“Hundred and twenty-five ... hundred and twenty-six ... hundred and twenty-seven ... and twenty-eight ... twenty-nine ...” his voice never shook ... “hundred and thirty ...” he stopped dead. A mysterious voice had whispered in his ear, “Juve! Juve!”
The detective did not start; he stood quite still, his back against the wall; where did the voice come from? he could not tell. All round him crowded the apaches, some actually hustling him with their shoulders, others crouching about his feet.
Meantime he felt someone trying to slip in between him and the wall, to hide himself behind his back. Inspired with fresh courage, he seconded the attempt, taking a short step forward towards the middle of the room.
The voice went on: “Don’t turn round, Juve ... and answer, for the love of God answer, tell them you are going to pay!”
Ah! that voice! and the tone and the words! Juve felt a sudden return to life and hope! his heart still beat as if it would burst his bosom, but his mind experienced a prodigious relief. He guessed it was a friend come to save him, and one he could count on even more surely than on himself. He had recognized the voice of his old comrade Jérôme Fandor!—Fandor of whom he had had no tidings for six months, of whom he had heard nothing, of whose very existence he had no assurance, since the day of their unexpected parting.
How came he to be there—just at the critical moment, at the risk no doubt of his own life, clearly with the sole intention of rescuing his friend from this most desperate of plights? Had Juve been cognizant of late events and known of the eight and forty hours Fandor had passed as a prisoner in the house at Alfort up to the time when the apaches had brought thither his fellow officer, he would not have needed to ask himself the question.
But neither did Fandor deem the moment come for explanations. His compelling voice still urged Juve to answer.
“Tell them—‘I am going to pay’”—and Juve obeyed his mentor. Cutting short the “Beadle,” who in ferocious triumph was counting out aloud the seconds left him to live—“Only twenty-five ... only twenty-four ... only twenty-three,” Juve cried out suddenly, instantly grasping the part he must play, assuming a tone and attitude of dignity and high authority:
“Listen, you fellows; Fantômas is going to pay you!”
Bravos broke out on every side, and the ruffianly crowd, forgetting their rancour, now felt full of sympathy for the master who manifested so praiseworthy an intention. But next minute, this outburst of satisfaction was succeeded by a resumption of sour and suspicious looks.