Fantômas

by Allain, Marcel; Souvestre, Pierre; Metcalfe, Cranstoun

  Lady Beltham stopped her torrent of appeal, and looked at the actor crumpled up beside her. Suddenly she started and listened: a slight noise became audible, coming from the staircase. Lady Beltham stood erect and rigid: then dropped to her knees upon the floor.

  “Oh! It is all over!” she sobbed.

  In spite of his overwhelming longing for sleep, Valgrand suddenly started. Two heavy hands fell on his shoulder, and then his arms were pulled behind him and his wrists rapidly bound together.

  “Good God!” he cried, in stupefied surprise, turning quickly round. Two men stood before him, old soldiers by the look of them, in dark uniforms relieved only by the gleam of metal buttons. He was going to say more, but one of the men laid his hand over his lips.

  “Hush!” he said peremptorily.

  Valgrand made frantic efforts to prevent himself from falling.

  “What does this mean? Let me go! What right——”

  The two men began to drag him gently away.

  “Come along,” said one of them in his ear. “Time’s up. Don’t be obstinate.”

  “Besides, you know it’s quite useless to resist, Gurn,” the other added, not unkindly. “Nothing in the world could——”

  “I don’t understand,” Valgrand protested feebly. “Who are you? And why do you call me Gurn?”

  “Let me finish,” growled one of the men irritably. “You know we are running an awful risk in getting you out of the prison and bringing you here when you are supposed to be with the chaplain; you swore you would behave squarely with us and go back when you were told. Now you’ve got to keep your promise.”

  “The lady paid us well to give you an hour with her,” the other man put in, “but you’ve had more than an hour and a half, and we’ve got our characters and our situations to look after. So now, come along, Gurn, and don’t let us have any nonsense.”

  Valgrand, fighting hard against his overpowering sleepiness, began to have some vague comprehension of what was happening. He recognised the uniforms, and guessed that the men were prison warders.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed thickly, “the fools think I am Gurn! But I am not Gurn! Ask——” He cast a despairing eye at Lady Beltham who throughout the awful scene remained on her knees in a corner of the room, dumb with anguish, apparently deaf and turned to stone. “Tell them, madame,” he implored her. “Oh, God save me!” but still the warders dragged him towards the door. By an herculean effort he swayed them back with him into the middle of the room. “I am not Gurn, I tell you,” he shouted. “I am Valgrand, Valgrand the actor. Everybody in the world knows me. You know it too, but——Search me, I tell you,” and he made a sign with his head towards his left side. “Look in my pocket-book; my name’s inside; and you’ll find a letter too; proof of the trap I’ve been led into: the letter from that woman over there!”

  “Better look and see, Nibet,” one warder said to the other, and to Valgrand he added: “Not so much noise, man! Do you mean to get us all caught?”

  Nibet passed a quick hand through Valgrand’s pockets; there was no note-book there. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Besides, what about it?” he growled. “We brought Gurn here, didn’t we? Well, we’ve got to take Guru back again. That’s all I know. Come on!”

  Beaten down by the drowsiness that was quite irresistible, and worn out by his violent but futile efforts to resist the warders, Valgrand was half dragged, half carried out by the two men, his head drooping on his chest, his consciousness failing. But still as they were getting him down the stairs his voice could be heard in the half-dark room above, bleating more weakly and at longer intervals:

  “I am not Gurn! I am not Gurn!”

  Once more silence reigned in the room. After the three men had gone, Lady Beltham rose to her feet, tottered to the window, and stood there listening. She heard their footsteps crossing the street and stopping by the door into the prison. She waited for a few minutes to make sure that they had escaped unnoticed from their amazing adventure, then turned again to the sofa, struggled to unfasten the collar of her dress to get more air, drew a few deep sighs, and swooned.

  The door opposite the staircase opened slowly, and noiselessly Gurn emerged from the darkness and went towards Lady Beltham. The murderer flung himself at her feet, covered her face with kisses, and pressed her hands in his.

  “Maud!” he called. “Maud!”

