Fortune favoured him. The house was an enormous block of workmen’s dwellings, made up of several separate buildings, connected together and served by several different staircases. Fandor, following the corridor running between the rooms on the topmost floor, had the luck to come upon the landing of a second flight of stairs. To make up his mind, to dart to the top, to scamper down the stairway, never stopping to know what had become of his pursuers, to dash into the street and reach the line of the outer boulevards at a run, was the work of a moment. Bathed in sweat and panting for breath, he reached the Boulevard de Belleville—and knew he was safe. Safe, yes, but alas! atrociously disappointed. An hour ago he was on his way, in joyful anticipation, to visit Elisabeth Dollon, blessing the happy chance that was to bring him to the girl’s presence; now he had but caught a glimpse of her, had not so much as spoken with her; all he knew was that she believed him guilty of the most dreadful crimes, that she coupled his name with a name of horror, a name of blood, a name of panic terror, with the name of Fantômas! Exhausted, he sank on a bench. All day long, crushed by the hand of Fate that day by day accumulated ever-fresh calamities on his devoted head, he wandered miserably about the streets. At nightfall he regained some degree of self-possession. “I must think out a plan,” he told himself; “I know now where she lives, I know where she is going to live, by the Lord, I can surely contrive to clear my character in her eyes.” His aimless wanderings had led him to the neighbourhood of Père-Lachaise, and he now set out slowly and sadly on his way back to the Rue Saint-Fargeau. “I will tell Moche,” he thought to himself, “that I waited for Elisabeth all day, and have not seen her ... or else I will assure him her furniture is good enough ... or, better still, as it’s nine o’clock at night, I will slip up to my garret, of which I have a key, without seeing my worthy master at all. To-morrow I shall be calmer, and can then see what’s best to be done.” CHAPTER VI PRISONER OF THE LANTERN For nearly two hours, Jérôme Fandor had been back in his garret, the lumber-room M. Moche had put at his disposal, albeit without making any further provision for his accommodation beyond supplying a tiny lamp to give him a glimmer of light. But the journalist was not yet asleep. Kneeling on the floor, his lamp in front of him, he was reading and re-reading the evening paper, _La Capitale_, which he had bought with the sacrifice of one of the three sous presented to him that morning by his generous master. What he read was of the deepest interest and importance to Fandor. The young man was trembling in every limb, his face wore an expression of horror and consternation; at intervals he punctuated his perusal with half-stifled exclamations and frantic ejaculations of dismay: