where about a dozen secretaries would be working at wooden desks.
These secretaries are changed frequently, so that they may not get to
know too much about the work passing through their hands, though they
are seldom given anything of an important confidential nature to deal
with. There is a vast square room adjoining, reserved for the
so-called "_statistics_." This immense apartment is abundantly lighted
by two large windows and a large table of white wood stands in the
centre of the room. Occasionally it is heaped with papers, but
generally it is clear, and only maps are to be seen, maps of all parts
of France and of foreign countries also, marked with red pencil,
ornamented with cabalistic signs, thickly sprinkled with notes. Placed
against the walls are the desks of the officers of this department,
two captains and two lieutenants. Next to this room is the small
office where Commandant Dumoulin, the chief assistant, is generally to
be found. Fixed into the wall, on the right-hand side, is the one
remarkable thing in this most ordinary looking office: here is the
famous steel press, of which Commandant Dumoulin alone possesses the
key, and in which are enclosed, they say, the most secret instructions
relating to National Defence and Mobilisation.
This office communicates on one side with the office of statistics,
and on the opposite side with a sitting-room, soberly furnished with
arm-chairs and sofas covered with green velvet; on the walls is a
green paper; one picture only adorns this solemn reception-room, whose
doors are tightly closed to air and sound--the portrait of the
president of the Republic. Here are received visitors of mark, who
have information of the highest importance to communicate. Here
conversations can be freely carried on, for thick window curtains,
door curtains and carpet deaden sound.
At the extreme end of the corridor is the office of the
commander-in-chief, Colonel Hofferman. At once elegantly and
comfortably furnished, this office is quite unlike the others: there
is more of the individual than the official here. An array of
telephones keeps the colonel in touch with the various departments of
the Ministry, with the Municipality, with the Governor of Paris. In a
recess is a telegraphic installation.
This able infantry officer is a man of great distinction. He has
directed the delicate service of "statistics" with much tact and
discretion for the past three years. His fair complexion, blue eyes,
blonde hair betray his Alsatian origin. This handsome bachelor,
verging on the fifties, is very much a man of the world, is received
in the most exclusive sets, and has been known to carry on the most
intimate conversations with charming ladies in his office. Was the
subject of these talks National Defence? Who knows?
* * * * *
In the officers' room there was animated talk.
"Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, a
regular colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed long
years in Africa at the head of a detachment of Zouaves.
Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil. He stopped, and, throwing
himself back in his chair, replied with a smile:
"No, my dear fellow, this time it is to be a sapper." Looking over his
spectacles he softly hummed the old refrain of Therese:
"_Nothing is as sacred to a sapper!_"
Armandelle burst out laughing.
"Ah, my boy, come what will, you meet it with a smile!"
"By Jove, old man, why be gloomy?" answered the lively captain. "We
can only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Why
not be jolly?"
Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice.
Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, large
round glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionally
short-sighted. His colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer." It was
easy to see that he was much more at home in mufti than in uniform. He
would say, laughing:
"I have all the looks of a territorial, and that is unfortunate,
considering I belong to the active contingent."
Loreuil was one of the most highly appreciated officers of the Second
Bureau. Had anyone examined the hands of "The Lawyer" just then, he
would have seen that they were roughened and had horny lumps on them
of recent formation. His fingers, all twisted out of shape at the
tips, seamed with scars, led one to suppose that the captain was not
entirely a man of sedentary office life. In fact, he had just returned
after a fairly long absence. He had disappeared for six months. It was
rumoured in the departments that he had been one of a gang of masons
who were constructing a fort on a foreign frontier, a fort, the plans
of which he had got down to the smallest detail. But questions had not
been asked, and the captain had not, of course, given his colleagues
the slightest hint, the smallest indication of how those six months
had been passed. Besides, unforeseen journeys, sudden disappearances,
unexpected returns, mysterious missions, made up the ordinary lot of
those attached to the Second Bureau.
The old keeper of the records, Gaudin, who was methodically sorting a
voluminous correspondence which was to be laid before Commandant
Dumoulin, put a question to Armandelle:
"Lieutenant, is it not a captain of the engineers who is to take the
place of this poor Captain Brocq?"
"True enough, Gaudin! His nomination was signed by the minister
yesterday. We expect him this morning at half-past nine. What time is
it now?
