Marcel Allain

"The Council, gentlemen!... Stand up!"

"Shoulder—arms!"

"Rest—arms!"

The seven military judges of the Council of War advanced solemnly, in single file. They were in full dress uniform—sabres, epaulettes, regulation plumes on helmets and caps. With all due ceremony they took their respective places at a long green-covered table.

This opened at one o'clock, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth of December. The president was a colonel of dragoons, a smart, distinguished-looking man, whose fair hair was slightly tinged with grey at the temples.

On the right of the tribunal, before a bureau piled with voluminous case papers, was seated Commandant Dumoulin, redder in the face than ever. The place next him was filled by Lieutenant Servin, who showed himself the very pink of correctness and meticulous elegance. Seated near the lieutenant was a white-haired officer acting as clerk of court.

The government commissioners had their backs to the court windows which looked on to a very large garden; facing them was the dock, guarded by two soldiers with fixed bayonets; behind the dock was the table which stood for the bar where the counsel for the defence would plead.

The centre of the room was occupied by an enormous cast-iron stove, shedding cinders on every side, whose ancient pipes were scaly with age.

Behind the line of soldiers cutting the room in two were narrow seats and still narrower desks, where the representatives of the legal press were seated as best they could.

Behind the journalists pressed a tightly packed crowd, restless, overflowing with curiosity, leaning on the press-men's shoulders, peering between their heads, for whom the authorities had shown but scant consideration, and for whom the poorest accommodation was provided.

All Paris had done their possible to be present, begging cards of admittance, a favour which could be granted to a very limited number.

As soon as the interest aroused by the appearance of the members of the Council of War had died down the crowd's attention was concentrated on the hero of this sensational adventure: his doings had been the one prevailing topic of conversation during the past few days.

JÉrÔme Fandor, modest, reserved, appeared indifferent to the mute questioning of the hundreds of eyes focussed on him. Our journalist wore Corporal Vinson's uniform. He had begged the authorities to let him appear in civilian clothes: demands and entreaties had been so much breath wasted.

The counsel assigned him was a shining light of the junior bar, MaÎtre Durul-Berton.

The audience on the whole was favourably disposed towards this well-known contributor to La Capitale. They knew that on many occasions this well-informed journalist had rendered immense services to honest folk and to society in general by placing his intelligence and energy at the service of every good cause.

Then there was one strong indisputable point in his favour. Though he had escaped from prison with the help of an unknown person, he had returned, had given himself up, declaring he would not leave the Council of War except by the big door with head held high, his innocence established.

The president announced:

"We shall now call the names of the witnesses."

There was silence in the court-room while a sergeant who filled the office of crier to the court, read out the names from a list in his hands. The call-over lasted ten minutes. Most of the witnesses were officers and men belonging to the garrisons of Verdun and ChÂlons.

Among these witnesses as they defiled before the tribunal Fandor recognised some whose faces were graven on his memory during his brief sojourn in the Saint Benoit barracks.

The first call resounded through the court-room:

"Inspector Juve!"

Juve approached the tribunal, proved he was present, then, in conformity with the law, left the court-room, as did the other witnesses called.

The presence of Juve reassured and comforted Fandor. Had not Juve said to him:

"You must face your judges, little son; but I am greatly deceived if a certain incident which will occur in the course of the hearing will not alter the speech for the government from the first to the last!"

More than this Juve could not be got to say: he had put on his most enigmatic manner and closed his lips.

The president of the Council addressed Fandor:

"Accused! Stand up!"

The president stared hard at the prisoner with his pale clear eyes like porcelain expressing neither thoughts nor feelings.

Fandor stood erect, waiting.

An hour had gone by.

Juve, the first witness called, was finishing his evidence. Of all the witnesses, he alone could give precise details which would confirm or nullify Fandor's statements.

Juve had given a rapid sketch of Fandor's adventurous career, but had carefully omitted to mention that Fandor's real name was Charles Rambert.[11]

[11] See FantÔmas Series: vols. i, ii, iii.

