Hardly had he passed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour's arm and growled—intense rage was expressed in grip and tone—"It's he! Again! The journalist of the Dollon affair, of the Depot business—Jerome Fandor! Ah.... This time we'll see!..."

Nibet's hand plunged into his trouser pocket.

Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder's every movement: he clearly heard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife—a long sharp knife—a deadly weapon!

Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and dragging Cranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heels of the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine. Nibet ground his teeth.

"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chance to miss! I'm going to make a hole in his skin for him!"

In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near the opening, Cranajour shuddered.

With stealthy step the two men drew near the journalist. Fandor walked on unsuspicious at a slow regular pace, his head lowered. The two bandits came up to within a yard of him. Noiselessly, savagely determined, Nibet lifted his arm for a murderous stroke. At this precise moment Fandor stopped at the verge of the exit, by which the sewer discharged its burden steeply into the Seine.

Yet a moment: Nibet's knife was poised for the rapid and terrible stroke; it was about to bury itself in the neck of the journalist up to the hilt, when Cranajour lifted his foot, as if inspired by an idea on the spur of the moment, gave the journalist a violent kick in the lower part of the back, and sent him flying into space!

They heard his body fall heavily into the Seine.... So roughly sudden had been Cranajour's movement that Nibet stood dumbfounded, arm in air, and staring at Cranajour:

Cranajour smiled his most idiotic smile, nodded, but did not utter one word!...

* * * * *

It was formidable, the rage of Nibet! Here had that crass fool, Cranajour, kicked away the warder's chance of ridding himself of the journalist for good and all! This hit-and-miss made Nibet foam with rage. Of all the exasperating simpletons, this fool of a Cranajour took the cake!

The two made their way back to the store, where Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine anxiously awaited results; and now not only had the two men returned stuttering over their statements and with no news of the boatman, who was generally up to time, but they had missed a fine opportunity chance had offered them!

Nibet hated the journalist like all the poisons. Taunts, jeers, abuse were heaped on the silly head of Cranajour, who, all in vain, raised his eyes to heaven, beat his chest, shrugged his shoulders, stammered, mumbled vague excuses:

"He didn't know exactly why he had done it! He thought he was helping Nibet!"

They disputed and contended for two hours. Suddenly Cranajour broke a long silence and demanded, looking as stupid as a half-witted owl:

"What have I done then? What are you scolding me for?"

Mother Toulouche, big Ernestine, and the wrathful Nibet stared at one another, taken aback—then they understood: two hours had gone by, and Cranajour no longer remembered what had happened!

Decidedly he was more innocent than a new-born babe! There was nothing whatever to be done with such an idiot, that was certain!



VI

IN THE OPPOSITE SENSE

When Jerome Fandor had been precipitated into the Seine so unexpectedly and with such violence he kept control of his wits: he did not utter a cry as he fell head foremost into the darkling river. He was an excellent swimmer: all aching as he was, he let himself go with the current and presently reached the sheltering arch of the Pont Neuf. There he took breath for a minute:

"Queer!" was all he murmured. Then with regular strokes he made for the steep bank of the Seine opposite. Quitting the river, he secreted himself behind a heap of stones which lay on the quay. He took off his soaked garments and wrung the water out of them. This done, and clad in what looked like dry clothes, Fandor walked along the quay, hailed a passing cabman half asleep on his seat, jumped inside, and gave his address to the Jehu.

* * * * *

When he arrived at La Capitale on the Friday morning a boy approached him, and whispered mysteriously:

"Monsieur Fandor, there's a very nice little woman in the sitting-room, who has been waiting for over an hour. She wishes to see you. She will not give her name: she declares that you know who she is."

"What is she like?" Fandor asked. His curiosity was not much aroused.

"Pretty, fair, all in black," replied the boy.

"Good. I'll go in," interrupted Fandor.

He entered the sitting-room and stood face to face with Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon. She came forward, her eyes shining, her face alight with welcome:

"Ah, monsieur," she cried, taking his hands in hers, a movement of pure gratitude: "Ah, monsieur, I knew you would come to my help! I have read your article of yesterday. Thank you again and again! But, I implore you, since my brother is alive, tell me where I can see him! For mercy's sake don't keep me waiting!"

Surprise kept Fandor silent a moment.

