 CHAPTER 10 PRINCESS SONYA'S BATH Four months had passed since Etienne Rambert had been acquitted at the Cahora Sizes, and the world was beginning to forget the Boliu tragedy as it had already almost forgotten the mysterious murder of Lord Belfam. Juvalon did not allow his daily occupation to put the two cases out of his mind. True, he had ceased to make any direct inquiries and gave no sign that he still had any interest in those crimes, but the detective knew very well that in both of them he had to contend with no ordinary murderer, and he was content to remain in the shadow, waiting and watching in seeming inactivity for some slip which would betray the person or persons who had perpetrated two of the most puzzling murders that he had ever had to deal with. It was the end of June, and Paris was beginning to empty, but the spring had been late and cold that year, and although it was within a couple of days of July, society had lingered on in the capital. Luxuriously appointed carriages still swept along the Champs-Elysées when the audiences poured out of the theaters and concert rooms, and fashionably attired people still thronged the broad pavements and gathered before the brilliantly lighted cafes on the wronged points. Even at that late hour, the Champs-Elysées were as animated as in the busiest hours of the day. At the Royal Palace Hotel, the greatest animation prevailed. The entire staff was hurrying about the vast entrance halls and the palatial rooms on the ground floor, for it was the hour when the guests of the Royal Palace Hotel were returning from their evening's amusements, and the spacious vestibules of the immense hotel were crowded with men in evening dress, young fellows in dinner jackets, and women in low-cut gowns. A young and fashionable woman got out of a perfectly appointed Victoria, and Monsieur Louis, the manager of the staff, came forward and bowed low, as he only did to clients of the very highest distinction. The lady responded with a gracious smile, and the manager called a servant. The lift for Mademoiselle, la princesse Sonia Danadoff, and the next moment, the beautiful vision, who had created quite a sensation merely in passing through the hall, had disappeared within the lift, and was born up to her apartments. Princess Sonia was one of the most important clients at the Royal Palace Hotel possessed. She belonged to one of the greatest families in the world, being, by her marriage with Prince Danadoff, cousin to the Emperor of Russia, and so connected with many royal personages. Still barely thirty years of age, she was not pretty, but remarkably lovely, with wonderful blue eyes, which formed a strange and most bewitching contrast to the heavy masses of black hair that framed her face. A woman of immense wealth, and typically a woman of the world, the princess spent six months of the year in Paris, where she was a well-known and much-liked figure in the most exclusive circles. She was clever and cultivated, a first-rate musician, and her reputation was spotless, although it was very seldom that she was accompanied by her husband, whose duties as Grand Chamberlain to the Tsar kept him almost continuously in Russia. When in Paris, she occupied a suite of four rooms on the third floor of the Royal Palace Hotel, a suite identical in plan and in luxury with that reserved for sovereigns who came there incognito. The princess passed through her drawing room, a vast round room with a superb view over the Arc de Triomphe, and went into her bedroom where she switched on the electric light. Nadine, she called, in her grave melodious voice, and a young girl, almost a child, sprang from a low divan hidden in a corner. Nadine, take off my cloak and unfasten my hair, then you can leave me. It is late and I am tired. The little maid obeyed, helped her mistress to put on a silken dressing gown and loosened the masses of her hair. The princess passed a hand across her brow as if to brush away a headache. Before you go, get the bath ready for me. I think that would rest me. Ten minutes later, Nadine crept back like a shadow and found the princess standing dreamily on the balcony, inhaling deep breaths of the pure night air. The child kissed the tips of her mistress' fingers. Your bath is quite ready, she said, and then withdrew. A few more minutes passed and Princess Sonia, half undressed, was just going into her dressing room when suddenly she turned and went back to the middle of the bedroom, which she had been on the point of leaving. Nadine, she called, are you still there? No answer came. I must have been dreaming, the princess murmured, but I thought I heard someone moving about. Sonia Danadoff was not unduly nervous, but like most people who live much alone and in large hotels, she was wont to be careful and wished to make sure that no suspicious person had made his way into her rooms. She made a rapid survey of her bedroom, glanced into the brilliantly lighted drawing room, and then moved to her bed and saw that the electric bellboard, which enabled her to summon any of her own or of the hotel's servants, was in perfect order. Then satisfied, she went into her dressing room, quickly stripped off the rest of her clothes, and plunged into the perfume water in her bath. She thrilled with pleasure as her limbs, so tired after a long evening, relaxed in the warm water. On a table close to the bath, she had placed a volume of old Muscovite folktales, and she was glancing through these by the shaded light from a light above her, when a fresh sound made her start. She sat up quickly in the water and looked around her, there was nothing there. Then a little shiver shook her, and she sank down again into the warm bath with a laugh at her own nervousness. And she was just beginning to read once more when suddenly a strange voice, with a ring of malice in it, sounded in her ear. Someone was looking over her shoulder, and reading aloud the words she had just begun. Before Sanya Denedov had time to utter a cry, or make a movement, a strong hand was over her lips, and another gripped her wrist, preventing her from reaching the button of the electric bell that was fixed among the taps. The princess was almost fainting. She was expecting some horrible shock, expecting to feel some horrible weapon that would take her life, when the pressure on her lips and the grip on her wrist gradually relaxed. And at the same moment, the mysterious individual who had thus taken her by surprise, moved around the bath and stood in front of her. He was a man of about 40 years of age, and extremely well-dressed. A perfectly cut dinner jacket proved that the strange visitor was no unclean dweller in the pair of slums. No apache, such as the princess had read terrifying descriptions of, in luridly illustrated newspapers. The hands which held her motionless, and which now restored her liberty of movement to her, were white and well manicured, and adorned with a few plain rings. The man's face was a distinguished one, and he wore a fine black beard. Slight baldness added to the height of a forehead naturally large. But what struck the princess most, although she had little heart to observe the man very closely, was the abnormal size of his head, and the number of wrinkles that ran right across his temples following the line of the eyebrows. In silence and with trembling lips, Sonja Danadoff made an instinctive effort again to reach the electric bell. But with a quick movement, the man caught her shoulder and prevented her from doing so. There was a cryptic smile upon the stranger's lips, and with a furious blush, Sonja Danadoff dived back again into the milky water in the bath. The man still stood in perfect silence, and at length, the princess mastered her emotion and spoke to him. Who are you? What do you want? Go at once, or I will call for help. Above all things, do not call out, or you are a dead woman, said the stranger harshly. Then he gave a little ironical shrug of shoulders. As for ringing, that would not be easy. You would have to leave the water to do so, and besides, I object. If it is money or rings you want, said the princess between clenched teeth, take them, but go. The princess had laid several rings and bracelets on the table by her side, and the man glanced at them now, but without paying much attention to what the princess said. Those trinkets are not bad, he said, but your signet ring is much finer, and he calmly took the princess's hand in his, and examined the ring that she had kept on her third finger. Don't be frightened, he added, as he felt her hand trembling. Let us have a chat, if you don't mind. There is nothing especially tempting about jewels apart from their personality, he said after a little pause. Apart, I mean, from the person who habitually wears them. But the bracelet on a wrist, or the necklace round the neck, or the ring upon a finger is another matter. Princess Sanya went as pale as death, and utterly at a loss to understand what this extraordinary visitor was driving at. She held up her ring finger, and made a frightened little apology. I cannot take this ring off, it fits too tightly. The man laughed grimly. That does not matter in the least, princess. Anyone who wanted to get a ring like that could do it quite simply. He felt negligently in his waistcoat pocket, and produced a miniature razor, which he opened. He flashed the blade before the terrified eyes of the princess. With a sharp blade like this, a skillful man could cut off the finger that held such a splendid jewel on it in a couple of seconds. And then, seeing that the princess in fresh panic was on the very point of screaming, quick as a flash, he laid the palm of his hand over her lips, while still speaking in gentle tones to her. Please, do not be so terrified. I suppose you take me for some common hotel thief or highway robber, but princess, can you really believe that I am anything of the kind? The man's tone was so earnest, and there was so deffrent a look in his eyes that the princess recovered some of her courage. But I do not know who you are, she said, half-questioningly. So much the better, the man replied. There is still time to make one another's acquaintance. I know who you are, and that is the main thing. You do not know me, princess? Well, I assure you that on very many occasions I have mingled with the blessed company of your adorers. The princess's anger rose steadily with her courage. Sir, she said, I do not know if you are joking or if you are talking seriously, but your behavior is extraordinary, hateful, abominable. It is merely original, princess, and it pleases me to reflect that if I had been content to be presented to you in the ordinary way in one or other of the many drawing rooms we both frequent, you would certainly have taken much less notice of me than you have taken tonight. From the persistence of your gaze, I can see that from this day onward, not a single feature of my face will be unfamiliar to you, and I am convinced that whatever happens, you will remember it for a very long time. Princess Sonia tried to force a smile. She had recovered her self-possession, and was wondering what kind of man she had to deal with. If she was still not quite persuaded that this was not a vulgar thief, and if she had but little faith in his professions of admiration of herself, she was considerably exercised by the idea that she was alone with a lunatic. The man seemed to read her thoughts, for he too smiled a little. I am glad to see, princess, that you have a little more confidence now. We shall be able to arrange things ever so much better. You are certainly much more calm, much less uneasy now. Oh yes, you are, he added, checking her protest. Why, it is quite five minutes since you last tried to ring for help. We are getting on. Besides, I somehow can't picture the Princess Sonia Danadoff, wife of the Grand Chamberlain, and cousin of His Majesty the Emperor of all the rushes, allowing herself to be surprised alone with a man whom she did not know. If she were to ring and someone came, how would the Princess account for the gentleman whom she had accorded an audience in the most delightful, but certainly the most private of all her apartments? But tell me, pleaded the unhappy woman, how did