A Nest of Spies: Fantômas Saga. Marcel Allain

      Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature's words. Then he interjected:

      "Monsieur, your father."...

      His companion smiled.

      "Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am not Mademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I am merely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call me Mademoiselle Berthe."...

      "Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediately regretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person did not take offence.

      "They certainly do call me that — my intimates, at least," she added with a touch of malice.

      Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He must do all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that he might get into the good graces of this girl; for she was the very person whom it behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysterious adventure, the outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq.

      Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that she was not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address.

      "Alas, Monsieur," she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am too much afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will become very quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have come to see M. Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regarding this sad affair we have all been thinking so much about."

      "Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor.

      He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the young woman did not give him time.

      She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she had repeated a lesson learned by heart.

      "Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you do not already know, except — and there is no secret about it — that Captain Brocq used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined with the Baron frequently, and they have worked at several things together.... Several of his friends, officers, have been received here as well: M. de Naarboveck is very fond of company."...

      "And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor.

      "Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes."

      Fandor nearly added:

      "A daughter to get married."

      It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs, this red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part in the drama.

      "Mademoiselle," questioned Fandor, "it has been reported that yesterday afternoon you had occasion to meet Captain Brocq, some hours before his sad end?"

      The young woman stared fixedly at the journalist, as if to read his thoughts, as if to divine whether or not he knew that not only had she met Captain Brocq, but had spent some time with him alone.

      Fandor did know it, but he remained impenetrable.

      Bobinette, very much mistress of herself, said quite simply:

      "It is a fact Monsieur, that I did see Captain Brocq yesterday. I had to give him a message."

      "You will think me very inquisitive," continued Fandor, who pretended not to look at the young woman, in order to put her more at her ease, but who, in reality, did not lose a single change of expression on her pretty face, for he could watch its reflection in a mirror. "You will think me very inquisitive, but could you tell me the nature of ... this communication?"

      Bobinette replied, quite naturally:

      "To be sure I can, Monsieur. Baron de Naarboveck is giving an entertainment here shortly, and the captain was going to take part in it. As he was very much of an artist we counted on his doing some menus in colour for us: I simply went to see him with a message from Mademoiselle Wilhelmine."...

      The conversation stopped short.

      Fandor had turned around quickly. Behind him — doubtless he had been there for some moments — a man was standing. Fandor had not heard him enter the room. He was a man of a certain age. His moustache was quite white: he wore the whiskers and imperial of 1850.

      Fandor recognised Baron Naarboveck. He was going to apologise for not having noticed his entrance, but de Naarboveck smiled at the journalist with apparent cordiality.

      "Pardon me, Monsieur Fandor, for not having received you myself, but I had a guest: moreover, Mademoiselle Berthe must have told you what my views are regarding interviews."...

      Fandor made a slight gesture. The baron continued:

      "Oh, they are definite, unalterable! But that will not prevent you from taking a cup of coffee with us, I feel sure. I have the highest esteem for Monsieur Dupont, and the terms in which he has recommended you to me are such that, from now on, I have not the slightest hesitation in treating you as one of ourselves, as a friend."

      Monsieur Naarboveck put his hand familiarly on the young journalist's shoulder, and led him into the next room.

      It was a library: a very lofty room. It was soberly and elegantly furnished. Before a great chimney-piece of wood, two young people were standing, and were chatting very much at their ease.

      They paused when Fandor entered.

      Close behind followed Mademoiselle Berthe.

      Fandor bowed to the two young people.

      Naarboveck made the introductions:

      "Monsieur Jérôme Fandor — Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, my daughter — Monsieur de Loubersac, lieutenant of cuirassiers."

      Silence reigned after these formal introductions. If Fandor was in certain measure satisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, he was really bored by this involuntary intrusion into a family gathering which mattered little to him. He felt he had been caught. How the devil was he going to escape from this wasp's nest? His eye fell on a timepiece. Seeing the hour, he thought:

      "Had it not been for this Brocq fellow, and that fool of a Dupont, I should now be in the train asleep, and rolling along towards Dijon!"...

      Mademoiselle de Naarboveck, with the ease of a well-bred woman, offered the journalist a cup of boiling hot coffee.

      Mademoiselle Berthe suggested sugar.

      Monsieur de Naarboveck, as if he had suddenly remembered something, said to him:

      "But you bear a name which recalls many things, Monsieur Jérôme Fandor! It was you, of course, famous journalist that you are, who, some time ago, was in constant pursuit of a mysterious ruffian whom they called Fantômas?"

      Fandor, a little embarrassed, smiled. It seemed to him something quite abnormal to hear Fantômas mentioned in this gathering, so simple, so natural, so commonplace.

      Surely, this criminal, his adventures, the police, and even reporting, must partake of the fantastic, the imaginary — it must all be Greek to such conventional people.

      Nevertheless, as Monsieur de Naarboveck spoke, Mademoiselle Berthe drew close to the journalist and gazed at him with curiosity.

      "But tell me, Monsieur, may I ask you a question? Perhaps it is my turn to be inquisitive — but then, so were you just now!"

      Fandor laughed. Decidedly this young and pretty person was charming.

      "I am certainly bound to reply to you as you wish, Mademoiselle!"

      Nodding with a mischievous look, and casting a glance at the Baron asking his approval — he signified his consent by a nod — she demanded with an innocently curious air:

      "Do tell me, Monsieur, who this Fantômas is?"

      Fandor stood speechless.

      Ah, this question, which this young woman had asked so naturally, as if it referred to the most simple thing in the world, how often had he asked himself that same question? During how many sleepless nights had his mind