“Madam,” Fandor resumed in trembling accents, “I love deeply, with all my heart and all my soul, an unhappy young girl whose name you know, for it bears a melancholy renown. Elisabeth Dollon, I mean. Madam, by your lover’s doing—nay, never protest, all denial is in vain between us—by your lover’s doing, I, I Jérôme Fandor, am deemed by Elisabeth Dollon, as by all men, to be Fantômas. She would love me if she knew me innocent, now she hates me, fears me, flies from me! Madam, I have always been to you, and even to him who is dear to you, an honourable foe, the dreadful penalty I suffer to-day as the result of the war I wage is the more cruel as it is undeserved. What hurt can it do you, Lady Beltham, what hurt can it do Fantômas, even should I enjoy a little happiness, should I win Elisabeth’s love?... This is the prayer I would make to you; she is single-hearted, she is enthusiastic, she sacrifices my life to you; madam, I pray you, I beseech you, go to Elisabeth and tell her I am not Fantômas, and that she can love me!” Such profound feeling inspired Jérôme Fandor’s words, his voice vibrated with such deep emotion, as he spoke, that Lady Beltham herself could not help being greatly moved. Yes, Jérôme Fandor was surely right, he had always been an honourable enemy. Surely he was right again in describing his position with Elisabeth as horrible. Surely again, what harm could it do Fantômas for him to enjoy a little happiness? Lady Beltham was touched, won over; she burst out suddenly: “I know you are Jérôme Fandor, sir; I know it, and I need only know that! I decline to understand the allusions you have made. But if you beseech the Grand Duchess Alexandra to go to Elisabeth Dollon, the grand duchess is verily too much your friend, too well persuaded of the depth of your love for Mlle. Dollon, to refuse the boon you ask of her.” “Oh! madam,”—and Fandor, with a quick almost instinctive movement, seized Lady Beltham’s white, ungloved hand. But the great lady drew back, manifestly she could not prolong for ever her talk with this masquer, this “Fantômas.” None had come to disturb them, but their conversation was bound to have attracted notice; the place was lined with mirrors, they were at the mercy of every chance reflection. “Where can I see Elisabeth Dollon?” asked the grand duchess. “The poor girl,” replied the other, “in spite of her enemies, still lives an honest, hard-working life; I know—I learnt this only a day or two ago—she is engaged as cashier, I think at one of the restaurants in the Bois, the restaurant on the island in the lake.” Lady Beltham had already risen and was moving away when she threw these words by way of adieu to the young man: “By all I hold most sacred, sir, I swear that Elisabeth Dollon, no later than to-morrow evening, shall know that Jérôme Fandor is worthy of her love.” * * * * * “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fantômas!” “You mean?”