"A quarter past nine, lieutenant!"
"He will be punctual."
"Why, of course!" cried Captain Loreuil. "That is why I caught sight
of the chief just now. He is earlier than usual. What is the name of
the new-comer?"
"Muller," said Armandelle. "He comes from Belfort," cried Loreuil:
"I know what Hofferman will say to him--'My dear Captain, you enter
this day the house of silence and discretion.'"
Loreuil turned to Gaudin.
"Where is Lieutenant de Loubersac this morning?"
"Why, Captain," explained the old keeper of records, "you must know
very well that he has been ordered to act as escort to the King of
Greece."
"Confound Loubersac! He goes to all the entertainments."
Steps were heard, some brief words were spoken in the adjacent
corridor, an orderly opened the door and saluted.
"Captain Muller has arrived, Monsieur!"
Extended very much at his ease on a comfortable couch, Colonel
Hofferman was polishing his nails, whilst Commandant Dumoulin stood
respectfully before him tightly encased in his sober light infantry
uniform. Dumoulin was fully alive to the importance of his position:
was he not the repository of the famous key which unlocked the steel
press?
The colonel looked up at his subordinate.
"You are going to put Captain Muller in the way of things here,
Commandant, are you not?"
"Yes, Colonel!"
"It will be a good thing to have a talk with Captain Muller. He comes
just at the moment when we have some very nasty business in
hand--difficult--very worrying.... That's so, Dumoulin?"
"True, Colonel! That's a fact."
Hofferman pressed a bell. An orderly appeared.
"Ask Captain Muller to kindly step in here."
Almost at once Captain Muller entered, saluted, and remained standing
at some distance from his chief.
"Take this arm-chair, Captain." Hofferman was amiable politeness
itself. Dumoulin, rather scandalised that the colonel should encourage
such familiarity in a subordinate, was on the point of retiring
discreetly. The colonel made him sit down also.
Hofferman turned to Captain Muller.
"You come amongst us, Monsieur, at a sad moment. You know, of course,
that you are Captain Brocq's successor? A most valuable officer, to
whom we were greatly attached."
Captain Muller bent his head. He murmured:
"We were men of the same year, comrades at the school--Brocq and I."
Hofferman continued:
"Ah, well, you are to take on the work begun by Captain Brocq.... Now
tell me, Captain, what importance do you attach to the orders
regarding the roll-call, the mustering and distribution of the
mechanics and operatives of the artillery in the various corps--from
the point of view of mobilisation, that is?"
"It is of the very greatest importance, Colonel."
"Good!"
Hofferman paused. He continued, in a low tone and with a grave air:
"In the newspapers--oh, in ambiguous terms, but clear enough to the
initiated--the public has been given to understand that not only has
an important document been stolen from Captain Brocq before, or at the
time of his assassination, or after it, but that this document was
none other than the distribution chart of the concealed works in and
about the girdle of forts on the east of Paris.... This is inaccurate.
Captain, what has disappeared is the distribution list of our
artillery mechanics! That is much more serious!... However, for some
time past we have had under consideration a rearrangement scheme. We
are going to take advantage of the disappearance of the document in
question, Document Number 6--keep that number in mind--we are going
to draw up a new plan for the mobilisation of the rear-guards. You are
to be entrusted with this, and I count on your devoting your whole
time and attention to it."
Captain Muller understood that the conversation was at an end. He
rose, saying quietly:
"You may count on me, Colonel."
He was then given his official instructions.
Hofferman left the couch, and, dropping his nail polisher, came
towards the captain with outstretched hands.
"My father knew yours in bygone days," he cried genially; "both were
natives of Colmar."
"Why, is that so, indeed, Colonel?" cried the captain, delighted to
find himself among friends.
Hofferman nodded.
"All will go well, be sure of it. I know you take your work
seriously.... We have excellent reports of you--you are married, are
you not?"
Muller nodded in the affirmative.
"Excellent!" declared the colonel. Pointing a threatening finger at
Muller.
"You know our standing orders here! Many acquaintances--very few
intimates: no mistress."
The colonel did not remain alone in his office long. He sent for
Lieutenant de Loubersac. With a soldier's punctuality he appeared
before his chief. He was in uniform.
