The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  The next morning the same spirit of adventure that had exiled her from the Berlin hospitals carried her with the blue-prints to the German embassy. There, greatly shocked, they first wrote down her name and address, and then, indignant at her proposition, ordered her out. But the day following a strange young German who was not at all indignant, but, on the contrary, quite charming, called upon Marie. For the blue-prints he offered her a very large sum, and that same hour with them and Marie departed for Berlin. Marie did not need the money. Nor did the argument that she was serving her country greatly impress her. It was rather that she loved intrigue. And so she became a spy.

  Henri Ravignac, the man she had robbed of the blue-prints, was tried by court-martial. The charge was treason, but Charles Ravignac, his younger brother, promised to prove that the guilty one was the girl, and to that end obtained leave of absence and spent much time and money. At the trial he was able to show the record of Marie in Berlin and Monte Carlo; that she was the daughter of a German secret agent; that on the afternoon the prints disappeared Marie, with an agent of the German embassy, had left Paris for Berlin. In consequence of this the charge of selling military secrets was altered to one of “gross neglect,” and Henri Ravignac was sentenced to two years in the military prison at Tours. But he was of an ancient and noble family, and when they came to take him from his cell in the Cherche-Midi, he was dead. Charles, his brother, disappeared. It was said he also had killed himself; that he had been appointed a military attaché in South America; that to revenge his brother he had entered the secret service; but whatever became of him no one knew. All that was certain was that, thanks to the act of Marie Gessler, on the rolls of the French army the ancient and noble name of Ravignac no longer appeared.

  In her chosen profession Marie Gessler found nothing discreditable. Of herself her opinion was not high, and her opinion of men was lower. For her smiles she had watched several sacrifice honor, duty, loyalty; and she held them and their kind in contempt. To lie, to cajole, to rob men of secrets they thought important, and of secrets the importance of which they did not even guess, was to her merely an intricate and exciting game.

  She played it very well. So well that in the service her advance was rapid. On important missions she was sent to Russia, through the Balkans; even to the United States. There, with credentials as an army nurse, she inspected our military hospitals and unobtrusively asked many innocent questions.

  When she begged to be allowed to work in her beloved Paris, “they” told her when war came “they” intended to plant her inside that city, and that, until then, the less Paris knew of her the better.

  But just before the great war broke, to report on which way Italy might jump, she was sent to Rome, and it was not until September she was recalled. The telegram informed her that her Aunt Elizabeth was ill, and that at once she must return to Berlin. This, she learned from the code book wrapped under the cover of her thermos bottle, meant that she was to report to the general commanding the German forces at Soissons.

  From Italy she passed through Switzerland, and, after leaving Basle, on military trains was rushed north to Luxemburg, and then west to Laon. She was accompanied by her companion, Bertha, an elderly and respectable, even distinguished-looking female. In the secret service her number was 528. Their passes from the war office described them as nurses of the German Red Cross. Only the Intelligence Department knew their real mission. With her, also, as her chauffeur, was a young Italian soldier of fortune, Paul Anfossi. He had served in the Belgian Congo, in the French Foreign Legion in Algiers, and spoke all the European languages. In Rome, where as a wireless operator he was serving a commercial company, in selling Marie copies of messages he had memorized, Marie had found him useful, and when war came she obtained for him, from the Wilhelmstrasse, the number 292. From Laon, in one of the automobiles of the General Staff, the three spies were driven first to Soissons, and then along the road to Meaux and Paris, to the village of Neufchelles. They arrived at midnight, and in a château of one of the Champagne princes, found the colonel commanding the Intelligence Bureau. He accepted their credentials, destroyed them, and replaced them with a laissez passer signed by the mayor of Laon. That dignitary, the colonel explained, to citizens of Laon fleeing to Paris and the coast had issued many passes. But as now between Laon and Paris there were three German armies, the refugees had been turned back and their passes confiscated.

  “From among them,” said the officer, “we have selected one for you. It is issued to the wife of Count d’Aurillac, a captain of reserves, and her aunt, Madame Benet. It asks for those ladies and their chauffeur, Briand, a safe-conduct through the French military lines. If it gets you into Paris you will destroy it and assume another name. The Count d’Aurillac is now with his regiment in that city. If he learned of the presence there of his wife, he would seek her, and that would not be good for you. So, if you reach Paris, you will become a Belgian refugee. You are high-born and rich. Your château has been destroyed. But you have money. You will give liberally to the Red Cross. You will volunteer to nurse in the hospitals. With your sad story of ill treatment by us, with your high birth, and your knowledge of nursing, which you acquired, of course, only as an amateur, you should not find it difficult to join the Ladies of France, or the American Ambulance. What you learn from the wounded English and French officers and the French doctors you will send us through the usual channels.”

  “When do I start?” asked the woman.

  “For a few days,” explained the officer, “you remain in this château. You will keep us informed of what is going forward after we withdraw.”

  “Withdraw?” It was more of an exclamation than a question. Marie was too well trained to ask questions.

  “We are taking up a new position,” said the officer, “on the Aisne.”

  The woman, incredulous, stared.

  “And we do not enter Paris?”

  “You do,” returned the officer. “That is all that concerns you. We will join you later—in the spring. Meanwhile, for the winter we intrench ourselves along the Aisne. In a chimney of this château we have set up a wireless outfit. We are leaving it intact. The chauffeur Briand—who, you must explain to the French, you brought with you from Laon, and who has been long in your service—will transmit whatever you discover. We wish especially to know of any movement toward our left. If they attack in front from Soissons, we are prepared; but of any attempt to cross the Oise and take us in flank you must warn us.”

  The officer rose and hung upon himself his field-glasses, map-cases, and side-arms.

  “We leave you now,” he said. “When the French arrive you will tell them your reason for halting at this château was that the owner, Monsieur Iverney, and his family are friends of your husband. You found us here, and we detained you. And so long as you can use the wireless, make excuses to remain. If they offer to send you on to Paris, tell them your aunt is too ill to travel.”

  “But they will find the wireless,” said the woman. “They are sure to use the towers for observation, and they will find it.”

  “In that case,” said the officer, “you will suggest to them that we fled in such haste we had no time to dismantle it. Of course, you had no knowledge that it existed, or, as a loyal French woman, you would have at once told them.” To emphasize his next words the officer pointed at her: “Under no circumstances,” he continued, “must you be suspected. If they should take Briand in the act, should they have even the least doubt concerning him, you must repudiate him entirely. If necessary, to keep your own skirts clear, it would be your duty yourself to denounce him as a spy.”

  “Your first orders,” said the woman, “were to tell them Briand had been long in my service; that I brought him from my home in Laon.”

  “He might be in your service for years,” returned the colonel, “and you not know he was a German agent.”

  “If to save myself I inform upon him
,” said Marie, “of course you know you will lose him.”

  The officer shrugged his shoulders. “A wireless operator,” he retorted, “we can replace. But for you, and for the service you are to render in Paris, we have no substitute. You must not be found out. You are invaluable.”

  The spy inclined her head. “I thank you,” she said.

  The officer sputtered indignantly.

  “It is not a compliment,” he exclaimed; “it is an order. You must not be found out!”

  Withdrawn some two hundred yards from the Paris road, the château stood upon a wooded hill. Except directly in front, trees of great height surrounded it. The tips of their branches brushed the windows; interlacing, they continued until they overhung the wall of the estate. Where it ran with the road the wall gave way to a lofty gate and iron fence, through which those passing could see a stretch of noble turf, as wide as a polofield, borders of flowers disappearing under the shadows of the trees; and the château itself, with its terrace, its many windows, its high-pitched, sloping roof, broken by towers and turrets.

  Through the remainder of the night there came from the road to those in the château the roar and rumbling of the army in retreat. It moved without panic, disorder, or haste, but unceasingly. Not for an instant was there a breathing-spell. And when the sun rose, the three spies—the two women and the chauffeur—who in the great château were now alone, could see as well as hear the gray column of steel rolling past below them.