La Capitale had published the evening before a sensational article by Fandor, in which, under the guise of suppositions and interrogations, he had narrated the various adventures as they had happened to himself, concluding with the question—really an ironical one: "If Jacques Dollon, who had disappeared from his cell, where he had been left for dead, had escaped from the Depot by way of the famous chimney of Marie Antoinette, had reached the roof of the Palais, had redescended by another passageway to the sewer opening on to the Seine, did it not seem possible that Dollon had escaped alive from the Depot?"

Fandor had indulged in a gentle irony, despite the gravity of the circumstances, in order to complicate the already complicated affair, and so plunge the police into a confusion worse confounded: this, in spite of his conviction that Dollon was dead, dead as dead could be!

Now the cruelty of this professional game was brought home to him. His article had raised fresh hopes in Dollon's poor sister! At sight of this charming girl, brightened with hope, Fandor felt all pity and guilt. He pressed her hands; he hesitated; he was troubled. He did not know how to explain. At last he murmured:

"It was wrong of me, mademoiselle, very wrong to write that article in such a way without warning you beforehand. Alas! You must not cherish illusions, illusions which this unfortunate article has given rise to, illusions I cannot believe in myself. I speak with all the sincerity of which I am capable, with the keenest desire to be of service to you: I dare not let you buoy yourself up with false hopes.... I assure you then, that from what I have been able to learn, to see, to know, I am convinced that your unfortunate brother is no more!... If there have been moments when I have doubted this, I am now morally certain that he is dead. Take courage, mademoiselle! Try, try to forget—to—to ..."

Fandor was trembling with emotion: he could not continue. Elizabeth bent her head, her eyes full of tears. She could not speak. She was overcome by this cruel dashing to the ground of her hopes. Never, never, to see her brother again!

An agonising silence reigned.

Fandor was profoundly troubled by this mute grief. He sought in vain for some word of comfort, of encouragement.

Elizabeth rose to go. The poor girl realised that nothing could be gained by prolonging the interview. Her one need now was to be alone, for then she could weep.

Fandor was about to accompany her to the door, when a boy entered:

"Monsieur Fandor, there's a man wishes to speak to you!"

"Say I am not here," replied our journalist: he had no wish to see strangers just then.

"But Monsieur Fandor, he says he is the keeper of the landing stage of the passenger boat service, and he comes with reference to the Dollon affair!"

Both Elizabeth Dollon and Jerome Fandor started. She was trembling. Our journalist said at once:

"Bring him in then!"

The boy went off, and Fandor turned to the trembling girl.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle Elizabeth, do you feel equal to hearing what this man has to tell us? It is not improbable that he has seen something—something it would be best you should not hear—had you not better avoid it?"

Elizabeth shook her head in the negative. She was collecting all her forces: she would not remain ignorant of any detail of the terrible tragedy which had cost her brother so dear:

"I shall be strong enough," she announced firmly.

The boy ushered in the visitor. He looked a good specimen of his class, a man about forty. On his cap were the gold anchors of those in the employ of the Paris boat service.

"Monsieur!... Madame!... At your service!" The good fellow was very much embarrassed:

"Monsieur Fandor," he went on, "you do not know me, but I know you very well, that I do!... I read your articles every day in La Capitale. They're jolly good! What I say is ..."

Fandor cut short his admirer: "Now tell me what brings you here!"

"Oh, well, here goes! I was reading your article yesterday, about how Jacques Dollon, no more dead than you or I, had escaped over the roofs of the Palais de Justice. That made me laugh, because I am the keeper of the landing stage at the Pont Neuf Station. This affair is supposed to have happened in my parts, don't you see?... Well, I had just come to the bit where you also suppose that the corpse might easily have been devoured by rats inside the sewer.... Well, Monsieur Fandor, I can assure you that it was nothing of the sort...."

The journalist was all eyes and ears. He signed to Elizabeth that she must keep quiet, so as not to intimidate the good fellow.

"Come now, what is it you have seen?"

"What I've seen?... Why, I saw Dollon break bounds!"

At this statement Elizabeth grew white as a sheet. She jumped up, and with clasped hands rushed towards the keeper:

"Speak, speak quickly, I implore you!" she cried.

Fandor drew Elizabeth back gently, and whispered a few words to her. He turned to the keeper:

"Mademoiselle has also come to make a statement regarding this affair," he explained. "That is why she is so interested in what you have just told us.... But tell us how you saw Jacques Dollon escape!"