you get in here? That is not the question, the stranger applied. The problem actually before us is, how am I to get out? For of course, Princess, I shall not be so indelicate as to prolong my visit unduly. Too happy only if you will permit me to repeat it on some other evening soon. He turned his head, and plunging his hand into the bath in the most natural matter possible, took out the thermometer which was floating on the perfumed water. Thirty degrees centigrade, Princess, your bath is getting cold, you must get out. In her blank astonishment, Princess Sonia did not know whether to laugh or cry. Was she alone the monster who, after having played with her as a cat plays with a mouse, would suddenly turn and kill her? Or was this merely some irresponsible lunatic whom Chance alone had enabled to get into her rooms? Whatever the fact might be, the man's last words had made her aware that her bath really was getting cold. A shiver shook her whole frame, and yet, oh, go, please go, she implored him. He shook his head, an ironical smile in his eyes. For pity's sake, she entreated him again, have mercy on a woman, a good woman. The man appeared to be considering. It is very embarrassing, he murmured, and yet we must decide upon something soon, for I am most anxious you should not take a chill. Oh, it is very simple, Princess. Of course, you know the arrangement of everything here so well that you could find your dressing gown at once by merely feeling your way? We will put out the light, and then you will be able to get out of the bath in the dark without the least fear. He was on the very point of turning off the switch of the lamp, when he stopped abruptly and came back to the bath. I was forgetting that exasperating bell, he said. A movement is so very easily made. Suppose you were to ring by mere inadvertence and regret it afterwards. Putting his idea into action, the man made a quick cut with his razor, and severed the two electric wires several feet above the ground. That is excellent, he said. By the way, I don't know where these other two wires go that run along the wall, but it would be best to be on the safe side. Suppose there was another bell. He lifted his razor once more, and was trying to sever the electrical wires when the steel blade cut the insulator, and an alarming flash of light resulted. The man leaped into the air and dropped his razor. Good Lord, he growled. I suppose that will make you happy, madam. I have burnt my hand most horribly. These must be wires for the light. But no matter, I have still got one sound hand, and that will be enough for me to secure the darkness that you want. And anyhow, you compress the button of your bell as much as you like. It won't ring, so I am sure of a few more minutes in your company. Sudden darkness fell upon the room. Sonya Danodov hesitated for a moment, and then half rose in the bath. All her pride as a great lady was in revolt. If she must defend her honor and her life, she was ready to do so, and despair would give her strength. But in any event, she would be better out of the water and on her feet prepared. The darkness was complete, both in the bathroom and in the adjacent bedroom, and the silence was absolute. Standing up in the bath, Sonya Danodov swept her arms round in a circle to feel for any obstacle. Her touch meant nothing. She drew out one foot, and then the other, sprang toward the chair on which she had left her dressing gown, slipped into it with feverish haste, slid her feet into her slippers, stood motionless for just a second, and then, with sudden decision, moved to the switch by the door and turned on the light. The man had gone from the bathroom, but taking two steps toward her bedroom, Sonya Danodov saw him smiling her from the far end of that room. Sir, she said, this pleasantry has lasted long enough. You must go. You shall. You shall. Shall? The stranger echoed. That is a word that is not often used to me. But you were forgiven for not knowing that, Princess. I forgot for the moment that I have not been presented to you. But what is in your mind now? Between them was a little espoir, on top of which was lying the tiny inlaid revolver that Sonya Danodov always carried when she went out at night. Could she but get that into her hands? It would be a potent argument to induce this stranger to obey her. The princess also knew that in the drawer of that escatoire, which she could actually see half open, she had placed only a few minutes before going into her bath, a pocketbook filled with banknotes for 120,000 francs, money she had withdrawn from the strong room of the hotel that very morning in order to meet some bills next day. She looked at the drawer and wondered if the pocketbook was still there, or if this mysterious admirer of hers was only a vulgar hotel thief after all. The man had followed her eyes to the revolver. That is an unusual knick-knack to find in a lady's room, Princess, and he sprang in front of her as she was taking a step toward the escatoire and took possession of the revolver. Do not be alarmed, he added, noticing her little gesture of terror. I would not do you an injury for anything in the world. I shall be delighted to give this back to you in a minute, but first let me render it harmless. He deftly slipped the six cartridges out of the barrel, and then handed the now useless weapon to the princess with a gallant little bow. Do not laugh at my excess of caution, but accidents happen so easily. It was in vain that the princess tried to get near her escatoire to ascertain the drawer had been tampered with. The man kept between her and it all the time, still smiling, still polite, but watching every movement that she made. Suddenly, he took his watch from his pocket. Two o'clock? Already? Princess, you will be vexed with me for having abused your hospitality to such an extent. I must go. He appeared not to notice the sigh of relief that broke from her, but went on in a melodramatic tone. I shall take my departure, not through the window like a lover, nor up the chimney like a thief, nor yet through a secret door behind the arras like a brigand of romance, but like a gentleman who has come to pay his tribute of homage and respect to the most enchanting woman in the world through the door. He made a movement as if to go and came back. And what do you think of doing now, Princess? Perhaps you will be angry with me? Possibly, some unpleasant discovery made after my departure will raise some animosity in your breast against me? You might even ring. Directly my back is turned and alarmed the staff merely to embarrass me in my exit, and without paying any attention to the subsequent possible scandal. That is a complicated arrangement of bells and telephones beside your bed. It would be a pity to spoil such a pretty thing, and besides, I hate doing unnecessary damage. The Princess's eyes turned once more to the drawer. It was practically certain that her money was not there now. But the man broke in again upon her thoughts. What can I be thinking of? Just fancy my not having presented myself to you even yet. But as a matter of fact, I do not want to tell you my name out loud. It is a romantic one, literally out of keeping with the typically modern environment in which we are now. Ah, if we were only on the steep side of some mountain with the moon like a great lamp above us, or by the shore of some great wild ocean, there would be some fascination in the proclamation of my identity in the silence of the night, or in the midst of lightning and thunder as the Hurricanes swept the seas. But here, in the third-rate suite of the Royal Palace Hotel, surrounded by telephones and electric light, and standing by a window overlooking the Champs-Élysées, it would be a positive anachronism. He took a card out of his pocket and drew near the little escritoire. Allow me, Princess, to slip my card into this drawer left open on purpose it would seem. And while the Princess uttered an exclamation she could not repress, he suited the action to the word. And now, Princess, he went on, compelling her to retreat before him right to the door of the anti-room opening onto the corridor. You are too well bred, I am sure, not too wish to conduct your visitor to the door of your suite. His tone altered abruptly, and in a deep, imperious voice that made the Princess quake, he ordered her, and now not a word, not a cry, not a movement until I am outside, or I will kill you. Clenching her fists and summoning all her strength to prevent herself from swooning, Sonja Danadoff led the man to the anti-room door. Slowly she unlocked the door and held it open, and the man stepped quietly through. The next second he was gone. Leaping back into her bedroom, Sonja Danadoff set every bell ringing, with great presence of mind, she telephoned down to the hall porter. Don't let anybody go out, I have been robbed! And she pressed hard upon the special button that set the great alarm bell clanging. Footsteps and voices resounded in the corridor. The Princess knew that help was coming, and ran to open her door. The night watchman and the manager of the third floor came running up, and waiters appeared in numbers at the end of the corridor. Stop him! Stop him! the Princess shouted. He has only just gone out, a man in a dinner jacket with a great black beard. A lad came hurrying out of the lift. Where are you going? What is the matter? Inquired the hall porter, whose lodge was at the far end of the hall, next to the courtyard of the hotel, the door into which he had just closed. I don't know, he answered. There is the thief in the hotel. They are calling from the other side. It's not in your set then? By the way, what floor are you on? The second? All right, said the hall porter. It's the third floor they are calling from. Go up and see what is wrong. The lad turned on his heel, and disregarding the notice forbidding servants to use the passenger lift, hurried back into it and upstairs again. He was a stoutly built fellow with smooth face and red hair. On the third floor he stopped, immediately opposite Sonia Danadoff's suite. The Princess was standing at her door, taking no notice of the Watchman Mueller's efforts to soothe her excitement, and mechanically twisting between her fingers the blank visiting card which her strange visitor had left in place of her pocketbook and the 120,000 francs. There was no name whatever on the card. Well, said Mueller to the red-headed lad, where do you come from? I'm the new man on the second floor, the fellow answered. The hall porter sent me up to find out what was the matter. Matter, said Mueller. Someone has robbed the Princess. Here, send someone for the police at once. I'll run, sir. And as the lift, instead of being sent down, had carelessly been sent up to the top floor, the young fellow ran down the staircase at full speed. Through the telephone, Mueller was just ordering the hall porter to send for the police. When the second floor servant rushed up and caught him by the arm, dragging him away from the instrument. Open the door for Lord's sake. I'm off to the police station. And the hall porter made haste to facilitate his departure. On the top floor, cries of astonishment re-echoed. The servants had been alarmed by the uproar and surprised to see the lift stop and nobody get out of it. They opened the door and found a heap of clothing, a false beard and a wig. Two housemaids in a valet gazed in amazement at these extraordinary properties and never thought of informing the manager, Monsieur Louis. Meantime, however, that gentleman had hurried through the mazes of the hotel and had just reached the third floor when he was stopped by the Baron van der Rosen, one of the hotel's oldest patronesses. Monsieur Louis, she exclaimed, bursting into sobs. I have just been robbed of my diamond necklace. I left it in a jewel case on my table before going down to dinner. When I heard the noise just now, I got up and looked through my jewel case and the necklace is not there. Monsieur Louis was two days to reply. Mueller ran up to him. Princess Sonia Danadoff's pocketbook has been stolen, he announced, but I have the hotel door shut and we shall be sure to catch the thief. The princess came near to explain matters, but at that