  The spies knew that the gray column had reached Claye, had stood within fifteen miles of Paris, and then upon Paris had turned its back. They knew also that the reverberations from the direction of Meaux, that each moment grew more loud and savage, were the French “seventy-fives” whipping the gray column forward. Of what they felt the Germans did not speak. In silence they looked at each other, and in the eyes of Marie was bitterness and resolve.

  Toward noon Marie met Anfossi in the great drawing-room that stretched the length of the terrace and from the windows of which, through the park gates, they could see the Paris road.

  “This, that is passing now,” said Marie, “is the last of our rear-guard. Go to your tower,” she ordered, “and send word that except for stragglers and the wounded our column has just passed through Neufchelles, and that any moment we expect the French.” She raised her hand impressively. “From now,” she warned, “we speak French, we think French, we are French!”

  Anfossi, or Briand, as now he called himself, addressed her in that language. His tone was bitter. “Pardon my lese-majesty,” he said, “but this chief of your Intelligence Department is a dummer Mensch. He is throwing away a valuable life.”

  Marie exclaimed in dismay. She placed her hand upon his arm, and the violet eyes filled with concern.

  “Not yours!” she protested.

  “Absolutely!” returned the Italian. “I can send nothing by this knapsack wireless that they will not learn from others; from airmen, Uhlans, the peasants in the fields. And certainly I will be caught. Dead I am dead, but alive and in Paris the opportunities are unending. From the French Legion Etranger I have my honorable discharge. I am an expert wireless operator and in their Signal Corps I can easily find a place. Imagine me, then, on the Eiffel Tower. From the air I snatch news from all of France, from the Channel, the North Sea. You and I could work together, as in Rome. But here, between the lines, with a pass from a village sous-préfet, it is ridiculous. I am not afraid to die. But to die because some one else is stupid, that is hard.”

  Marie clasped his hands in both of hers.

  “You must not speak of death,” she cried; “you know I must carry out my orders, that I must force you to take this risk. And you know that thought of harm to you tortures me!”

  Quickly the young man disengaged his hand. The woman exclaimed with anger.

  “Why do you doubt me?” she cried.

  Briand protested vehemently.

  “I do not doubt you.”

  “My affection, then?” In a whisper that carried with it the feeling of a caress Marie added softly: “My love?”

  The young man protested miserably. “You make it very hard, mademoiselle,” he cried. “You are my superior officer, I am your servant. Who am I that I should share with others——”

  The woman interrupted eagerly.

  “Ah, you are jealous!” she cried. “Is that why you are so cruel? But when I tell you I love you, and only you, can you not feel it is the truth?”

  The young man frowned unhappily.

  “My duty, mademoiselle!” he stammered.

  With an exclamation of anger Marie left him. As the door slammed behind her, the young man drew a deep breath. On his face was the expression of ineffable relief.

  In the hall Marie met her elderly companion, Bertha, now her aunt, Madame Benet.

  “I heard you quarrelling,” Bertha protested. “It is most indiscreet. It is not in the part of the Countess d’Aurillac that she makes love to her chauffeur.”

  Marie laughed noiselessly and drew her farther down the hall. “He is imbecile!” she exclaimed. “He will kill me with his solemn face and his conceit. I make love to him—yes—that he may work the more willingly. But he will have none of it. He is jealous of the others.”

  Madame Benet frowned.

  “He resents the others,” she corrected. “I do not blame him. He is a gentleman!”

  “And the others,” demanded Marie; “were they not of the most noble families of Rome?”

  “I am old and I am ugly,” said Bertha, “but to me Anfossi is always as considerate as he is to you who are so beautiful.”

  “An Italian gentleman,” returned Marie, “does not serve in Belgian Congo unless it is the choice of that or the marble quarries.”

  “I do not know what his past may be,” sighed Madame Benet, “nor do I ask. He is only a number, as you and I are only numbers. And I beg you to let us work in harmony. At such a time your love-affairs threaten our safety. You must wait.”

