At that moment, and not until then, did I feel what a shameful and despicable course of conduct I had entered upon. I had not only assumed voluntarily the rôle of a spy; but I had sought to shelter myself beneath a cloak of falsehood; and now, out of my own mouth was I to be judged—and surely condemned.
I felt thoroughly crestfallen and humiliated; not so much at my certain detection as a spy, but at having placed myself in a position where deliberate falsehood had become an absolute
necessity to my safety, which after all it had not only failed to assure, but had hopelessly compromised.
A long and—to me—most painful pause ensued, neither of the officers questioning me further. Had they done so, I feel certain I should have thrown off the mask and avowed myself to be that hateful thing, a disguised and secret enemy.
At length a tap came to the door; and Lieutenant Saint Croix, who had gone out in search of Guiseppe, returned, bringing the man with him. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy me that my former enemy once more stood before me.
He approached the table, and, saluting the general, stood waiting, as it seemed to me, with some trepidation, to learn why he had been summoned to the dreaded presence of the chief.
“Attention, sir!” exclaimed the general harshly. “Do you recollect the circumstances connected with the theft of Captain Leroux’s yacht, ‘Mouette,’ from Ajaccio?”
“Perfectly, sig— I mean, monsieur,” he replied.
“Did you happen to know the lad who was taken away in her?”