"Nothing unusual this morning, Loubersac?" questioned Hofferman,
gazing complacently at the soldier, superb in his magnificent uniform,
an elegant and splendid specimen of a cavalry officer.
"Nothing, Colonel. The arrival of the King of Greece has been
perfectly carried out."
"The crowd?"
"Oh, indifferent on the whole; come to have a look at him out of
curiosity."
"Ah, no King of Spain affair?"
"No, no! Out of that I got this scar on my forehead."
"Well," cried the colonel, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any
good! You will get the cross all the quicker!"
Lieutenant de Loubersac smiled.
Hofferman continued:
"My dear fellow, ... you know ... the vanished document!... It's
extremely important--it will have to be found!"
"Good, Colonel!"
"Have you just now a particularly sharp agent?... Shrewd?"
"Yes, Colonel," said de Loubersac, after a moment's reflection.
"Who is he?"
"The man engaged on the V---- affair."
"When shall you see him?"
"This afternoon, Colonel. We have an appointment for three-thirty."
"The worst of it is this affair is making no end of
talk--scandal--it's the very devil and all! Some fools of papers who
deal in scandal are scaring the public with rumours of war: they speak
of the eventual rupture of diplomatic relations. The financial market
is unsteady--the Jews are selling as hard as they can, and that is
disquieting, for those fellows have a quicker scent than any one....
Lieutenant, it is urgent: set your agent to work at once! He must act
with discretion, of course, but he must act as quickly as possible--it
is urgent!"
"And what are the conditions, Colonel?"
After a moment's reflection, Hofferman replied:
"You must make and get the best conditions you can."
* * * * *
It was noon, and twelve was striking. The vast ministerial premises,
where silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and the
sharp sound of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs,
doors banged: the offices were emptying for a couple or hours.
"Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down on
his head till it all but covered his eyes. This gave him the
appearance, either of an artist of sorts or of a seller of chestnuts!
Now behold the handsomest cavalier of France and Navarre!...
And he struck up, in a clear voice:
"_Ah, how I would love this cuirassier_
_If I were still a demoiselle._"
Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst into
laughter, and warmly shook hands with him.
* * * * *
A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, were
standing motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining the
palisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodiles
were performing their evolutions.
Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were also
poverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two,
the inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead of
hastening onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair young
man, smart, in tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He had
been standing there some ten minutes, and was giving but scant
attention to the saurians. He was casting furtive glances around him,
as though looking for someone.
If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, it
hardly seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy Zoological
Gardens, misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees at
the approach of winter.
A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeant
belonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly,
bent on business.
Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisade
and hid himself behind a tree, muttering:
"Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttoned
his coat and looked at his watch.
"Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!"
* * * * *
Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to the
Gardens, a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one another
in the circle they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserable
old man with a long white beard, who was drawing discordant sounds
from an old accordion.
Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, were
exercising their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician to
play according to time and tune.
But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manage
to play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain.
At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts,
and, taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice a
much easier exercise: he made the round of the company to collect
their offerings. The crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary,
hat in hand, and with only a few sous in it for his pains. With a
resigned air, the man pocketed his meagre takings, then, pushing the
accordion up on his back where it was held in place by a strap, he
walked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He passed through it and
entered the Gardens.
The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almost
immediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very same
who some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles with
but lukewarm interest.
The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player without
seeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as if
speaking to himself, the young man uttered these words:
"Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom."
At once the accordion player added.
"And the potatoes are going to sprout!"
They identified each other.
The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; they
drew closer together and began to converse.
"Are things still going well, Vagualame?"
"My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends."...
The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at the
countenance of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease of
habit.
The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand with
his stick.
"What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly.
"I have no more money, Lieutenant."
The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily.
"What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here--I am M. Henri, and
nothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?"
"Oh," protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, I
understand my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs a
great deal!"
"Yes," replied Henri de Loubersac--for he it was--"Yes, I know you are
always hard up."
"Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame.
"That depends.... How are things going?"
"Which things?"
The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly manner
intentional?
Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri de
Loubersac, knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations with
Bobinette, nor his attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of his
whom he had just assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated,
Captain Brocq. Thus Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving at
one and the same time the Second Bureau and, most probably, its
bitterest adversaries.
