Fantômas: Action Thriller. Marcel Allain

us go upstairs, my son: it is time."

      At the door of his room Charles deferentially offered his cheek to his father, but M. Etienne Rambert seemed to hesitate; then, as if taking a sudden resolution, he entered his son's room instead of going on to his own. Charles kept silence and refrained from asking any questions, for he had noticed how lost in sad thought his father had seemed to be since the day before.

      Charles Rambert was very tired. He began to undress at once. He had taken off his coat and waistcoat, and was turning towards a looking-glass to undo his tie, when his father came up to him; with an abrupt movement M. Etienne Rambert put both his hands on his son's shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. Then in a stifled but peremptory tone he said:

      "Now confess, unhappy boy! Confess to your father!"

      Charles went ghastly white.

      "What?" he muttered.

      Etienne Rambert kept his eyes fixed upon him.

      "It was you who committed the murder!"

      The ringing denial that the young man tried to utter was strangled in his throat; he threw out his arms and groped with his hands as if to find something to support him in his faintness; then he pulled himself together.

      "Committed the murder? I? You accuse me of having killed the Marquise? It is infamous, hateful, awful!"

      "Alas, yes!"

      "No, no! Good God, no!"

      "Yes!" Etienne Rambert insisted.

      The two men faced each other, panting. Charles controlled the emotion which was sweeping over him once more, and looking steadily at his father, said in tones of bitter reproach:

      "And it is actually my own father who says that — who suspects me!"

      Tears filled the young fellow's eyes and sobs choked him; he grew whiter still, and seemed so near collapse that his father had to support him to a chair, where he remained for several minutes utterly prostrated.

      M. Rambert paced up and down the room a few times, then took another chair and sat down in front of his son. Passing a hand across his brow as if to sweep away the horrible nightmare that was haunting him, he spoke again.

      "Come now, my boy, my poor boy, let us talk it over quietly. I do not know how it was, but yesterday morning when I saw you at the station I had a presentiment of something: you were haggard, and tired, and your eyes were drawn —— "

      "I told you before," Charles answered tonelessly "that I had had a bad night: I was over-excited and did not sleep: I was awake the whole night."

      "By Jove, yes!" his father rapped out: "I can believe that! But if you were not asleep, how do you account for your not hearing anything?"

      "Thérèse did not hear anything either," said Charles after a moment's reflection.

      "Thérèse's room was a long way off," M. Rambert replied, "while there was only a thin wall between yours and that of the Marquise. You must have heard: you did hear! More than that —— , oh, my boy, my unhappy boy!"

      Charles was twisting and untwisting his hands, and great drops of cold perspiration beaded his brow.

      "You are the only single person who thinks I committed such an awful crime!" he said, half questioningly.

      "The only one?" Etienne Rambert muttered. "Perhaps! As yet! But you ought to know that you made a very bad impression indeed upon the friends of the Marquise during the evening before the crime, when President Bonnet was reading the particulars of a murder that had been committed in Paris by — somebody: I forget whom."

      "Good heavens!" Charles exclaimed in indignation, "I did not say anything wrong. Do you mean to say that just because I am interested in stories of great criminals like Rocambole and Fantômas —— "

      "You created a deplorable impression," his father repeated.

      "So they suspect me too, do they?" Charles enquired. "But you can't make accusations like that," he said, warming up: "you've got to have facts, and proofs." He looked at his father for the sympathy and encouragement of affection. "Listen, papa, I know you will believe me when I swear that I am innocent; but do you think other people —— "

      M. Etienne Rambert sat with his head between his hands, wrapped in thought; there was a short silence before the unhappy father replied:

      "Unfortunately there is evidence against you," he said at last; "and damning evidence, too!" he added with a glance at his son that seemed to pulverise him. "Terrible evidence! Consider, Charles: the magistrates have decided, as a result of their investigations, that no one got into the château on the fatal night; you were the only man who slept there; and none but a man could possibly have committed such a horrible crime, such a monstrous piece of butchery!"

      "Someone might have got in from outside," the unhappy lad urged, as if trying to escape from the network in which he was being entangled.

      "No one did," Etienne Rambert insisted; "besides, how could you prove it?"

      Charles was silent. He stood in the middle of the room, with trembling legs and haggard eyes, seemingly stupefied and incapable of coherent thought, vacantly watching his father. With bent head and shoulders bowed as though beneath a too-heavy load, Etienne Rambert moved towards the dressing-room attached to the bedroom.

      "Come here," he said in an almost inaudible voice; "follow me."

      He went into the dressing-room, and picking up the towels that were heaped anyhow on the lower rail of the washstand, he selected a very crumpled one and held it out in front of his son.

      "Look at that!" he said in a low, curt tone.

      And on the towel, thus held in the light, Charles Rambert saw red stains of blood. The lad started, and was about to burst into some protestation, but Etienne Rambert imperiously checked him.

      "Do you still deny it? Unhappy, wretched boy, there is the convincing, irrefutable evidence of your guilt! These stains of blood proclaim it. Something always is overlooked! How are you to explain the presence of this blood-stained linen in your room? Can you still deny that it is proof positive of your guilt?"

      "But I do deny it, I do deny it! I don't understand! I know nothing about it!" and once more Charles Rambert collapsed into the arm-chair; the unhappy lad was nothing but a human wreck, with no strength to argue or even utter a word.

      His father's eyes rested on him, filled with infinite affection and profoundest pity.

      "My poor, poor boy!" the unhappy Etienne Rambert murmured, and added, as if speaking only to himself: "I wonder if you are not entirely responsible — if there are circumstances to plead for you!"

      "Do you still accuse me, papa? Do you really believe I am the murderer?"

      Etienne Rambert shook his head hopelessly.

      "Oh, I wish, I wish," he exclaimed, "that for the honour of our name, and for the sake of those who love us, I could prove you had congenital, hereditary tendencies that made you not responsible! Why could not I have watched over your upbringing? Why has fate decreed that I should only see my son three times at most in eighteen years, and come home to find him — a criminal? Oh, if science could but establish the fact that the child of a tainted mother —— "

      "Tainted?" Charles exclaimed; "what do you mean?"

      "Tainted with a terrible and mysterious disease," Etienne Rambert went on: "a disease before which we are powerless and unarmed — insanity!"

      "What?" cried Charles, growing momentarily more distressed and bewildered; "what is that, papa? Are my wits going? My mother insane?" And then he added hopelessly: "My God! You must be right! Often and often I have been amazed by her strange, puzzling looks and behaviour! But I — I have all my proper senses: I know what I am doing!"

      "Was it, perhaps, some appalling hallucination," Etienne Rambert suggested: "some moment of irresponsibility?"

      But