moment the servants came down from upstairs bringing with them the makeup articles which they had found in the lift. They laid these on the ground without a word and Monsieur Louis was staring at them when Mueller had a sudden inspiration. Monsieur Louis, what is the new man on the second floor like? Just at that instant, a servant appeared at the end of the corridor, a middle-aged man with white whiskers and a bald head. There he is coming towards us, Monsieur Louis replied. His name is Arnold. Good God! cried Mueller and the red-headed fellow, the charity chap. Monsieur Louis shook his head, not understanding and Mueller tore himself away and rushed down to the hall porter. Has he gone out? Has anyone gone out? No one said the porter, except of course the servant from the second floor, whom he sent for the police. The charity chap? Mueller inquired. Yes, the charity chap. Princess Sonia Danadoff laid back in an easy chair, receiving the anxious attentions of Nadine, her sarcissian made. Monsieur Louis was holding salt to her nostrils. The princess still held in her hand the card left by the mysterious stranger who had just robbed her so cleverly of 120,000 francs. As she slowly came to herself, the princess gazed at the card as if fascinated, and this time her haggard eyes drew wide with astonishment. For upon the card, which hitherto had appeared immaculately white, marks and letters were gradually becoming visible, and the princess read, PHANTOMAS. Magistrate and Detective Monsieur Fusillier was standing in his office in the law courts at Paris, meditatively smoothing the nap of his silk hat. His mind was busy with the inquiries he had been prosecuting during the day, and although he had no reason to be dissatisfied with his day's work, he had no clear idea as to what his next steps ought to be. Three discreet taps on the door broke in upon his thoughts. Come in, he said, and then stepped forward with a hearty welcome as he recognized his visitor. Juv, by all that is wonderful, what good wind has blown you here? I haven't seen you for ages, busy and frightfully. Well, it's a fact that there's no dearth of sensational crimes just now, the calendar is terribly heavy. Juv had ensconced himself in a huge easy chair in a corner of the room. Yes, he said, you are quite right, but unfortunately the calendar won't be a brilliant one for the police. There may be lots of cases, but there are not lots that they have worked out to a finish. You've got nothing to grumble at, Monsieur Fusillier smiled. You have been in enough cases lately that were worked out to a finish. Your reputation isn't in any danger of diminishing. I don't know what you mean, Juv said deprecatingly. If you refer to the Belfam and Lagrune cases, you must admit that your congratulations are not deserved. I have achieved no definite result in either of those affairs. Monsieur Fusillier also dropped into a comfortable chair. He lighted a cigarette. You have found out nothing fresh about that mysterious murder of Lord Belfam? Nothing, I'm done. It is an insoluble mystery to me. You seem to be very sorry for yourself, but really you needn't be, Juv. You cleared up the Belfam case and you solved the Lagrune case, although you try to make out you didn't, and allow me to inform you those two successes count, my friend. You are very kind, but you are rather misinformed. Unfortunately, I have not cleared up the Melfam case at all. You found the missing peer. Well, yes, but that was an amazing achievement. By the way, Juv, what led you to the Rue Laverre to search Gern's trunks? That was very simple. You remember what an excitement there was when Lord Belfam disappeared? Well, when I was called in, I saw it once that all ideas of accident or suicide might be dismissed, and that consequently the disappearance was due to crime. Once convinced of that, I very naturally suspected every single person who had ever had relations with Lord Belfam, for there was no single individual for me to suspect. Then I found out that the ex-ambassador had been in continuous association with an Englishman named Gern, whom he had known in the South African War, and who led a very queer sort of life. That, of course, took me to Gern's place, if for nothing else than to pick up information. And, well, that's all about it. It was just by going to Gern's place to pump him, rather than anything else, that I found the noble Lord's remains locked away in the trunk. Your modesty is delightful, Juv, submissive or fusillier with an improving nod. You present things as if they were all matters of course, whereas really you are proving your extraordinary instinct. If you had arrived only 24 hours later, the corpse would have been packed off to the transvaal, and only the Lord knows if, after that, the extraordinary mystery ever would have been cleared up. Luck, Juv protested, pure luck. And were your other remarkable discoveries luck too, inquired Monsieur Fusillier with a smile. There was your discovery that sulfate of zinc had been injected into the body to prevent it from smelling offensively. That was only a matter of using my eyes, Juv protested. All right, said the magistrate. We will admit that you did not display any remarkable acumen in the Belfam case, if you would rather have it so. That does not alter the fact that you have solved the Lagrune case. Solved it. Monsieur Fusillier flicked the ash off his cigarette and leant forward toward the detective. Of course, you know that I know you were at the cohors of sizes, Juv. What was your impression of the whole affair of the verdict and of Etienne Rambert's guilt or innocence? Juv got up and began to walk up and down the room, followed by the magistrate's eyes. He seemed to be hesitating as to whether he would answer at all, but finally he stopped abruptly and faced his friend. If I were talking to anybody but you, Monsieur Fusillier, I would not answer at all, or I would give an answer that was no answer, but as it is, well, in my opinion, the Lagrune case is only just beginning, and nothing certain is known at all. According to that, Charles Rambert is innocent. I don't say that. What then? I suppose you don't think the father was the murderer? The hypothesis is not absurd, but there, what is the real truth of the whole affair? That is what I am wondering all the time. That murder is never out of my head. It interests me more and more every day. Oh yes, I've got lots of ideas, but they are all utterly vague and improbable. Sometimes my imagination seems to be running away with me. He stopped, and Monsieur Fusillier wagged a mocking finger at him. Juv, he said, I charge you formally with attempting to implicate Fontemasse in the murder of the Marquis de Lagrune. The detective replied in the same tone of railery. Guilty, my lord. Good lord, man, the magistrate exclaimed. Fontemasse is a perfect obsession with you, and as Juv acquiesced with a laugh, the magistrate dropped his bantering tone. Shall I tell you something, Juv? I too am beginning to have an obsession for that fantastic miscreant. And what I want to know is why you have not come to me before to ask me about that sensational robbery at the Royal Palace Hotel. The robbery from Princess Sonja Dynadoff? Yes, the Fontemasse robbery. Fontemasse, Juv protested, that remains to be seen. Why, man, Monsieur Fusillier retorted, you have heard that detail about the card the man left, haven't you? The visiting card was blank when the princess found it, and on which the name of Fontemasse afterwards became visible? There's no Fontemasse about that in my opinion. Why not? Well, it isn't one of Fontemasse's little ways to leave clear traces behind him. One might as well picture him committing robbery or murder in a cap with a neat little band around it, Fontemasse and company. He might even add discretion and dispatch. No, it's most unlikely. You don't think Fontemasse capable of throwing down his glove to the police in the shape of some such material proof of his identity? I always base my arguments on the balance of probabilities, Juv replied. What emerges from this Royal Palace story is that some common hotel thief conceived the ingenious idea of casting suspicion on Fontemasse. It was just a trick to mislead the police. At least, that is my opinion. A Monsieur Fusillier declined to be convinced. No, you are wrong, Juv. It was no common hotel thief who stole Madame van der Rozen's necklace and Princess Sonia's 120,000 francs. The prize was big enough to appeal to Fontemasse, and the amazing audacity of the crime is suggestive too. Just think what coolness the man must have had to be able to paralyze a princess's power of resistance when she tried to call for help and also to get clear away in spite of the host of servants in the hotel and all the precautions taken. Tell me all about the robbery, Monsieur Fusillier, said Juv. The magistrate sat down at his desk and took up the notes he had made in the course of his official inquiry that day. He told Juv everything he had been able to elicit. The most amazing thing to me, he said in conclusion, is the way the fellow, when he had once got out of Princess Sonia's room, contrived to get into the lift, shed his evening dress, get into livery, and make his first attempt to escape. When the haul porter stopped him, he did not lose his head, but got into the lift again, sent that flying up to the top of the hotel with the clothes that would have betrayed him, calmly presented himself before Mueller, the night watchman, and contrived to be told to go for the police, ran down the stairs again, and took advantage of the night watchman's telephoning to the haul porter to get the ladder to open the door for him, and so marched off as easily as you please. A man who kept his nerve like that and could make such amazing use of every circumstance, who is so quick and daring, and who is capable of carrying through such a difficult comedy in the middle of the general uproar, richly deserves to be taken for Funtomas. Juv sat in deep consideration of the whole story. That isn't what interests me most, he said at last. His escape from the hotel might have been affected by any clever thief. What I think more remarkable is the means he took to prevent the Princess from screaming when he was just leaving her rooms. That really was masterly. Instead of trying to get her as far away as possible, and shut her up in her bedroom, to take her with him to the very door opening onto the corridor, where the faintest cry might have involved the worst possible consequences, and to be sure that the terror he had inspired would prevent her from uttering that cry. To be able to assume that the victim was so overwrought that she would make no effort at all, and could do nothing, that is really very good indeed. Quite admirable psychology, fine work. So you see, there are some unusual features in the case, semi-sur-fusilier complacently. This for instance, why do you suppose the fellow stayed such a long time with the Princess, and went through all that comedy business in the bathroom? Don't forget that she came in late, and it is extremely probable that he might have finished his job before she returned. Juv passed his hand through his hair, a characteristic trick of his when his mind was working. I can imagine only one answer to that question, Mr. Fusilier. But you have inspected the scene of the crime. Tell me, where do you think the rascal was hidden? Oh, I can answer that definitely. The Princess's suite of rooms ends in the bathroom, you know, and the chief things there are the famous bath, some cupboards, and a shower bath. The shower bath is one of those large model norchers with lateral as well as vertical sprays, and a waterproof curtain hanging from rings at the top right down to the tub at the bottom. There were foot marks on the enamel of the tub, so it is clear that the thief hid there behind the curtain until the Princess got into her bath. And I suppose the shower bath is in the corner of the room near the window Juv went on, and the window is partly open, or had been, until the maid went in to prepare her mistress's bath. It's quite interesting. The man had just succeeded in stealing the necklace from Madame Vandenrozen, whose rooms are next to Princess