Part 77 (1/2)
”Brothers! You have sworn to defend Russia, to defend Poland, by every means in your power! Do you swear it still?”
The voices of the masked men vibrated as one:
”We swear it!”
”Brothers, are you prepared to risk all for our Cause?”
”We are prepared.”
The man who posed as chief came nearer his fellow-conspirators, who bent their heads as he apostrophised them:
”Brothers, there is a man in Paris who has worked more harm to us than have all the police in the world: a man who has stirred up against us the indignant horror of public opinion by an acc.u.mulation of hideous crimes, the responsibility for which he has cast on us!... This man I, Trokoff, have vowed to deliver up to you, that you may wreak your vengeance on him!... Look well, brothers! He is before you! I deliver him up to you!”
The conspirators, as one man, stared at Fandor.
A murmur issued from the mouths of these masked men; a murmur breathing hate and menaces:
”Fantomas!... Fantomas!”
Fandor did not lose one detail of this scene.
”Ah,” thought he, ”the bandit's last trick!”
Trokoff was Fantomas! Fandor was sure of it! He was abusing the ardent faith and trust of his disciples, this false apostle! Wis.h.i.+ng to rid himself of Fandor, he delivered him to the vengeance of his companions. Making him pa.s.s for Fantomas, he drove them on to murder, thus thrusting on to them responsibility for the crime, leaving them to reap what consequences might follow from the journalist's a.s.sa.s.sination.
How Fandor longed to shout:
”I am not Fantomas! Your Trokoff is a traitor!”
But how pull the scales from off eyes blinded by fanaticism? How to prove to them he was not Fantomas? Who among them could recognise the unknown, elusive bandit, Fantomas?
These Nihilists had for Trokoff an admiration beyond the bounds of reason. How could he show up Trokoff as he really was?
It would be madness to attempt it!
For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil countenance of Fantomas--Fantomas who was gloating over his confusion and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for some act of cowardice.
Never would Jerome Fandor play the coward!
At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter. He awaited the event.
A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.
”Fantomas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in your defence?”
Fandor was dumb.
”Fantomas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and mask--I tear them off you!”
Trokoff rushed forward, crying: