He must be in an abominable dream, a mad nightmare!... He must be!...
What was behind all this? This outrage? This Vagualame, criminal proprietor of this pavilion, was the author of it! To him he owed it that he was thus bound, masked, disguised!
That sinister menace was still ringing in his ears: "Through Fantômas thou shalt die!"
Well, however it might come, Death came but once! He would await the event!
Fandor's spirit rose once more—indomitable.
He closed his eyes.
He lived again, as might a drowning man, his hours of joy, of struggle, of triumph, of defeat, of high endeavour: all the thick-packed hours of vivid life. Ah, how Fantômas had haunted him from childhood onwards!
"'Tis but life's logic," he reflected: "I have fought Fantômas, and not always has the victory been wholly his! More than once I have called check to him! It is his turn to take revenge with the irrevocable checkmate. Well, I have lost. I pay."
The heavy silence of the studio was loud with menace.
Surrounded by it, he awaited Death's coming, in whatever guise....