lt of this modern education and
the state of mind produced in the younger generation by the newspaper
press and even by literature. Criminals are given haloes and proclaimed
from the housetops. It is astounding!"

But Charles Rambert was not the least impressed.

"But it is life, sir; it is history, it is the real thing!" he insisted.
"Why, you yourself, in just a few words, have thrown an atmosphere round
this Fantomas which makes him absolutely fascinating! I would give
anything to have known Vidocq and Cartouche and Rocambole, and to have
seen them at close quarters. Those were men!"

President Bonnet contemplated the young man in astonishment; his eyes
flashed lightning at him and he burst out:

"You are mad, boy, absolutely mad! Vidocq--Rocambole! You mix up legend
and history, bracket murderers with detectives, and make no distinction
between right and wrong! You would not hesitate to set the heroes of
crime and the heroes of law and order on one and the same pedestal!"

"You have said the word, sir," Charles Rambert exclaimed: "they all are
heroes. But, better still, Fantomas----"

The lad's outburst was so vehement and spontaneous and sincere, that it
provoked unanimous indignation among his hearers. Even the indulgent
Marquise de Langrune ceased to smile. Charles Rambert perceived that he
had gone too far, and stopped abruptly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he murmured. "I spoke without thinking; please
forgive me."

He raised his eyes and looked at President Bonnet, blushing to the tips
of his ears and looking so abashed that the magistrate, who was a
kind-hearted man at bottom, tried to reassure him.

"Your imagination is much too lively, young man, much too lively. But
you will grow out of that. Come, come: that's all right; lads of your
age do talk without knowledge."

It was very late now, and a few minutes after this incident the guests
of the Marquise de Langrune took their departure.

Charles Rambert accompanied the Marquise to the door of her own private
rooms, and was about to bid her a respectful good night before going on
to his bedroom, which adjoined hers, when she asked him to follow her.

"Come in and get the book I promised you, Charles. It should be on my
writing-table." She glanced at that piece of furniture as she entered
the room, and went on, "Or in it, perhaps; I may have locked it away."

"I don't want to give you any trouble," he protested, but the Marquise
insisted.

"Put