"Bobinette!" he called again, astonished to find himself alone.
She lingered.
Brocq went back.
He collided with the girl who, with a furtive gesture, slipped something into her muff.
"Well," said he.
"Well, what now?" she retorted.
They gazed at each other for a moment in silence.
"What were you doing?" questioned Brocq suspiciously.
"Nothing," answered Bobinette coldly.
But the captain caught hold of her hands. He was uneasy, almost angry: "Tell me!"
The red-haired beauty jumped back with a defiant air: "Very well, then! I have taken my letters, they belong to me! I wish to have them! It disgusts me to think that they are left lying about your rooms. Do you think it funny that your orderly should read them to his country-woman? That your concierge should know all about them? I declare men like you have not a scrap of tact, of nice feeling!"
"Bobinette!" the captain implored her.
"No, no; and again, no!" cried the girl more and more angrily. "I have them. I keep them!"
The captain grew pale. She added, a little more gently:
"But, you great stupid, they are of no importance! I'll give them back to you later — when you are good. You are behaving like a schoolboy! Come, kiss me! Tell your little Bobe that you are not angry with her! If you don't I shall cry!"
Already she was beginning to sob, and great tears were dropping. Captain Brocq, struck dumb, gazed at her sorrowfully. And whilst he clasped her in his arms, anxiety strained at his heart, anguish convulsed his soul. Did she really love him, this woman with her whimsical ways, her independent attitude, this elusive woman who never gave herself entirely? Was he the dupe of a comedy? Did she consent to these meetings three times a week through pity, through sympathy only, or through habit, or, worse still, for some mercenary reason? And this when he himself would have given up everything so that he might not miss them! Ah, if that were the truth! The captain felt an immense void opening in the depths of his lonely soul. He apologised in a low voice, hurriedly, with bent head, humbly, and Bobinette listened with curled lip and haughty air: She bore no malice, she declared. Then, a few moments later, for she was really much upset and did not wish to show it, she hurried away, dropping a hasty kiss on her lover's forehead as a token of peace. How ardently he wished that this peace might last.
"I am very much behind time," she had murmured by way of farewell.
Directly his mistress had gone, Brocq went to the window, watched her turn the corner of the rue de Lille, enter the rue des Saints-Pères, and go towards the quays. While he watched her he was trembling. A roll of paper was sticking out of Bobinette's muff. Brocq knew this paper: its appearance and colour were familiar to him. Nevertheless, his mind was so full of his love affair that he immediately forgot this detail. But, in a minute, the turn of events forced him to recall it.
"In Heaven's Name!" shouted Captain Brocq, as a violent blow from his clenched fist made the scattered papers on his bureau tremble. "By Heaven! It is impossible!"
When he found himself alone, sadly alone in his little flat, Brocq saw it was five o'clock, and more than time to start for the Ministry of War. Hastily putting on overcoat and hat, he had hurried into his study to look for the big leather portfolio he always carried when taking his work from the office to his own home.
Owing to his special knowledge of fortress artillery Brocq had been requested to put the finishing touches to a confidential report on the defences of the eastern forts of Paris and the distribution of the effective forces of the companies of mechanics in time of mobilisation. He had searched feverishly in his drawers for this report, which was of no great bulk. For the last ten minutes he had anxiously searched, but in vain: he could not find a trace of it!
"It is impossible!" he cried. He swore aloud as if the better to convince himself. "The title is in big letters, 'Confidential,' in red, and twice underlined. Oh, it is quite impossible that it should pass under my eyes unperceived!"
Again the distracted man ransacked his papers and shook his portfolio. Almost beside himself with exasperation, he cried: "My excellent Bobinette, by her rummaging, has put the finishing touch to this confusion. Heaven knows, it was bad enough before!"
He paused. Anguish seized him. He fell into an arm-chair, while drops of sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly he had remembered the roll of papers sticking out of Bobinette's muff. He uttered a cry: "My God! But supposing!" ... He did not put the rest of his thought into words. For an instant he had the idea that through thoughtlessness, by mistake, an involuntary one assuredly, his mistress had taken this document to wrap up her letters ... without suspecting. That was it! No doubt she had carried off with her this secret plan of mobilisation — but if the plan got lost? If it were dropped in the street!
Brocq cursed his untidy ways once more. He would never forgive himself for having allowed that girl to ransack his drawers — but he must act, and at once! He must, without fail, find that mislaid document. Of one thing he was sure — the document was not on the premises. Brocq jumped up. "Good-day, Captain!"
"Good-day, Captain!"
The man in charge at the cabstand, on the quay des Saints-Pères, at the corner of the bridge, saluted Brocq cordially.
Brocq, ghastly pale, his face showing signs of intense anxiety, gasping for breath, asked: "Tell me! Just now, ten, five minutes ago — did you not see a lady — young — she had red hair — did she not pass this way? Come now!"
The cabstand than winked. "My faith, Captain, you are just in time. Only a moment ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier than that, got into a taxi; she."...
"Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"
"Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to the driver."...
"Well?"
"Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned by the Saints-Pères bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quay after."
"The number? The number of this taxi?"
"Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainly entered it, as usual."
Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had had lowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed off in pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249 — B.Z.
Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leather portfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before the Ministry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. He scrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. He was asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurry away, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd? This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushed after his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? After all, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried away this document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or four large sheets of paper!... In that case, she must have lost it before getting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had taken it away intentionally — Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? There was nothing to lead him to think.
But, all the same!...
All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, an instinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtake Bobinette — he absolutely must.
Why?
Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: a feeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, to continue