The Lynx

by Michel Corday

  “His Excellency the Ambassador of Italy!” announced the usher.

  Gabriel followed that short, bald man with his gaze, pale even in his moustache. His presence at the soirée was particularly significant, at a moment when French and Italian influences were disputing preponderance in Cyrenaica under the equally interested eye of Turkey. Relations between the two nations, after being extremely tense, had finally eased. His Excellency bore in his short person all the amenity and good grace of a conciliator. The Minister shook his hand for a long time. He introduced him into the room reserved for diplomats, near the entrance, where their manifest sympathy was celebrated.

  But the iridescent ribbon on the steps of stairway became even more compact. A few pretty women were secretly in quest of the homage due to their beauty. A polychromatic group went past; Mirande was ingenuously astonished that their thought was strangely mathematical. Here and there, mothers were guiding their daughters, slender in their pastel dresses. The same concern occupied them all: would they find a husband? He recognized a few faces at a distance: Favery, Delacoste, and then Dutoit, whose inquisitive lorgnon appeared over the shoulders of his neighbors: Dutoit, avid for prestige, who was secretly regretting that the counselors of the Court—he had finally been appointed—were not allowed to show the splendor of their robe at official soirées.

  In the distant hall, an orchestra of violins struck up a waltz. Gabriel listened, sadly, seeking in the voice of the strings a diversion from all the human voices. Was the contrast between the décor of the fête and his life of drama and alarms, in which checks succeeded victories, a new effect of the serum, or an abrupt reaction? Under the almost dolorous influence of a keen sensibility, however, the harmony stretched his nerves, running like a frisson along his vertebrae.

  He abandoned the balustrade and wandered through the salons at random. People were dancing almost everywhere. Interrupted in his passage by bounding couples, Mirande advanced with difficulty.

  And he received, along with the jostling, involuntary confidences: concern to keep in time with the waltz, anguish over finding a topic of conversation, tender desires, gallant thoughts, confessions that lips retained, an entire round of petty romances that twirled and leapt under the eyes of mothers who were dreaming about the benefits of sleep.

  But the kaleidoscope was turning too quickly. He wearied of it, and darted another glance toward the entrance. Raucourt had not arrived...

  Perhaps he was in the diplomatic room, entrance to which was forbidden to the profane.

  He stopped modestly on the threshold. No Raucourt—but the Excellencies were still congratulating one another.

  What were they hiding behind their grave foreheads? He extended his clairvoyance toward the ornamentations. To his amazement, he perceived nothing but a strange cacophony, in which only a few comprehensible thoughts were mingled. What was happening? Was his prodigious faculty troubled? Was it functioning abnormally? He sharpened his attention, but the waves remained untranslatable.

  Suddenly, an inspiration enlightened him. Of course—that’s it. These people are thinking in their own languages. It’s the Tower of Babel!

  But just now, at the entrance, he had penetrated the petty gilded attaché, the booted Russian and the expansive American. But they had become Parisian! The son of the Balkans had completed his studies in Paris, the American spent eight months of the year there, and the Russian his entire career—and their reflections had crystallized in their adopted language...

  Mirande deplored his ignorance. It was serving him poorly this evening, diminishing his power. Apart from Italian, which he had practiced at length in a study voyage in company with his master Brion, he was ignorant of all foreign languages. For absolute power, the trigger of the serum had to operate on a polyglot.

  His interest therefore concentrated on the Italian ambassador. Closer to him, he was also more comprehensible. Prostrate at that moment before a dowager in a white wig, he was confirming the conciliatory role that he had just played in the Cyrenaica affair. In all respects, he admitted, the conflict would have been disastrous for the two nations. Were they not sisters? Did not the same Latin soul vibrate within them? Would not war have condemned it forever? Was not the great harmony of peoples, entrusting their disputes to international arbitration, along with the common efforts of pity and justice, the sole aspiration of sovereigns worthy to rule? But one could be reassured now. The misunderstanding had been so completely dissipated that the king was thinking of traveling, of going on a cruise...

