Robineau was drifting aimlessly about the office. He felt despondent. The company’s life had come to a standstill, since the Europe mail, due to start at two, would be countermanded and only leave at daybreak. Morosely the employees kept their posts, but their presence now was purposeless. In steady rhythm the weather reports from the north poured in, but their “no wind,” “clear sky,” “full moon,” evoked the vision of a barren kingdom. A wilderness of stones and moonlight. As Robineau, hardlv aware what he was up to was turning over the pages of a file on which the office superintendent was at work, he suddenly grew conscious that the official in question was at his side waiting with an air of mocking deference to get his papers back As if he were saying “That’s my show. Suppose you leave me to it eh?”
Shocked though he was by his subordinate’s demeanor, the inspector found himself tongue-tied and, with a movement of annoyance, handed back the documents. The superintendent resumed his seat with an air of grand punctilio. “I should have told him to go to the devil,” thought Robineau. Then, to save his face, he moved away and his thoughts returned to the night’s tragedy For with this tragedy all his chief’s campaign went under and Robineau lamented a twofold loss
The picture of Rivière alone there in his private office rose in Robineau’s mind; “old chap,” Rivière had said. Never had there been a man so utterly unfriended as he, and Robineau felt an infinite compassion for him. He turned over in his mind vague sentences that hinted sympathy and consolation and the impulse prompting him struck Robineau as eminently laudable. He knocked gently at the door. There was no answer. Not daring in such a silence to knock louder, he turned the handle. Rivière was there. For the first time Robineau entered Rivière’s room almost on an equal footing, almost as a friend; he likened himself to the N.C.O. who joins his wounded general under fire follows him in defeat and in exile plays a brother’s part “Whatever happens I am with you”—that was Robineau’s unspoken message.
Rivière said nothing; his head was bowed and he was staring at his hands. Robineau’s courage ebbed and he dared not speak; the old lion daunted him, even in defeat. Phrases of loyalty, of ever-growing fervor, rose to his lips; but every time he raised his eyes they encountered that bent head, gray hair, and lips tight-set upon their bitter secret. At last he summoned up his courage.
“Sir!”
Rivière raised his head and looked at him. So deep, so far away had been his dream that till now he might well have been unconscious of Robineau’s presence there. And what he felt, what was that dream, and what his heart’s bereavement, none would ever know.... For a long while Rivière looked at Robineau as at the living witness of some dark event. Robineau felt ill at ease. An enigmatic irony seemed to shape itself on his chief’s lips as he watched Robineau. And the longer his chief watched him, the more deeply Robineau blushed and the more it grew on Rivière that this fellow had come, for all his touching and unhappily sincere good will, to act as spokesman for the folly of the herd.
Robineau by now had quite lost his bearings. The N.C.O., the general, the bullets—all faded into mist. Something inexplicable was in the air. Rivière’s eyes were still intent on him. Reluctantly he shifted his position, withdrew his hand from his pocket. Rivière’s eyes were on him still. At last, hardly knowing what he said, he stammered a few words.
“I’ve come for orders, sir.”
Composedly Rivière pulled out his watch. “It is two. The Asuncion mail will land at two ten. See that the Europe mail takes off at two fifteen.”
Robineau bruited abroad the astounding news; the night flight would continue. He accosted the office superintendent.
“Bring me that file of yours to check.”
The superintendent brought the papers.
“Wait!”
And the superintendent waited.