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Updated: May 5, 2025
The vast ministerial premises, where silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and the sharp sound of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs, doors banged: the offices were emptying for a couple or hours. "Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down on his head till it all but covered his eyes.
Was the subject of these talks National Defence? Who knows? In the officers' room there was animated talk. "Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, a regular colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed long years in Africa at the head of a detachment of Zouaves. Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil.
Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low. "He calls himself Butler ... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has been in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him perfectly. I had already seen him at Châlons, when he had a connection with the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of the leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff."
"We can only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Why not be jolly?" Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice. Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, large round glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionally short-sighted. His colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer."
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