"Well, I had got up a bit earlier than usual to see that the anchors and mooring were all right, and I thought I saw what looked like a big bundle fall into the river from the sewer opening—only I was half asleep and didn't take much notice; for, what with all the rain we've been having, there's no end of filthy stuff tumbling out of the mouth of the sewers. But, a few minutes after that, I noticed that the bundle, instead of going with the flow of the current, was drifting across the Seine, plainly making for the bank. There could be no mistake about that!"

Elizabeth Dollon cried:

"And then? And then?"

"Then, my little lady, what if this surprise packet didn't turn off behind an arch of the Pont-Neuf! I didn't see what became of it—but no one will get it out of my head that it isn't some jolly dog who had no wish to show himself—that's what I think!"

The keeper paused, then went on:

"That's all I have to tell you, Monsieur Fandor ... it might serve for one of your articles some time or other ... only you mustn't say that I told you. I might get into trouble with my chiefs about it!"

Elizabeth Dollon was no longer listening. She had turned to Fandor, and with shining eyes murmured:

"He lives!... He lives!..."

Fandor thanked the keeper, and got rid of him. Directly the door closed on him he darted to Elizabeth:

"Poor child!" he cried, full of pity for her.

"Ah! Don't pity me! I don't need your pity now!... My brother is alive!... That man has seen him!"

Fandor had to undeceive her:

"Your brother is certainly dead," he declared. "If he were the individual in question, it would not have been yesterday morning, but the morning before that, when the keeper saw him; and I do assure you ..."

"But this good fellow is telling the truth then?"

"I assure you that I have good reasons, the best of reasons, for believing, for being certain, that the swimmer who crossed the Seine was not your brother!"

"Great Heaven! Who was it then?"

Fandor hesitated a moment.... Should he divulge his secret? All he said was:

"It was not your brother—I know that!"

So decisive was his tone, so great the sympathy vibrating through his words, that Elizabeth Dollon, once more convinced that Fandor was not speaking at random, bent her head and shed tears of deepest grief and bitter disappointment.

Fandor allowed the sorrow-stricken girl to give way to her grief for a few minutes; then he gently asked her:

"Mademoiselle Elizabeth, shall we have a little talk?... You see I simply cannot tell you everything, yet I would gladly help you!... But first and foremost, I beg of you to put quite out of your mind this hope that your brother is still alive!..."

Sadly Elizabeth wiped away her tears, and in a voice which she tried to steady, said:

"Oh, what is to become of me! I thought I had found in you a support, a help, and now you abandon me! And I had put my faith in your goodness of heart!... There are your articles on the one hand, and your attitude on the other—what am I to make of it? It is driving me to despair! And if you only knew how much I need to be supported, encouraged; I feel as if I should go out of my senses—out of my mind ... and I am alone, so terribly alone!"

The poor girl's voice was broken by sobs, her whole body was shaken by them. Fandor went up to her, and spoke to her in a low tone affectionately: he felt great sympathy and an immense pity for this unhappy young creature, who charmed and attracted him. He tried to console her, and to change the current of her thoughts:

"Come now, Mademoiselle, do try to control yourself a little! I have promised to help you, and I certainly shall—you may be sure of it. But consider now—if I am to be of real use to you, I must know a little about you: you, yourself, your family, your brother; who your friends are, and who are your enemies! I must enter into your existence, not as a judge, but as a comrade who is interested in all that concerns you. Will you not confide in me? Once I know what there is to know we might then unite our efforts to some purpose, and find out what really has happened, since the mystery remains inexplicable."

Elizabeth Dollon felt the young man was sincere, and that what he said in such a gentle voice was true.

This poor human waif asked no more than to be allowed to cling to whoever would take pity on her and be kind. She now spoke to Jerome Fandor of her childhood without suspecting in the least that the same Jerome Fandor—Charles Rambert—used to play with her in those days.[7]

[Footnote 7: See Fantomas.]

She mentioned the assassination of the Marquise de Langrune—the first tragic episode of her life; then had come the horrible death of her father, old Steward Dollon, who had passed from the service of the Marquise to that of the Baroness de Vibray, and then perished, the victim of a criminal.

She explained how Jacques Dollon and she had come to settle in Paris, feeling themselves rich on the savings they had inherited from their parents. Elizabeth had become a dressmaker, and Jacques had become an artist-craftsman. Gradually the young man's talent and industry had enabled his sister to leave her workroom and come to live with him. His reputation was a growing one, and the two young people looked forward to an existence of honest comfort in the near future. They got to know some people, one or two of whom were rich, and had shown their interest in the brother and sister.

