He did not forget to mention Claire in this document, which he wished to make as complete as possible. After reflecting on her character at great length, he summed up her conduct in a single sentence, in much the same manner he had once used to round off an essay on a particularly difficult subject. He declared that ”. . . she must certainly be an extremely plucky girl to have undertaken an expedition that would have daunted many men.” Here, too, one must admit, his report adhered strictly to the truth; no one in the world could deny that Claire was a plucky girl. He read this passage over several times and found it met with his entire satisfaction.
They left for London, hoping that the formalities were at last over and done with. There they were put in touch with another service, which handled all French nationals who declared their intention of continuing the struggle on the side of the Allies. The majority were immediately steered into the embryonic staff offices of Free France. A few others, who seemed to be more promising material, were offered the chance of working directly with the British and were given to understand that their talents would be put to use more quickly.
So it happened in this case. Morvan was valuable as a radio operator. Claire was an excellent stenographer, and the Powers That Be know exactly how valuable a good stenographer is in time of war. She spoke English and could also work a radio transmitter, having been initiated into this mystery by her brother. As for Cousin, his degree of education, his officer status, and
his brilliant military record singled him out as abso-
lutely first-rate material.
When the offer was put to him, accompanied by a number of laudatory comments on his bearing and conduct. Cousin realized that it applied only to a select few, and did not hesitate for a moment. He accepted immediately and urged his companions to do likewise. They were then allotted quarters in a requisitioned hotel in London and were asked to wait until further
notice.
Claire was the first to be summoned, the very next day. The Anglo-French service that was then being hastily organized was in urgent need of stenographers. A few days later Morvan was sent to a camp for training in the latest radio equipment. For Cousin, the period of waiting lasted several weeks; he seemed to have been forgotten. At first he simply felt slightly annoyed; then he launched into a frenzied tirade against English bureaucracy, which, as far as he could see, had no more to recommend it than did that of his own country. He sent the authorities several reminders of his presence, in which his impatience and eagerness for action were expressed in no uncertain terms, and begged to be employed on any dangerous mission.
His patriotism and perseverance were finally rewarded, and the manner in which he was summoned was particularly pleasing to his sense of romance. He received a brief note ordering him to report to London, and eventually found himself facing a strange civilian in what looked like an ordinary business office. He felt a sudden shiver of excitement on discovering, from the ensuing conversation, that he was being invited to work for a service whose name alone conjured up an image of mystery and adventure.
5
The instant he realized he was being asked to take part in clandestine warfare was one of the most sublime moments of his life. His whole body quivered, infused with the breath of the solemn poetry engendered by the thought of special services in wartime, and his dreams at once assumed a new form. Mystery and intrigue added a special pungency to the scent of glory that his mind was forever distilling. A phrase he had once noticed in the course of his reading began buzzing through his brain: “Intelligence work is a noble profession—an occupation for gentlemen."
Before the civilian had even mentioned it, he fore- saw the nature of the mission on which he was to be engaged: they were going to send him into France secretly. He had every reason for drawing this conclusion. On several occasions, during his interviews with the authorities, the importance attached to underground activity in enemy-occupied territory had been hinted at in guarded terms. He had often played with the idea of being employed in this field, but it had
seemed too wonderful for him to dare to think about. Suddenly realizing he had been far too modest and that he was considered worthy of such a perilous task, he was dazzled by the thought of the possibilities this new universe opened to a man of his mettle.
“I’ve a certain amount of information about you,” the civilian was saying. "At the front, always volunteered for the tough jobs. Fine. I’ve also read the account of your escape from France. I must congratulate you . . ."
Cousin did not reply, realizing that nothing he could say would add to his reputation, which emerged from the facts alone.
“Again, in London, I see, you applied for a dangerous mission. I’ve got a particularly tricky one to offer you, more hazardous and worthwhile than anything you’re likely to come across in the regular army . . . because, as you’re no doubt aware, this means joining a very special service."
An expression of ecstasy came into Cousin’s eyes. There was no doubt about it: this civilian, this slightly
pot-bellied, middle-aged man with the deceptively cas- ual manner, this ordinary-looking office of his—all this meant not only a secret service, but the world-famous, one and only Intelligence Service. He felt a twinge of condescending pity for some of his compatriots he had met in London who were attempting, with such meager means, to establish an intelligence branch within the
framework of Free France. He, Cousin, would be working for the Big Shots, the Kings of the Profession!
"What we need," continued the middle-aged man, who on occasion was not averse to dilating on the philosophical aspect of his job, “what we need are men of action, certainly—but, above all, we need brains. The ideal agent is someone who possesses a will of iron subordinated to intellectual faculties of the highest order. Lawrence will probably always be the perfect example of this. We believe that you have unique qualifications.”
For him, this was tantamount to a revelation. Did he not possess this rare mixture of contradictory qualities? Why hadn’t they thought of employing him in this field before? Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? He felt almost physically sick as he recalled the commonplace tasks to which he had been restricted in the regular army. As a matter of fact, it now occurred to him that he had always suspected he was destined for greater exploits.
He listened in a daze and with eager impatience while the civilian described his eventual mission in broad outline. He would be sent into France with a radio operator. There he would have to create an intelligence network. So far there was no proper organization. He would be given a free hand and would have to make important decisions on his own initiative.
“We’ve got any amount of potential material over there, but what we’re short of are organizers, you understand?”
Each word was a stimulant to Cousin’s pride, and not for a second did he envisage the dangers of this operation. For the moment there was only one clearly defined thought in his head: a strange urge to break off this conversation so as to be able to commune with himself.
He longed to be by himself because the other man’s presence hindered the full development of the dreams that were gradually taking shape in his mind. He pictured himself vaguely in the guise of a mysterious X, an unknown figure but famous throughout France because of his exploits, a phantom warrior who, during the still watches of the night, was discussed in excited
whispers in the towns and in the countryside, who es- caped every trap the enemy set, thanks to his superhuman cunning, and who emerged from the shadows only on the day of victory. His mind had an imperative need of solitude to put these fleeting images in order and to find the ideal form for their incarnation by drawing on a mass of material details that could be brought to light only in peaceful seclusion.
He accepted the offer without questioning a single point and declared himself ready to start as soon as they wished. The civilian seemed pleased with this impetuosity but informed him that first of all he would have to go through a special trai
ning course.
Before even embarking on this stage, he would have to report to several offices and submit to a rigorous cross-examination carried out by a number of experts. He acquiesced to these formalities without showing too much impatience.
One of these specialists, who interrogated him in French, first asked him a number of questions that seemed to have no bearing at all on his new functions, before concentrating on his past activities, his antecedents, and the state of his health. Cousin felt it was like being put through a medical examination of a rather special kind. The examiner actually was a doctor; in
fact, he was a psychiatrist—Dr. Fog.
After the interrogation, which Cousin thought perfectly absurd, Dr. Fog switched without a pause to his mission and asked him when he was thinking of starting.
“As soon as possible,” Cousin declared. “If it depended on me alone, I’d be off tonight.”
Dr. Fog scrutinized him with his inquisitorial eyes, and a vague look of disappointment crept into his expression. He made no comment, however.
“Really?” he merely remarked noncomittally.
Cousin felt that he had somehow made a bad mistake. That special sense of his, which enabled him to follow the variations of other people’s opinion of himself, warned him that his reply, which would have satisfied most authorities, was not to the liking of this new individual. He corrected himself, assuming a more subdued tone of voice.
“That is to say, as soon as I’ve finished the training course.”
“I thought as much,” the doctor muttered. He paused for a moment, then went on, observing Cousin closely again. “I suppose you realize the dangers to which you’re likely to be exposed?”
“I’m fully aware of them.”
Dr. Fog nevertheless insisted on enlarging on the subject. He did so in no uncertain terms and with a wealth of detail that argued extensive knowledge, if not personal experience. For a quarter of an hour he described the various methods employed by the enemy to make an Allied secret agent talk: from plain blows, cunningly administered so as to dull the brain, to the most atrocious tortures, including the water treatment and electric shocks.
Cousin showed a reasonably bold front as he listened to this long list of atrocities. He had never been frightened by words, and these particular ones did not really faze him. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort to withstand the doctor’s piercing gaze right up to the end and, when he had finished, to answer him in measured tones.
“I’m fully aware of all that and I’m prepared to face those dangers.”
“Would you also be prepared to swallow this, if necessary?” said Dr. Fog, opening a small cardboard box.
“What is it?”
“Cyanide. For use in special services, it exists in different forms—pills or capsules. I recommend these tiny glass capsules. If you manage to slip one into your mouth without being noticed, you can keep it under your tongue until you feel the point has come when you can’t stand the pain any longer. I know it’s singularly difficult to tell exactly when this crucial moment has been reached,” Dr. Fog observed parenthetically, “but if you are very tough and don’t lose your head, you still have a chance right up to the very end. If you feel you’re coming to the end of your strength and are about to talk, to betray, then a simple snap of the teeth, and it’s all over. ... I hope you will have no occasion to use it, but it’s an eventuality for which all good agents must be prepared.”
Dr. Fog attached a great deal of importance to this sort of test and made it compulsory for certain candidates. He maintained that their reactions gave him a valuable clue to their character. Cousin had turned pale; he stiffened in his seat for a moment, as though hypnotized by the small glass phial, but quickly pulled himself together. The doctor, who was watching him closely, detected no more than a slight tremor in his hand when he took the capsule and an almost imperceptible quaver in his voice as he replied:
“I won’t forget your instructions, sir. I, too, hope that I shan’t have to resort to this solution, but in case I do I’ll try to make sure when the right moment arrives.”
He had even succeeded in introducing a note of irony into his voice. He fancied his examiner appreciated this, and felt well rewarded for the effort.
“Don’t leave that lying about for anyone to pick up,” said the doctor as he dismissed him.
Dr. Fog, however, did not appear to be completely satisfied. He nervously thumbed through a file that lay before him, nodding his head, reread some notes he himself had scribbled down, then thrust the papers into a drawer and sat back lost in thought. His meditation was interrupted by the entry of the middle-aged man who had interviewed Cousin when he first reported. He had heard the whole conversation from the adjacent office, the door having been left ajar. He knew the doctor well and was aware that he did not like to be hurried. He sat down quietly opposite him, lit a cigarette, and after a minute’s pause observed:
“A good candidate, I think.”
Dr. Fog did not reply.
“Nevertheless,” the middle-aged man went on, as though he had been contradicted, “he’s got a first-class record.”
Dr. Fog still did not utter a word.
“I noticed,” the other man continued patiently, “that you spoke to him in a particularly harsh manner.”
“Really?”
“One would have thought you wanted to discourage him about the job.”
“A noble profession,” Dr. Fog muttered blandly.
“Do you see anything against employing him?”
“As far as special services are concerned,” said Dr. Fog, without answering the question directly, “the Nazi methods have at least one advantage over ours. They don’t stop at theoretical experiments. They test their agents’ capacity of resistance properly, in an ex-
tremely realistic way.”
“That couldn’t happen over here.”
“I know.”
“Well, what’s your verdict?”
“An intellectual,” the doctor replied hesitantly, “an intellectual. You never know where you are with that sort. They may be capable of sublime sacrifices or else break down at the very first crisis, and then that’s the end of them. I’ll have to think it over at greater length.”
“We haven’t the time.”
"Then take him on,” the doctor retorted rather testily. “After all, from my point of view, I see no
serious objection.”
“Is he normal mentally?”
“Normal?” The psychiatrist gave a shrug of impatience and the middle-aged man got up to leave. “First you’ll have to define the norm. All I can say is, I’ve known crazier people than him in the service . . . even in the higher ranks,” Dr. Fog concluded as his visitor left the room.
6
The Gestapo raid on the Lachaume farm brought an end to a series of brilliant successes
and to the luck that had favored him since the begin- ning of the war, particularly during the first few months of his new activities. He felt as though a brutal stroke of an ax had descended upon him. Not only was he paralyzed in every limb, but almost all his vital functions were suspended, reduced instantaneously to a thunderous beat of his heart and to a dull ache that spread throughout his frame as a result of this in- human hammering.
He was plunged abruptly into a state of absolute passivity, like a patient whose reflexes are deadened by an injection before a serious operation. He made no attempt to get hold of his submachine gun, which was in a cupboard within arm’s reach. His brain was incapable of issuing a single order or even of thinking of putting up a fight, and in any case his body would have refused to obey.
Yet he could have fought back. He had been granted a few minutes’ grace, thanks to the heroism of old Lachaume, who gave a shout in the yard outside as soon as he spotted the vehicles; but the shout and the shots that ensued, instead of spurring him to action, stupefied him
completely. Morvan, who was in the middle of sending off a message, displayed mo
re presence of mind and resourcefulness than Cousin would have given him credit for. His eyes caught those of his officer, begging for the order that Cousin was incapable of giving. Then, since the Germans’ footsteps could already be heard on the stairs, Morvan snatched up all the papers that lay scattered on the table and stuffed them into the stove, where they burned to ashes. After that he dashed across to the cupboard where the weapons were kept. He did not have time to reach it. Four men armed with submachine guns burst into the room. Cousin, looking as white as a ghost, had not moved a muscle.
This conduct on the part of Morvan made Cousin feel strangely unhappy during the short respite he was given while the Germans were busy searching the farm. Now that the effect of the shock was wearing off, he had recovered his mental faculties, and the agony of mind he felt at what fate had in store still did not prevent him from regarding his subordinate’s behavior as an
insult.
Chance had brought them together again, Morvan and himself, for this mission in France. It certainly had not been his choice. He had even raised certain objections when he was told that the corporal had been attached to him as a radio operator. Morvan was clearly lacking in spirit, in drive, and the first requirement for an enterprise of this sort was a thirst for action. Chosen because of his technical skills, he was merely prepared to obey orders and go wherever he was told. Cousin did his utmost to drive this point home with the English