Fandor's laugh had a note of mockery in it. He let Juve see that he thought his ideas on this subject were very simple indeed.

"It is your hobby which always inspires you," he repeated.... "Beyond question I am the first to believe in the audacity of Fantomas ... and if I do not know all the secrets of terror hidden in this word 'spying,' I am ready enough to be convinced.... But, look here, Juve, I know the world of spies, I have studied them, I know what they are capable of attempting, ... and I do not speak lightly when I tell you that the assassination of Brocq is a political crime."

Juve continued to shake his head, quite unconvinced.

Fandor continued:

"Juve, believe me! Who says 'spy,' says 'capable of anything.' The officers of the Second Bureau are, in short, the true directors of the police spy system; they know all the shameful mysteries whereby some individual reputed honest, honourable in appearance, is in the pay of the foreigner. They know the traitors. They know who sells France and who buys France. Every day they are in relation with the agents belonging to all classes of society, lawyers, commercial men, small shopkeepers, commercial travellers, railway servants, women of the world, women of the pavement, thousands of individuals who continually travel about the country, holding it in a network of observations, notes, remarks, the result of all of which might be that some one power would have immediately the advantage over some other, because it knew the weak points where it could launch its attack.... You know, Juve, that they are people who do not shrink from anything when their interest is at stake. You know that the man who betrays, who spies, who is an informer, is always disavowed by the country who employs him.... You know that those who are taken in the act are punished to the utmost, consequently they will stick at nothing to save themselves from being caught. Do you not think that in this spy-world there might be found a man who, driven into a corner by circumstances, would be daring enough to commit the crime which is occupying our attention now? You say: 'It is a crime worthy of Fantomas!' Agreed. But I reply to you: 'There must be spies worthy of being compared to Fantomas!'"...

Fandor stopped short. Suddenly Juve threw himself back in his chair: the detective laughed aloud, a burst of ironic laughter. "My dear boy," said he, "do not be angry with me."

"What nonsense, Juve—You know very well that I would not be that!"

"Well, my dear Fandor, you see in the assassination of Captain Brocq an affair of spying because you have had your hobby for some time past—the hobby of spying."

Fandor smiled. Juve continued:

"Come! Is it not true that six months ago—it was just after the Dollon assassination—you published in La Capitale a whole series of papers relating to affairs of treason?"

"True, but."...

"Is it correct that you learned just then that one could define the Second Bureau as the world of spies, and that you were extremely struck by this, extremely surprised?"

"That is so, Juve. It is precisely because I had this information, and was able to get a fair knowledge of the terrible secrets existing in this dark Government department, that I am in a position now to ascribe the Brocq affair to the action of some group of spies."

"Your hobby again, Fandor! The assassination of the captain has occurred under such circumstances that it can only be imputed to Fantomas. Let us look the truth in the face! We are going to enter into a fresh struggle with Fantomas! That is a certainty!"

"It's your hobby now, Juve! There's no Fantomas in this affair. No! We are face to face with a very serious business, there I agree with you; but it is wholly a spy job—nothing else!"

Getting up, the journalist added:

"This very evening I shall publish in La Capitale an article in which I shall explain exactly what spies are, the real part they play in the body politic, their terrible power; that it is a mistake to consider them only cowards; that owing to the exigencies of their sinister profession, they very often give proof of an exceptional courage—bravery—and in which I shall."...

With a shrug, Juve interrupted:

"In which you will write nonsense, old boy.... Anyhow, you are free!"

"That's true! Free to spend a fortnight in the Sunny South, where I shall be in a few hours' time! Anyhow, read my article in La Capitale; I tell you I am going to take a lot of trouble over it!"...

"A fortnight hence, then, Juve!" He added in a bantering tone:

"Don't dream too much of Fantomas.... What!"



VI

CORPORAL VINSON

With one knee resting on his portmanteau, Jerome Fandor was pulling with all the force of his powerful arms at the straps in order to buckle them up.

It was Sunday, November the thirteenth, and five o'clock in the afternoon. The flat was brilliantly illuminated, and the greatest disorder reigned throughout.

At last Fandor was off for his holiday! Not to risk losing his train, our journalist meant to dine at the Lyons railway station.

"Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass of garments sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau.

Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be no doubt about his departure—the thing was certain. He was casting a final glance round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage.

The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrance door. Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going to prevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it to find a soldier on the landing.

"Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice.

"Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly.

The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, he articulated painfully:

"Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you."

Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunate stranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quite young, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of a corporal. His hair was brown, and his light eyes were in marked contrast to the much darker tones of his face. A slight moustache shaded his lip.

The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with an embarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked:

"To whom have I the honour of speaking?"

This question appeared to tear the soldier from a kind of dream. He jumped, then mechanically stood at attention, as if before a superior officer.

"I am Corporal Vinson."

Fandor nodded, tried to remember him, but in vain. The name told him nothing....

"I have not the honour to be known to you, Monsieur, but I know you very well through your articles."

Then he continued in almost a supplicating tone:

"I greatly need speech with you, Monsieur."...

"Another bore," said Fandor to himself, "who wants to get me to give him a recommendation of some sort!"

Our journalist boiled with impatience at the thought of the precious minutes he was losing. He would have to cut his dinner short if he did not wish to miss the night express. Nevertheless, wishing to lessen the unpleasant reception he had given this unwelcome visitor, he murmured in a tone which was cold, all the same:

"Pray be seated, Monsieur: I am listening to you!"

Corporal Vinson seemed greatly agitated.

The invitation was evidently very opportune, for the visitor let himself fall heavily into an arm-chair. Great drops of perspiration were on his forehead, his lips were pallid: at intervals he looked at the journalist, whose impassible countenance did not seem to invite confidences. The poor trooper lost countenance more and more: Fandor remained silent.

At last Vinson managed to say, in a voice strangling with emotion:

"Ah! Monsieur, excuse me for having come to disturb you like this, but I was determined to tell you ... to know you—to express to you ... how I appreciate your talent, your way of writing ... how I like the ideas you express in your paper!... There was your last article, so just, so ... charitable!"

"You are very kind, Monsieur," interrupted Fandor, "and I am much obliged to you; but, if it is the same to you, we might arrange a meeting for another day, because now I am very pressed for time."...

Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but Corporal Vinson, far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in the large arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutes before, and with an accent of profound anguish, for he understood Fandor's desire to shorten the conversation, he cried with a groan:

"Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away! If I keep silence now, I shall never have the courage to speak—but I must."...

The soldier's countenance was so full of alarm that Fandor regretted his first movement of ill-temper, his show of impatience. Perhaps this man had interesting things to say! He must give the fellow confidence. Fandor smiled.

"Very well," he suggested amiably, "let us have a talk if you really wish it."...

Corporal Vinson considered Fandor a moment, thanking him with a look for his more cordial attitude; then suddenly drawing himself up into a standing position, he shouted:

"Monsieur Fandor ... I am a traitor!"

Though far from expecting so brutal a declaration, Fandor sat tight. He well knew that in such circumstances comments are useless. He rose slowly, approached the soldier, and, placing his hands on the agitated man's shoulders, pushed him back into the arm-chair.

"Control yourself, Monsieur, I beg of you," he said in a kind voice. "You must not upset yourself like this! Be calm!"

Great tears flowed down the corporal's sunburnt cheeks, and Fandor considered him, not knowing how to console so great, so spontaneous a grief.

Amidst his despair, Corporal Vinson stammered out:

"Yes, Monsieur, it's because of a woman—you will understand—you who write articles in which you say that there should be pity for such unfortunates as I am—for one is a miserable wretch when a woman has you in her clutches, and you have no money—and then, with that sort, once you have started getting mixed up in their affairs, you are jolly well caught—you have to do as you are told—and always they ask more and more of you.... Ah, Monsieur, the death of Captain Brocq is a frightful disaster! As for me.... If I have turned traitor—it is their fault."...

The corporal murmured some unintelligible words, pronouncing names unknown to Fandor; but our journalist was rejoicing more and more at this outpouring.

Suddenly he got the impression that the mysterious happenings, the obscure drama he had been on the fringe of for some days past was becoming clear, that the veil of ignorance was being torn away. Fandor had the sensation of being a spectator, before whose eyes a curtain was slowly rising which until then had concealed the scenery of the play.

The corporal continued, stammeringly:

"Ah, Monsieur, you do not know what it is to have for your mistress such a woman as ... she whom I love, ... such a woman as ... Nichoune! Nichoune! Ah, all Chalons knows what she is like. Her wickedness is well known ... but for all that, there is not a man who."...

Fandor interrupted:

"But, my good corporal, why are you telling me all this?"

"Why, Monsieur," replied Vinson, after a pause and a piteous look, "because—it's because ... I have sworn to tell you everything before I die!"

"Hang it all! What do you mean to do?" asked Fandor.

The corporal replied simply, but his tone was decisive:

"I mean to kill myself!"

From this moment it was Fandor who, far from wishing to start off for his train—he had given up any idea of leaving for the South that evening—was bent on getting from the soldier further details about his life.

Fandor now learned that the corporal had been in the service some fifteen months. He had been among the first conscripts affected by the new law of two years' compulsory service, and had been sent to the 214th of the line, in garrison at Chalons. Owing to his qualities he had been much appreciated by all his superior officers. As soon as he had finished his classes, he obtained his corporal's stripes, and in consideration of his very good handwriting, and also owing to the influence of a commandant, he got a snug post as secretary in the offices of the fortress itself.

Vinson was thoroughly satisfied with his new situation; for, having been brought up in his mother's petticoats, and practically the whole of his adolescence having been passed behind the counter of the maternal book-shop, he had much more the temperament of a clerk than of an active out-of-doors man.

The only sport which he enjoyed was riding, riding a bicycle, and the only luxury he allowed himself was photography.

Time passed. Then, one Sunday evening, he went with some comrades to a Chalons music-hall.

Vinson's chief companions were some non-commissioned officers, a little better off than he was.... Without being lavish in their expenditure, these young fellows did not reckon up their every penny, and, not wishing to be behindhand, Vinson had sent to his mother for money again and again, and she had kept him in funds.

On this particular evening, after the concert, they had invited some of the performers to supper in a private room, and Vinson, in the course of the entertainment, was attracted, fascinated, by a tall girl with dyed hair, emaciated cheeks, and brilliant eyes, whose flashy manners smacking of some low suburb, had subjugated him completely.

Vinson made an impression on the singer, for she did not respond to the advances of a swaggering sergeant, reputed generous, but turned her attentions to the modest corporal.

They talked, and they discovered they were affinities. The result was they found themselves at daybreak on the deserted boulevard of Chalons. The corporal's leave did not expire till the evening of the following day. Nichoune offered him hospitality: they became lovers.

Vinson's heart was in this liaison: he persuaded himself that the chain that bound them was indissoluble. The singer's idea was to profit by it. Her demands for money were constant: she harried her lover for money.

Little by little, Vinson's mother cut off supplies: the corporal, incapable of breaking with Nichoune, ran up debts in the town.

"But," went on Vinson, "this is only the beginning. I have told you this, Monsieur, with the hope of excusing myself to a certain extent for what I did later on. My actions were the outcome and consequences of my difficulties."

"Something serious?" questioned Fandor.

"You shall judge of that, Monsieur."

Vinson went on with his confession in a firmer tone. Fandor realised that the corporal had decided to make a clean breast of it.

"It sometimes happened after I had had a scene with Nichoune, and had quitted her in a fury, that I would go for a long bicycle ride into the country, taking my shame and rage with me. On a certain Saturday, bestriding my faithful bike, I went for a spin along the dusty high-road which runs past the camp. After going at high speed, I dismounted, seated myself under a tree in the shade, by the side of a ditch, and was falling asleep. It was summer, the sun was pouring down. A cyclist stopped in front of me with a punctured tyre. He asked me to lend him the wherewithal to repair it; and whilst the solution was drying we started talking.

"This individual was about thirty; elegantly dressed; and from the way he expressed himself, one could see that he was a man accustomed to good society.

