To M. Théophile Delcassé, Minister of Marine, and first statesman of the Republic, slumbering peacefully in his bed at Paris that morning, came the sound of urgent knocking. He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, for he knew that not without good cause would any one dare disturb him at that hour. Then he stepped to the floor, thrust his feet into a pair of slippers, his arms into the sleeves of a dressing-robe, and opened the door.
"A telegram, sir, marked 'Most Important,'" said his valet, and passed it in to him.
It was from Vice-Admiral Bellue, commander at Toulon, and a moment later M. Delcassé had learned of the terrible disaster.
He ordered his carriage and dressed rapidly with trembling hands. He was shocked and distressed as he had rarely been before. Would these disasters never cease? First the Jena, now the Liberté—both ships the pride of their country, the last formidable word in marine architecture! He gulped down the cup of coffee which his valet brought him, seized hat and gloves, hastened to his carriage, and drove straight to the Elysée Palace.
The President was already up, and his broad face, usually so placid and good-humoured, was convulsed with grief as he greeted his Minister. He held in his hand a telegram, which he had just opened.
"See," he said, after the first moment, "the sad news is already abroad," and he held out the message.
Delcassé took it and read it with astonished eyes. It was from the German Emperor, and expressed his grief at the catastrophe, and his sympathy with France, which he had directed his ambassador to call at once in person to convey more fully.
"The Kaiser is certainly well-served!" muttered Delcassé, reading the message again, his lips twitching with emotion. "There is something ironical in this promptness. He must have had the news before we did!"
The President nodded gloomily. Then the other members of the cabinet came whirling up, and were convened at once by their chief in secret session.
Not many hours later, as a result of that session, a special train rolled out of the Gare de Lyon, and headed away for the south, with a clear track and right-of-way over everything. Aboard it were the President himself, the Minister of Marine, the Minister of War, and a score of minor officials. There was also a thin little man with white hair and yellowish-white beard—M. Louis Jean Baptiste Lépine, Prefect of Police, and the most famous hunter of criminals in the world; and in the last car were a dozen of the best men of his staff, under command of his most trusted lieutenant, Inspector Pigot.