"Juve! For the hundredth time I repeat I cannot give you this order!
However far back in our annals you might go, I am convinced you could not find a precedent for this!"
"Your Majesty will not forget that with his name, a line of his writing, all difficulties would be cleared away."
"Oh, as to that!... Have you considered that if this decree be unmerited, this doc.u.ment will be a shameful one, and will reflect shame not only on me but on my country? Do you not know that a king has no right to put his signature, his seal to an injustice?"
"Sire, I know that a king should be Justice! Sire, I know I ask nothing Your Majesty may not grant! Sire, I have urged, entreated! But Your Majesty must excuse me when I say that I am no longer a suppliant.... Your Majesty understands me?... It is Juve who requests the signature of Your Majesty!"
The king was visibly hesitating. At last he replied:
"I understand you, Juve. You would remind me of that official visit to Paris when you saved my life and the life of my queen at the risk of your own. I told you then that I should never refuse you anything you asked of me! It is to that you allude, is it not?"
"Sire, I should never call upon your Majesty to pay a debt you did not acknowledge.... I did not then foresee that a decree from Your Majesty would prove the solution of the most formidable problem I have ever had to solve! I would far rather not recall the debt.... Your Majesty has forced me to remind you of your given word."...
The king had risen and was pacing the room.
"If I grant you this decree, Juve, will you take it to the Chancellor"s Office as soon as you reach Paris?"
"Yes, Sire!"
"You will not wait, Juve, to have further proofs of what you a.s.sert?"
"No, Sire!"
"I must, then, rely solely on your word for it, your certainty, your conviction?"
"Yes, Sire!"
"Juve! Juve! If you exact this in the name of the promise I once made you, I will sign this decree for you--but--you will forfeit my friendship! You will have taken my good faith by storm! Decide then, Juve! Exact this--I grant it you!"
There was a silence.... Juve broke it.
"Surely Your Majesty does not wish to put me on the horns of such a dilemma? Lose Your Majesty"s friendship, confidence, or let pa.s.s a unique opportunity?"
"Yes, Juve.... That is what I wish."
"In that case, Sire, I do not exact payment! But Your majesty is breaking to pieces all that my life means! Sire, my own honour wills it that I bring this business to a conclusion, cost what it may! With Your Majesty"s support it was possible.... With only my own resources to depend on all is lost!"
It evidently cost the king something not to give Juve the satisfaction he implored.
"Juve, this is cruel! I would rather you had exacted the decree....
But all is not ended.... I will order an investigation in a fortnight"s time."...
"In a fortnight"s time? Your Majesty knows it will be too late."
The king continued his pacing up and down. He was considering the question.
"Juve, can you bring me face to face with this man? Can you convict him of his imposture in my presence?"
"What exactly does Your Majesty mean?"
"I mean, Juve, that whatever might be the scandal, the humiliation it might result in for me, I would grant you here and now the decree you claim if I were a.s.sured that you had not made a mistake.... You bring me suppositions, Juve, but no proofs! Arrange so that this man throws off his mask, if but for an instant, and I will allow your justice to take its course!... Juve, forget that you are speaking to a king: think of me as your friend!... Whatever the risks to be run, can you bring us face to face under such conditions that the truth will be apparent to me?"
Juve reflected. He raised his head and looked at the king.
"Your Majesty," said he slowly: "I am going to ask you to take an extraordinary step.... I am going to ask Your Majesty to perhaps risk your life. I am going to ask Your Majesty."...
Juve"s emotion was such that he could scarcely speak. Mastering it, he said in a low voice:
"I am going to ask Your Majesty to accompany me in three days" time ...
when."...
x.x.xV
AT THE COUNCIL OF WAR
"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.
Jerome 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 a.s.signed him was a shining light of the junior bar, Maitre Durul-Berton.