Elisabeth Dollon was busily engaged installing her belongings in the new flat in the Rue de l’Evangile, into which she had moved the previous evening. The girl possessed a modest stock of furniture of the simplest possible sort, but on the upkeep of which she lavished the most fastidious care. For her every piece of furniture, every article in the rooms, was replete with fond associations. Since the sinister events that had saddened her life, since the tragedies of which she had been the heroine, here were the only things she loved, the only objects that appealed at once to her memory and her affection. To-day she was settling in, bent on arranging an interior that should be to her taste. It was a Sunday. The weather promised to be magnificent, and though her windows looked out on the not very attractive spectacle of the city gasometers, they yet possessed the enormous advantage of facing no buildings from which inquisitive or offensive neighbours could overlook her. The day was bright and cheerful, the air pure and balmy, and from time to time Elisabeth, choking with the dust raised by her domestic operations, would go and lean out of the casement to breathe its freshness. She was thoroughly enjoying her day of rest; all the week she was engaged over the books of a big business house in the gloomy district of Aubervilliers. Her new home in the Rue de l’Evangile suited her well, not only because the rooms were pleasant, but also from the fact of its nearness to the scene of her labours. At the same time, she had heard within the last few days of a chance of finding another post that would suit her still better—a position as cashier in a large restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne. The girl hoped with all her heart that this possibility might become a reality. But presently the girl’s thoughts turned to graver matters, and her smooth brow was furrowed with lines of care and anxiety; her eyes, usually so bright and clear, darkened in melancholy reverie. It was the look, at once angry and regretful, that appeared on the girl’s face every time she remembered Jérôme Fandor; whenever she thought of the journalist, a sense of disquiet and perplexity filled her mind. Was she still in love with him? could it be that she still felt a mysterious passion for the man who was the author—at least so the unhappy girl was convinced—of all her misfortunes, the source of the fatal events that had cast a gloom over all her youth? Was it really possible that so amiable a young man was the accomplice of Fantômas, if not Fantômas himself? For long she had refused to believe it, but henceforth it was impossible to doubt the fact; the latest developments, the events that had just befallen, the violence offered her on the Boulevard de Belleville, confirmed the suspicion beyond all question.