He got up and went over to a mirror to make sure his disguise was holding firm. He gazed long at his reflection in the glass, his eyes full of melancholy.
“I did well to adopt this travesty,” he told himself, “I am absolutely unrecognizable”—and he was right. The new waiter of The Orange Blossom was, in fact, no other than Jérôme Fandor.
Ever since the dreadful trial he had gone through, since the day of Elisabeth Dollon’s death, the journalist had been plunged in a state of terrible prostration. Wild with grief, he had felt his sanity leaving him; all his high courage, his generous ardour, had departed, and again and again the thought of suicide had haunted his mind. It had called for all the energy that formed the basis of his character to stay him from proceeding to such dread extremities.
Little by little, however, as his will power mastered his dejection, a deep, fierce anger seized him and grew stronger every day. He had a mission to fulfill; this he realized, and his purposes grew clear and definite. Henceforth it was not solely his friend Juve he must rescue from his unhappy plight, but there was Elisabeth’s fearful death he was called upon to avenge. And as he considered these two duties, one as dear to his heart as the other, Fandor recognized that in reality he was pursuing one and the same object, for indeed the main author of all these calamities, the responsible agent, the being who by his sorceries had sown mourning and desolation round about him, was still and always the mysterious, the ever elusive Fantômas! Oh! to unmask the monster, to come face to face with him, to discover in which of the group among whom he worked and manœuvred was really and truly incarnate the mysterious malefactor, this was what the journalist swore to himself to achieve! At all costs he must get done with it; to make an end was necessary, indispensable, and that with the briefest possible delay.
Fandor was filled with a new hope. Though still in hiding from the police and living the life of a pariah, he was yet able to glean occasional information from casual conversations and newspapers, and he noted a certain veering round of public opinion in favour of his friend. It was impossible, people were saying, that Juve, a prisoner in the Santé, could be guilty of all the murders and robberies ascribed to the agency of Fantômas. To this was added Fandor’s definite and undoubted discovery of certain activities of the gang at whose head old Moche figured. Though kept somewhat at arm’s length by the members of this gang, the journalist did nevertheless succeed in learning a number of facts that enabled him to prosecute his investigations on clear and precise lines. Now he had lately acquired the certainty that Père Moche counted for much in the profitable enterprises engineered by Fantômas.
But where was Fantômas? Not far off, for certain! Yet, with equal certainty, more difficult to track down, more elusive than ever. Nor was it only Fandor who was at fault. The American detective Tom Bob was in the same predicament. In fact, the latter, despite his fine audacity and his first triumphs, had not continued his successes. For quite a long time now people had ceased to talk about him; he seemed to have lost interest in the war he had declared against Fantômas.
Furthermore Fandor had observed that the American, who on his first arrival had promised him his protection and support, had suddenly left off seeing him, indeed made little or no concealment of the fact that he no longer desired to be in touch with him. Why this change? with what object in view? Was Tom Bob ashamed to avow himself beaten? or was he hoping, alone, by himself, to run Fantômas to earth?
Such were the young man’s thoughts when the landlord of The Orange Blossom suddenly burst into the eating room.
“Daniel,” he cried, “you must make haste, my lad! here’s the wedding party coming, they’re not late after all; quick, put on your apron and jacket, breakfast will be served instanter!”
Two landaus had just drawn up at the entrance to the gardens, two simple, unpretending vehicles, with none of your wide plate-glass windows, none of your big carriage lamps at the four corners of the coach.