  And the dowager, satisfied, approved with an oscillation of her wig.

  Alas, what a terrible shock for Mirande! What emotion for humanity! The man was lying, lying with an ironic satisfaction, a secret voluptuousness. He had learned that very evening, by special courier, of the imminent demonstration of his king, who intended, during his cruise, to land in Tripoli, to mark the old African soil with a dominating heel, and to establish, by means of a surprise coup, his preponderance over that disputed region.

  A manifestation concentrated, moreover, ripened in advance, inspired by avid financiers, ambitious potentates, supported by all the ready-aimed cannons of the Triplice,21 and capable of igniting a formidable conflagration, if France did not capitulate!

  Mirande stood there, overwhelmed. All his horror of war vibrated, exciting him. Quickly, quickly! Avert the frightful explosion, avoid the gunfire, deliver that secret capital, shake up energies, avoid the fatal gesture, prevent the bloodshed, the weeping mothers and wives!

  It was his imperious duty. But who should he warn? Raucourt. That was his first impulse. He was the only man in power that he knew. Furthermore, he was active, ambitious in the generous sense of the word, and would avidly seize an opportunity to save his country from a war or a humiliation. And what gratitude he would have to the man who brought him that providential role!

  Miranda ran away, jostling people. Outside, it was freezing, The cold gripped him. Renouncing finding his car, taken away by the servants on duty, he leapt into a prowling taxi.

  “To the Ministry of Justice, Place Vendôme!”

  “Monsieur will keep me?”

  “Go, go!”

  The streets filed past. There were only a few passers-by, warmly wrapped up. Rare automobiles, flying over the frozen ground, revealed in passing a vision of luxury, a somnolent couple returning from a dinner, a woman huddled in furs.

  The Place Vendôme was deserted. On the threshold of the Ministry, two agents were stamping their feet to keep warm. Mirande looked at his watch. It was not yet eleven o’clock. Raucourt should still be up and about. Some light filtered through the shuttered windows of the façade. He went under the porch. Only then did he realize the extravagance of what he was doing, the difficulties that awaited him.

  “Where are you going?” a uniformed concierge shouted at him, bounding out of his lodge.

  “I want to see the Minister.”

  “At this hour? Is he expecting you?”

  “No, but it’s necessary for me to speak to him. I have very serious things to communicate to him, and I’d like...”

  He stopped. He glimpsed the man’s anxiety: Another madman! It’s been raining them for some time...

  Exhorting himself to calm, he resumed in a complaisant tone: “Yes, you must find my arrival unusual, at this hour…but have my card given to the Minister, with a few words. I know him.”

  He took out his notebook and prepared to write.

  “It’s futile, Monsieur,” the Cerberus interrupted. “One doesn’t get into the Ministry without a letter of audience. He won’t receive you. Write tomorrow...”

  “His chef de cabinet, then. I’ll explain my reasons to him, and hen...”

  “Monsieur le Chef de Cabinet isn’t here at this hour.”

  “And no one in the offices?”

  “No one.”

  Gabriel had an inspiration. “Listen, my friend, here’s a louis…five louis…ten louis, if you can get me in to see the Minister imm
ediately.”

  He understood that he had not convinced him. The money tempted the concierge, but professional dread retained him. He would not risk his job for so little.

  “It’s impossible.”

  Mirande became more pressing. “Listen. I swear to you that it’s an exceedingly seriously matter. You won’t forgive yourself for having sent me away. You won’t forgive yourself, for your sake, that of your family, your country...

  That’s it! He’s a madman! thought the concierge, who got ready to throw the visitor into the street violently.

  Mirande became exasperated. After all, a Minister ought to be accessible to all, when superior interests were at stake, when the fate of the fatherland depended on news received that very evening. He must be allowed to get in! No one must prevent him from getting in!

