"Monsieur, I have obeyed orders for seven years, since we first
recognized the unfortunate affair. Nothing he has done in this period
is missing from my notebook; and up to the present time he has
done--nothing. But just a little more patience. This very moment,
when you are inclined to drop it, may be the one. One way or another,
it is a matter of no real concern to me. There will always be plenty
of work for me to do, in France, or elsewhere. But I am like an old
soldier whose wound, twinging with rheumatism, announces the approach
of damp weather. I have, then, monsieur, a kind of psychological
rheumatism; prescience, bookmen call it. Presently we shall have damp
weather."

"You speak with singular conviction."

"In my time I have made very few mistakes. You will recollect that.
Twenty years have I served France. I was wrong to say that this affair
does not concern me. I'm interested to see the end."

"But will there be an end?" impatiently. "If I were certain of that!
But seven years, and still no sign."

"Monsieur, he is to be feared; this inactivity, to my mind, proves it.
He is waiting; the moment is not ripe. There are many sentimental
fools in this world. One has only to step into the street and shout
'Down with!' or 'Long live!' to bring these fools clattering about."

"That is true enough," flapping the tails of his coat again.

"This fellow was born across the Rhine. He has served in the navy; he
is a German, therefore we can not touch him unless he commits some