Gerard leaned forward quickly.
“But surely a protest has been made to Spain?”
Baumann smiled indulgently.
“How you rush at things, my dear De Montignac!”
“It will be ‘Gerard’ in a moment,” De Montignac thought.
“Of course a protest has been lodged. But Spain renounces responsibility. The camp is in a part of the country which she has officially declared to be not yet subdued. On the other hand, it is in the Spanish zone—and we have enough troubles upon our hands as it is, eh?”
Gerard leaned back in his chair.
“That has always been our trouble, hasn’t it? The unsubdued Spanish zone,” he said, moodily. “What does Bartels do with his two thousand riflemen?”
“He wages war. He comes across into French Morocco, and raids and loots and burns and generally plays the devil. And, mark you, he gets information; he chooses his time cleverly. When we are just about to embark fresh troops to France, that’s his favourite moment. The troops have to be retained, rushed quickly up country—and he, Bartels, is snugly back on the Spanish side of the line and we can’t touch him. Bartels, my dear De Montignac”—and here Baumann, of the Affaires Indigènes, tapped the table impressively with the butt of his pencil—“Bartels has got to be dealt with.”
“Yes,” Gerard replied. “But how, doesn’t seem quite so obvious, does it?”