"He told me he was making a tour, and was now doing the neighbourhood about Reims and Chalons.

"'Not very picturesque country,' I remarked.

"But he retorted;

"'It is interesting—the roads, for example, are complicated!'

"I began to laugh at this, and as he insisted on the difficulty he had to find his way in these parts, I offered to let him look at my Staff-office map. I carried a copy in my blazer.... Ah, Monsieur—how well Alfred played his little comedy! That is what he called himself, at least, that was the name he was known by—the only name I have ever known. He seemed absolutely stupefied at the sight of this map, ordinary though as it was, and seemed set on buying it from me. I did not want to part with it. He offered five francs for it. I expressed my astonishment that he would not wait till he got to Chalons, where he could procure one like it for the sum of twenty sous.

"'Bah!' declared Alfred, 'It gives me pleasure to pay you that sum—it is a way of thanking you for having lent me the use of your cycle outfit.'

"My faith, Monsieur Fandor, I was too beggared to say 'No!' so I accepted the money, while making excuses for myself: my plea being that a soldier is not a rich man.

"I pass over details. It is sufficient to say that when we returned to Chalons together, we were such good friends that he asked me to dine with him. When he saw me back to barracks, Alfred pressed a loan on me. I had told him about Nichoune, and about the pecuniary difficulties I was in, for by this time, I had full confidence in him. He slipped a twenty-franc piece into my hand with an air of authority: 'When you become a civilian again,' said he, 'you will easily be able to pay me back; and besides, to salve your pride, I am going to ask you shortly to do me a few services. I often have little things done. I shall entrust the doing of them to you, and shall pay you accordingly.'...

"You understand, Monsieur Fandor, that there was no reason for refusing, that I could see, especially as he made the offer very nicely, and that it came in the nick of time, at the very moment when—I have to admit it—I would have done anything for money....

"After this we met frequently. Alfred used to send me invitations, and often he included Nichoune. He never would let me pay for anything; and, I must confess, that the greater part of the time I should have found it very difficult indeed to pay a sou!

"We always met at some appointed place outside the town: he would not stay in Chalons longer than he could help, because he said the air there was bad for his delicate lungs. He was particularly interested in aviation, and he was for ever getting me to pilot him about the aviation camp.

"'You who draw so well,' he would say; 'make me a plan of this apparatus!... Explain to me how these huts are constructed!'

"He would question me as to the effectives of the regiments, ask me details as to estimates, statements, and returns which passed through my hands in the offices.

"Finally, one day, as I had no inkling of what he was really aiming at, Alfred put me on to it!"...

The corporal stopped. His throat was strained and dry.

Fandor brought him a glass of water, which he swallowed at a gulp. With a grateful look he continued:

"'Vinson,' said Alfred to me, 'I have confidence in you, and you know how discreet I am! Very well, I have a superb piece of business in hand which ought to bring us in a great deal of money. A stranger with whom I came into contact recently, who is a very good fellow, who has been obliged to leave his country owing to troubles that were brought on him, possesses a document, a very interesting one, which would be much valued at the Staff Headquarters of the Sixth Corps. He needs money and would be willing to sell it. I tried to buy it from him, but I have not the necessary funds. I was seeking a solution of the difficulty, when this stranger asked me to procure him some photographs of the Chalons barracks, in exchange for which he would give me his document. He needs these photographs for postcard purposes. If we could supply him with them in three days, not only will he give us his important paper, but he will pay twenty francs for each proof as well!'

"Ah, Monsieur Fandor, this story did not hang together, but I was actually weak enough to believe it! Or at least I tried to make myself believe it. Besides, this proposal of Alfred's came just in time: I had not a sou to my name! Nichoune was making a terrible row, and I hardly dared venture into the streets, I had so many creditors.

"I tried to square matters with my conscience: telling myself that there was nothing compromising connected with these photographs: in fact, views of our barracks are to be found in any album on sale, however small.

"Later on, I learned that this was a method they employed to decoy the guides, to draw them securely into their toils. They first of all give them very insignificant things to do, in order not to frighten them, and pay a high price: it is afterwards that they fasten you up tight. You shall see how."...

Fandor nodded. It was nearly time to catch the train, but he thought no more of the Cote d'Azur! He was too interested in the corporal's confession, and felt that by letting him speak he would learn more, he would learn much. He therefore encouraged Vinson to continue. The corporal asked nothing better.

"The photographs taken, I rejoined Alfred, who had told me to be sure to get leave for forty-eight hours, whatever happened. Alfred dragged me to the railway station; he had two tickets. We went off to Nancy, where, said he, we should find the purchaser. At Nancy, no one; whoever it was, had gone to a street in one of the suburbs. We waited in a little flat. Towards four in the afternoon Alfred said to me: 'Bah! Don't let us hesitate any longer. If the stranger has not come, it is because he is waiting for us elsewhere—I know where—let us go to meet him—at Metz!"

"'At Metz!' I cried. 'But we should have to cross the frontier, and I have not.'...

"Alfred interrupted me, laughing. He opened a press and brought out civilian clothes, then he took wigs from a drawer, and a false beard. At the end of half-an-hour we were disguised; an hour later we were in Lorraine. We left the train there. It was there that, for the first time, I began to be afraid, for it seemed to me that when leaving the station at Metz, Alfred exchanged a quick glance with the policeman on duty. Ah, Monsieur Fandor, how I have regretted this journey! Directly we were in a foreign country, Alfred's attitude towards me changed: he was no longer the friend, he was the master. He had got me, the rogue, and jolly tight too!

"'Where are we going?' I asked.

"Alfred chuckled.

"'By jove! can't you guess?' he replied. 'Why, we are going to the Wornerstrasse, to visit Major Schwartz of the Intelligence Department.'

"'I shall not go!' I declared.

"Alfred's look was a menace.

"'You will come,' said he, in a low voice. 'Consider! If you refuse, at the end of five minutes the police will have unmasked you!'...

"There was nothing else to be done. I knew this Intelligence Department already, by reputation. Alfred had spoken to me about it. It was a vast suite of rooms on the first floor of a middle-class house, where a number of men in civilian clothes were at work. They all bore the military stamp. We had to wait in a large room filled with draughtsmen and typewriters, and on the wall hung a map, on a huge scale, of the frontier of the Vosges.