Sonia's. For some reason or other, he had not been able to escape through the corridor, and so he naturally made up his mind to get into the Princess's suite, which he did by the simple process of stepping over the railing on the balcony and walking in through the open window of the dressing room. And then Nadine came in, and he had to hide. No, no, said Juv. You were getting on too fast. If that had been so, there would have been no need for all the bath business. Besides, the Princess was robbed, too, you know. That was not just chance. It was planned. And so, if the thief hid in the shower bath, he did so on purpose to wait for the Princess. But he did not want her, fuselier retorted, very much the reverse. If he was in the room before anybody else, all he had to do was take her pocketbook and go. Not a bit of it, said Juv. This robbery took place at the end of the month, when the Princess would have big monthly bills to meet, as the thief must have known. He must have found out that she withdrawn her portfolio and money from the custody of the hotel. But he must have been ignorant of where she had placed the portfolio, and he waited for her to ask her, and she told him. That's a pretty tall yarn, Monsieur Fuselier protested. What on earth do you base it all upon? The Princess would never have shown the man the drawer where the money was taken from. Yes, she did, said Juv. Look here. This is what happened. The fellow wanted to steal this pocketbook and did not know where it was. He hid in the shower bath and waited, either for the Princess to go to bed or take a bath, either of which would place her at his mercy. When the lady was in the bath, he appeared, threatened her until she was terrified, and then bucked her up a bit again and hid on the dodge of putting out the electric light, not out of respect for her wounded feelings, but simply in order to get a chance to search through her clothes and make sure that the pocketbook was not there. I'm convinced that if he had found it then, he would have bolted at once, but he didn't find it. So he went to the end of the next room and waited for the Princess to come to him there, which is precisely what she did. He did not know where the money was, so he watched every movement of her eyes and saw them go automatically towards the drawer and stay there. Then he slipped his card into the drawer, abstracted the pocketbook, and took his leave, driving his impudence and skill to the length of making her see him to the door. Upon my word, Juv, you are a wonder, Mr. Fusiliers said admiringly. I've spent the entire day cross-examining everybody in the hotel, and came to no definite conclusion, and you, who have not seen anything or anybody connected with it, sit in that chair and in five minutes clear up the entire mystery. What a pity you won't believe that Fantomas had a finger in this pie. What a pity you won't take up the search. Juv paid no attention to the compliments to his skill. He took out his watch and looked at the time. I must go, he said. It's quite time I was at my own work. Well, we may not have been wasting our time, Mr. Fusiliers. I admit that I had not paid much attention to the Royal Palace Hotel Robbery. You have really interested me in it. I won't make any promises, but I think I shall very likely come again in a day or two for another talk with you about the case. It really interests me now, and when once I'm quit of one or two pressing jobs, I don't say I shan't ask leave to go thoroughly into it with you. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Alan Winteroud, boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 12 of Fantomas by Marcella Lane and Pierre Souvestre. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winteroud. Fantomas by Marcella Lane and Pierre Souvestre. Translated by Cranston Metcalf. Chapter 12, A Knockout Blow. The staff of the Royal Palace Hotel were just finishing dinner, and the greatest animation prevailed in the vast white-tiled servants' hall. The tone of the conversation varied at different tables, for the servants jealously observed a strict order of precedence among themselves. But the present topic was the same at all. The recent sensational robbery from Madame van den Rozen and the Princess Sonja Danadoff. At one table, smaller than the rest, a party of upper servants sat, under managers, or heads of departments. Monsieur Louis was here, the general manager. Monsieur Mullen, the superintendent of the second floor. Monsieur Ludovic, chief valet. Monsieur Maurice, head footman. Monsieur Naoud, chief cashier. And last but not least, Mademoiselle Jean, the young lady cashier whose special duty it was to take charge of all the monies and valuables deposited in the custody of the hotel by guests who wish to relieve themselves of the responsibility of keeping these in their own rooms. This small and select company was increased tonight by the addition of Monsieur Henri Verbié, a man of about 40 years of age, who had left the branch hotel at Cairo belonging to the same company to join the staff at the Royal Palace Hotel in Paris. I am afraid, Monsieur Verbié, you will form a very bad opinion of our establishment, said Monsieur Mullen to him. It is really a pity that you should have left the Cairo branch and come here just when these robberies have put the royal palace under a cloud. Henri Verbié smiled. You need not be afraid of my attaching too much importance to that, he said. I have been in hotel life for 15 years now, in one capacity or other, and as you may suppose I've known similar cases before, so they don't surprise me much. But one thing does surprise me, Monsieur Mullen, and that is that no clue has yet been found. I suppose the Board have done everything that can be done to trace the culprit, the reputation of the hotel is at stake. I should think they have looked for him, said Monsieur Louis, with the pathetic shrug of his shoulders. Why they even up braided me for having had the door open for the thief. Luckily, I had a good friend in Mueller who admitted that he had been completely imposed upon and that he had given the order for the fellow, whom he supposed to be the second floor waiter, to be allowed to go out. I knew nothing about it. And how was I to guess that the man was an impostor, Mueller protested? All the same, Henri Verbié retorted, it is uncommonly annoying for everybody when things like that happen. So long as one has not committed any breach of orders and so can't be made escape good of, one mustn't grumble, Monsieur Mueller said. Louis and I did exactly what our duty required, and no one can say anything to us. The magistrate acknowledged that a week ago. He does not suspect anybody, Henri Verbié asked. No, nobody, Mueller answered. Monsieur Louis smiled. Yes, he did suspect somebody, Verbié, he said, and that was your charming neighbor, Manmousal Jean there. Verbié turned toward the young cashier. What? The magistrate tried to make out that you were implicated in it? The girl had only spoken a few words during the whole of dinner, though Henri Verbié had made several gallant attempts to draw her into the general conversation. Now she laughingly protested. Monsieur Louis only says that to tease me. But Monsieur Louis stuck to his guns, not a bit of it, Manmousal Jean. I said it because it is the truth. The magistrate was on to you, I tell you he was. Why, Monsieur Verbié, he cross-examined her for more than a half an hour after the general confrontation, while he finished with Mueller and me in less than 10 minutes. God, Monsieur Louis, a magistrate is a man, isn't he? Said Henri Verbié gallantly. The magistrate may have enjoyed talking to Manmousal Jean more than he did to you, if I may suggest it without seeming rude. There was a general laugh at this sally on the part of the new superintendent, and then Monsieur Louis continued. Well, if he wanted to make up to her, he went a funny way to work, for he made her angry. Did he really, said Henri Verbié, turning again to the girl? Why did the magistrate cross-examine you so much? The young cashier shrugged her shoulders. We have thrashed it out so often, Monsieur Verbié, but I will tell you the whole story. During the morning of the day when the robbery was committed, I had returned to Princess Sonia Danadoff, the pocketbook containing 120,000 francs, which she had given into my custody a few days before. I could not refuse to give it to her when she asked for it, could I? How was I to know that it would be stolen from her the same evening? Customers deposit their valuables with me, and I hand them her a seat. They give me back the receipt when they demand their valuables, and all I have to do is comply with their request without asking questions. Isn't that so? But that was not what puzzled the magistrate, I suppose, said Henri Verbié. You are the custodian of all valuables, and you only complied strictly with your orders. Yes, Monsieur Muller broke in, but Mademoiselle Jean has only told you part of the story. Just fancy, only a few minutes before the robbery, Madame van den Rosen had asked Mademoiselle Jean to take charge of her diamond necklace, and Mademoiselle Jean had refused. That really was bad luck for you, said Henri Verbié to the girl with a laugh, and I quite understand that the magistrate thought it rather odd. They are in kind, she protested. From the way they put it, Monsieur Verbié, you really might think that I refused to take charge of Madame van den Rosen's jewelry in order to make things easy for the thief, which is as much to say that I was his accomplice. That is precisely what the magistrate did think, Monsieur Louis interpolated. The girl took no notice of the interruption, but went on with her explanation to Henri Verbié. What happened was this. The rule is that I am at the disposal of customers to take charge of deposits or return them to their owners until 9 p.m., and until 9 p.m. only. After that, my time is up, and all I have to do is lock my safe and go. I am free until 9 o'clock next morning. You know that it does not do to take liberties in a position like mine. So when, on the day of the robbery, Madame van den Rosen came with her diamond necklace at half past nine, I was perfectly within my rights in refusing to accept the deposit. That's right enough, said Monsieur Muller, who having finished his dessert was now sipping coffee into which he had tipped sugar until it was as thick as syrup. But you were disobliging, my dear lady, and that was what struck the magistrate. For really, it would not have been much trouble to register the new deposit and take charge of Madame van den Rosen's necklace for her. No, it wouldn't, the girl replied. But when there is a rule, it seems to me that it ought to be obeyed. My time is up at 9 o'clock, and I am forbidden to accept any deposits after 9 o'clock, and that's why I refuse that lady's. I was perfectly right, and I should do the same again if the same thing happened. Henri Verbié was manifestly anxious to conciliate the young cashier. He expressed his approval of her conduct now. I quite agree with you. It never does to put interpretations upon orders. It was your duty to close your safe at 9 o'clock, and you did close it then, and no one can say anything to you. But joking apart, what did the magistrate want? The girl shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of indifference. You see, I was right just now. Monsieur Louis is only trying to tease me by saying that the magistrate cross-examined me severely. As a matter of fact, I was simply asked what I had just told you, and when I gave all this explanation, no fault at all was found with me. As she spoke, mine was Eugene folded her napkin carefully, pushed back her chair, and shook hands with her two neighbors at table. Good night, she said. I am going up to bed. Mademoiselle Jean had hardly left the room before Henri Verbié also rose from the table and prepared to follow her example. Monsieur Louis gave Monsieur Mueller a friendly dig in his comfortable punch. A pound to a penny, he said, that friend Verbié means to make up to Mademoiselle Jean. Well, I wish him luck, but that young lady is not very easy to tame. You didn't succeed, Monsieur Mueller replied unkindly, but it