“Yes, valid for the whole of France.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I do; and a genuine pass at that! Made out in the name of Don Luis Perenna, signed by the minister of the interior and countersigned . . .”
“By whom?”
“By the President of the Republic.”
Patrice felt his bewilderment change all at once into violent excitement. Hitherto, in the terrible adventure in which he was engaged, he had undergone the enemy’s implacable will and had known little besides defeat and the horrors of ever-threatening death. But now a more powerful will suddenly arose in his favor. And everything was abruptly altered. Fate seemed to be changing its course, like a ship which an unexpected fair wind brings back into harbor.
“Upon my word, captain,” said Don Luis, “I thought you were going to cry like Little Mother Coralie. Your nerves are overstrung. And I daresay you’re hungry. We must find you something to eat. Come along.”
He led him slowly towards the lodge and, speaking in a rather serious voice:
“I must ask you,” he said, “to be absolutely discreet in this whole matter. With the exception of a few old friends and of Ya-Bon, whom I met in Africa, where he saved my life, no one in France knows me by my real name. I call myself Don Luis Perenna. In Morocco, where I was soldiering, I had occasion to do a service to the very gracious sovereign of a neighboring neutral nation, who, though obliged to conceal his true feelings, is ardently on our side. He sent for me; and, in return, I asked him to give me my credentials and to obtain a pass for me. Officially, therefore, I am on a secret mission, which expires in two days. In two days I shall go back . . . to whence I came, to a place where, during the war, I am serving France in my fashion: not a bad one, believe me, as people will see one day.”
They came to the settee on which Coralie lay sleeping. Don Luis laid his hand on Patrice’s arm: