"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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 d.a.m.nable 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sistant, 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 Munic.i.p.ality, 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 pa.s.sed 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.