"Alfred sent in his name.

"A few minutes afterwards we were ushered into an office. A big man, seated behind a table heaped with bundles of papers, scrutinised us over his spectacles: he was bald, and wore a thick square-cut fair beard. He examined the photographs without a word, threw them carelessly on a set of shelves, and took from his drawer ten louis in French money, which he counted out to me. Of any document in exchange there was, of course, no question! I thought everything was finished, and I was preparing to leave this abominable place when the big man put his hand on my arm. It was Major Schwartz himself, the chief of the spy system there—I learned that later. He said to me in very correct French, with hardly a trace of accent to betray his origin:

"'Corporal Vinson, we have paid you lavishly for information of no value, but you will have to serve us better than that, and we shall continue to treat you well.'

"I thought I should have fainted when I heard my name pronounced by this man. It was clear he already knew my rank and name.... He knew much more than that—as the conversation which followed let me see. He informed me that he wished to obtain a complete statement of the organisation of the dirigibles and aeroplanes; he must have the characteristics of all the apparatus; a list of the Flying Service Corps: he exacted even more confidential information still—where the aviators and the aircraft were to be moved if mobilisation took place—the whole bag of tricks, in fact!"

"And," asked Fandor, hesitating a little, "you have ... supplied him with all this?"

In a voice so low as to be barely audible, and blushing to the roots of his hair, Vinson confessed:

"I supplied it all!"

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Not yet, Monsieur—listen:

"Alfred had gone back with me as far as Nancy, where I had put on my uniform again; then I returned to Chalons quite by myself.

"I asked myself if it would be possible to get clear away from the terrible set I was mixed up with. Try as I might, I could not manage it. Every day Alfred harried me, threatened me: I had to obey him. Then almost on the top of this came the affair of Captain Brocq."

Fandor had been waiting for this. He had foreseen that he was going to learn what the connecting link was, which united the adventures of Corporal Vinson with the drama of the Place de l'Etoile, but his expectations were not fulfilled.... True enough, Vinson, through the mysterious intervention of his redoubtful friends, was to enter into relations with Captain Brocq, to whom he had been recommended, how or in what terms he did not know.

The business hung fire for several weeks, and this was owing to Vinson himself, whose moods alternated from one of shrinking disgust to one of bravado courage.

"At times," said he, "I wished to break with them at any cost, and become honest once more; but, alas, I was always under the evil influence of Nichoune, who was a very close friend of Alfred, and the pair of them encouraged me to tread the traitor's path without faltering. Then, without breathing a word, I put in a request through the proper channel for a change of garrison. I hoped to get sent either to the West or the South; above all, I was bent on leaving the Sixth Corps, on flying from the frontier neighbourhood, and finishing my service in some district or region where it would be impossible for them to make me their spy tool. But, I do not know how—was it through Nichoune?—I expect so, because I had unluckily confided this secret to her one evening—Alfred got wind of what I was up to. He flew into a fearful rage. Suddenly he quieted down, and began to laugh.

"'Ah, my boy, I am going to play a good joke on you!'

"It was a terrible joke—it is that still, Monsieur! Listen to what happened! I got my exchange all right: it is on that account I have eight days' leave; but next Monday, November 21st, before midday, I must report to my new regiment. But this regiment, the 257th Infantry, is in garrison at Verdun!... You grasp it?"

"I begin to," murmured Fandor.

"At Verdun," continued Vinson, who had risen, and was walking to and fro, pressing his head between his hands, a prey to an indescribable anguish.... "At Verdun! That is to say at the frontier itself! That means I shall be in the thick of all that lot—at their mercy!... Oh, the trick had been well thought out, carefully contrived! I have got away from the wasp's nest only to tumble into the middle of the swarm! Oh, Monsieur, I am losing my head absolutely! I feel that they have me tight, that it is impossible to get free of them and, what is more, I am afraid of being taken up ... yes. These last few days at Chalons I have been terrified: I believe that they suspect me, that they suspect Nichoune, that my superiors have me under supervision! Directly after the announcement of Captain Brocq's assassination appeared in the papers, all this descended on me as swiftly as a tempest. Oh, I am lost! Lost!!... I wished to come and make an open confession of all my shame to you that, by means of an article in your paper, you may put young soldiers on their guard, those who, owing to a mad infatuation for some abominable women, or through need of money, should be disposed to follow my wretched example some cursed day or other—yes, my damnable example!"

The corporal fell down in the middle of the room, fell down like a crumpled rag: he sobbed.

Fandor pitied this miserable creature who had sunk so low. He raised him gently.

"Vinson," he declared, "you must not die. Remember you have a mother! Listen! Be brave! Summon your courage! Tell your chiefs everything—everything!"

The wretched man shook his head.

"Never! Never, Monsieur—I could not do it. Think, Monsieur: it is the vilest of vile things I have done—I, a soldier of France—of France, Monsieur!... You spoke of my mother! It is because of her I wish to kill myself! You must know that she is an Alsatian!... She would go mad—mad, Monsieur, if she learned that her son has betrayed France!... This evening Corporal Vinson will no longer exist—it will be well finished with him!"

There was a great silence.

Fandor, with his arms folded and anxious brow, was pacing up and down his study, seeking a solution of this frightful problem, asking himself what was to be done.... He saw that this miserable Vinson was caught in the wheels of a terrible machine, from which it was almost impossible to snatch him into safety. Nevertheless, his conscience revolted at the idea that he should do nothing to avert this wretched lad's suicide. He must stop Vinson—he must certainly save him from himself at any price, save him doubly!

Then Fandor saw further than this.

He perceived that good may come out of evil: perhaps through Vinson and his relations with this nefarious nest of spies, they would succeed in clearing up the dark mystery surrounding the death of Captain Brocq. Evidently all these happenings were interconnected!...

With his mind's eye, Fandor saw this foreign spy system under the form of an immense—a vast spider's web. Could one but lay hands on the originator of the initial thread, or the master-spider himself, then they could strike at the extreme ends of this evil tissue.