doesn't follow that nobody else will. Monsieur Louis was not deceived. Henri Verbié evidently did think his neighbor at table a very charming young woman. Mademoiselle Jean had hardly reached her room on the fifth floor of the hotel and flung open her window to gaze over the magnificent panorama spread out below her and inhale the still night air when a gentle tap fell upon the door and, complying with her summons to come in, Henri Verbié entered the room. My room is next to yours, he said, and as I saw you were standing dreaming at your window, I thought perhaps you would condescend to smoke an Egyptian cigarette. I have brought some back from Cairo. It is very mild tobacco, real ladies' tobacco. The girl laughed and took a dainty cigarette from the case that Henri Verbié offered her. It is very kind of you to think of me, she said. I don't make a habit of smoking, but I let myself be tempted sometimes. If I have been kind, you can show your gratitude very easily, Henri Verbié replied, by allowing me to stay here a few minutes and smoke a cigarette with you. By all means, said Mademoiselle Jean, I love to spend a little time at my window at night to get the air before going to bed. You will prevent me from getting tired of my own company and can tell me all about Cairo. I am afraid I know very little about Cairo, Henri Verbié replied. You see, I spent almost the whole of my time in the hotel, but as you seem so kind and so friendly disposed, I wish you would tell me things. But I am a very ignorant young woman. You are a woman and that's enough. Listen, I am a newcomer here and I am quite aware that my arrival and my position will make me some enemies. Now whom ought I to be on my guard against? Who is there among the staff of whom I ought to be careful as doubtful associates? I ask with all the more concern, because I will tell you frankly that I have no personal introduction to the board. I have not got the same chance that you have. How did you know I had any introduction? The girl inquired. God, I am sure of it, Henri Verbié answered. He was leaning his elbows on the window sill and gradually drawing closer to the young cashier. I don't suppose that an important position like the one you hold requiring absolute integrity and competence is given without fullest investigation. Your work is not tiring, but that does not mean it would be entrusted to anybody. You are quite right, Monsieur Verbié. I did have an introduction to the board, and I had first rate testimonials too. Have you been in business long? Two years, three years? Yes, mademoiselle Jean replied, purposely refraining from being explicit. I only act because I fancy I have seen you before somewhere. I recognize your eyes. Henri Verbié smiled and looked meaningly at the girl. Mademoiselle Jean, on summer nights like this, when you are looking at a lovely view like this, don't you have a funny sort of feeling? No, what do you mean? Oh, I don't know, but you see I'm a sentimental chap unfortunately, and I really suffer a lot from always living in lonely isolation. Without any affection, there are times when I feel as if love were an absolute necessity. The cashier looked at him ironically. That's all foolishness. Love is only stupid and ought to be guarded against as the worst possible mistake. Love always means misery for working people like us. It is you who are foolish Henri Verbié protested gently, or else you are mischievous. No, love is not stupid for working people like us. On the contrary, it is the only means we have of attaining perfect happiness. Lovers are rich. In wealth that lets them die of hunger, she scoffed. No, no, he answered. No, look here. All today you and I have been working hard, earning our living. Well, suppose you were not laughing at me, but we were really lovers. Would not this be the time to enjoy the living we have earned? And as the girl did not reply, Henri Verbié, who like an experienced wooer, had been drawing closer to her all the time, until now his shoulder was touching hers, took her hand. Would not this be sweet, he said. I should take your little fingers into mine like this. I should look at them so tenderly and raise them to my lips. But the girl rested herself away. Let me go. I won't have it. Do you understand? And then to mitigate the sharpness of her rebut, and also to change the conversation, she said, it is beginning to turn cold. I will put a cloak over my shoulders. And she moved away from the window to unhook a cloak from a peg on the wall. Henri Verbié watched her without moving. How unkind you are, he said approachfully, disregarding the angry gleam in her eyes. Can it really be wrong to enjoy a kiss on a lovely night like this? If you are cold, mademoiselle Jean, there is a better way of getting warm than by putting a wrap over one's shoulders, and that is by resting in someone else's arms. He put out his arms as he spoke, ready to catch the girl as she came across the room, was on the very point of taking her into his arms as he had suggested. When she broke from his grasp with a sudden turn and furious with rage, dealt him a tremendous blow right on the temple. With a stifled groan, Henri Verbié dropped unconscious to the floor. Mademoiselle Jean stared at him for a moment as if done founded. Then with quite amazing rapidity, the young cashier sprang to the window and hurriedly closed it. She took down her hat from a hook on the wall and put it on with a single gesture, opened the drawer and took out a little bag, and then, after listening for a minute to make sure that there was nobody in the passage outside her room, she opened her door, went out, rapidly turned the key behind her and ran down the stairs. Two minutes later, Mademoiselle Jean smilingly passed the porter on duty and wished him good night. Bye-bye, she said, I'm going out to get a little fresh air. Slowly, as if emerging from some extraordinary dream, Henri Verbié began to recover from his brief unconsciousness. He could not understand at first what had happened to him, why he was lying on the floor, why his head ached so much, or why his bloodshot eyes saw everything through a mist. He gradually struggled into a sitting posture and looked around the room. Nobody here, he muttered. Then, as if the sound of his own voice had brought him back to life, he got up and hurried to the door and shook it furiously. Locked, he growled angrily, and I can call till I'm black in the face. No one has come upstairs yet, I'm trapped. He turned toward the window with some idea of calling for help, but as he passed the mirror over the mantelpiece, he caught sight of his own reflection and saw the bruise on his forehead with a tiny stream of blood beginning to trickle from a cut in the skin. He went close to the glass and looked at himself in dismay. Zhuv, though I am, he murmured, I've let myself be knocked out by a woman. And then Zhuv, for Zhuv it was, cleverly disguised, uttered a sudden oath, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth in rage. Khan found it all. I'll take my oath that blow was never dealt by any woman. 13. Therese's Future Monsieur Etienne Rambert was in the smoking room of the house which he had purchased a few months previously in the Place Pelière Rue Eugène Flachet, smoking and chatting with his old friend Barbé, who was also his banker. The two had been discussing investments, and the wealthy merchant had displayed considerable indifference to the banker's recommendations of various guilt-edged securities. To tell you the truth, my dear fellow, he said at length, these things interest me very little. I've got used to big enterprises, and almost what you would call a plunger. Of course you know that nothing is so risky as the development of rubber plantations. No doubt the industry has prospered amazingly since the boom in motorcars began, but you must remember that I went into it when no one could possibly foresee the immense market that our new means of locomotion went open for our produce. That's enough to prove to you that I'm no coward when it's a question of risking money. The banker nodded. His friends certainly did display a quite extraordinary energy and willpower for a man of his age. As a matter of fact, Monsieur Rambert went on, any business of which I am not actually a director interests me only slightly. You know I am not boasting when I say that my fortune is large enough to justify me in incurring a certain amount of financial risk without having to fear any serious modification of my social position if the venture should happen to turn out ill. I've got the sporting instinct. It's a fine one, Monsieur Barbé said with some enthusiasm, and I don't mind telling you that if I were not your banker, and so had a certain responsibility in your case, I should not hesitate to put a scheme before you that has been running in my head for a year or two now. A scheme of your own Barbé, said Monsieur Rambert, how is it you have never told me about it? I should have thought we were close enough friends for that. The hint of approach in the words pricked the banker and also encouraged him to proceed. It's a rather delicate matter, and you will understand my hesitation when I tell you, for I'll burn my boats now that it isn't any ordinary speculation, such as I am in the habit of recommending to my customers. It is a speculation in which I am interested personally. In short, I want to increase the capital of my bank and convert my house into a really large concern. Oh ho, said Monsieur Etienne Rambert, half to himself. Well, you are right Barbé, but if you want to suggest that I shall help to finance it, you had better put all the cards on the table and let me know exactly what the position is. I need not say that if nothing comes of it, I shall regard any information you give me as absolutely confidential. The two men plunged into the subject, and for a good half hour discussed it in all its bearings, making endless calculations and contemplating all contingencies. At last Monsieur Rambert threw down his pen and looked up. I'm accustomed to the American method of hustle Barbé. In principle, I like your proposition quite well, but I won't be one of your financial partners. If the thing goes through, I'll be the only one or not one at all. I know what is in your mind, he went on with a smile, as he noticed the banker's surprise. You know what my fortune is or rather you think you do, and you are wondering where I shall get the millions sterlinger thereabouts that you want. Well, make your mind easy about that. If I talk like this, it's because I've got it. The banker's bow was very different. Monsieur Rambert continued, yes, the last year or two have been good, even very good for me. I've made some lucky speculations, and my capital has been further increased by some lotteries which have turned out right quite lately. Well, he broke off with a sigh. I suppose one can't always be unlucky in everything, though money can't cure or even touch the wounds in one's heart. The banker made no answer. He shrank from waking by untimely words, the sad memories which were hardly dormant yet in the old man's mind. But Monsieur Rambert soon reverted to his business tone. I am quite disposed to be interested in a financial venture like yours Barbé, but you must understand that you will have a good deal more than a sleeping partner in me. Will that suit you? I should not ask you to abdicate your authority, but I tell you frankly I should follow all the operations of your house very closely indeed. There shall be no secrets from you, my dear friend, my dear partner, if I may call you that, said Monsieur Barbé rising, quite the contrary. The banker looked toward the mantelpiece, as if expecting to see a clock there. Monsieur Rambert understood the instinctive action and drew out his watch. Twenty minutes to eleven Barbé, laid hours for you, so off with you. He cut short the banker's half-hearted apologies for not prolonging the evening. I am turning you out quite unceremoniously, my dear chap, and besides, as you know, I'm not lonely tonight as I generally am. I have a young and very charming companion for whom I have the greatest possible affection and I am going to join her. Monsieur Etienne Rambert conducted his friend