FRANCE IN MOURNING
To M. Theophile Delcasse, Minister of Marine, and first statesman of the
Republic, slumbering peacefully in his bed at Paris that morning, came
the sound of urgent knocking. He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from
his eyes, for he knew that not without good cause would any one dare
disturb him at that hour. Then he stepped to the floor, thrust his feet
into a pair of slippers, his arms into the sleeves of a dressing-robe,
and opened the door.
"A telegram, sir, marked 'Most Important,'" said his valet, and passed
it in to him.
It was from Vice-Admiral Bellue, commander at Toulon, and a moment later
M. Delcasse had learned of the terrible disaster.
He ordered his carriage and dressed rapidly with trembling hands. He was
shocked and distressed as he had rarely been before. Would these
disasters never cease? First the _Jena_ow the _Liberte_--both ships
the pride of their country, the last formidable word in marine
architecture! He gulped down the cup of coffee which his valet brought
him, seized hat and gloves, hastened to his carriage, and drove
straight to the Elysee Palace.
The President was already up, and his broad face, usually so placid and
good-humoured, was convulsed with grief as he greeted his Minister. He
held in his hand a telegram, which he had just opened.
"See," he said, after the first moment, "the sad news is already
abroad," and he held out the message.
Delcasse took it and read it with astonished eyes. It was from the
German Emperor, and expressed his grief at the catastrophe, and his
sympathy with France, which he had directed his ambassador to call at
once in person to convey more fully.
"The Kaiser is certainly well-served!" muttered Delcasse, reading the
message again, his lips twitching with emotion. "There is something
ironical in this promptness. He must have had the news before we did!"
The President nodded gloomily. Then the other members of the cabinet
came whirling up, and were convened at once by their chief in secret
session.
Not many hours later, as a result of that session, a special train
rolled out of the Gare de Lyon, and headed away for the south, with a
clear track and right-of-way over everything. Aboard it were the
President himself, the Minister of Marine, the Minister of War, and a
score of minor officials. There was also a thin little man with white
hair and yellowish-white beard--M. Louis Jean Baptiste Lepine, Prefect
of Police, and the most famous hunter of criminals in the world; and in
the last car were a dozen of the best men of his staff, under command of
his most trusted lieutenant, Inspector Pigot.
At each station, as the train rolled on, great crowds gathered to meet
it--crowds strangely silent, inarticulate with grief, furious,
suspicious of they knew not what. Terrible rumours were abroad--rumours
of treachery, of treason striking at the very heart of France. No one
dared repeat these rumours, but nevertheless they ran up and down the
land. The _Jena_ and now the _Liberte_! True, the Board of Inquiry,
which had investigated the destruction of the _Jena_, had decided that
that catastrophe was due to the spontaneous combustion of the powder in
her magazines. France had accepted the verdict; but now a second
battleship was gone. It would be too much to ask any one to believe that
this was spontaneous combustion, also! Such things do not happen twice.
And at every station telegrams were handed in giving fresh details of
the disaster--horrible details. The ship was a total loss; of that
splendid mechanism, built by years of toil, by the expenditure of many
millions, there remained only a twisted and useless mass of wreckage;
and in that wreckage lay three hundred of France's sailors. Small wonder
that the President sat, chin in hand, staring straight before him, and
that the others spoke in whispers, or not at all.
At Dijon, which was reached about the middle of the afternoon, there was
a tremendous crowd, thronging the long platforms and pressing against
the barriers, which threatened at every moment to be swept away. The
President went out to say a few words to them, but at the first sentence
his voice failed him, and he could only stand and look down upon them,
convulsive sobs rising in his throat. Suddenly a little red-legged
Turco, weeping too, snatched off his fez and shouted "Vive la France!"
and the cheer was taken up and repeated and repeated, until it swelled
to a vast roar. As the train rolled out of the station, the crowd,
bareheaded, was singing the Marseillaise.
M. Delcasse's eyes, behind his heavy glasses, were wet with tears.
"It is the same people still!" he said, pressing the President's hand.
"They are as ready to spring to arms as they were a hundred years ago.
Now, as then, they need only to know that their country is in danger!"
His voice had grown vibrant with emotion, for the passion of his life
was and always had been revenge upon Germany. He made no effort to
conceal it or to dissimulate. Alsace and Lorraine were always in his
thoughts. To placate Germany, indeed, France had once been compelled to
drive him from the Quai d'Orsay, where, for so many years, he had been
to his contemporaries a sort of Olympian in the conduct of her foreign
affairs. But even in retirement he remained the most powerful man in
France; and now he was back in the cabinet again, a giant among
Lilliputians, building up the navy, building up the army, strengthening
the forts along the frontier, increasing the efficiency of the
artillery, experimenting with air-ships, devoting his days and nights to
the study of strategy, the discussion of possibilities, always with the
same idea, the same hope! And now, this catastrophe!
As he sat gnawing his nails, the President glanced at him, read his
thoughts, and shook his head.
"No, my friend," he said, sadly, "the country is not in danger; or, if
it is, the danger is from within, not from without. This is an accident,
like all the others."
"You believe so? But it seems to me that we have had more than our share
of accidents!"
"So we have," the President agreed. "Let us hope that this will be the
last--that it will teach us to guard ourselves, in future, from our own
carelessness."
"England, America, Germany," Delcasse went on, speaking half to himself,
"these nations, with navies greater than ours, never have such
accidents. Small explosions, sometimes, it is true, wrecking a gun or
damaging a turret--but never destroying a whole ship! Is it merely
because they are never careless?"
"There was the _Maine_," the President reminded him.
Delcasse's hand went to his moustache to hide the ironic smile upon his
lips. In that close-cropped head of his, along with many other such
secrets, was that of the cause of the catastrophe in Havana harbour. In
all the chancellories of Europe, it was agreed that the _Maine_ had been
destroyed by the spontaneous explosion of her own magazines. Four men
knew the truth, and Delcasse was one of them. There had been a fifth,
but an assassin's bullet killed him.
In an instant Delcasse's face was composed, and his eyes, behind their
immense glasses, as inscrutable as ever. The President, so ingenuous and
child-like, must never suspect the truth!
"True!" Delcasse agreed. "There was the _Maine_! I had forgotten that,"
and he relapsed into thoughtful silence.
Evening came, and still the train rolled southward, past Macon, past
Lyons, past Vienne, everywhere greeted by surging crowds. At the latter
place, Delcasse arose and, with an almost imperceptible nod to Lepine,
entered the last car. The Prefect followed him, and a few minutes
later, they were closeted together in a compartment, where, at a word
from his superior, Inspector Pigot had joined them.
"And now," began Delcasse, when the door was closed and the train had
started again, "tell me what you think of this affair, Lepine."
The little grey man spread his hands wide with a gesture of
helplessness.
"At this moment I know no more than you, sir," he answered; "probably
not so much. By morning, I shall have a report ready for you."
"We shall not arrive until after midnight," the Minister pointed out.
"Nevertheless, my report will be ready, sir," said Lepine, quietly.
"Between midnight and dawn there are six hours."
Delcasse looked at him. He knew that this little man never made an empty
promise.
"Did you go through the papers at the time of the _Jena_ disaster?" he
asked.
"I did, sir. I assisted the investigating board."
"You are, then, familiar with the theories in that case?"
"There were four theories," answered Lepine. "The first was that the
ship had been blown up by treachery; that is always the first thought!
But in the case of the _Jena_, it was quickly discovered that treachery
was impossible, unless it was that of the highest officers, for only
they had access to her magazines. That was unthinkable, for all of them
had served France for many years. More than half of them were killed. I
myself investigated the life of every one of these men, for it was
necessary to be absolutely certain--but not a breath could be raised
against them."
"And the second theory?"
"That there had been carelessness of some sort. That, too, was
disproved, for no one had entered the magazines for many hours previous
to the explosion. It is a rule of the service that, except when in use,
the keys of all magazines shall be in keeping of the commander, who is
responsible for them. At the inquiry, the commander of the _Jena_
testified that the keys had not left his possession during the two days
preceding the accident. There had been no occasion to enter the
magazines during that time. The _Jena_, you will remember, was at anchor
in Toulon harbour, just as the _Liberte_ was."
Delcasse glanced at his companion keenly.
"Does that fact suggest nothing to you, Lepine?" he asked.
"Nothing, sir," said Lepine firmly. "I have thought of it all day, and I
can see in it nothing except coincidence."
"Coincidence! Coincidence! I detest the word--I do not believe in
coincidence!" muttered the Minister.
"Nor I," agreed Lepine; "but even less do I believe in vague theories
and vague suspicions. We must have a firm foundation before we begin to
build."
"Well, and the third theory?" said Delcasse, at last.
"The third theory was most interesting. It was that the explosion had
been caused by waves from the wireless telegraph. It was asserted that
these waves had upset the unstable equilibrium, either chemical or
electrical, which sometimes exists in the components of modern powder,
and that the explosion had resulted."
"And this theory also was disproved?"
"The most exhaustive tests failed to confirm it."
"Ah," said Delcasse; "but to fail to confirm a thing is not to disprove
it."
"Our wireless experts agreed in pronouncing the theory absurd."
"Wireless waves penetrate metal, do they not?"
"Every metal except lead."
Delcasse turned this over for some moments in his mind.
"If that had been the cause," went on Lepine, at last, "there would have
been other explosions, many of them--and our navy would not have been
the only one to suffer. The whole atmosphere is charged with such waves,
of every length and every degree of intensity."
"Perhaps you are right," agreed the Minister. "What was the fourth
theory?"
"The fourth theory was that finally adopted by the board. It was that a
certain kind of powder, known as 'B' powder, degenerates under heat, and
becomes, in time, extremely combustible, so that it will sometimes
explode apparently without any exciting cause."
"In what manner was the truth of this theory demonstrated?" demanded
Delcasse.
"In a most convincing manner. A certain amount of this powder, which the
board was examining, did explode in this way, under their very hands.
Had the amount been larger, not a member of the board would have
escaped. But, sir, you know all this as well as I."
"I wish to refresh my memory," Delcasse explained. "I wish to see if
your memory, which I admire so much, agrees with mine. Now tell me this:
what was done to prevent a recurrence of such an accident?"
"The powder in all French magazines was overhauled, and that which there
was any reason to suspect was destroyed. To prevent future
deterioration, the magazines of all our battleships were equipped with
a special cooling apparatus. In this, we were soon followed by all other
nations."
"And yet," said Delcasse, in a low voice, "the latest and best of our
battleships blew up this morning!"
"I have brought my best men with me, as you suggested, sir," said
Lepine. "If there were any suspicious circumstances attending this
explosion, depend upon it, they will be laid before you when you awake!"
"Do not wait for me to awake!" cried the Minister. "If any such
circumstance comes to light, wake me--wake me on the instant!"
Lepine bowed.
"I will do so, sir," he promised.
* * * * *
It was some time past midnight when the train reached Toulon; but
apparently no one of her hundred thousand inhabitants had thought of
sleep. The streets before the station were crowded from house-front to
house-front. The carriage containing the President and his Ministers had
the greatest difficulty in proceeding. Everywhere there were cries for
vengeance, shouts of treason, threats, wild imprecations. Men stood with
arms extended cursing the heavens. The Place de la Liberte was massed
with people, facing the fountain in honour of the Revolution,
bareheaded, singing the Ca Ira. It seemed as though the wheels of time
had rolled back a century, and that at any moment the Sea-green
Incorruptible himself might arise to thunder denunciation. But at last
the President and his staff reached their hotel.
M. Lepine, after final instructions to Pigot, joined them there, and
listened to the reports made by the surviving officers of _La Liberte_.
They were in despair, these men, ready to kill themselves at a word;
their faces were blackened, their uniforms in tatters, their hands torn
and bleeding, for they had laboured all day at the work of rescue. They
spoke between sobs, but it was little they had to tell.
Commander Jaures, it seemed, had been absent on leave, the second in
command was ashore, so that Senior Lieutenant Garnier was in charge of
the ship. Just before dawn, the watch had discovered a small fire in one
of the store-rooms, but it was so insignificant that no one thought of
danger; the fire was not near the magazines; in any event, the magazines
were all securely closed--the officer in charge had seen to that.
Suddenly, apparently without cause, there had been three explosions,
about a minute apart, first of the forward magazine, then of the after
magazine, then of the main magazine--it seemed almost as though they had
been fired at spaced intervals, like a heavy gun. There had been time to
get the crew on deck, but the final explosion had come before the boats
could be lowered. It had broken the ship in two; the forward part had
turned over and sunk with all on board; the after part was a mere mass
of twisted wreckage. The explosion had been so violent, that the
neighbouring ships also suffered--_La Republique_ so seriously that it
was only by hurrying her to a dry-dock she was kept from sinking. No one
had any theory, any explanation; there had been no warning, no
premonition. An instant, and it was over. But all agreed that the fire
could have had nothing to do with it.
Pigot, meanwhile, had spread his men out along the docks, where they
listened to every one, asked questions of every one. Not a rumour
escaped them, but, alas, for no rumour could they find foundation. The
wreck in the harbour was illuminated by the searchlights of the other
battleships, and Pigot caused himself to be rowed out to it, introduced
himself to Admiral Marin-Dabel, Maritime Prefect of Toulon, who had
taken personal charge of the rescue work, and spent half an hour
inspecting the melancholy scene. Then he landed again, and listened for
a time to the reports of his lieutenants. There was among them not a
single ray of light--not the slightest evidence to show that the
disaster had been anything but an accident. The fire in the store-room
had, it was whispered, been much more serious than the officers would
admit.
Pigot made his way slowly toward the hotel to report to his chief, but
as he crossed the Place d'Armes, a hand was laid upon his sleeve. He
turned, expecting to see one of his men. Instead, he found himself
looking into a face he did not know.
"Pardon, sir," he said. "You are, perhaps, mistaken."
"Oh, no, Pigot," said the stranger, with a little smile, "I am not
mistaken. It is you whom I wish to see."
"I do not remember you, sir," said Pigot, looking at him more closely.
"Have we met before?"
"Many times."
"Many times!" echoed Pigot, incredulously. "Surely not!" and he looked
again to make certain that the stranger was not intoxicated. "Where have
we met?"
"We met last," said the stranger, smiling again, "on _La Savoie_, in the
harbour of New York City. To be sure, I was not in this incarnation, but
I am sure you will recall the incident."[1]
Pigot drew a deep breath, and his face flushed.
"Ah," he said quietly, after a moment. "I remember. I wish you good
evening, M. Crochard."
"One moment," Crochard commanded, his grasp tightening on Pigot's arm.
"Forgive my recalling that meeting to your memory. It was indelicate of
me. Nevertheless you would do well to listen to what I have to say."
Pigot stopped and turned.
"Well," he said, after gazing for a moment into Crochard's eyes, "speak
quickly. What is it you have to say?"
"I wish to say to you, Pigot, that I have come to offer you my help."
"Your help?"
"In solving the mystery of this disaster."
Pigot looked at him coldly.
"We do not require your help," he said, at last.
"Perhaps not; and yet you would be mistaken to refuse it. I was at Nice;
I have been on the ground since morning; I have discovered...."
"Well, what have you discovered?" asked Pigot, as Crochard hesitated.
"I have discovered," Crochard continued slowly, "what I can reveal only
to M. Delcasse himself. I demand that you cause me to be introduced to
him at once."
Pigot shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Impossible!" he said, and started on.
"Wait!" said Crochard sternly. "Consider whether you are willing to take
the responsibility of this refusal!"
"Responsibility!" Pigot burst out, his anger getting the upper hand at
last. "Responsibility! Yes, I take it! Who are you? A notorious
character--a thief...."
Crochard's eyes were blazing, and his hand grasped Pigot's arm with a
vise-like grip.
"And with it all," he sneered, "a better man than you, Pigot! Is it not
so? A better man than you! How often have I proved it!"
Pigot's hand turned and closed like a flash upon the other's wrist.
"You will come with me," he said.
The anger faded from Crochard's face, and an ironic amusement took its
place.
"Where would you conduct me?" he asked.
"To the Prefecture!"
"You are mistaken. You will conduct me to M. Delcasse. You cannot
conduct me to the Prefecture, Pigot; I will not allow it!"
"Allow it!" sneered Pigot, and pressed forward.
"Fool!" hissed Crochard in his ear. "Thick-headed fool! Have you learned
no wisdom yet? I would smite you, Pigot, but that I have need of you.
Listen! I and only I can save France! I demand that you take me to M.
Delcasse."
Pigot felt himself waver; a vague uneasiness stirred within him as he
met his companion's flaming gaze.
"On what pretext can I introduce you to M. Delcasse?" he asked at last.
"You will leave me outside the door," said Crochard rapidly, almost in a
whisper. "You will go in to M. Delcasse alone; you will say to him,
'Sir, I have outside a man who asserts that _La Liberte_ was blown up by
the Germans, and that he can prove it!' Then let M. Delcasse decide
whether or not he will receive me!"
Pigot was staring at the speaker with distended eyes.
"By the Germans!" he repeated, hoarsely. "By the Germans!"
Crochard answered with an impatient pressure of the arm.
"You are wasting time," he said.
"You are right," Pigot agreed. "Come with me," and he led the way across
the square.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: See "The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet."]