And as he listened there died in old Adelbert’s soul his flaming love for his sovereign and his belief in him. His eyes took on a hard and haunted look. That night he walked past the Palace and shook his fist at it. He was greatly ashamed of that, however, and never repeated it. But his soul was now an open sore, ready for infection.
And Black Humbert bided his time.
On the day of the excursion to the fortress old Adelbert decided to appeal to his fellow lodger, Herman Spier. Now and then, when he was affluent, he had paid small tribute to Herman by means of the camp cookery on which he prided himself.
“A soldier’s mess!” he would say, and bring in a bowl of soup, or a slice of deer meat, broiled over hot coals in his tiny stove. “Eat it, man. These restaurants know nothing of food.”
To Herman now he turned for advice and help. It was difficult to find the clerk. He left early, and often came home after midnight in a curious frame of mind, a drunkenness of excitement that was worse than that of liquor.
Herman could not help him. But he eyed the old soldier appraisingly. He guessed shrewdly the growing uneasiness behind Adelbert’s brave front. If now one could enlist such a man for the Cause, that would be worth doing. He had talked it over with the concierge. Among the veterans the old man was influential, and by this new policy of substituting fresh blood for stale, the Government had made many enemies among them.
“In a shop!” he said coldly. “With that leg? No, my friend. Two legs are hardly enough for what we have to do.”
“Then, for any sort of work. I could sweep and clean.”
“I shall inquire,” said Herman Spier. But he did not intend to. He had other plans.
The old man’s bitterness had been increased by two things. First, although he had been dismissed without notice, in the middle of the week, he had been paid only up to the hour of leaving. That was a grievance. Second, being slow on his feet, one of the royal motorcars had almost run him down, and the police had cursed him roundly for being in the way.