The unhappy Minister recoiled, utterly confounded; unarmed, barefooted, in night attire, he felt himself at a manifest disadvantage in face of the scoundrel confronting him.
But Désiré Ferrand was no coward. Reckoning up his chances of escape, he put between himself and his antagonist the great desk littered with endless documents, and again repeated his order:
“Go,” he reiterated, “go!... I will have you arrested.”
But the man in black broke into a sardonic laugh:
“Fantômas does not take orders,” he asseverated, “it is for Fantômas to issue commands. For the last time, I repeat that I demand a million francs; give it me!”
“But,” protested Ferrand, “where do you expect me to get the money from? It is odious, abominable, your effrontery is unparalleled!”
“Unparalleled is the word, sir; Fantômas has no equal—only despicable imitators.”
The Minister resumed:
“Neither Government nor Ministers will ever consent to obey you; I will never consent. Why, then,” he added gloomily, “we should have nothing left us but to retire discomfited, dishonoured, the laughing-stock of France!”
Fantômas advanced a step or two nearer, and in insinuating tones: