Yet Fandor was full of courage; he must not give in, it was all important he should remain at liberty, for the journalist was now firmly convinced that he was embarked on the right track, and that it would not be long now before he would unmask Fantômas’ accomplices, perhaps Fantômas himself into the bargain. Luck, good luck, had in fact brought him in touch with a crew of shady individuals, the instruments and intermediaries of old Moche’s nefarious schemes. Now these folks made no concealment amongst themselves of the fact that they were in the habit of receiving orders anonymous but peremptory about the source of which, however, they did not trouble their heads; they served and were glad to serve as Fantômas’ lieutenants, they were in the pay of that notorious brigand. To trace back events to their source would be the surest way to discover the head that set all these arms in motion.
“I’m going to the Blue Chestnut,” Nini Guinon had told him—and Fandor had boldly replied that at that very moment he, too, was on his way to spend the afternoon at that notorious resort of the Paris criminal world. In fact the discovery that Paulet’s mistress was bound for the Blue Chestnut—a suburban semi-rural resort just outside the fortifications, and a favourite rendezvous with crooks and demireps of all descriptions—to meet “her man” had given the journalist a lively glow of satisfaction. Days ago he had come to the resolution of shadowing the young street-walker, getting to know her comings and goings, and so through her getting into close touch with the band of her nefarious associates.
And lo! in a moment his hopes were to be realised. Nini was going to the very spot where all these good, or rather bad, people would be gathered. Decidedly Fandor’s lucky star was in the ascendant, he was to enjoy the priceless advantage of meeting and making closer acquaintance with that questionable character, the mysterious apache Paulet, whom the journalist already suspected, not without good reason, perhaps, of having murdered the bank messenger.
Moreover, he was feeling no small satisfaction at the success of his make-up, which had proved so admirable a disguise. Nini Guinon, of course, knew him quite well, she had seen him only a few days before, he was one of the gang and the reputed murderer of the police officers, if not perhaps of the Minister himself. His face and personality could not have faded from the girl’s memory. Yet for five minutes he had been talking with her, and she had not recognized him!
“All goes well,” the journalist congratulated himself, as he made his way into the garden of the Blue Chestnut. Yes, he was certainly in luck. The place that Monday afternoon was crowded with customers, a large number seated about the scattered tables, each of which with its load of wine-bottles formed the nucleus of a group of laughing, chattering men and girls.
Fandor took his seat unobtrusively at the foot of a table, endeavoring to pass unnoticed while he consumed a modest half-pint and listened to his neighbour’s conversation. He was just asking himself how he could best join in the talk himself when circumstances afforded him the opportunity.
A wave of excitement swept the garden from end to end. A gay companion, a musician with an old guitar under his arm, had just appeared, a man Fandor knew of old. It was one Bougille, the vagabond Bougille, the man with the shaggy beard and merry-andrew face, Bougille the honest tramp, the incorrigible wanderer. The old fellow was well known and well loved at the Blue Chestnut, where on fête days he would often come to reap the reward in small change of his talents as a music-maker.
“A dance, a dance! the Sonneuse!” the company demanded with one voice, while all eyes turned in the direction of “The Beadle” and all hands pointed to “Big Ernestine.”
Slowly, hands in pockets, with an affected air and a look of satisfaction, which he tried to hide, the man addressed the crowd:
“So, it’s us you want to get at ... must have us dance it you again, eh?... well, well, off we go.”