"Our man!"
Revived by a cordial, Vinson gradually recovered his senses. Painfully he raised his heavy eyelids: he looked about him curiously, anxiously. He was in a large, square room, dimly lighted, almost empty, with bare white walls.
"Where am I?" he asked Juve. Three men surrounded him. Juve's was the sole face he knew.
Juve wore a solemn look: his words were gently spoken.
"You are at Calais, in the special police quarters connected with the station. Corporal Vinson, I am sorry to have to tell you that you are under arrest."
"My God!" exclaimed the traitor. He attempted to rise, but fell back on his seat: his eyes were staring at the handcuffs on his wrists! He burst into tears.
Juve felt pity for this miserable being, huddled up there in the depths of humiliation and terror. But the dreadful fact remained—Vinson was a criminal, a traitor! Perhaps his errors were due to a bad bringing-up, to deplorable examples, alas!... Juve was not there to pass judgment, but to deliver the guilty wretch into the hands of the authorities.
"Come now!" he said, tapping Vinson on the shoulder. "Come, we are leaving for Paris!"
Corporal Vinson, traitor, raised supplicating eyes to Juve: then, realising all resistance was vain, he rose painfully: he assumed an air of indifference.