His defence of his friend was a eulogy.

Nevertheless, the revelations of Juve did not simplify the problem as regards the grave charges of murder and spying brought against the prisoner.

When Juve had finished his panegyric, the president spoke to the point:

"All this is very well, gentlemen, very well—but the affair grows more and more complicated, and who will come forward to elucidate it?"

From the back of the court came a sound, sharp-cut, clear:

"I!"

The sensation was immense. Members of the Council looked at one another. There was a disturbance at the back of the room: the crowd swayed, and peered, and whispered.

The colonel-president frowned. He scrutinised the close-packed swaying mass. He shot a question at it.

"Who spoke?"

Sharp, distinct, a monosyllable was shot back.

"I!"

Someone, pushing a way through the audience, was approaching the military tribunal.

A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Silence!" shouted the colonel. He swept the crowd with an angry eye: he threatened.

"I warn you! At the least manifestation, favourable or otherwise, I shall have the room cleared: we are not here to amuse ourselves. I do not authorise anyone, either by gesture or by speech, to comment on what is taking place within these walls."

Having obtained comparative quiet, the colonel looked squarely at the person who had approached the witness-stand and was facing the military tribunal.

This would-be witness was a young woman, elegantly clad. She wore black furs, and a dark veil partially concealing her features, but revealing the strange pallor of her face. The audience, who had a view of the newcomer's back, noted her masses of tawny red hair, set off by a fur toque.

The colonel put her to the question at once.

"You are the person who said 'I'?"

The young woman was greatly moved, but she answered firmly:

"Yes, Monsieur. That is so."

"Who are you, Madame?"

The witness collected her forces, pressed her hand to her heart as though to still its frantic beating: paused. In a clear strong voice she made her declaration:

"I am Mademoiselle Berthe: I am better known as Bobinette."

Exclamations from the crowd, craning necks, peering eyes, murmurs.

When the excitement was suppressed, the colonel interrogated Bobinette.

"Why have you taken upon yourself to interrupt the proceedings of the court?"

"You asked, Monsieur, who could clear up this unfortunate affair. I am ready to tell you everything. Not only is it a duty imposed on me by my conscience, it is also my most ardent wish."

The judges were in earnest consultation. Commandant Dumoulin was shaking his head. He was angrily opposed to this witness being heard, a witness who had appeared so inopportunely to trouble the majesty of the sitting.

The counsel for the defence intervened.

"Monsieur the president, I have the honour to request an immediate hearing for this witness.... It is your absolute right, Monsieur the president: you have full discretionary powers."

"And if I oppose it?" growled the commandant behind his desk, with a vicious glance at the defender of his adversary.

MaÎtre Durul-Burton replied with calm dignity:

"If you oppose it, Monsieur the commissaire, I shall have the honour of immediately deposing on the bureau of this tribunal conclusive evidence which will bring this sitting to a close forthwith."

An animated discussion ensued between the members of the council. It resulted in the colonel's announcement:

"We will hear this witness."

He addressed Bobinette:

"You are allowed to speak, mademoiselle. Swear then to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Raise your right hand and say: 'I swear it!'"

With a certain dignity Bobinette obeyed.

"I swear it!"

Then, in a low trembling voice, trembling from excess of emotion but not from timidity, Bobinette began her story.

A child of the people, honestly brought up, she had not always followed the straight path of virtue: there had been lapses. Intelligent, longing to learn, she had been well educated, and had intended to take a medical degree.... Again, at the hospital, she had succumbed to temptations, had led a life of idleness, and had renounced all idea of working for her doctor's diploma. Instead, she had become a hospital nurse.[12]

Here the colonel interrupted:

"What can these details matter to us, Mademoiselle? What we want to know is not your own history, but that of the guilty person—information pertinent to the case in hand."

In a strangely solemn voice, Bobinette replied:

"You would know the history of the guilty person?... Listen!"

