Without intending it, the grand duchess had revealed to Elisabeth her real title, her tragic identity. Be sure, Elisabeth had heard of Fantômas’ ill-omened mistress! Many times had she read the tragic name of Lady Beltham in the public prints coupled with that of the notorious brigand. “Lady Beltham!” So it was Lady Beltham, this Grand Duchess Alexandra, who was nursing her with such devoted kindness! But already, Jérôme Fandor was on his knees again beside Elisabeth’s bed. “For pity’s sake,” he besought her, “be brave, my darling! be calm! be courageous!” Alas! even as he spoke, the young man felt the sick woman’s hand grow heavier, more deathlike in his. Like a flower that has borne the buffets of the storm and fades at the outburst of too fierce a sun, the unhappy child, after the grievous hours, the tragic, the dreadful times she had lived through, could not endure the too overpowering delight she felt at seeing Fandor again, and knowing him innocent, the too overwhelming shock of discovering that Lady Beltham stood before her! “Elisabeth! Elisabeth!” Jérôme Fandor cried in tones of sudden terror. Oh! how pale she was now, lying there with closed eyes, her head thrown back on the pillows, her golden hair dishevelled! Lady Beltham, like Fandor, was seized with a sudden misgiving. The minutes seemed hours in the slow agony of suspense. At last the girl opened her eyes; she threw a grateful look at the grand duchess, this mysterious Lady Beltham, who had taken pity on her; then, with a superhuman effort, she whispered faintly: “Jérôme Fandor!” But as she lifted her hand to meet the journalist’s clasp, a faint sigh breathed from her lips, a sigh so light, so calm, it was a full minute yet ere Jérôme Fandor, ere Lady Beltham, realized the dreadful truth, the dire calamity, the fell catastrophe—Elisabeth Dollon was dead! * * * * * In the darkened chamber Jérôme Fandor’s long-drawn sobs proclaimed the unfortunate young man’s infinite distress! Vaguely and indistinctly, as in a dream, the young man, still on his knees by the dead girl’s bed, draining to the dregs his grief and despair, had heard a footman come in a few minutes before, seeking the Grand Duchess Alexandra. Absorbed in his grief, dazed with suffering, Fandor had not so much as raised his head. But the death chamber communicated by double doors, at present wide open, with an adjoining sitting room, and from this room voices could be heard. The grand duchess, mastering her very sincere grief, had consented to see a visitor, who was now with her. Jérôme Fandor, in the automatic way people’s attention is fixed by external trifles at times of the most poignant emotions, in the midst of the deepest sorrows, found himself listening to the conversation.