* * * * *

Fandor admonished Vinson for a long time. Our journalist was now eloquent, now persuasive: he heaped argument on argument, he appealed to his self-respect, to duty! When at last he saw that the young corporal hesitated, that a faint gleam of hope appeared, that a vague desire for rehabilitation was born in him, he stopped short and demanded abruptly:

"Vinson, are you still bent on killing yourself?"

The corporal communed with himself a moment, closed his eyes, and, without a touch of insincerity, replied in a steady voice:

"Yes, I have decided to do it."

"In that case," said Fandor, "will you look on the deed as done, and take it that you are no longer in existence?"

The corporal stared at Fandor, speechless, absolutely dumbfounded. Fandor made his idea more definite.

"From this moment you do not exist any more, you are nothing, you are no longer Corporal Vinson."...

"And then?"...

But Fandor must have a definite promise.

"Is this agreed to?"...

"I agree."

"Swear it!"

"I swear it!"

"Very well, Vinson, you now belong to me, you are my property, my chattel; I am going to give you my instructions, and they must be strictly obeyed, carried out!"

The miserable soldier seemed crushed to the earth; but with a movement of his head he signified that he was prepared to do whatever the journalist ordered.



VII

THE SECOND BUREAU

As early as nine o'clock that morning, there was unusual activity in the Second Bureau of the Headquarters Staff.

The Second Bureau!

This formidable office, whose official designation, Bureau of Statistics, did not deceive anyone, occupied premises in the Ministry of War. Modest as to appearance, this Bureau was located on the third floor of one of the oldest buildings in the rue Saint Dominique. The departments of the Second Bureau impinged on a long corridor, and had taken possession of quite half the floor in the right wing of the building.

Anyone authorised to enter here would find a fairly large outer room, 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.

Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was about to continue on her way, when the old fellow half opened his cloak for an instant to give her a glimpse of a bulky kind of a box which was slung across his chest.

Immediately the singer went straight towards him.

"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.

He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered low.

"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"

"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.

Then aloud she queried:

"You are a musician, are you?"

The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:

"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not gaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which was slung across his chest.

* * * * *

Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man quitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly lighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and tortuous streets of Chalons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed out of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of his accordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his long climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sort of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The old fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered him a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the gas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the door carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were fastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and leaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it was easy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of Corporal Vinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-assassin.

Before long there was a knock at the door.

"Who is there?"

"I ... Nichoune!"

Vagualame rose and opened to her.

"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.

He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.

"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.

He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated herself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him.

"I don't suppose you have come to Chalons just to tell me that! Nothing serious?"

Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.

"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"

"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."

"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles—not for anyone else! Not a soul would ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'—the intermediary between me and 'Roubaix.'"

"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did not look as if Vagualame's assertion had relieved her fears.

Vagualame evaded a direct answer.

"You have not seen him for a week?"

"Roubaix? No."...

"And Nancy?"

"Nor Nancy."

"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in the least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pass this way to-morrow morning."...

"Belfort? But he is not due then!"

"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have already told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."

"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.

"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was harsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before.... What you do not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not know all the ins and outs of the organisation!"

He continued in a less severe tone:

"In any case Belfort passes this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock and noon.... He does not know me—is not aware of my existence.... It is through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that he would have something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand him this envelope?"

Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet sealed with red wax.

"Be very careful! This document is important—has been difficult to obtain—extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!... Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible.... Well?"

Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands buried in her muff.

"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.

At this Nichoune blazed out:

"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't want any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"

Vagualame appeared stupefied.

"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our faithful letter-box any more?"

"No!"

"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"

"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.

"But why?"

"Because ... because I don't want to do it any more! There!"

"Come now, Nichoune, what is your reason? You must have one."

This time the singer got up as though she would go off at once.

"Reasons?" she cried. "Look here, Vagualame, it's better to tell you the truth! Very well, then, spying is not my strong point! It is three months since I began it—since you enticed me into it ... and life is not worth living.... I am in a constant state of terror—I am afraid of being caught at it. They say: 'Do this—Do that!' I am always seeing new agents ... you come—you go—you disappear—it's maddening! I have already broken with my lover ... with Vinson! I don't want to be on such terms with anyone mixed up in your spying, I can tell you!... In the first place, there's something wrong with my heart, and to live in such a perpetual state of terror is very bad for me ... so you have got to understand, Vagualame—I say it straight out—I don't go on with it.... I would rather go to the magistrate and put myself completely outside this abominable business—there! That's all about it!"

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of these decisive words. Here was not the spy who sought to increase his pay by threatening to reveal everything; it was the spy who is obsessed with the fear of being taken, who no longer wishes to continue his dreadful work—to follow his nefarious calling.

Vagualame gave no sign of surprise.

"Listen, my pretty one! You are at perfect liberty to do what seems good to you, and if you have just come in for some money!"...

"No one has left me any money," interrupted Nichoune.

"Oh, well," replied Vagualame, "if you despise the nice sum I bring you every month, that's your business! But I don't suppose you want to leave your old comrade in a fix, do you?"

Nichoune hesitated.

"What do you want me to do now?" she asked.

"A very little thing, my pretty one! If you will not go in with us any longer, you are perfectly free to leave us, I repeat it, but don't leave us in the lurch just at this moment! This paper is of the very greatest importance ... be nice—take it, and give it to Belfort—I will not bother you again after this."...

Nichoune held out her hand, but it was with an ill grace.

"Oh, all right!" said she. "Give me the thing! All the same, you know now that it is the very last time you are to apply to me!"

Then she added, laughing in her usual hail-fellow-well-met way, and pressing the old fellow's hand as she moved towards the door:

"I don't mean to be the letter-box of Chalons any more: that's ended—the last collection has been made!"

Nichoune departed. Vagualame wished her a cordial "Good night"; then, locking the door, he became absorbed in his reflections.

* * * * *

Towards five o'clock in the afternoon of the day following his private talk with Nichoune, Vagualame accosted the proprietor of a little inn situated at the extreme end of the town, and far removed from the tavern where he had passed the night.

