“All said and done,” he hinted, “I understand your scruples, and I quite see it is difficult for you to agree, officially that is, under pain of risking your post. Well, so be it; I now propose a compromise. There is the Secret Service fund; my million will be charged on it without scandal or publicity; you will hand me over the sum I need; in return, I will disappear. Is it a bargain?”
Désiré Ferrand was boiling with rage and indignation:
“Atrocious monster!” he screamed, “begone! How have I borne to hear out your odious proposals! Be sure, this very day the whole police force shall receive the most stringent orders to seize you! I do not know who you are, but no matter for that, I will punish you.”
Fantômas folded his arms across his chest. Through his black mask his eyes flashed lightning at his unfortunate victim.
“So it is war?” he asked—“war to the knife? war to the death?... I bid you reflect ...”
Ferrand made no reply. Seizing the first thing he caught sight of on his writing-table, he grasped a silver paper-knife in his hand, ready to sell his life dearly.
Fantômas saw the Minister was incorruptible. “Be it death then!” he grinned his defiance.
With a sudden, swift movement, the brigand whirled his cudgel round like a sling and hurled it full in the other’s face. But the Minister ducked his head, the weapon missed its aim and struck the wall with a dull thud.
“Help!” yelled Ferrand, dashing for the window. But Fantômas barred the way, and a grim chase, pursuer and pursued, began in Désiré Ferrand’s chamber. The Minister, with the energy of despair, fled before his assailant, throwing down obstacle after obstacle in his way, oversetting chairs, tables, every piece of furniture he could lay hands on.
Thus, following and fleeing, the two men made the circuit of the room; but just as fast as the fugitive cast a stumbling-block in the other’s way, it was cleared away and tossed into a corner.