“Don’t be too sure, monsieur le président,” he said, “that I shall make the gold rise from the ground with a magic wand or show you a cave in which the bags lie stacked. I always thought those words, ‘the golden triangle,’ misleading, because they suggest something mysterious and fabulous. Now according to me it was simply a question of the space containing the gold, which space would have the shape of a triangle. The golden triangle, that’s it: bags of gold arranged in a triangle, a triangular site. The reality is much simpler, therefore; and you will perhaps be disappointed.”
“I sha’n’t be,” said Valenglay, “if you put me with my face towards the eighteen hundred bags of gold.”
“You’re that now, sir.”
“Exactly what I say. Short of touching the bags of gold, it would be difficult to be nearer to them than you are.”
For all his self-control, Valenglay could not conceal his surprise:
“You are not suggesting, I suppose, that I am walking on gold and that we have only to lift up the flags of the pavement or to break down this parapet?”
“That would be removing obstacles, sir, whereas there is no obstacle between you and what you are seeking.”
“No obstacle!”
“None, monsieur le président, for you have only to make the least little movement in order to touch the bags.”