"Mademoiselle Nichoune is not in, is she?"

"No, my good man—what do you want with her?"

Vagualame gave a little laugh.

"Has she not told you, then, that she was expecting someone from her part of the country to call on her?"

The innkeeper was leaning carelessly against the wall. He straightened himself a little.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Nichoune has told us that an old musician would call to see her this afternoon, and that we must ask him to wait."...

"Ah, she's a good, kind little thing! How courageous! What a worker!" Vagualame seemed to be speaking to himself.

"You know her very well, then?" asked the puzzled innkeeper.

"I should think I did!" protested the old fellow. "Why, it was I who taught her to sing!... Do you think she will be long, my little Nichoune?"

"I don't fancy so! If you would like to come in and wait for her in her room, you will find it at the end of the corridor. It's not locked.... You will find some picture papers on her table."

"Thank you, kind sir," said Vagualame after a moment's hesitation. "I will go in and rest for a few minutes," and, hobbling along, he gained the singer's room. The moment he was inside, and the door safely shut, his whole attitude changed. He looked eagerly about him.

"If there is anything, where is it likely to be?"... He considered. "Why, in the mattress, of course!"

He drew from some hiding-place in his garments a long needle, and began to probe the mattress of Nichoune's bed very carefully.

"Ha, ha!" cried he, suddenly. The needle had come in contact with something difficult to penetrate. "I wager it's what I am after!"

Vagualame slipped his hand, spare and delicately formed, under the counterpane.

"Little idiot!" he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. "She has not even hidden it inside the mattress! She has just slipped it in between the palliasse, and the hair mattress on top—why, she's a child!"

He drew out two envelopes and eagerly read the addresses.

"Oh," cried he, "this is more serious than I thought!... Action must be taken at once!... Nichoune! Nichoune! you are about to play a dangerous game, a game which is likely to cost you dear!"

On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:

"Belfort."

This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night before. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune had not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address which Vagualame gazed at reflectively.

"Monsieur Bonnett, Police Magistrate."

"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it! The little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience reproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson—one of my own sort!"

Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.

"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get hold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...

Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.

"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put back the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of letters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed them with others Nichoune had placed there.

"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do honour to your memory!"

He closed the drawer in a second. He had barely time to seat himself in an arm-chair near his accordion, lying on the floor, when Nichoune entered.

"Good day!" cried she.

Vagualame pretended to wake up with a start.

"Ha, ha! Good day, Nichoune! Tell me, you have not seen Belfort? Eh?"

"How do you know that?" demanded Nichoune, on the defensive. She looked surprised.

"I have just met him.... He told me that he had not come across you at the usual meeting-place."

Nichoune lowered her head.

"I thought I was being followed ... so, as you can understand, I did not go."

Vagualame nodded approval.

"Good! Quite right! After all, it is not otherwise of importance. You must give me back my envelope now!"

"You want it?"

"Why, of course!"

Nichoune hesitated a second.

"Just fancy, Vagualame, I took the precaution to hide it between my two mattresses! Wait!... Here it is!"

Nichoune held out his letter.

"Thank you, my dear!"

Vagualame looked as if the returning of the document was a matter of the most perfect indifference to him. He gazed hard at Nichoune—stared so fixedly at her that she demanded:

"Whatever possesses you to stare at me like that?"

"I am thinking how pretty you are!"

"Well, I never! You are becoming quite complimentary!"

"It's no flattery. I think you are very pretty, Nichoune, but your hands! They are not pretty!"

The singer laughed and held out her little hands.

"What is there about them you have to find fault with?"

"They are red.... It astonishes me that a woman like you does not know how to make them white!... Don't you know what to do to them?"

"No! What must I do?"

"Why," retorted the old musician, "the very first thing you have to do is as simple as A B C! All you have to do is to tie up your hands every night with a ribbon, and so keep them raised above your head!"...

"How? I don't understand!"

"It's like this! You stick a nail into the wall ... and then you manage things so that you keep your hands up-raised the whole night through.... You will see then ... your hands will be as white as lilies in the morning.... White as lilies!"

Nichoune was extremely interested.

"Is that true? I shall try it this very night! White, like lilies, you say?... And you have to sleep with your hands stuck up in the air!... I shall try it—shall begin to-night."

A few minutes later Vagualame left Nichoune, after promising that he would not give her any more spy work to do, and declaring that she should never again be mixed up in any dangerous business. As he went along the streets of Chalons, the dreadful old man chuckled and sniggered.

"Hands in the air, my beauty!... Just try that, this very night! With that little heart mischief of yours! Ha! ha! We shall not be kept waiting for the consequences of that performance! It will serve as an example to all and sundry when they wish to write to the magistrate!"

Vagualame's face took on a wicked look.

"I shall have to be as careful as can be when I hide myself in that little fool's room to-night! At all costs I must get hold of that compromising letter before anyone in the hotel hears of the death! Not a soul must catch a glimpse of me—that's certain!"

Those who passed Vagualame simply thought he was an old beggar, an old accordion player....



IX

WITH THE UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE

"Come in!" cried Hofferman, who was writing hard.

An orderly stepped gingerly into the room.

"An usher, Colonel, with a message, begging you to be so good as to step downstairs at once to see the Under-Secretary of State."

Hofferman looked up.

"Are you sure the message is for me?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Very well. I am coming immediately."

The orderly vanished. Hofferman remained in thought for a minute or so, rose abruptly, half opened the door of the adjoining room, and addressed Commandant Dumoulin:

"The Under-Secretary of State wishes to see me. I am going down now."

The colonel passed rapidly along the interminable corridors separating him from the building in which the Under-Secretary's offices were situated.

"What can he want to see me about?" Colonel Hofferman asked himself as he entered the Under-Secretary's room.

Monsieur Maranjevol, an exceedingly active and immensely popular deputy from la Gironde, to whom had been entrusted the delicate task of serving as buffer between the civil and the military sections. Monsieur Maranjevol was not alone in his vast reception-room, with its gilding and pictures of battle scenes; seated opposite, and with his back to the light, was a civilian, of middle height, clean-shaven, whose thin hair, turning grey, curled slightly at the nape of the neck.