Jerome Fandor interrupted her:

"You always remained on good terms with the Baroness de Vibray?"

At this question the girl's eyes flashed:

"They have put into print shameful things about this poor dear Baroness, and about my brother also. The papers have represented her as eccentric, as mad; they have said worse things than that, you know that, don't you?... They have declared that there was a very intimate relation between her and my brother—I cannot say more—it is too hateful! It is all false—as false as false can be! The Baroness was particularly interested in Jacques, but assuredly that was owing to the long standing relations between her family and ours.... The suicide of the Baroness has been a sad addition to my grief, for I was very fond of her!..."

Fandor had been listening attentively to Elizabeth's story. He now said:

"You have used the word 'suicide,' mademoiselle: do you then really think, as everyone seems to do, that your patroness killed herself of her own free will?"

Elizabeth reflected a minute before replying:

"That was what she wrote—and one must believe that, nevertheless ..."

"Nevertheless?"

Elizabeth hesitated, passed her hand over her forehead, then said:

"Nevertheless, Monsieur Fandor, the more I think over this death, the more remarkable it seems. The Baroness de Vibray was not the kind of person to commit suicide, even if she were unhappy, even if she were ruined. I have often heard her speak of her money affairs; she even used to joke about the expostulations of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil, because she was too fond of gambling. That was our poor friend's weakness: she was a dreadful gambler: she was always betting on horses and gambling on the Bourse."[8]

[Footnote 8: Stock Exchange.]

"Do you know the Barbey-Nanteuils at all, mademoiselle?"

"A little. I have met them once or twice at Madame de Vibray's—when she had one of her little evenings. Once or twice my brother has asked their advice about investments—very modest investments I can assure you—and they got one of their friends, a Monsieur Thomery, to buy some of my brother's art pottery."

"Have you many acquaintances in Paris, mademoiselle?"

"Besides the Baroness we hardly saw anyone except Madame Bourrat, a very nice, kind woman, widow of an inspector of the City of Paris; she keeps a boarding-house at Auteuil, rue Raffet. In fact, I am staying with her now, for I had not the courage to go back to my brother's place: too many dreadful memories are connected with his studio there. I am lucky to find such a sympathetic friend in Madame Bourrat, and such a warm welcome.... I am alone now, and life is sad."

Fandor went on with his cross-examination:

"Nevertheless, mademoiselle, I must ask you to return in thought to that tragic home of yours. Please tell me what people you knew in your immediate neighbourhood? Acquaintances?"

Elizabeth considered:

"Acquaintances is the word, because we were not on really intimate terms with our neighbours in the Cite; for the most part they are either art students or work-people. However, we saw fairly often a nice man, a stranger, a Dutchman I think he was, called Monsieur Van Hoeren; he manufactures accordions; and lives in a little house opposite ours, with six children; he has been a widower for years! Also there was a Monsieur Louis, an engraver, who used to take tea with us in the evening sometimes, his wife also: he is employed in the Posts and Telegraphs. We had practically no other acquaintances."

Elizabeth stopped. There was a silence. Fandor asked another question:

"Tell me, mademoiselle, when you entered the studio for the first time after the tragedy, did you notice anything abnormal?"

The poor girl shuddered at the appalling picture before her mind's eye:

"Good Heavens, monsieur," she cried, "I did not examine the studio minutely! I had only one thought—to be with my brother, who had been so unjustly accused, so ..."

Fandor interrupted to ask:

"Do you not know that at his preliminary examination your brother declared that he had not received a single visitor during the evening preceding the tragedy? How then do you explain the fact that the Baroness de Vibray was found dead in his studio, and at his side, when no one had seen her enter it? Did your brother make a mistake? Please tell me what you think about it!"

Elizabeth gazed anxiously at the young journalist, then fixed her eyes on the floor. Her hands twitched; she began to twist her fingers feverishly:

"Do trust me!" begged Jerome Fandor. "Please tell me what you think!"

Elizabeth rose, took several steps, and placed herself in front of the journalist:

"Ah, monsieur, there is something mysterious, which I cannot explain! As a matter of fact, someone must have come to see my brother that evening: I cannot assert it as a fact beyond dispute certainly: but in my own mind I feel quite sure about it."

