  "Have some more chicken?" "No, thanks: I am not hungry." "But you should eat all the same!" "Are you eating anything yourself?" "Faith, I am not!" "Well, then?" In the private room of the Fat-Pheasant restaurant, where Juve and Fandor were dining, silence again fell. The two men sat motionless, gazing into space. They neither wished to eat food nor do anything at all. They were depressed to the last degree; they felt baffled: they were sick of every mortal thing! All of a sudden, Fandor burst into tears. Juve, looking at his dear lad in such grief, bit his lip; his face with wrinkled brow wore a dejected, worried look. An hour or two previous to that, Fandor, on returning to his flat, had found a black-edged envelope: the address in Elizabeth Dollon's handwriting. Fandor had opened it with fast beating heart and trembling hand! For these past days, an evil Fate seemed relentlessly pursuing them. Now he feared to read of some fresh catastrophe. He was reassured by the opening lines; but as he read on, and took in the meaning of Elizabeth's words, Fandor felt as though his heart were bursting with grief. Elizabeth Dollon had written: "I seem to be going mad ... yes, I love you!... Yesterday, I should have been glad to become your wife; but there came by the same post as your letter, another, which contained terrible revelations, proofs of their truth were given me!... I have not the right to curse you—or rather I have not the strength to do it; but never will I marry you, JÉrÔme Fandor, you, Charles Rambert!..." It seemed to Fandor that everything was turning round about him.... He took a few steps, staggering. The weight of this terrible past, a past in which he was the innocent victim, but of which he could not clear himself, overwhelmed him! Fandor cried, in a voice of despair: "FantÔmas! FantÔmas has taken his revenge!" And before the astounded portress, the unhappy young man turned about and fell in a heap on the ground. On the other hand, shortly after the extraordinary flight of the banker—Nanteuil to the world in general—but FantÔmas to him and Fandor—Juve had received from Monsieur Annion, the supreme head of the police detective department, who only manifested himself on sensational occasions, a note sent by pneumatic post: "Regret keenly that you revealed your personality in such ridiculous circumstances, and that you failed to arrest a great criminal." As Juve read these observations, he clinched his fists: he grew livid with rage! Dinner was a mere farce to the two friends: they did not dine: they had no appetite! Juve and Fandor went over and over in their minds the deplorable events of which, all said and done, they were the victims. They gazed at each other full of self-pity. They felt they were two derelicts afloat on the immense sea of indifferent humanity. "The worst suffering," said Fandor, with tears of misery in his voice, "is the pain of love." "The most painful of wounds," said Juve bitterly, "is a wound to self-respect!..." These two, men every inch of them, might have their moments of discouragement, but they were a sporting pair of the finest quality. "Fandor!" "Juve?" "You are courageous?" "I have courage, Juve!" "Very well, my lad, let us sponge out the past, and start off afresh in pursuit of FantÔmas!... I tell you the struggle has only begun.... Listen!..." ENDFOOTNOTES |
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