The tribunal was impressed: the members, silent, attentive, let the witness have her way.

Bobinette touched on the various stages of her life up to the day when she came in contact with the Baron de Naarboveck. The care she had lavished on the youthful Wilhelmine gained the gratitude of the rich diplomat and his daughter. From that time they treated her as one of themselves: she became Mademoiselle de Naarboveck's companion.

"Ah, cursed be that day!" cried Bobinette.... "Misfortunes, tragedies, date from then. The worst is—I must confess it—I was the cause of them!"

"What do you mean by that?" interrupted Commandant Dumoulin.

"I mean to say that if Captain Brocq died by an assassin's hand, the blame is mine!... I mean to say that if a confidential document disappeared from his rooms, it is because I took it!... I was his mistress!... I am responsible for his death!"

There was a gasping silence: the sensation was intense. Juve, half hidden behind the cast-iron stove, alone remained unmoved.

Bobinette continued:

"My evil genius, gentlemen, was a bandit of the worst kind: you know him under the name of Vagualame. Vagualame, agent of the Second Bureau, and officially a counter-spy. Quite so. But, gentlemen, Vagualame was equally spying on France, a traitor in the pay of a foreign power: worse still, he it was who assassinated Captain Brocq: you know he was the murderer of the singer, Nichoune!...

"This Vagualame made of me his thing, his slave! Alas! I cannot pretend that it was under the perpetual menace from this monster I became a traitor! I have so many betrayals that must count against me: betrayal of my country, betrayal of Captain Brocq's love for me! I robbed him in every kind of way: I stole the document referring to the mobilisation scheme: I stole his money—bank-notes—with the excuse that it was to put the police on the wrong scent and make them believe it was an ordinary burglary.

"These notes, gentlemen, were found in the possession of the unfortunate JÉrÔme Fandor. It seems they constitute an overwhelming charge against him. Know then, that after having been stolen by my hands they were given to JÉrÔme Fandor by one of our agents, for the purpose of compromising the false Corporal Vinson.... But if I have acted thus, it was not so much through a desire for the money they gave me for my treachery, not so much for the fallacious promises of eventual riches which Vagualame was always trying to dazzle me with—it was through rancour, spite, hate, it was through love!"

MaÎtre Durul-Burton rose and, bending towards the half-fainting Bobinette, cried:

"Speak, speak, Mademoiselle!"

Bobinette went on slowly:

"Through love—yes. And it is an avowal which touches me nearly, wounds me in the depths of my soul, in my most intimate thoughts....

"Yes, I have given away to the vile suggestions of Vagualame, if I have let myself be drawn by him into horrible by-paths of spying and treason, it is owing to the spite and rage of an unrequited love, of an intense passion, intense beyond expression, which I have felt for a man—a man whose heart was given to another—for the betrothed of Mademoiselle de Naarboveck—for Lieutenant Henri de Lou——"

The colonel-president, with a brusque gesture, interrupted this confession.

"Enough, Mademoiselle ... enough!... You are not to mention names here!... Be good enough to continue your deposition only as it relates to facts connected with spying."

Bobinette then recounted how she had consented to hide the famous gun piece brought to her one day by Vagualame; how she had helped the bandit to concoct the daring plan by which this piece was to be handed to a foreign power; how she had disguised herself as a priest in order to take Corporal Vinson to Dieppe. She did not know, at first, that she was dealing with JÉrÔme Fandor. Enlightenment came through Vagualame's telegram. She only then realised that the traitor Vinson and the soldier in her company were two distinct persons.

"And," cried she, "who killed the real Corporal Vinson but a few days ago in the rue du Cherche-Midi? I know. It was the murderer of Captain Brocq, the murderer of the singer, Nichoune—it was Vagualame ... Vagualame!" Bobinette was working herself up to a paroxysm of exasperation, shouting out her revelations like an apostle who means to convince, shouting his convictions as a martyr might at the worst moment of her anguish.