to the hall door, heard the sound of his motorcar die away in the distance, and then walked across the hall and, instead of going back to the smoking room, turned into the adjoining drawing room. He paused for a moment in the doorway, tenderly contemplating the charming spectacle that met his eyes. The shaded light from an electric lamp fell upon the bent head, oval face, and delicate features of Therese Avernois, who was intent upon a book. The girl was emerging from childhood into young womanhood now, and sorrow had heightened her natural distinction by giving her a stamp of gravity that was new. Her figure showed slight and supple, delicate and graceful, and her long tapered fingers turned over the pages of the book with slow and regular movement. Therese looked round toward Etienne Rambert when she heard him coming in, and, laying down her book, she came forward to meet him, moving with a very graceful, easy carriage. I am sure I am keeping you up most dreadfully late, dear Monsieur Rambert, she said apologetically, but what am I to do? I must wait for the Baron de Vibray, and the dear thing is so often late. The tragedy at the Chateau of Boliou had had one effect in knitting all the friends of the Marquis Stelangarune in closer bonds of friendship. Prior to that evening, Etienne Rambert had scarcely known the Baron de Vibray. Now the two were intimate friends. The Baron had not desisted from her first generous effort until she had persuaded the family council to appoint her guardian of the orphaned Therese Avernois. At first she had installed a child at Quarelle and remained there with her, leading the quietest possible life, partly out of respect for Therese's grief, and partly because she herself was also much upset by the distressing tragedy. She had even enjoyed the rest, and her new interest in playing mother, or rather elder sister, to Therese. But as the weeks went by, and time accomplished its healing work, Paris called to the Baron once more, and yielding to the solicitations of her many friends, she brought her new ward to the capital and settled in a little flat in the Roubaise d'Anglais. At first she protested that she would go out nowhere, or at most pay only absolutely necessary visits. But by degrees, she accepted first one and then many invitations, though always deploring the necessity of leaving todays for several hours at a time. Happily there was always Etienne Rambert, who was also staying in Paris just now. It had gradually become the custom of the Baron de Vibre, when she was dining out, to entrust Therese to Etienne Rambert's care, and the young girl and the old man got on together perfectly. Their hearts had met across the awful chasm that fate had tried to cut between them. To Therese's last words, now Etienne Rambert replied, You need not apologize for staying late, dear. You know how glad I am to see you. I wish the house were yours. The girl glanced round the room that had grown so familiar to her, and with a sudden rush of feeling, slipped her arm around the old man's neck and laid her fair head on his shoulder. I should so love to stay here with you, monsieur Rambert. The old man looked oddly at her for a moment, repressing the words that he might perhaps have wished to say, and then gently released himself from her affectionate clasp and led her to a sofa on which he sat down by her side. That is one of the things that we must not allow ourselves to think about, my dear, he said. I should have rejoiced to receive you in my home, and your presence and the brightness of your dear fair face would have given a charm to my lonely fireside. But unfortunately, those are vain dreams. We have to reckon with the world, and the world would not approve of a young girl like you living in the home of a lonely man. Why not? Therese inquired in surprise. Why, you might be my father. Etienne Rambert winced at the word. Ah, he said, you must not forget Therese that I am not your father, but his the father of him who, but Therese's soft hand laid upon his lips prevented him from finishing what he would have said. To change the conversation, Therese feigned concern about her own future. When we left Quarelle, she said, President Bonet told me that you would tell me something about my affairs. I gather that my fortune is not a very brilliant one. It was indeed the fact that after the murder of the Marquis, the unpleasant discovery had been made that her fortune was by no means so considerable as had generally been supposed. The estate was mortgaged, and President Bonet and Etienne Rambert had had long and anxious debates as to whether it might not be well for Therese to renounce her inheritance to Beaulieu, so doubtful did it seem whether the assets would exceed the liabilities. Etienne Rambert made a vague but significant gesture when he heard the girl raise the point now, but Therese had all the carelessness of youth. Oh, I shall not be downhearted, she exclaimed. My poor granny always gave me an example of energy and hard work. I've got plenty of pluck, and I will work too. Suppose I turn governance. Monsieur Rambert looked at her thoughtfully. My dear child, I know how brave and earnest you are, and it gives me confidence. I have thought about your future a great deal already. Some day, of course, some nice and wealthy young fellow will come along and marry you. Oh, yes, he will, you'll see. But in the meantime, it will be necessary for you to have some occupation. I am wondering whether it will not be necessary to let or even sell Beaulieu, and on the other hand, you can't always stay with a Baron de Vibre. No, I realize that, said Therese, who, with the native tact that was one of her best qualities, had quickly seen that it would not be long before she would become a difficulty in the way of the independence of the kind Baron. That is what troubles me most. Your birth and your upbringing have been such that you would certainly suffer much in taking up the difficult and delicate and sometimes painful position of governance in a family. And without wishing to be offensive, I must remind you that you need to have studied very hard to be a governance nowadays, and I would not aware that you were exactly a blue stocking. But I have an idea, and this is it. For a great many years now, I have been on the very friendliest terms with the lady you belong to the very best English society, Lady Beltham. You have perhaps heard me speak of her. Therese opened wide eyes of astonishment, and Rambert went on. A few months ago, Lady Beltham lost her husband in strange circumstances, and since then, she has been good enough to give me more of her confidence than previously. She is immensely rich and very charitable, and I have frequently been asked by her to look after some of her many financial interests. Now, I have often noticed that she has with her several young English ladies who live with her, not as companions, but shall I say secretaries. Do you understand the difference? She treats them like friends or relatives, and they all belong to the very best social class, some of them indeed being daughters of English peers. If Lady Beltham, to whom I could speak about it, would admit you into her little company, I am sure you would be in a most delightful mayeux, and Lady Beltham, whom I know you would please, would almost certainly interest herself in your future. She knows what unhappiness is as well as you do, my dear, he added, bending fondly over the girl. And she would understand you. Dear Monsieur Rambert, murmured Therese, much moved. Do that. Speak to Lady Beltham about me. I should be so glad. Therese did not finish all she would have said. A loud ring at the front doorbell broke in upon her words, and Etienne Rambert rose and walked across the room. That must be the good Baron de Vibre come for you, he said. By Marcella Lane and Pierre Souvestre. Translated by Cranston Metcalfe. Chapter 14. Mademoiselle Jean After she had so roughly disposed of the enterprising Henri Verbié, whose most unseemly advances had so greatly scandalized her, Mademoiselle Jean took to her heels, directly she was out of sight of the Royal Palace Hotel, and ran like one possessed. She stood for a moment in the brilliantly lighted, traffic-crowded Avenue Vagram, shaking with excitement and with palpitating heart, and then mechanically hailed a passing cab and told the driver to take her toward the bois. There she gave another heedless order to go to the Boulevard Saint Denis, but as the cab approached the Place de la Toie, she realized that she was once more near the Royal Palace Hotel, and stopping the driver by the tram lines, she dismissed him and got into a tram that was going to the station of Autriot. It was just half past eleven when she reached the station. When is the next train for Saint-Lazare, she asked. She learned that one was starting almost at once, and hurriedly taking a second-class ticket, she jumped into a lady's carriage and went as far as Coursel. There she alighted, went out of the station, looked around her for a minute or two to get her bearings, and then walked slowly toward the Rue Eugène Flachée. She hesitated a second, and then walked firmly toward a particular house and rang the bell. A lady to see you, sir, the footman said to Monsieur Ambert. Bring her here at once, said Monsieur Ambert, supposing that the man had kept the Baron de Vibre waiting in the ante-room. The drawing-room door was opened a little way, and someone came in and stepped quickly into the shadow by the door. Therese, who had risen to hurry toward the visitor, stopped short when she perceived it was a stranger and not her guardian. Noticing her action, Monsieur Etienne Rambert turned and looked at the person who had entered. It was a lady. To what am I indebted, he began with a bow, and then having approached the visitor, he broke off short. Good heavens! The bell rang a second time, and on this occasion, the Baron de Vibre hurried into the room a radiant incarnation of gaiety. I am most dreadfully late, she exclaimed, and was hurrying towards Monsieur Etienne Rambert with outstretched hands, full of some amusing stories she had to tell him, when she too caught sight of the strange lady standing stiffly in the corner of the room with downcast eyes. Etienne Rambert repressed his first emotion, smiled to the Baron, and then went towards the mysterious lady. Madame, he said, not a muscle of his face moving, may I trouble you to come into my study. Who is that lady, Monsieur Rambert? said Therese, when presently Monsieur Rambert came back into the drawing-room. And how white you are! Monsieur Rambert forced a smile. I am rather tired, dear. I have had a great deal to do these last few days. The Baron de Vibre was full of instant apologies. It is all my fault, she exclaimed. I am dreadfully sorry to have kept you up so late, and in a few minutes more, the Baron's car was speeding towards the Rue Boissée d'Anglais. Monsieur Rambert hurried back to his study, shut and locked the door behind him, and almost sprang toward the unknown lady, his fists clenched, his eyes starting out of his head. Charles, he exclaimed. Papa, the girl replied, and sank upon a sofa. There was silence. Etienne Rambert seemed utterly dumbfounded. I won't, I won't remain disguised as a woman any longer. I've done with it. I cannot bear it, the strange creature murmured. You must, said Rambert harshly, imperiously. I insist. The pseudo Mademoiselle Jean slowly took off the heavy wig that concealed her real features, and tore away the corsage that compressed her bosom, revealing a strong and muscular frame of a young man. No, I will not, replied the strange individual to whom Monsieur Rambert had not hesitated to give the name of Charles. I would rather anything else happened. You have got to expiate, Etienne Rambert said with the same harshness. The expiation is too great, the young fellow answered. The torture is unendurable. Charles, said Monsieur Rambert very gravely. Do you forget that legally, civilly you are dead? I would a thousand times rather be really dead, the unhappy lad exclaimed. Alas, his father murmured, speaking very fast. I thought your mind was more unhinged than it really is. I saved your life regardless of all risk, because I thought you were insane, and now I know you are a criminal. Oh yes, I know things. I know your life. Father, said Charles Rambert was so stern and determined an expression that Etienne Rambert felt a moment's fear. I want to know first of all, how you managed to save my life and make out I was dead. Was that just chance or was it planned deliberately? Confronted with this new firmness of his sons, Etienne Rambert dropped his peremptory tone, his shoulders drooped in distress. Can one anticipate things like that, he said? When we parted, my heart bled to think that you, my son, must fall into the hands of justice, and that your feet must tread the path that led to the scaffold or at least to the galleys. I wondered how I could save you. Then chance, chance mark you, brought that poor, drowned body in my way. I saw the fortunate coincidence of a faint resemblance and resolved to pass it off for you. I got those women's clothes which you exchanged for yours, buried the dead man's clothes and put yours on the corpse. Do you know Charles that I have suffered to? Do you know what agony and torture I, as a man of honor, have endured? Have you not heard the story of my appearance at the Assizes and of my humiliation in court? You did all that, Charles Rambert murmured. Strange chance indeed. Then his tone changed and he sobbed, Oh, my dear father, what an awful fatality it all is. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, but I committed no crime, Papa. I never killed the Marquis de Lan Grune. Oh, do believe me, why you have just this minute said you know I am not mad. Etienne Rambert looked at his son with distress. Not mad, my poor boy, yet perhaps you were mad then. Then he stopped abruptly. Don't let us go over all that again. I forbid it, absolutely. He leaned back on his writing table, folded his arms, and asked sternly, Have you come here only to tell me that? The curt questions seemed to affect the lad strangely. All his former audacity dropped from him. Nervously, he stammered. I can't remain a woman any longer. Why not? snapped Etienne Rambert. I can't. The two men looked at each other in silence, as if trying to read one another's thoughts. Then Etienne Rambert seemed to see the inner meaning of the words his son had just said. I see, he answered slowly. I understand. The Royal Palace Hotel where Mademoiselle Jean held a trusted post has just been the scene of a daring robbery. Obviously, if anyone could prove that Charles Rambert and the new cashier were one and the same person. But the young fellow understood the insinuation and burst out. I did not commit that robbery. You did, Etienne Rambert insisted. You did. I read the newspaper accounts of the robbery, read them with all the agony that only a father like me with a son like you could feel. The detectives and the magistrates read a loss to find the key to the mystery. But I saw clearly in it once what the solution of the mystery was. And I knew and understood because I knew it was you. I did not commit the robbery, Charles Rambert shouted. Do you mean to begin all your horrible insinuations again as you did a bowl to you? He demanded in almost threatening tones. What evil spirit obsesses you? Why will you insist that your unhappy son is a criminal? I had nothing to do with those robberies at the hotel. I swear I had not, father. Monsieur Rambert shrugged his shoulders and clasped his hands. What have I done, he muttered, to have so heavy a cross laid on me. He turned again to his son. Your defense is childish. What is the use of mere denials? Words don't mean anything without proofs to support them. The lad was silent, seeming to think it useless to attempt to convince a father who appeared so certain of his guilt and also crushed by the thought of all that had happened at the hotel. His father betrayed some uneasiness at a new thought that had come into his mind. I told you not to come to me again except as a last resource when punishment was actually overtaking you or when you had proved your innocence. Why are you here now? Has something happened that I do not know about? What has happened? What have you done? Speak. Charles Rambert answered in a toneless voice, as if hypnotized. There has been a detective in the hotel for the last few days. He called himself Henri Verbié and it was disguised that I knew him for I had seen him too lately and in circumstances too deeply impressed upon my mind for me to be able to forget him, although I only saw him then for a few minutes. What do you mean? said the elder man uneasily. I mean that Juv was at the Royal Palace Hotel. Juv exclaimed Etienne Rambert. And then go on. Juv disguised as Henri Verbié subjected me to a kind of examination and I don't know what conclusion he came to. Then this evening, barely two hours ago, he came up to my room and had a long talk and while he was trying to get some information from me about a matter that I know nothing about, for I swear papa that I had nothing whatever to do with the robbery. He came up to me and took hold of me as a man does when he wants to make up to a woman. And I lost my head. I felt that in another minute all would be up with me that he would establish my identity which he perhaps suspected already and I thought of all that you had done to save my life by representing that I was dead and Charles paused for breath. His father's fists were clenched and his face contracted. Go on he said. Go on but speak lower. As Juv came close, Charles went on. I dealt him a terrific blow on the forehead and he felt like a stone and I got away. Is he dead? Etienne Rambeir whispered. I don't know. For 10 minutes Charles Rambeir remained alone in the study where his father had left him thinking deeply. Then the door opened and Etienne Rambeir came back carrying a bundle of clothes. There you are he said to his son here are some man's clothes put them on and go. The young man hastily took off his women's garments and dressed himself in silence while his father walked up and down the room plunged in deepest thought. Twice he asked are you quite sure it was Juv? And twice his son replied quite sure and once again Etienne Rambeir asked in tones that betrayed his keen anxiety did you kill him? And Charles Rambeir shrugged his shoulders and replied I told you before I do not know. And now Charles Rambeir stood upon the threshold of the house about to leave his father without a word of farewell or a parting embrace. Monsieur Etienne Rambeir stayed him holding out a pocket book filled full with bank notes. There take that he said and go. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Fantomas by Marcella Lane and Pierre Suvestre. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Allen Winterout. Fantomas by Marcella Lane and Pierre Suvestre translated by Cranston Metcalf. Chapter 15. The Mad Woman's Plot. When Dr. Biron built his famous private asylum in the very heart of Passet intended, according to his prospectus, to provide a retreat for people suffering from nervous breakdown or from overwork or over excitement and to offer hospital treatment to the insane. In order to secure a kind of official sanction for his institution, he took the wise precaution to proclaim from the house tops that he would enlist the services of ex-medical officers of the hospitals. This idea was a shrewd and a successful one, and his establishment drove. Peret and Symbadol were having breakfast and also were grumbling. I shouldn't curse the meanness of the management quite so much if they didn't put us on all the jobs, said Symbadol. Hang it all, man. We are both qualified, and when we undertook to assist Dr. Biron, we did so, I presume, in order to top off our theoretical training with some practical clinical experience. Who's stopping you, Peret inquired? How can we find the time when, besides all our actual work with the patients, we have to do all this administrative work, writing to people to say how the patients are and all that. That ought to be done by clerks, not by us. Isn't one job as good as another, Peret retorted? Besides, we are the only people who know how the patients really are, so it's common sense that we should have to write to their friends. They might let us have a secretary anyhow, Symbadol growled. Peret saw that his friend was in a bad temper, so did not try to carry on the argument. Say, he said, you ought to make a special note of that case of number 25 for your thesis. She was in your ward for about six months, wasn't she? Number 25, said Symbadol. Yes, I know. A woman named Rambert aged about 40, hallucination that people are persecuting her, anemic with alternate crises of excitement and melancholia, punctuated by fits of passion, treatment, rest, nourishment, anodynes. You evidently remember the case distinctly. She interested me. She had marvelous eyes. Well, what about her? Why, when she was moved into my pavilion, the diagnosis was bad and the prognosis very bad. She was supposed to be incurable. Just go and see her now. Her brain is restored. She's a new woman. He came to the table and picked up some note paper. I wrote to her husband a day or two ago and told him he might expect to hear that his wife had recovered, but I imagine my letter miscarried before I've had no answer. I have a good mind to write him again and ask for permission to send her to the convalescent home. The mischief of it all is that this Etienne Rambeir may want to remove her all together, and that would mean one paying patient less, which would put our worthy doctor in a bad temper for a month. He turned to his correspondence and for some minutes, the silence of the room was only broken by the scratching of pins on paper. Then an attendant came in, bringing a quantity of letters. Perret picked them up and began to sort them out. None for you, he said to Simba Del. Not one of those little mauve envelopes which you look for every day and which decide what your temper will be. I must look out for storms. Shant even have time to grouse today, Simba Del growled again. You forget that Swelding pays us an official visit today. The Danish professor? Is it this morning that he is coming? So it seems. Who is this fellow? Just one of those foreign savants who haven't succeeded in becoming famous at home and so go abroad to worry other people under a pretext of investigations. That's why he wants to come here. Wrote some beastly little pamphlet on the identology of the super imaginative. Never heard of it myself. The conversation dropped and presently the two men went off to the wards to see their patients and warned the attendants to have everything in apple pie order for the official inspection. Meanwhile in the great drawing room, elaborate courtesies were being exchanged between Dr. Biran and Professor Swelding. Dr. Biran was a man of about 40 with a highly colored face and an active vigorous frame. He gesticulated freely and spoke in an unctuous fawning tone. I am delighted at the great compliments you pay me by coming here, sir, he said. When I started this institution five years ago, I certainly did not dare to hope that it would so soon win sufficient reputation to entitle it to the honor of inspection by men so imminent in the scientific world as yourself. The professor listened with a courteous smile, but he venced no hurry in replying. Professor Swelding was certainly a remarkable figure. He might have been 60, but he bore very lightly the weight of the years that had laid their snows upon his thick and curling but startlingly white hair. It was this hair that attracted attention first. It was of extraordinary thickness and was joined on to a heavy mustache and a long and massive beard. He was like a man who might have taken a vow never to cut his hair. It covered his eyes and grew low upon his forehead so that hardly a vestige of the face could be seen. While further, all the expression of the eyes was concealed behind large blue spectacles. The professor was enveloped in a heavy cloak in spite of the bright sunshine. Evidently he was one of those men from the cold north who do not know what real warmth is and have no idea of what it means to be too thickly clothed. He spoke French correctly, but with a slight accent and a slow ununciation that betrayed a foreign origin. I was really anxious, sir, to observe for myself the measures you have taken which have set your institution in the forefront of establishment of the kind, he replied. I have read with the very greatest interest your various communications to the transactions of learned societies. It is a great advantage for a practitioner like myself to be able to profit by the experience of a savant of your high standing. If you further compliments were exchanged, and then Dr. Bironde suggested a visit to the various wards and let his guest out into the grounds of the institution. If Dr. Bironde did not possess that theoretical knowledge of insanity which has made French alienists famous throughout the world, he was certainly a first-rate organizer. His sanatorium was a model one. It was situated in one of the wealthiest, quietest, and ariest quarters of Paris and stood in a vast enclosure behind high walls. Within this enclosure, a number of small pavilions were built, all attractive in design, and communicating by broad flights of steps with a beautiful garden studded with trees and shrubs, but further subdivided into a series of little gardens separated from one another by white lattice palings. You see, Professor, I rely entirely on the isolation principle. A single block would have involved a deleterious collection of various types of insanity, so I built this series of small pavilions where my patients can be segregated according to their type of alienation. The system has great therapeutic advantages and I am sure it is the explanation of my high percentage of cures. Professor Swelding nodded approval. We apply the system of segregation in Denmark, he said, but we have never carried it so far as to divide the general grounds. I see that each of your pavilions has its own private garden. I regard that as indispensable, Dr. Bironde declared. He led his visitor to one of the little gardens, where a man of about fifty was walking about between two attendants. This man is a megalomaniac, he said. He believes that he is the Almighty. What is your treatment here, Professor Swelding inquired? I am aware that the books prescribe isolation, but that is not sufficient by itself. I nursed the brain by nursing the body, Dr. Bironde replied. I build up my patient system by careful attention to hygiene, diet and rest, and I pretend to ignore his mental alienation. There is always a spark of sound sense in a diseased brain. This man imagines he is the Almighty, but when he is hungry, he has to ask for something to eat, and then we pretend to wonder why he has any need to eat if he is the Almighty. He has to concoct some explanation, and very gradually his reasoning power is restored. A man ceases to be insane the moment he begins to comprehend that he is insane. The professor followed the doctor, casting curious eyes at the various patients who were walking in their gardens. Have you many cures? That is a difficult question to answer, said Dr. Bironde. The statistics are so very different in the different categories of insanity. Of course, said Professor Swelding, but take some particular type of dementia, say hallucination of persecution. What percentage of cures can you show there? 20% absolute recoveries and 40% definite improvements, the doctor replied promptly, and as the professor events unmistakable astonishment at so high a percentage, Dr. Bironde took him familiarly by the arm and drew him along. I will show you a patient who actually is to be sent home in a day or two. I believe that she is completely cured, or on the very point of being completely cured. A woman of about 40 was sitting in one of the gardens by the side of an attendant, quietly sewing. Dr. Bironde paused to draw his visitors particular attention to her. That lady belongs to one of the best of our great merchant families. She is Madame Alice Rambert, wife of Etienne Rambert, the rubber merchant. She has been under my care for nearly 10 months. When she came here, she was in the last stage of debility and anemia and suffered from the most characteristic hallucination of all. She thought that assassins were all around her. I have built up her physical system, and now I have cured her mind. At the present moment, that lady is not mad at all in the proper sense of the term. She never shows any symptoms of reverting to her morbid condition. Professor Swelding inquired with interest. Never. And would not even violently upset? I do not think so. May I talk to her? Certainly, and Dr. Bironde led the visitor toward the seat on which the patient was sitting. Madame Rambert, he said, may I present Professor Swelding to you. He has heard that you are here and would like to pay his respects. Madame Rambert put down her needlework and rose and looked at the Danish professor. I am delighted to make the gentleman's acquaintance, she said, but I should like to know how he was aware of my existence, my dear doctor. I regret that I cannot claim to know you, Madame, said Professor Swelding, replying for Dr. Bironde. But I know that in addressing you, I shall be speaking to the inmate of this institution who will testify most warmly to the scientific skill and the devotion of Dr. Bironde. At all events, Madame Rambert replied coldly. He carries his kindness to the extent of wishing his patients never to be dull since he brings unexpected visitors to see them. The phrase was an implicit approach of Dr. Bironde's too ready inclination to exhibit his patience as so many rare and curious wild animals, and it stung him all the more because he was convinced that Madame Rambert was perfectly sane. He pretended not to hear what she said, giving some order to the attendant, Berthe, who was standing respectfully by. I understand, Madame, Professor Swelding, replied gently. You object to my visit as an intrusion? Madame Rambert picked up her work and already was sewing again, but suddenly she sprang up so abruptly that the professor recoiled and exclaimed sharply, and exclaimed sharply, who called me? Who called me? Who? The professor was attempting to speak when the patient interrupted him. Oh, she cried. Alice, Alice, his voice, his voice, go away. You frighten me. Who spoke? Go away. Oh, help, help. And she fled screaming toward the far end of the garden, with the attendant and Dr. Bironde running after her. With all the cleverness of the insane, she managed to elude them, and continued to scream, Oh, I recognize him. Do go away. I implore you. Go. Murder, murder. The attendant tried to reassure the doctor. Don't be frightened, sir. She is not dangerous. I expect a visit from that gentleman as upset her. The poor, demented creature had taken refuge behind a clump of shrubs, and was standing there with eyes dilated with anguish fixed upon the professor, and hand pointing to him, trembling in every limb. Fontamas, she cried. Fontamas, there. I know him. Oh, help. The scene was horribly distressing, and Dr. Bironde put an end to it by ordering the attendant to take Madame Rambeir to her room and induce her to rest, and to send it once for Monsieur Perret. Then he turned to Professor Sweldy. I am greatly distressed by this incident, Professor. It proves that the cure of this poor creature is by no means so assured as I had believed. But there are other cases which will not shake your faith in my judgment like this, I hope. Shall we go on? Professor Swelding tried to comfort the doctor. The brain is a pathetically frail thing, he said. You could not have a more striking case to prove it, that poor lady, whom you believed to be cured, suddenly having a typical crisis of her form of insanity provoked by what? Either you nor I look particularly like assassins, do we? And he followed Dr. Bironde, who was much discomfited, to be shown other matters of interest. Better now, Madame. Are you going to be good? Madame Rambeir was reclining on a sofa in her room, watching her attendant, Bertha, moving about and tidying up the slight disorder caused by her recent administrations. The patient made a little gesture of despair. Poor Bertha, she said. If you only knew how unhappy I am, and how sorry for having given way to that panic just now. Oh, that was nothing, said the attendant. The doctor won't attach any importance to that. Yes, he will, said the patient with a weary smile. I think he will attach importance to it, and in any case it will delay my discharge from this place. Not a bit of it, Madame. Why, you know they have written to your home to say you were cured. Madame Rambeir did not reply for a minute or two. Then she said, Tell me, Bertha, what do you understand by the word cured? The attendant was rather nonplussed. Why, it means that you are better, that you are quite well. Her patient smiled bitterly. It is true that my health is better now, and that my stay here has done me good. But that is not what I was talking about. What is your opinion about my madness? You mustn't think about that, the attendant remonstrated. You are no more mad than I am. Oh, I know the worst symptom of madness is to declare you are not mad, Madame Rambeir answered sadly. So I will be careful not to say it, Bertha. But apart from this last panic, the reason for which I cannot tell you have you ever known me do or heard me say anything that was utterly devoid of reason in all the time that I have been in your charge. Struck by the remark, the attendant in spite of herself was obliged to confess, No, I never have. That is, that is, Madame Rambeir finished for her. I have sometimes protested to you that I was the victim of an abominable persecution, and that there was a tragic mystery in my life. In short, that if I was shut up here, it was because someone wanted me to be shut up. Come now, Bertha, it has never occurred to you that perhaps I was telling the truth. The attendant had been shaken for a minute by the calm, self-possession of her patient. Now she resumed her professional manner. Don't worry any more, Madame Rambeir, for you know as well as I do that Dr. Bero acknowledges that you are cured now. You are going to leave the place and resume your ordinary life. Ah, Bertha, said Madame Rambeir, twisting and untwisting her hands, if you only knew. Why, if I leave this sanatorium, or rather if the doctor sends me back to my family, I shall certainly be put in some other sanatorium before two days are passed. No, it isn't merely an idea that I have got into my head. She went on as the attendant protested. Listen, during the whole ten months that I have been here, I have never once protested that I was not insane. I was quite glad to be in this place, for I felt safe here. But now I am not sure of that. I must go. But I must not go merely to return to my husband. I must be free. Free to go to those who will help me to escape from the horrible trap in which I have spent the last few years of my life. Madame Rambeir's earnest tone convinced the attendant in spite of her own instinct. Yes, she said inquiringly. I suppose you know that I am rich, Bertha, Madame Rambeir went on. I have always been generous to you, and higher fees are paid for me here than are paid for any other patient. Would you like to make sure of your future forever and quite easily? I have heard you talk about getting married. Shall I give you a dot? You might lose your situation here, but if you trust me, I will make it up to you a hundredfold if you will help me to escape from this place. And it cannot be too soon. I have not a minute to lose. Bertha tried to get away from her patient, but Madame Rambeir held her back almost by force. Tell me your price, she said. How much do you want? A thousand pounds? Two thousand pounds? And as the attendant bewildered by the mere suggestion of such fabulous sums was silent, Madame Rambeir slipped the diamond ring off her finger and held it out to the young woman. Take that as proof of my sincerity, she said. If anyone asks me about it, I will say that I have lost it. And from now, Bertha, begin to prepare a way for me to escape. The very night that I am free, I swear you shall be a rich woman. Bertha got up swaying, hardly knowing if she was awake or dreaming. A rich woman, she murmured, a rich woman. And over the girl's face, there suddenly crept a horrible expression of cupidity and desire.