The Under-Secretary rose, shook hands with the colonel, and went straight to the point.

"Monsieur Juve of the detective force: Colonel Hofferman, head of the Second Bureau."

The policeman and the soldier bowed gravely. They awaited the beginning of the conference in a somewhat chilly silence.

Monsieur Maranjevol explained that after a short talk with Juve regarding Captain Brocq's death, he had considered it necessary to put him in touch with Colonel Hofferman.

The colonel, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few minutes, suddenly broke out:

"My faith, Monsieur," declared he, in a sharp abrupt voice, staring straight into Juve's eyes, "I am very glad to have the opportunity of meeting you. I shall not disguise from you that I am astonished, even very disagreeably astonished, at your attitude during the past few days regarding this wretched drama. Up to now, I have always considered that the private personality of an officer, above all, of an officer on the Headquarters' Staff, was a thing which was almost inviolable.... But it has come to my knowledge that at the death of Captain Brocq, you have devoted yourself not only to making the most minute investigations—that, perhaps, was your right and your duty—into the circumstances accompanying the death, but that you have searched the domicile of the defunct as well, and this without giving us the required preliminary notice. I cannot and will not sanction this method of procedure, and I congratulate myself on having this opportunity of telling you so."

During this speech of the colonel's Monsieur Maranjevol stared with astonished eyes, first at the soldier and then at the detective. The good-natured and peaceable Under-Secretary was surprised at the colonel's violent attack, and asked himself how Juve was going to take it.

Juve took it with an unmoved countenance. He said, in his turn:

"I would point out to you, Colonel, that had it been only a question of a natural death, I should have contented myself with restoring to you the documents which had been collected at our headquarters; but, as you probably knew, Captain Brocq was killed—killed in a mysterious fashion. I thus found myself in the presence of a crime, a common law crime: the inquest has restored it to the civil law jurisdiction, and not to the military: believe me, I understand my business, I know my duty."

Juve had uttered these words with the greatest composure; but the slight tremble in his voice would have made it clear to anyone who knew him well, that the detective was maintaining his self-control only by a violent effort.

The colonel replied in a tone stiff with offence:

"I persist in my opinion: you have no right to meddle in an affair which concerns us alone. The death of Captain Brocq coincides with the loss of a certain secret document: is it for you or for us to institute an enquiry into it?"

After a pause, Juve's retort was:

"You must permit me to leave that question unanswered."

With all the bluntness of a military man, Colonel Hofferman had put his finger on the open wound which for long years had been a source of irritation to the detective force and the intelligence department alike, when, owing to circumstances, both were called on to intervene at one and the same time. In cases of theft and of spying the conflict was ceaseless.

Monsieur Havard, Juve's chief, had talked this matter over the night before, and his last words of command were:

"Above all, Juve, manage matters so that there is no fuss!... There must not be a fuss!"

Colonel Hofferman, misinterpreting the detective's attitude, turned triumphantly to the Under-Secretary:

"Not only that," he continued, "I think there has been far too much talk made about the death of Captain Brocq. This officer was the victim of an accident. We cannot discuss it. That is all there is to be said. It really does not matter much. We of the Intelligence Department are soldiers, and believe in a policy of results: at the present moment we have lost a document: we are searching for it: action must be left to us.... And, Monsieur, I revert to my first question—what the devil was the police doing at Captain Brocq's—what business was it of theirs? Really, the detective service is arrogating to itself more and more powers—powers that cannot be sanctioned, that will not be granted or permitted."

Juve had so far contained himself, though with difficulty, but now Colonel Hofferman was going too far. It was Juve's turn to break out.

"Monsieur," he cried, in a voice vibrating with passion, turning to the Under-Secretary: "I cannot accept such observations—not for a moment! I have among my papers on the case important proofs that the assassination of Captain Brocq is surrounded with mysterious occurrences, and also of the gravest nature. The theory Colonel Hofferman has just put forward will not hold water—it does not hang together! To gain a full understanding of a thing one must begin at the beginning. This beginning I have brought, and I make you judge, Monsieur, of whether or no it is worth the most careful consideration."

Caught between two fires, the Under-Secretary looked exceedingly sorry for himself. Above everything, he dreaded being forced to act as umpire between Hofferman and Juve. There was no escape, however, so, with a weary air, he asked Juve to make his case clear.

"Well, gentlemen," began our detective, who had fully regained his self-possession, "you know what the circumstances were which led me to the discovery that Captain Brocq had been mysteriously assassinated? It was, obviously, of the first importance that I should learn every detail regarding his private life, get to know with whom he had intercourse, who his correspondents were, find out where he was accustomed to go, so that, being thoroughly posted up regarding his personality, I could discover to whose interest it would be that he should disappear.... I went to Brocq's flat in the rue de Lille to collect evidence from various sources. I have it all written down in my case papers. One fact stands out clearly: Captain Brocq was regularly visited by a woman whom we have not as yet been able to identify beyond a doubt, but we shall soon know who she is. I am certain she is a lady of fashion. She was his mistress: the commencement of a letter written to her by the deceased shows this; but, unfortunately, he has not addressed her by name. The letter was begun, according to the experts, some hours before the drama of assassination was enacted.... It is the mauve document, number 42. It commences:

"'My darling'."...

Juve showed this sheet of mauve letter paper to his listeners. Colonel Hofferman seemed to attach no importance whatever to it.

Juve continued:

"I should greatly value Colonel Hofferman's opinion regarding the suppositions I am about to formulate. Well, gentlemen, here is what I deduce from my investigations.... Captain Brocq was a simple, modest fellow; a hard worker; reasonable, temperate, serious-minded officer: a good middle-class citizen, in fact. If Captain Brocq had an irregular love affair, it was assuredly with the best intentions; Brocq, who perhaps had not been able to resist his senses, was too straight a man to willingly entertain the idea of not regularising the union later on. Is that your opinion, Colonel?"

Hofferman frankly replied:

"It is my opinion, Monsieur Juve. That was certainly Captain Brocq's character. But I do not see what you are driving at."