"Vagualame? You ask who he is, and you search among the thieves, the receivers of stolen goods and light-fingered gentry, you search among the secret agents, among that low unclean crowd which gravitates to your Staff Offices and circulates about them, forever on the watch, on the prowl to surprise some secret, to buy over some conscience, to sell and bargain over some purloined document!... Look higher than that, gentlemen—much higher! Look higher than the Staff Offices, than the leaders in the political world, than members of the Government, even—fix your attention on the accredited representatives of foreign powers."...

Bobinette was unable to continue.... Commandant Dumoulin had been too excited to remain in his seat. He rushed towards the witness, who was making what he considered to be wild and outrageous statements: he put his big hand over her mouth, effectually silencing her....

The commandant turned to the colonel, shouting:

"Colonel! Monsieur the president!... I demand that this case be now heard in camera! Such accusations must not be heard in public!... I beg you to order that the rest of this case be heard behind closed doors!"

The counsel for the defence rose in his turn, and in a calm tone, which contrasted with the violence of Commandant Dumoulin, declared:

"I am in agreement with this demand, Monsieur the President.... Will you order that the further hearing of this case be in camera?"

Here Commandant Dumoulin, to whom Lieutenant Servin had made a suggestion, intervened anew:

"Monsieur the President, gentlemen, having regard to the grave declarations made by this witness, I require her immediate arrest!"

Hardly had this demand been voiced when a loud cry rang out, electrifying the whole court. Bobinette had swallowed the contents of a small phial hidden in her muff!

Juve, guessing Bobinette's intention, had rushed to her, but, in spite of his rapid action, he reached her only in time to receive the fainting girl in his arms.

"She has poisoned herself!" shouted Juve.

The public broke bounds, knocked over chairs and benches, rolled in a surge of excited curiosity to the very feet of the Council of War, crowding round this fresh centre of interest—Bobinette!

Fandor was too stunned by the avalanche of incidents to move.

"The hearing is suspended!" shouted the colonel in an angry voice. There was nothing else to be done: the court was in an uproar!

It was nine in the evening, and a crowd as large and densely packed as before awaited the verdict.

Since Bobinette attempted suicide—she had been removed to the infirmary with the faint hope that life was not extinct and she might yet be saved—the hearing had been conducted in camera. But the revelations of the guilty girl had not only upset Dumoulin's course of procedure, but had also convinced the judges of Fandor's innocence. He had once more explained why he had concealed his identity beneath the uniform of Corporal Vinson.

The Council of War had come to the conclusion that they could not consider Fandor accountable to their tribunal.

At nine o'clock then, after a short deliberation, the Council of War delivered judgment through the mouth of its president, delivered judgment according to the solemn formula, commencing thus:

"In the name of the French People!"

JÉrÔme Fandor was acquitted.

The news of his acquittal was received with hearty cheers.

Fandor was free.

Congratulations, hand-shakings, questions followed.

Mechanically he responded, though he had a smile for Lieutenant Servin when he murmured, with a touch of irony:

"The judgment made no mention, Monsieur Fandor, of the clothes—the borrowed clothes—you are wearing: but it seems to be established that they do not belong to you. Be kind enough, then, to return them to the authorities as soon as possible! Otherwise we shall be obliged to summon you afresh for appropriation of military garments!"

The lieutenant had had his little joke, and departed laughing.

The crowd melted away. Only a few of Fandor's colleagues remained. To them he talked more freely of his troubles and trials. Then Juve arrived on the scene again. He was no longer the impassive listener of the trial: he was friend Juve, beaming and joyous.

He embraced his dear Fandor effusively, murmuring:

"Now, old Fandor, this is not the moment to linger! We must be off instanter. I shall see you to your flat, where you can change into clothes of your own; for this evening we have our work cut out for us!"

"This evening?" Fandor's curiosity was aroused.

Juve, as they went off together, became mysterious.

"Ah! you will understand presently!"