  Marie laughed insolently. “With the Du Barry,” she protested, “I can boast that I wait for no man.”

  “No,” replied the older woman; “you pursue him!”

  Marie would have answered sharply, but on the instant her interest was diverted. For one week, by day and night, she had lived in a world peopled only by German soldiers. Beside her in the railroad carriage, on the station platforms, at the windows of the trains that passed the one in which she rode, at the grade crossings, on the bridges, in the roads that paralleled the tracks, choking the streets of the villages and spread over the fields of grain, she had seen only the gray-green uniforms. Even her professional eye no longer distinguished regiment from regiment, dragoon from grenadier, Uhlan from Hussar or Landsturm. Stripes, insignia, numerals, badges of rank, had lost their meaning. Those who wore them no longer were individuals. They were not even human. During the three last days the automobile, like a motor-boat fighting the tide, had crept through a gray-green river of men, stained, as though from the banks, by mud and yellow clay. And for hours, while the car was blocked, and in fury the engine raced and purred, the gray-green river had rolled past her, slowly but as inevitably as lava down the slope of a volcano, bearing on its surface faces with staring eyes, thousands and thousands of eyes, some fierce and bloodshot, others filled with weariness, homesickness, pain. At night she still saw them: the white faces under the sweat and dust, the eyes dumb, inarticulate, asking the answer. She had been suffocated by German soldiers, by the mass of them, engulfed and smothered; she had stifled in a land inhabited only by gray-green ghosts.

  And suddenly, as though a miracle had been wrought, she saw upon the lawn, riding toward her, a man in scarlet, blue, and silver. One man riding alone.

  Approaching with confidence, but alert; his reins fallen, his hands nursing his carbine, his eyes searched the shadows of the trees, the empty windows,
even the sun-swept sky. His was the new face at the door, the new step on the floor. And the spy knew had she beheld an army corps it would have been no more significant, no more menacing, than the solitary chasseur à cheval scouting in advance of the enemy.

  “We are saved!” exclaimed Marie, with irony. “Go quickly,” she commanded, “to the bedroom on the second floor that opens upon the staircase, so that you can see all who pass. You are too ill to travel. They must find you in bed.”

  “And you?” said Bertha.

  “I,” cried Marie rapturously, “hasten to welcome our preserver!”

  The preserver was a peasant lad. Under the white dust his cheeks were burned a brown-red, his eyes, honest and blue, through much staring at the skies and at horizon lines, were puckered and encircled with tiny wrinkles. Responsibility had made him older than his years, and in speech brief. With the beautiful lady who with tears of joy ran to greet him, and who in an ecstasy of happiness pressed her cheek against the nose of his horse, he was unimpressed. He returned to her her papers and gravely echoed her answers to his questions. “This château,” he repeated, “was occupied by their General Staff; they have left no wounded here; you saw the last of them pass a half-hour since.” He gathered up his reins.

  Marie shrieked in alarm. “You will not leave us?” she cried.

  For the first time the young man permitted himself to smile. “Others arrive soon,” he said.

  He touched his shako, wheeled his horse in the direction from which he had come, and a minute later Marie heard the hoofs echoing through the empty village.

  When they came, the others were more sympathetic. Even in times of war a beautiful woman is still a beautiful woman. And the staff officers who moved into the quarters so lately occupied by the enemy found in the presence of the Countess d’Aurillac nothing to distress them. In the absence of her dear friend, Madame Iverney, the chatelaine of the château, she acted as their hostess. Her chauffeur showed the company cooks the way to the kitchen, the larder, and the charcoal-box. She, herself, in the hands of General Andre placed the keys of the famous wine-cellar, and to the surgeon, that the wounded might be freshly bandaged, intrusted those of the linen-closet. After the indignities she had suffered while “detained” by les Boches, her delight and relief at again finding herself under the protection of her own people would have touched a heart of stone. And the hearts of the staff were not of stone. It was with regret they gave the countess permission to continue on her way. At this she exclaimed with gratitude. She assured them, were her aunt able to travel, she would immediately depart.