  She did not answer and he hunted about the room for something to revive her. Presently, however, she recovered consciousness unaided and uttered a faint sigh. Her lover hurried to her.

  “Oh, Gurn,” she murmured, laying her white hand on the wretch’s neck: “it’s you, dear! Come close to me, and hold me in your arms! It was too much for me! I almost broke down and told everything! I could have borne no more. Oh, what an appalling time!” She sat up sharply, her face drawn with terror. “Listen: I can hear him still!”

  “Try not to think about it,” Gurn whispered, caressing her.

  “Did you hear him, how he kept on saying ‘I am not Gurn! I am not Gurn!’ Oh, heaven grant they may not find that out!”

  Gurn himself was shaken by the horror of the plot he had contrived with his mistress to effect this substitution of another for himself; it surpassed in ghastliness anything that had gone before, and he had not dared to give the least hint of it to Nibet.

  “The warders were well paid,” he said to reassure her now. “They would deny everything.” He hesitated a second, and then asked: “He drank the drug, didn’t he?”

  Lady Beltham nodded assent.

  “It will take effect. It was acting already: so rapidly, that I thought for a moment he would fall unconscious there, at my feet!”

  Gurn drew a deep breath.

  “Maud, we are saved!” he exclaimed. “See,” he went on, “as soon as it is light, and there are enough people in the street for us to mix with them unobserved, we will go away from here. While you were with—him——I burned my other clothes, so I will take these to get away in.” He picked up the hat and cloak which Valgrand had thrown upon the chair, and wrapped the heavy cloak around himself. “This will conceal me effectively.”

  “Let us go at once!” Lady Beltham exclaimed, but Gurn stayed her.

  “I must get rid of this beard, and my moustache,” he said, and he took a pair of scissors from his pocket and was walking towards a looking-glass when suddenly they both heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming slowly and steadily up the stairs. Gurn had no time to get back to his former hiding-place; all he could do was to sink into the one arm-chair that was in the room, and conceal his features as well as he could by turning down the brim of the hat and turning up the collar of the cloak which the actor had forgotten. The man went as white as a sheet, but Lady Beltham appeared to recover all her presence of mind, and strength, and daring, at the approach of danger, and she hurried to the door. But though she tried to keep it shut, it slowly turned upon the hinges, and a timid, hesitating figure appeared in the doorway and advanced towards the retreating woman.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Lady Beltham faltered.

  “I beg you to excuse me, madame,” the man began, “I came to——” He caught sight of Gurn and pointed to him. “M. Valgrand knows me well. I am Charlot, his dresser at the theatre, and I came to—I wanted to have a word—stay——” he took a small square parcel from his pocket. “M. Valgrand went off so hurriedly that he forgot his pocket-book, and so I came to bring it to him.” The dresser was trying to get near the murderer, whom he supposed to be his master, but Lady Beltham, in the most acute anxiety, kept between the two men. Charlot misunderstood her intention. “I also came to——” He stopped again and whispered to Lady Beltham. “He does not speak: is he very angry with me for coming? I didn’t come out of curiosity, or to cause you any trouble, madame; will you ask him not to be very angry with his poor old Charlot?”

  Lady Beltham felt like swooning again; she could endure very little of this old man’s garrulity. />
  “Go, for goodness’ sake, go,” she said peremptorily.

  “I am going,” Charlot said; “I know I am in the way; but I must explain to him,” and he raised his voice and spoke to Gurn, who sat quite still, sinking as far as he could into the shadow of the chair. “You are not very angry with me, M. Valgrand, are you?” and getting no reply he looked apologetically at Lady Beltham. “It was all these stories, and then the street, and the prison opposite: but perhaps you do not know; you see, I read in the paper yesterday, or rather to-night, a couple of hours ago, that that man Gurn, who murdered the rich English gentleman, was to be executed this morning. And so I was rather what you might call uneasy; at first I only meant to follow M. Valgrand and wait for him down below, but I lost my way and I have only just arrived; I found the door open, and as I did not know whether he had gone or was still here, I took the liberty to come upstairs. But I am going now, quite easy in my mind, since he is quiet and happy here with you. And I beg your pardon, madame.” He threw a last appeal to where Gurn sat. “I hope you will forgive me, M. Valgrand?” He sighed as no answer was forthcoming, and made a pathetic little appeal to Lady Beltham. “You will explain to him, madame, won’t you? He is a kind master, and he will understand. One does get fancies like that, you know. But now I will go away easy, quite easy in my mind, since I have seen him.”