"Vagualame, you really are a fool," went on de Loubersac. "What I
refer to is the V. affair: how does it stand--what has been done?"
The old man began to laugh.
"Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up!
You know the little singer of Chalons, called Nichoune? She made her
first appearance at La Fere, and since then the creature has roved
through the rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes--you
must know her well, Monsieur Henri."
The lieutenant interrupted him.
"All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!"
"Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V.--he is on leave, the
corporal is."...
"I know, he is in Paris."
"Well, then, what do you wish me to do?"
"You must go to Chalons and make an exhaustive enquiry into the
relations of V.... with Nichoune. V. was eaten up with debts."
"He has settled them," remarked Vagualame.
"Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback.
"Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someone
called Alfred."
"I know him, Lieutenant,--pardon--Monsieur Henri--a--letter-box--a
go-between."
"We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V.
and the late Captain Brocq."
These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearer
still to de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee.
"Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?"
Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player up
and down.
"Do not meddle with what does not concern you."
"Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to be
confused, nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids.
There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing his
moustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said to
himself:
"As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine big
morsel for me! I see what you are driving at!"...
True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was an
exchange of hurried words in a low tone.
"Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?"
"Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?"
"Naturally."
Vagualame insisted:
"Dangerous, as well?"
"Perhaps!"
"How much will you pay?"
Without hesitation, the officer said:
"Twenty-five thousand francs."...
Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualame
retorted.
"Nothing doing!"
"Thirty thousand?"
The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?"
Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added:
"It is a lost document!... Perhaps it is a case of theft ... a list of
the distribution of artillery operatives--Document Number Six!"
"But," cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of this
document's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan of
mobilisation?"...
Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow:
"I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Can
you recover it?"
Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words.
"What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more and
more exasperated, shook him by the sleeve.
"Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please," whined the old man,
"I was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'"
"The disappearance of the document," continued de Loubersac, "is
coincident with the death of Captain Brocq--so it is supposed."...
He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands,
simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air of
enjoyment:
"Women! Always the dear women!... Ah, these dear and damnable women!"
He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided.
"Monsieur Henri," he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fifty
thousand francs."
"What!" De Loubersac was startled.
Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that his
statement was final.
"Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fifty
thousand!"
Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview.
"Agreed to!... Be quick about it!... Adieu!"
VIII
A SINGER OF THE HALLS.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
"Be off with you, Leonce! To the door!"
It was a regular hubbub! An uproar! It increased!
Leonce the comedian had to cut short his monologue!
The little concert-hall at Chalons was at its liveliest. There was not
a single seat to be had. It was a mixed audience of soldiers and
civilians, and the uniform did not fraternise too well with the garb
of the working-man!
This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out on
leave, would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish the
evening on the squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces.
On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army were
less satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances," of
poor quality, and they accused the management of having filled the
hall with civilians in order to secure a good reception for these
mediocre performers. Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made a
frightful uproar.
"Take the comic man away!"
"He shall not sing!"
Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performer
only.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
Nichoune was indeed the star of the company!
She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rare
enough in that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, above
all, she sang popular ditties so that the audience could join in the
chorus. As usual, after every singer, male or female, there were loud
demands for Nichoune. Her admirers were merciless: they had no
consideration for her fatigue: they would have kept her on the
platform from eight o'clock till midnight!
The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room.
"Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurry
on."
Nichoune got up.
"Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this--well, I shall be off! You
will see! They will have to have me back, too!"
The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matter
of profound indifference to him.
"Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!"
Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouring
crowd panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol was
going to sing!
Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to the
footlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience in
strident tones.
"_Les Inquiets!_... Music by Delmet.... Words also.... It is I who
sing it!"
Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised her
audience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. She
could not have been in her best form, because when about to start her
third verse she suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started the
fourth. This passed unnoticed by her audience, who gave her a
vociferous ovation at the close.
"The programme! the programme!" they yelled.
As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among the
audience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes," and, taking a
pile of little programmes from the wings, she descended the few steps
which led from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands were
outstretched to help her down. She pushed them aside with mocking
looks. Shouts of admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations of
love were rained on her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swung
past with a provocative swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain.
Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of
programmes with all speed.
Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the
last row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name
uttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.
He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end
of the concert-room: he was an aged man.