Part 43 (1/2)
There was a palpitating silence.
Monsieur Fuselier had returned to his writing table.
Jerome Fandor seemed to have recovered his composure, an ironic smile curved his lips beneath his small moustache, whilst his hand sought that of Elizabeth: it was the only way he could, at the moment, express the sympathy he had never ceased to feel for her.
Monsieur Fuselier filled in a printed paper and pressed an electric bell.
Two munic.i.p.al guards appeared.
Monsieur Fuselier rose and signing to the soldiers to wait, he faced Elizabeth Dollon.
”Mademoiselle, have you any objections to make to the statements of Monsieur Jerome Fandor? Will you say whether or no you received a visit from your brother?”
Elizabeth, tortured by intense emotion, her throat contracted, strove in vain to p.r.o.nounce a word; at last, by a supreme effort, she murmured in a strangled voice:
”Oh! Why, you are all mad here!”
As she gave no direct reply to his question, Monsieur Fuselier, after a pause, announced in a grave voice:
”Mademoiselle! Until I have more ample information, I am under the cruel necessity of ordering your arrest!... Guards, arrest the accused!” cried the magistrate sternly.
Elizabeth Dollon made a movement of revolt, when she saw herself surrounded and felt her arms seized by the two representatives of authority. She was about to cry out in protest, but a glance--it seemed to her a tender glance--from Fandor restrained her.... She stood speechless, inert. After all, had she not confidence in him, although she could not understand his att.i.tude! Had he not been her staunch defender up to now? Had he not warned her that she must not be astonished at anything that occurred--that she must be prepared for anything?... Nevertheless, Elizabeth Dollon felt her brain reeling--she was astounded beyond words.... The surprise was too strong for her....
About a quarter of an hour after this tragic scene, Fandor was pacing up and down the asphalt of the boulevard du Palais, plunged in thought, when someone clapped him on the shoulder. He turned. It was Monsieur Fuselier.
”Well, my dear fellow!” cried the magistrate, resuming his customary tone of good fellows.h.i.+p. ”Well, what an adventure! You have been playing some fine tricks! I never expected such a stroke as that, the deuce if I did!”
”Ho, ho!” laughed Fandor, ”I think that a week from to-day we shall know a good many things!”
”Well,” replied the magistrate, ”I have had the girl placed in solitary confinement--that makes them willing to speak out!....”
Fandor looked the magistrate up and down.
”Ah!” murmured he, with a scarcely perceptible note of contempt in his voice:
”You think you will extract information from that quarter, do you?”
”But why not? Why not?” interrupted the dapper Monsieur Fuselier, in a sprightly tone; and, leaving Fandor abruptly, he leapt into a pa.s.sing tramcar.
Fandor watched Fuselier cross the road and climb to an outside seat.
Whilst the magistrate waved a friendly farewell from the top of the disappearing car, Fandor shrugged disdainful shoulders, and, with pitying lips, muttered one word:
”Fool!”
XVIII
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TRUNK