  “It’s pointless, my poor Monsieur! Go to bed, that would be better!”

  At the paroxysm of his wrath, Gabriel cried: “I tell you that I shall get in! I’ll strangle you rather than not get in!”

  Oh, it couldn’t go on. The man lowered his head, fell upon the importunate individual, seized him like a parcel round the body, and, gripping him hard enough to choke him, carried him outside.

  Mirande struggled vainly. The grip of the two policeman, come to help, paralyzed his resistance. And there was the painful spectacle of an unkempt individual in evening dress, bare-headed, struggling and howling as two servants of public order transported him to the nearest police station.

  On the way, in spite of his fury, he perceived the pity or criticism of the passers-by. He’s a madman! estimated some. He’s a drunkard! granted the others.

  “I’m neither drunk nor mad! Let me go!” he implored, suffocating, garbling his words.

  But the agents shook their heads, and continued on their way.

  At the station he was thrown, fearfully, on to a bench. The influence of the serum wore off. In the vicinity of the agents he could hear nothing but faint murmurs. Calmer, he took better stock of the situation. It did not seem desperate. He could not be reproached for any crime. He had simply struggled. The wrong was on the side of the public force. As soon as he explained himself to the Commissaire de Police, he would be released. He would still have time to act.

  The magistrate soon arrived. He was a stern administrator, zealous and fearful of stories. He bowed to the military salute of the guardians and went into his office. First he listened to the concierge’s report, and that of the agents who had carried out the arrest. Then he had the prisoner brought in.

  “Sit down there on that chair.”

  By the severity of that greeting, Gabriel understood that the Commissaire was expecting to give the incident a serious complexion. The presence of two guardians by his side confirmed his fears. He felt weak before the authority. His timidity, driven back under the influence of the serum, invaded him again.

  “Monsieur le Commissaire,” he said, “I’d like to speak to you alone.”

  “That’s not customary, Monsieur.”

  “I have, however, something to confide to you...”

  “Wait until I interrogate you.”

  He questioned methodically. He demanded papers that Gabriel could not furnish. He asked his name, his address, his place of birth, his profession. He transcribed that information in a register. He enquired about previous involvements with the law, and, on Mirande’s protestations, rang for the duty secretary and asked him to request urgently, by telephone, a judiciary file or an anthropometric record. All those services were to be awakened, the entire administrative machinery set in motion. It was a matter of a Minister.

  Those preliminaries accomplished, penetrating his interlocutor with a keen gaze, he placed is head in his hands and gave his authorization.: “Go on. Speak.”

  Oh, that accused timidity! That irrational embarrassment! That retreat of personality! The necessity of lying, of concealing the existence of the serum… With every sentence, Gabriel became more incoherent. Stammering, searching for words, he nevertheless narrated his adventure as best he could: that he had discovered a diplomatic secret and had thought himself obliged to report it immediately to the Minister, whom he knew.

  “You were in the diplomatic salon, then, Monsieur?”

  “No, Monsieur, I was standing at the door.”

  “Ah! And what persons were exchanging this confidence?”

  Gabriel hesitated, and then: “The ambassador of a foreign county and an aged lady.”

  “French?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was the conversation in French?”

  “I think so...”

  “You think so?” The Commissaire reflected momentarily. Then, letting nothing show of his impressions: “And what was this confidence?”

  “It’s of capital importance for the security of our country. I will say more, Monsieur; it involves the peace of Europe. That’s why I desire to transmit it to Monsieur Raucourt. I beg you to excuse me if I don’t surrender it to you.”

  “As you please, Monsieur. But I will point out immediately the implausibility of your story.”

  “Implausible? In what way?”

  “In that you don’t even know in what language this capital secret, revealed according to you by an ambassador to an old lady, was confided.”

  Gabriel attempted to backtrack. “It was in Italian, naturally. I misunderstood your question...” Floored by that logic, he understood that he had betrayed himself.