"At this," replied the detective. "Captain Brocq's mistress must be looked for, not among women of the lower orders, but among those of a higher class, who are more outwardly correct, at any rate, more women of the world. Among those with whom Brocq was on friendly terms, was the family of an old diplomat of Austrian extraction, a Monsieur de Naarboveck. This de Naarboveck has a daughter: she is twenty. This Mademoiselle Wilhelmine was terribly distressed, and in a state of profound grief, the day after Brocq's death. I am not going so far as to pretend that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress; but one might easily think so."

"How do you know that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck showed grief at the death of Captain Brocq?"

"Through a journalist who was received in the de Naarboveck family circle the day after the drama."

"Oh, a journalist!" protested the colonel.

Juve smiled slily.

"A journalist not like the others—it was Jerome Fandor, Colonel!... He went to de Naarboveck's to fulfill a mission entrusted to him by those in high places. The Minister of War."...

The Under-Secretary cut the inspector short.

"We know all about that, Monsieur Juve ... besides the person whom the Minister wished to learn something about was not Monsieur de Naarboveck's daughter, but her companion—a young woman named Berthe."...

"And nicknamed Bobinette!" finished Juve.

"What do you think of her?" asked the Under-Secretary.

Juve's reply was an indirect one.

"The more I think about it, the more I am tempted to believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck was Brocq's mistress—oh, in the right way, in all honour!—and that in the background, surreptitiously, a third person pushed herself into their confidence was the recipient of their secret, and on this account she could take a good many liberties with them. Berthe, or Bobinette, was this third person, of course!... She is known to have visited Brocq repeatedly.... Now, what was she doing there—what was her object? Well, we have to get a clear idea of what happened and draw our conclusions. Remember, Brocq left his flat in great haste on the afternoon of his assassination; he took a taxi at the des Saints-Peres, and drove off in pursuit of someone.... Why, we do not know, yet; but this someone was a woman, and I am convinced the woman was Bobinette."

"What is Bobinette's social position?"

"Gentlemen, I wish I could define it in a single word, but it is here that I enter the region of enigmas. Here is mystery on mystery. Without breaking the seal of professional secrecy, I may tell you that this woman should be known to me; I say 'should' because I still lack precise information about her; I await this information with impatience—I fear it also, for, gentlemen."...

Juve stopped short, got up, and began pacing the immense room. Drawing up before the Under-Secretary and Colonel Hofferman, he gazed at them. His manner was impressive.

"Gentlemen," said he, in a quiet penetrating voice, and with an air of intense conviction: "Gentlemen, if my conjectures are correct, Bobinette is naught but a girl of low birth—of the lowest—a creature who will stick at nothing, who has been mixed up with a band of criminals, the most cunning, the most artful, the most unscrupulous, the most dangerous band of criminals in all this round world—a band I have, time and again, pursued, decimated, broken up, dispersed ... only to see them spring to an associated evil life again, a ceaseless rebirth of maleficent forces, forming and reforming, a malevolent, hydra-headed monster, a band, gentlemen, of incarnated evil—the band of Fantomas!"

Juve became silent. He wiped his forehead.

The harsh voice of Colonel Hofferman broke the silence:

"Hypotheses! True to this extent, Monsieur Juve, that Brocq may very well have had a mistress—we are all agreed about that—but, in reality, it is simply romance!"

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"What is it?" demanded the Under-Secretary. The form of an usher showed itself in the half-opened doorway.

He entered, and, turning towards the Under-Secretary, said: "Excuse me, sir." Then, addressing Colonel Hofferman: "Captain Loreuil sends me to tell Colonel Hofferman that he has returned, and has a communication of extreme urgency to lay before him."

"The captain must wait!" cried Hofferman, in a harsh, authoritative tone.

But the usher, fulfilling his orders, replied:

"The captain anticipated this answer, Colonel, and told me to add that the communication cannot wait."

The usher withdrew. Hofferman glanced questioningly at the Under-Secretary.

"Go to him, Colonel, and return as soon as possible."

The Under-Secretary addressed Juve:

"The Government is greatly annoyed by all these incidents, which are assuming enormous proportions.... Are you aware that rumours of war are becoming wide-spread?... Public opinion is in a most unsettled state.... Things are bad on the Bourse, too—going from bad to worse!... Really, it is all most distressing!"

With a movement of sympathetic acquiescence, Juve said gently:

"I cannot help it, Monsieur!"

It was noon. Twelve was striking.



X

AUNT PALMYRA.

Early in the morning of the day on which the meeting took place in the private office of the Under-Secretary of State, the proprietor of The Three Moons at Chalons was busy bottling his wine. Dawn was just breaking, and the good man had a spirit lamp in his cellar to throw light upon his task.

Suddenly his bottling operations were disturbed by an unknown voice calling him insistently from the top of the steps.

"Hey, there! Father Louis! Where is Father Louis?"

Fuming and grumbling, the innkeeper mounted his cellar-steps, and appeared on the porch.

"I am Father Louis! What am I wanted for?"

The publican found himself face to face with an enormously stout woman: a grotesque figure clad in light-coloured garments, so cut that they exaggerated her stoutness; a large, many-coloured shawl was thrown round her shoulders; on her head was a big round hat, tied with strings in a bow under her chin. This odd head-gear was topped with a bunch of gaudy feathers, ragged and out of curl. A veil of flowery design half hid this woman's features: though far from her first youth, she no doubt wished to appear young still. The skin of her face was covered with powder and paint, so badly laid on, that daubs of white, of red, and blue, lay side by side in all their crudity: there was no soft blending of tints: it was the make-up of no artist's hand.

"What an object!" thought the publican, staring at this oddity, who had seated herself on the porch seat and had placed on the ground a great wicker basket filled with vegetables.

"Ouf!" she cried. "It is a long step to your canteen, Father Louis! My word, I never thought I should get here! Well now, how is my little pet of a girl?"

Nonplussed, suspicious, Father Louis looked hard at this strange visitor: never had he seen anyone like her! What astonished him was to hear her calling him by the name used only by his familiars.