“Elisabeth!” he cried, “Elisabeth, oh! we are under a curse!”
Fandor in fact was asking himself if the fire was not going to reach the island, if indeed the island itself, drenched with petroleum, was not blazing too; if Elisabeth were not doomed to die by that awful death, the death that is worse than a thousand deaths, death by fire!
Fandor could divine the whole villainous plot. No, it was no mere coincidence that the lake should take fire at the very moment Elisabeth learned that he was innocent. Not a doubt of it this was another of the horrid acts of cruelty Fantômas loved. Fantômas had willed Elisabeth should die at that precise moment. Yes, for he knew all, he had learned the rendez-vous arranged with the grand duchess, for had he not been present at the whole conversation between Fandor and the great lady, when Fandor merely supposed he was looking at one of the many reflections in the mirrors ornamenting the walls of the winter garden.
The lake had been burning for nearly three minutes. Suddenly Fandor made up his mind; throwing off his coat, the brave young man ran to the bank of the lake, whose waters were still blazing; his face was pale, but a look of determination flashed in his eyes as he plunged into the torrent of fire!
“I will swim under water,” the daring fellow told himself. “No, I cannot let Elisabeth perish so; if she is to die, I will die near her, with her!”
It was a heroic but a mad venture. The channel separating the mainland from the island was broad, and half way across, he had no breath left and must at any cost come to the surface, magnificent swimmer though he was. The water was still blazing. Barely had he time to snatch a mouthful of mephitic, scarce breathable air, when he must dive under again on pain of being burnt alive.
“Ten strokes more!... five more ... three more!”—his knees grazed the bottom, he had reached the shore!
Panting, breathless, Fandor climbed on the bank, grievously hurt, bleeding, half dead; but he was near his goal. He cried, “Elisabeth!”—and in the distance, his eyes still dazzled with the glare of the fire, the journalist seemed to see a woman’s form. He staggered towards her, a haggard, terrifying figure. But no sooner was he near the girl, for it was really she, flying with Lady Beltham before the advancing flames—she had taken refuge there—than he started back, struck with consternation.
Lady Beltham had not yet had time to speak to Elisabeth Dollon, and the girl, seeing this dreadful apparition rise before her, Fandor, pale and bleeding, had screamed out in frantic terror:
“Fantômas! Fantômas! it is Fantômas!”