From time to time, in fact, lurking among letters and papers, hidden under bundles of documents, Désiré Ferrand kept coming upon a little memorandum, identical in every instance, but repeated in quite a number of copies. It was headed: The Million. Its text, which never varied, was a discreetly worded and anonymous reminder of the claim, rather say the order, formulated by the person calling himself Fantômas, who called upon the Chamber to pay the ransom fixed by himself.
The fourth time this happened, the Minister banged his fist heavily on the table: “It is past endurance,” he vociferated; “if one of my attachés has ventured on this pleasantry, the first thing I do to-morrow will be to show my gentleman the door.”
But it was getting very late; to snatch a few hours’ sleep was imperative. Within a few minutes, Ferrand had put out the light and gone to bed. With closed eyes, he was trying to get to sleep, when, just as the pleasant drowsiness that precedes slumber was creeping over him, the Minister sprang half up in bed, listening intently.
He had heard footsteps. Then he leapt to the floor, convinced someone was coming into the room, though he knew he was alone, that he must be alone, in his private suite! Too much alone, perhaps, he thought, as he remembered that at night the Ministry was entirely deserted and that his man slept in a separate building a long way off. “Perhaps I have been unwise,” he reflected, but his reflections were suddenly cut short.
Just as Ferrand, alarmed by the noise he had heard, was making instinctively for the electric switch at the other end of the room, the light suddenly flashed out, dazzling his eyes, grown accustomed to the dark. Someone with the same intention as himself, but with greater quickness, had anticipated him.
Désiré Ferrand gave a cry of terror. A few yards away, a masked man stood confronting him, a grim, appalling figure. He was wrapped in a black cloak, and carried a cudgel in his hand.
“The man of last week—my assailant!” ejaculated the Minister, turning pale.
Yes, before him stood the redoubtable outlaw, who, a week before, had, with the help of mysterious confederates, laid hands on the Minister of Justice, had kept him secluded from his fellow men, and only restored him to liberty conditionally, delivering, in a letter addressed to the President of the Council, an ultimatum couched in threatening language.
Désiré Ferrand waved a hand ordering the intruder to leave the room, but the latter strode forward unheeding.
“Désiré Ferrand,” he proclaimed, “the hour is come to obey me, you must decide ... you have five seconds.”