“And your man, your administrative, polyglot genius who planned and carried out”—he tapped the first chart with a polished finger-nail—“this masterpiece of organization, and later made this survey of Death’s garden—what has become of Dunoisse?” He added: “For this is Dunoisse’s handwriting—and two years ago he went East upon your business, and has not since been heard of. Did he die out there in Death’s garden? or—as the possessor of an inconvenient amount of secret information—have you quodded him in some snug dungeon at the Fortress of Vincennes, or the Prison of Mazas? Or have you had him shot, or scragged him, before putting him to bed in quicklime blankets? Kif—kif—burrico!—a quietus, either way!”
Horribly meaningful as the words were, the gesture accompanying them was even more significant. It brought a dull, scorched flush into the pasty cheeks of Sire my Friend. But he maintained his boasted imperturbability, and answered, with his quiet smile of menace:
“It pleases you to be offensive. Pursue your vein if you imagine it will serve you—I am indifferent to your opinion of me! As for General Dunoisse—who, as you rightly guess, acted as my instrument in carrying out these comprehensive arrangements for Commissariat and Transport—who completed this sanitary survey of the debatable ground—that unhappy officer expired of fever in the swamps of the Dobrudja, some months ago. These charts were brought me by his confidential secretary—one Michaëlis Giusko—to whom the dying man entrusted them.” He added, in answer to de Morny’s smile: “Your perspicuity is not at fault.... Lest his silence and discretion should fail us at this crucial moment—M. Giusko is in safe keeping—where, there is no need to say!... As for this second chart of the Unseen Dangers, by following its guidance our Army will not encamp within insalubrious or pestilential areas. While our Allies—unless they have taken similar precautions—are likely more or less to suffer!” He ended meditatively, stroking his imperial:
“We share with them the Borgian apple—we take the half that is not poisoned. The whole thing is simple. It is not we who die!”
He opened his eyes widely and looked upon his followers. It seemed to them that through those blazing windows they saw down into Hell. As he said again how simple the thing was, a rattling oath of the canteen and the barrack-room escaped from de Fleury, that caused the green shades of the table-lamps to shiver in their gilded sockets. Persigny’s teeth were chattering, though the April night was almost sultry. De Morny broke out peevishly as he wiped his clammy face:
“Zut!—there is no doubt you have got them in the treacle! But why did your Majesty not wait to tell us this until Lord Dalgan and the Duke had left for Marseilles? I am sick in my stomach with funk, absolutely!—at the thought of doing the civil to them and their men to-night!”
“Be uncivil, then,” advised his Imperial master. “Between your compliments and your insults there is so subtle a distinction that neither the Duke or Dalgan will be the wiser, you may be sure!”
St. Arnaud roared at this mordant witticism. De Morny was about to launch a return-shaft, when there came a gentle, significant knocking—not upon the door through which they had previously passed, but another, communicating with the outer gallery.
“Enter!” commanded Sire my Friend, for the knocker had given the prescribed number of taps that heralded his Private Military Secretary.
And the door opened, and there entered, gently closing it behind him, the very man who had died in the marshes of the Dobrudja months before.