"But you must have more proof of it than that?" cried Fandor.

"But—there is more!" cried Elizabeth, as if enlightened by a sudden discovery: "There is a fact!..."

"Tell me, do!" cried Fandor, intensely interested.

"Well, just imagine, then! Among the papers scattered over his table, and close to his book, which was open, I noticed a sort of list of names and addresses, written on our own note-paper, and in the kind of green ink we use—so—well ..."

"So," interrupted the journalist, "you came to the conclusion that this list had been written at your brother's house?"

"Yes, and it was not my brother's handwriting."

"Nor that of the Baroness de Vibray?"

"Nor that of the Baroness de Vibray!"

"And what did this list contain?"

"Names, addresses, I tell you, of persons we knew. There were also two or three dates...."

"And is that all?"

"That is all, monsieur: I saw nothing else!"

"Little enough," murmured Fandor, disappointed. "Still no detail, however slight, must be ignored!... What have you done with that list, mademoiselle?"

"I must have taken it with me when I collected all the papers I could find the day before yesterday, before going to the boarding-house at Auteuil."

"When you have an opportunity, will you bring me that list?" requested Fandor.

* * * * *

The conversation was interrupted. A boy came to tell Fandor that he was wanted on the telephone by someone in the Public Prosecutor's Office.

* * * * *

Later on in the day Jerome Fandor sent the following express message to Elizabeth Dollon:

"Do not believe a word of the Police Headquarters' version which you will read in this evening's 'La Capitale.'"

This despatched, our journalist commenced his article entitled:

STILL THE AFFAIR OF THE RUE NORVINS

Police Headquarters takes a view of this affair which is the very reverse of that taken by our contributor, Jerome Fandor.

By the Seine sewer, the roofs of the Palace, and the chimney of Marie Antoinette, an inspector has succeeded in reaching the Depot.

Police Headquarters is convinced that Jacques Dollon escaped alive!



VII

PEARLS AND DIAMONDS

"Nadine!"

"Princess!"

"Nadine, what time is it?"

The young Circassian, with hair as black as ink, souple and slender, rose from her chair and was hastening from the bedroom to ascertain the time when her mistress recalled her:

"Don't go away, Nadine! Stay with me!"

The dusky Circassian obeyed: she stared with big, astonished eyes into those of her mistress:

"But, Princess, why don't you wish me to go?"

The Princess stammered in a mysterious tone:

"Don't you know then, Nadine, that to-day is the anniversary?... and I am frightened!"

* * * * *

Princess Sonia Danidoff was in her bath robe. It must have been a quarter past eleven, or even nearer midnight than that. Although she had lived in Paris for years, she had never been able to make up her mind to settle in a flat of her own. Possessing an immense fortune, she much preferred the American way of living, and had taken a suite of rooms in one of those great palace-hotels near the place de l'Etoile. Though a very smart staff of servants was reserved for her exclusive use, her favourite attendant was a pretty Circassian, in whom she had absolute confidence. This Nadine was a native of Southern Russia. The movement of city life and civilised manners and customs had at first terrified this little savage; but she had learned to adapt herself to her changed surroundings, and was now high in the favour of Princess Sonia. She, and she alone, was authorised to be present when the beautiful great lady took her daily baths. For some years past the Princess had insisted on the presence of a maid when she took her baths: without fail they must either be in the bathroom itself, or in the room next to it, within reach or call. But on this particular evening Sonia Danidoff, more nervous and restless than usual, would not allow Nadine to leave her for a second. As to the time—well, if she did not know the exact time it could not be helped! Really it did not matter to her whether she were half an hour or no, for the ball given in her honour by Thomery, the millionaire sugar refiner: in fact, it would be much better to make her appearance after all the guests had assembled—her arrival would give the crowning touch of brilliancy to this society function.

Sonia Danidoff had pronounced the word "anniversary" in a tone of anguish so sincere that Nadine was genuinely alarmed. She knew, only too well, what this fatal word meant to her mistress.

She had not forgotten that five years ago to the day, just when the Princess was enjoying her evening bath, a mysterious individual had appeared before her, who, after frightening her, had robbed her of a large sum of money. The adventure would have been little out of the ordinary, for hotel robberies are frequent, had not the audacious bandit been quickly identified as the enigmatic and elusive Fantomas, whose prodigious reputation had only increased with the passage of the years.

Sonia Danidoff, who was not ignorant of the dramatic adventures imputed to this legendary hero, could not bear to think of the position she had been placed in that awful night, when, threatened and robbed by Fantomas, she had escaped death by a series of unknown and unguessable circumstances: the tormenting mystery of it all had preyed insistently upon her mind. Since then Sonia Danidoff had never taken a bath without thinking of Fantomas; and every year when the anniversary of his aggression came round she suffered cruelly: she was seized with wild, unreasoning fears at the idea that she might see this terrifying bandit appear before her again, and that this time he would be merciless.

Nadine knew all this. She also shuddered at the vision this horrible anniversary evoked, but controlling herself, she was anxious to change the current of her dear mistress's thoughts:

"Forget, try to forget, Sonia Danidoff," she counselled in her melodious voice: "You are going to a ball—at Monsieur Thomery's—at your fiance's house!"

The Princess shuddered:

"Ah, Nadine, my Nadine!" she cried, raising herself, and regarding her maid with a strange look: "I cannot overcome my uneasiness—my alarms!... This coincidence of date agitates me.... You know how superstitious we are at home—in our Russia—and the life I lead in Paris has not destroyed in me the simplicity of soul of a daughter of the Steppes!"

Nadine did not know what reply to make to this pathetic outburst. The Princess went on:

"And then, do you see, I think it wrong of Monsieur Thomery to even want to give this ball, only a fortnight after the tragic death of that poor Baroness de Vibray!... I tried to dissuade him from it.... I think the Baroness was his most intimate friend once!..."

"So it is said," murmured Nadine.

Sonia Danidoff went on, as if speaking to herself:

"I am not sure of it ... it is precisely to remove this suspicion from my mind that Thomery was determined to have his ball to-night at all costs!... The Baroness de Vibray, so he told me, was no more than a good old friend.... I cannot make her death an excuse for putting off the announcement of our marriage ... that would be to give colour to scandal."

Sonia Danidoff shrugged her beautiful shoulders:

"Hand me a mirror!"

Nadine obeyed. The Princess gazed long and complacently at the marvellously lovely face reflected in the glass.

"Princess," cried Nadine, "you must leave the bath, you will be late otherwise!"

In the adjacent dressing-room, brilliantly illuminated by electric light, the Princess dressed with the aid of Nadine, proud and happy to be the sole assistant of her beloved mistress. The toilet was a triumph: silk of an exquisite blue, draped with silk muslin incrusted with pointe de Venise and bands of ermine: a costly masterpiece of the dressmaker's art. It enhanced the brilliant beauty of Sonia Danidoff, and threw Nadine into raptures.

The Princess opened her jewel-box:

"This evening, Nadine, I shall be pearls and diamonds!" cried the lovely creature, as she fixed two large grey pearls in her ears.

"Oh, how beautiful you are, Princess! And what a lot they must have cost!" cried Nadine.

"Ten thousand francs, my child, on each side of my head!"

Sonia slipped on her fingers three diamond rings set in platinum:

"And here are eight or nine thousand francs more," continued she, as Nadine's eyes grew round with wonder: her mind could hardly grasp all these thousands of francs-worth of diamonds and pearls. There were still more to come; for, rejecting a magnificent bracelet, on the plea that one no longer wore them at balls, the Princess smilingly bade her Circassian fasten round her neck a superb triple collar of pearls. To this was added a sparkling cascade of diamonds. Never had Nadine seen her beautiful mistress so richly dressed. Thus adorned, in Nadine's eyes, Sonia Danidoff was dazzlingly beautiful, exquisitely lovely.

"You look like the Holy Virgin on the icons!" stammered Nadine, kneeling before her mistress, quite overcome by emotion.

"Good Heavens! That is blasphemy! I am only a humble human creature!" said the Princess smiling. Then she once more looked at herself in the mirrors, well satisfied with her appearance, certain of the effect she would produce on her future husband Thomery. She threw over her shoulders a superb mantle of zibeline which was quite needed, for, though it was the middle of April, it was quite cold.

Then, ready at last, she descended to her motor-car, and was whirled away to the ball.

* * * * *

"Cranajour!... Cranajour!"

Mother Toulouche shouted herself breathless: she tried to shout louder and louder. It was in vain. She might shout herself hoarse—there was no reply.

