“I mean to say that costume is heavy for your shoulders.” After Lady Beltham’s departure, Jérôme Fandor had stayed behind in the conservatory, motionless, wrapt in absorption. The great lady’s promise had given him the wildest hopes. If the grand duchess saw fit to convince Elisabeth Dollon of his innocence, it was easy enough for her to do so; if she kept her promise, and Jérôme Fandor never doubted she would, a happy future, a future of love lay before him! But as he was thinking these rosy thoughts, plunged in an ecstasy of anticipation a disquieting incident befell. The young man was standing in the centre of the winter-garden, on the very spot where he had talked with Lady Beltham. On every side of him, on the walls, between the interlacing boughs of palms, araucarias and kentias, hung mirrors reflecting his own image and that of his surroundings. Now, amid these reflections, appeared one, a second “Fantômas,” that moved and gesticulated and presently advanced, while the same mocking words, spoken now for the second time in the course of the evening, struck on Fandor’s ear: “That cloak is heavy for your shoulders, sir!” The journalist felt a cold sweat bedew his temples. Who was this other “Fantômas”? for it was in very truth, a second “Fantômas” advancing to meet him! the same perhaps he had observed among the dancers just now? or else, perhaps, another, or else ... or else.... In a supercilious, defiant tone, Jérôme Fandor retorted: “If the cloak is heavy for my shoulders, sir, is it, pray, any lighter for yours?” “They are, at least better used to wearing it.” Fandor started at the words, but before he had time to answer, suddenly, in an instant, with an unparalleled swiftness and violence that disarmed all power of resistance, a savage dagger thrust caught him immediately over the heart. A red mist blinded the young man’s eyes, as he staggered under the force of the blow. A buzzing filled his ears, and a curse, a cry of fury, escaped his quivering lips. Then slowly the place began to turn round and round, darkening and taking on fantastic shapes; Jérôme Fandor was fainting. But he was too energetic, too brave a man, to lose consciousness for long. Three seconds after the blow was struck, his senses were returning to him. “Fantômas! Fantômas!” he stammered: “it was the real Fantômas stood there before me!” He struggled painfully to his knees, then rose to his feet in spite of the sharp pain, and forced himself to look round—the conservatory was empty! Stumbling forward, he took two or three steps, his hand pressed to his breast, then sank into a rocking-chair, muttering in a weak and still bewildered voice: “Lucky for me, all the same, the coat of mail I took the precaution to wear under my disguise withstood the stab! I knew, when I put on this Fantômas costume, I was risking the brigand’s anger; I was well advised to guard against it as I did. Verily, I believe this time I have looked death close in the face!”