Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.
Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this performance.
"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the red-bearded young man, smiling.
"You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!"
Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine.
"What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes dropped into my hands are real!... This machine does not print anything!... My new friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment for future treachery, expected betrayals—it is a way of paying me!"
Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fully understood the quality of the payment—its real value. Supposing that no more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views.
"Now, Corporal," said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honour of our meeting?"
Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your own choosing! The offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. Corporal Fandor-Vinson kept a smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talked trivialities with his host.
At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose: