must you say! The truth." …
"I am to confess that I knew him?"
Vagualame tapped his foot impatiently.
"How stupid you are! There is one thing you must understand. At the present moment it is almost certain that this good fellow's identity has been established. The devil's in it if some policeman is not at his domicile already and if enquiry is not being made into the life of Captain Brocq. To learn that he is on terms of acquaintanceship with your patron, de Naarboveck, is child's play! To prove that he has received a visit from you to-day, to prove that you were his mistress—or, at the very least that you had come on an errand from Naarboveck's daughter, Wilhelmine, why anybody can discover that! To-morrow you will read the details in all the papers, for the reporters are going to get hold of this affair: it is inevitable! Consequently, do you not deny anything: it would only compromise you to no good purpose. You will say." …
Vagualame stopped short. He raised the accordion which he carried slung over his shoulder, saying in a whisper:
"People are coming. I leave you. I will see you again, if necessary. Do not be anxious. I take all on my own shoulders. Attention!" And suddenly changing his tone, he began to speak in a voice calculated to excite pity:
"Grateful thanks, kind lady! The good God will rain blessings on you for it. … I thank you, kind lady!"
Vagualame moved off.
III
BARON NAARBOVECK'S HOUSE
Despite the gusty wind and squalls of icy rain which deluged Paris, despite the early morning hour, although it was one of those first dark days of November which depress humanity, Jérôme Fandor, the journalist, editorial contributor to the popular evening paper La Capitale, was in a gay mood, and showed it by singing at the top of his voice, at the risk of rousing the neighbourhood.
In his very comfortable little flat, rue Richer, where he had lived for a number of years, the young journalist was coming and going busily: cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, were opened wide, garments, piles of linen, were spread about in all the rooms. On the dining-room table a large travelling bag lay open: into this, with the aid of his housekeeper, Jérôme Fandor was feverishly packing the spare things he required, and was talking in joking fashion with his old servant, Angélique.
Presently she asked, rather anxiously:
"Are you likely to be away a long time, sir?"
The journalist shook his head and murmured:
"I should like to be, but you don't suppose we journalists get holidays of that sort!"
Still anxious, Angélique went on:
"Perhaps you intend to change your housekeeper when you return, Monsieur Fandor? Nevertheless——"
"You are really mad, Angélique! Have I not told you twenty times that I am going away for a fortnight's holiday? Never for a moment have I thought of getting rid of you—quite the contrary! I am delighted with the way you do your work. There now! I shall go by way of Monaco—I promise to put five francs on the red for you!"
"On the red?" questioned old Angélique.
"Yes. It's a game. If red's the winner there will be a present for you! Hurry off now and bring up my trousers!"
Whilst his housekeeper hastened downstairs, Fandor went to the window and, with a questioning glance, considered the dull grey sky.
"Disgusting weather!" he murmured. "But what do I care for that? I am going to the sun of the South—ah, to the sun!" He laughed a great laugh of satisfaction. How he had looked forward to this holiday, how he had longed for it!—this holiday he was going to take now, after two-and-twenty months of uninterrupted work! During those months, in his capacity of chief reporter to La Capitale, scarcely a day had passed without his having some move to make, some strange happening to clear up, even some criminal to pursue; for Jérôme Fandor belonged to that species of active and restless beings who are ceaselessly at work, ready for action, bent on doing things: an activity due partly to temperament, partly to conscience. Added to this, his profession interested him enormously.
At the commencement of his career—and that of journalism is a ticklish one—he had been greatly helped by Juve, whose knowledge and advice had been invaluable to him. Fandor had been involved—particularly during the last few years—in the most sensational crimes, in the most mysterious affairs, and, whether by chance or voluntarily, he had played a real part in them. He had not been content to take up the position of onlooker and historian only.
Fandor had made his post an important one: he had to be seriously reckoned with. He had enemies, adversaries far from contemptible, and time and again the journalist who, with his friend Juve, had taken part in terrible man-hunts, had attracted towards himself venomous hatreds, all the more disquieting in that his adversaries were of those who keep in the shade and never come into the open for a face-to-face tussle.
Finally, and above all, Fandor, coupled with his friend, detective Juve, had either distinguished himself gloriously or covered himself with ridicule, but in either case he had attracted public attention by his epic combats with the most deadly personality of the age—the elusive Fantômas.
But our holiday-making journalist, whistling the latest air, all the rage, gave no thought to all that. He was reveling in the idea that a few hours hence he would be installed in a comfortable sleeping compartment, to awake next morning on the wonderful Côte d'Azur, inundated with light, drenched in the perfume of tropical flowers, bathed in the radiance of eternal summer.
Ah, then, eight hundred miles and more would separate him from the offices of La Capitale, of the police stations, of wretched dens and hovels with their pestilential smells, would separate him from this everlasting bad weather, from the cold, the wet, which were the ordinary concomitants of his daily existence. To the devil with all that! No more copy to feed printer and paper with! No more people to be interviewed! Hurrah! Here were the holidays! It was leave of absence, and liberty.
The telephone bell rang.
Fandor hesitated a moment. Should he answer it?
According to custom, the journalist "had left" the evening before: he could plead his leave, which was in order, and say, like Louis XIV, "After me the deluge!"
This famous saying would have suited the moment, for it was at that instant precisely that an inky cloud burst over Paris and emptied torrents of water over the darkened city.
Perhaps a friend had rung him up—or it was a mistake! So arguing, Fandor unhooked the receiver.
Having listened a moment, he instinctively adopted a more respectful attitude, as if his interlocutor at the other end of the line could see him.
Fandor replied in quick monosyllables, closing the conversation with these words:
"Agreed. Presently, then