The old termagant, who had left the front of her hovel and had gone to call her assistant, shouting in the passage at the back of the store, returned cursing and swearing, and seated herself near the store in the lean-to which did duty as a kitchen:

"Where in the devil's name has that imbecile got to?" she grumbled, whilst sipping with gusts from the bottom of a cup, into which she had poured a small allowance of coffee and a copious ration of rum. It was about eleven in the evening. There was not a sound to be heard.

Having finished her rum and tea the old receiver of stolen goods went to the entrance of the passage:

"Cranajour!... Cranajour!" yelled the old termagant.

There was no answer.

"He can't possibly be in his canteen," said Mother Toulouche to herself. "If he was he'd have answered, fool though he is, and would have come down!... Sure he's gone to drag his old down-at-heels somewhere—but where?... Oh, well, we can manage to do without him!"

The old receiver went back to her store, and was starting on a queer sort of job when the door, which led on to the quay, burst open before a panting, breathless individual. He ran right up the store and stopped short. Mother Toulouche had seized the first thing she could find, and had taken up a defensive attitude. Her weapon was a great ancient cavalry sabre!

But the newcomer intended no harm—quite the contrary! After an instinctive recoil, he leaned against a table and wiped his forehead, breathing in gasps, incapable of pronouncing a syllable.

Mother Toulouche had recognised him:

"Ah! It's you, Redhead!... And not a bit too soon either! I've been waiting for you this last half-hour! Ernestine will be there in ten minutes' time! However is it you are so late?"

Redhead was well named! His bullet-head was covered with russet-red hair, cut very short; his complexion was a good match; his bloated cheeks and his potato-shaped nose were covered with red patches; his shaven chin was a tawny red; round his little gimlet eyes was a fringe of red lashes: it was a bestial face.

He was hatless; above his waistcoat with metal buttons he wore a black coat; his trousers had a yellow line down them: he was evidently a servant, wearing the livery of some big house. The fellow was slowly recovering his breath; but he continued to wipe great drops of sweat off his narrow forehead; he was shaking all over, and his morose countenance was twitching and contracting nervously.

"Well, what's your news? Good or bad?" questioned Mother Toulouche in a brutal tone.

Redhead replied almost inaudibly:

"That depends!... It's good on the whole."

A gleam of cupidity showed in the old receiver's eyes:

"Got a bit of tin on her back, that woman—eh?"

Redhead nodded a "yes." Thereupon Mother Toulouche went into her back store and returned with a claret glass filled to the brim with rum:

"Shoot that down your throat! That'll put you right!"

When he had swallowed the bumper he seemed to gain courage, and said:

"If I didn't get here sooner it's because I had to wait—but I saw the little thing...."

"What's her name?"

"Nadine," replied Redhead, and added: "A pretty little brat, too!... She's got some fire in her eyes!"

"What's that to do with it?" interrupted Mother Toulouche.

"You don't mean to tell me you were able to make her gabble a bit?" she queried contemptuously.

Redhead bridled: "Likely, since I know everything now ... and I'm her sweetheart, let me tell you!"

Mother Toulouche said in a jeering tone:

"You don't tell me! You!"

"Oh," replied Redhead, "it's just a way of speaking. She's a good little thing—there's nothing to it, you know!"

"So much the worse!" declared Mother Toulouche. "Virtuous sorts aren't any use to our lot!... Well—what did she tell you—out with it!"

"Well," said Redhead, "I waited three-quarters of an hour before Nadine joined me.... I had no bother in making her talk, I can tell you: without the asking she told me everything ... she was pretty well flabbergasted with all the jewels her mistress had stuck on her clothes and her skin.... Seems there's hundreds of thousands' worth!... All pearls and diamonds! Nothing but...."

Mother Toulouche was calculating:

"Real pearls, real diamonds—it's possible there's all that worth!"

Steps could be heard on the pavement just outside.

Redhead began to shake all over:

"Who is it?" he asked. "Someone coming in?"

Mother Toulouche grinned:

"Be easy, then! Haven't I told you there's nothing to fear?"

Nevertheless he asked anxiously:

"There's nothing more I'm wanted for here, is there? I've told you all I know."

"No, no, it's all right!" replied Mother Toulouche, maternal and conciliating, "there's nothing more for you to do here.... Still, if you want to see big Ernestine...."

Without waiting to hear the end of her sentence Redhead hurried towards the exit. Mother Toulouche did not try to detain him:

"After all," she said in a low tone to his back as a kind of farewell, "cut your sticks, my lad ... since you're funky!"