  The Commissaire seemed, however, to consent to that explanation. He went on: “Let’s admit that. But one thing astonishes me even more in what you’re saying. That is that you were able to overhear, from the door where you were standing, a conversation that must have been exchanged in low voices, by reason of its character of gravity. And all that, naturally, in the midst of the rumor of a numerous assembly. Is that possible?”

  “Certainly, since I heard it.”

  The Commissaire mocked, sarcastically: “He was shouting, then, your ambassador? The lady was deaf?”

  “No. It is, in any case, evident that they wouldn’t have compromised themselves in that fashion...”

  “Then I can’t understand how their words reached you.”

  Mirande became irritated. “What do you want, Monsieur le Commissaire? Admit, if you wish, that I have particularly keen hearing. Admit anything you wish.”

  At that response the magistrate turned to his secretary. They exchanged a knowing glance.

  “But what does it matter how I overheard it?” Mirande went on. “The secret was nevertheless acquired, and I repeat to you that it is laden with threats, that one day’s delay in its divulgation might lead to frightful consequences! I beg you, therefore, in the name of your patriotism, in your interest, to release me, and even to help me to see Monsieur Raucourt....”

  The Commissaire raised his arms. “Release you! How you go on! Remember, Monsieur, that your conduct is utterly extraordinary. What? You seek to introduce yourself by night, without authorization, into a Minister’s abode. The concierge stops you; you want to go on regardless. He takes hold of you, which is his duty, and you strike him!”

  “The concierge is not telling the truth.”

  “At any rate, you struggled. It’s the same thing. The agents arrive to lend a hand, and you strike them too!”

  “That’s false!”

  “One of them has a face labored by scratches. I’ve seen them! And you’re asking me to release you? I’d still need a serious explanation to explain your anger. Oh, if serious interests were really at stake, I wouldn’t refuse, but you serve me this ludicrous fable about an ambassador and an old woman, and that’s all! Give me a valid reason, and then I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “Listen Monsieur.”

  Suddenly, Mirande made a decision. He would confide the secret itself to the magistrate. Thus, he would justify his conduct. And if the Commissaire did not agree to release him right away, at least he could avert the peril by making a prompt report.
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  He stood up and took a step toward him. But the agents held him back.

  “Let him go. He isn’t dangerous,” the Commissioner reassured them

  Gabriel started. “Dangerous? What do you mean by that? Do you think I’m mad?”

  “No, since I’m listening to you.”

  Leaning over the desk, face to face, he whispered his secret: the quarrel between the two countries reanimated, the manifestation planed by the Triplice. The Commissaire appeared to listen with gravity, even with anguish.

  “That is, indeed, very serious,” he murmured.

  Gabriel was exultant. “If our diplomacy doesn’t prevent that sovereign’s gesture, it’s war, Monsieur. It’s war, with its ruination and disasters. It’s our unfortunate country crushed by the coalition. Now you understand my haste my imprudence, my anger. For the negotiations require time. It’s necessary for orders to leave Paris tonight, tomorrow at the latest. One day’s delay might cost billions of dollars and millions of lives. Do you believe me now, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And you’re going to help me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Finally!”

  The Commissaire scribbled a few words in haste and confided them to the secretary, who left, without further explanation. Then he said, very benevolently: “Well, we’ll sort all this out. I’ll have you taken to your Minister. Be patient for a moment. Someone’s gone to fetch a vehicle.”

  “For such a short journey…,” Gabriel protested.

  “Monsieur Raucourt has kept his private domicile. He doesn’t sleep at the Ministry,” the magistrate explained. Then he left in his turn, leaving the prisoner with the two agents. The wait, a quarter of an hour long, was cruel to Gabriel’s impatience. Finally, the purr of an automobile told him that he had not been forgotten. The secretary arrived at the same time, and handed him a battered hat that he had found in the street.