  Charlot turned away slowly, with bent shoulders. As he passed the window he glanced outside and stopped short. Day was just beginning to break, making the wan light of the street lamps still more wan. From the window a view could be obtained of a kind of platform at the corner of the boulevard Arago which was bounded by the high wall of the Santé prison. This spot, usually deserted, was crowded with people; a moving mob, swarming and struggling behind some hastily erected barriers. Charlot stretched a trembling hand towards the spectacle, in sudden comprehension.

  “Good heavens!” he cried, “that must be where they are putting up the scaffold. Yes, I can see the planks and uprights; it is the guillotine! The exe——”

  The old man’s words ended in a sudden cry, and almost simultaneously there was a heavy thud.

  Struck from behind, Charlot fell like a log to the floor, while Lady Beltham recoiled in terror, clenching her fists to prevent herself from screaming.

  Seizing the opportunity presented by Valgrand’s faithful servant standing so still, hypnotised by the gruesome spectacle being prepared outside, Gurn had drawn a knife from his pocket, and, springing on the unfortunate old man, had driven the blade up to the hilt behind his neck.

  Charlot fell prone and rigid, the weapon remaining in the wound and stopping the flow of blood.

  Lady Beltham was staring at the victim in horror, but Gurn seized her roughly by the arm.

  Without troubling to alter the appearance of his face, but horrified as she was by the tragedies which had succeeded one another in such appalling and rapid succession during this awful night, Gurn drew the half-fainting woman to him, and hurried her away.

  “Come quick!” he muttered hoarsely. “Let us get out of this!”

  XXXII. ON THE SCAFFOLD

  It was still dark.

  In the keen morning air a crowd came hurrying along the pavements, flowing over into the roadways. The boulevards were black with people, all marching briskly towards one common goal. And it was a light-hearted, singing crowd, chanting the choruses of popular songs and swarming into the open restaurants and wine-shops and drinking dens.

  And it was noticeable that all these late birds belonged to one of two sharply divided classes. They were either rich, or miserably poor; they either came from the night clubs, or they were the poor devils with no homes or hearths who roam about the city from one year’s end to another. There were crooks whose faces shone with the evil excitement of alcohol, out-of-works of all kinds, beggars, and young men—all young men—with sleek oiled hair and shiny boots, in whose eyes and demeanour theft and crime could be seen.

  By a curious coincidence the great news seemed to have reached all, toffs and crooks alike, at exactly the same time. About midnight the rumour had run round the town; it was certain, definite this time; the official steps had been taken, and the guillotine was going to raise her blood-stained arms towards the sky; at earliest dawn, Gurn, the man who had murdered Lord Beltham, was to undergo the supreme punishment, and expiate his murder with his life.

  No sooner had the great news become known than all prepared, as for a holiday, to go to see the man’s head fall. At Montmartre carriages were requisitioned and taxi-cabs were at a premium. Women in gorgeous toilets and sparkling with jewels streamed from the open doors into the carriages which should bear them swiftly towards the Santé prison, and the place of execution. In the faubourgs likewise, the bars were emptied of their customers, and men and women, linked armin-arm, set forth on foot, with songs and ribaldries upon their lips, for the spectacle of blood and the boulevard Arago.

  Around the Santé prison an atmosphere of pleasure reigned as the people, massed together in tight ranks, produced bottles of wine, and ate sausages, and gaily enjoyed an improvised supper in the open air, while speculating about the details of the sight they had come to see. And so the crowd amused itself, for Gurn’s head was going to fall.

  Worming his way through the crowd, François Bonbonne, the landlord of the Saint-Anthony’s Pig, led a little company of friends who took advantage of his great stature to find the best path to take.

  The landlord was half-drunk already in honour of the occasion.

  “Come along, Billy Tom,” he shouted. “Catch hold of the tail of my coat and then you won’t lose us. Where is Hogshead Geoffroy?”

  “He’s coming along with Bouzille.”

  “Good! Just fancy if Bouzille had tried to get through here with his train! There are some people about, eh?”

  Two men passed the landlord of the market inn just then.

  “Come along,” said one of them, and as the other caught him up, Juve added: “Didn’t you recognise those fellows?”

  “No,” said Fandor.

  Juve told him the names of the men whom they had passed.

  “You will understand that I don’t want them to recognise me,” he said, and as Fandor smiled Juve went on: “It’s a queer thing, but it is always the future customers of the guillotine, apaches and fellows like that, who make a point of seeing this ghastly spectacle.” The detective stopped and laid a hand upon the journalist’s shoulder. “Wait,” he said, “we are right in front now: only the men who are holding the line are ahead of us. If we want to get through and avoid the crush we must make ourselves known at once. Here is your pass.”

  Jérôme Fandor took the card which Juve held out to him, and had got for him as a special favour.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “Here come the municipal guards,” Juve replied; “I can see their sabres flashing. We will get behind the newspaper kiosks and let them drive the crowd back, and then we will go through.”

  Juve had correctly anticipated the manœuvre which the officer in command of the squadron immediately proceeded to execute. Grave and imposing, and marvellously mounted on magnificent horses, a large number of municipal guards had just arrived on the boulevard Arago, by the side of the Santé prison, and just where the detective and the journalist were standing. A sharp order rang out, and the guards deployed fan-wise and, riding knee to knee, drove the crowd back irresistibly to the end of the avenue, utterly disregarding the angry murmur of protest, and the general crushing that ensued.

  The municipal guards were followed by troops of infantry, and these again by gendarmes who, holding hands, moved on all who by some means or other had managed to worm their way between the horses of the guards and the infantry, determined at any cost to keep in the front row of spectators.

  Juve and Fandor, armed with their special passes which admitted them to the enclosure where the guillotine actually stood, had no difficulty in getting through the triple line. They found thems
elves in the centre of a large portion of the boulevard Arago, entirely clear of spectators, and bounded on one side by the walls of the prison, and on the other by those of a convent.

  In this clear space about a dozen individuals in black coats and silk hats were walking about, affecting a complete indifference to what was going to happen, although really they were profoundly affected by it.

  “Chief detective-inspectors,” Juve said, pointing them out: “my colleagues. Some of yours too: do you see them? Chief reporters of the big dailies. Are you aware that you are uncommonly lucky to have been selected, at your extremely youthful age, to represent your paper at this lugubrious function?”

  Jérôme Fandor made an odd grimace.

  “I don’t mind admitting to you, Juve, that I am here because I am like you in wanting to see Gurn’s head fall; you have satisfied me beyond all doubt that Gurn is Fantômas, and I want to be sure that Fantômas is really dead. But if it were not the execution of that one particular wretch,—the only thing that can make society safe,—I should certainly have declined the honour of reporting this event.”

  “It upsets you?”

  “Yes.”

  Juve bent his head.

  “So it does me! Just think: for more than five years I have been fighting Fantômas! For more than five years I have believed in his existence, in spite of all ridicule and sarcasm! For more than five years I have been working for this wretch’s death, for death is the only thing that can put a stop to his crimes!” Juve paused a moment, but Fandor made no comment. “And I am rather sick and sorry, too: because, although I have reached this certainty that Guru is Fantômas, and have succeeded in convincing intelligent people, who were ready to study my work in good faith, I have nevertheless not succeeded in establishing legal proof that Gurn is Fantômas. Deibler and the Public Prosecutor, and people generally, think that it is merely Gurn who is going to be decapitated now. I may have secured this man’s condemnation, but none the less he has beaten me and deprived me of the satisfaction of having brought him, Fantômas, to the scaffold! I have only consigned Guru to the scaffold, and that is a defeat!”