When alone she grumbled aloud:

"What a lot they are!... I never did!... White-livered, and for nothing at all!"

Mother Toulouche was still muttering when big Ernestine marched in through the back way. She had on a large hat and was heavily veiled. She proceeded to remove both hat and veil:

"Well?" she queried.

"They've got on to it all right! Redhead has just gone! He knows through the little maid that the Princess went off to the ball, dressed up to the nines—hung with jewels like a shrine!"

Big Ernestine uttered a deep sigh of satisfaction: her only reply was to hustle the old receiver:

"Look alive, Mother Toulouche!... You've got to give me a beggar's outfit: it's up to you to see I'm disguised properly, and there's not a minute to lose either!"

Mother Toulouche was an expert at disguises and make-up of every sort: this was not to be wondered at, considering the queer company she kept, and the fraudulent business she carried on, and the smuggling she was mixed up in!

Big Ernestine, disguised as a poverty-stricken creature and rendered unrecognisable, looked exactly like some unfortunate reduced to soliciting alms. She walked into the back store, and helped Mother Toulouche to take from a cupboard some bottles, bandages, and medicated cotton-wool. By the light of a smoky lamp the two women scrutinised the labels, sniffing the various phials and flasks. Big Ernestine, with the aid of Mother Toulouche, prepared compresses of pomade and cotton-wool, on which she sprinkled a few drops of a yellow liquid, giving out a sickening odour. Besides this big Ernestine put inside her bodice a long phial, after making certain that the mixture, with which it was full, contained chloroform....

Then, under Mother Toulouche's watchful eye, Ernestine prepared what was called in that world of light-fingered gentry "the mask": a mask of cotton, which is moulded by force on the face of the victim in order to plunge him, or her, into a heavy sleep. Whilst making these sinister preparations the two women talked as they went on with their evil task. Big Ernestine said, in reply to Mother Toulouche's questionings:

"Oh, it's simple enough! It's like this:... When the motor-car stops I shall go to the right-hand door and begin to beg ... likely enough, the Princess won't want to hear what I have to say, but while I attract her attention, Mimile, who will be on the other side, will open the door, and will stick the compress on her mug.... She won't struggle—besides, Mimile will have hold of her—and then I'll have had time to see where her jewels are, and how they are fastened, and then I'll soon have them in my pocket—my deep 'un!"

Mother Toulouche nodded:

"It's arranged all right, but how will you arrest the motor?"

"Oh, that's where the others come in; they'll do it all right.... I expect they're seeing to it now!..."

"But, look here," cried Mother Toulouche, "Mimile isn't in bits then? They said he had fallen from his flier!"

Big Ernestine gave a laugh:

"He fell right enough, poor little fellow, and from pretty high too—but he's not broken a thing ... not this time ... a bit of luck I don't think—eh?"

"He's a mascot, I'm certain," declared Mother Toulouche. Then she said: "You spoke of the others?... Who are they—the others?"

"But didn't they tell you?" cried the surprised Ernestine, for she thought old Mother Toulouche was in the know: "Why, there's the Beadle—and the Beard...."

"Oh," cried Mother Toulouche, much impressed: "If the Beard's in it, then it's a serious affair!"

"Yes," replied big Ernestine, staring hard at the old receiver of stolen goods: "It's serious all right! If the chloroform doesn't work—oh, well ... they'll bring the knife into play...."

Big Ernestine looked at her little silver watch to mark the time:

"Past midnight!" she remarked: "I must hurry off and see what they're up to!"

As she was making off Mother Toulouche stopped her:

"Have a glass of rum to start on—it puts heart into you!"

The two women were quite ready for a drink together. When they had swallowed their dose, big Ernestine smacked her tongue:

"Famous stuff!... It puts a heart into you and no mistake!"

"Yes, it's the right stuff—the best," agreed Mother Toulouche: "It's what Nibet prefers!" she added. Then she cried: "But Nibet, how ... isn't he in it?"

Big Ernestine put a finger on her lips:

"Nibet's in it of course—as he always is—you know that, old Toulouche—but he's content to show the way—you know he seldom does anything himself ... besides, it seems he's on duty at the depot to-night!"

Big Ernestine threw an old shawl over her head and went off crying:

"I'm off, and in for it now!... Soon be back, Mother Toulouche!"

* * * * *

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: