his lips opened.
“Every country has its police,” he said philosophically. But as
the official of the Embassy went on blinking at him steadily he
felt constrained to add: “Allow me to observe that I have no means
of action upon the police here.”
“What is desired,” said the man of papers, “is the occurrence of
something definite which should stimulate their vigilance. That is
within your province – is it not so?”
Mr Verloc made no answer except by a sigh, which escaped him
involuntarily, for instantly he tried to give his face a cheerful
expression. The official blinked doubtfully, as if affected by the
dim light of the room. He repeated vaguely.
“The vigilance of the police – and the severity of the magistrates.
The general leniency of the judicial procedure here, and the utter
absence of all repressive measures, are a scandal to Europe. What
is wished for just now is the accentuation of the unrest – of the
fermentation which undoubtedly exists – ”
“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” broke in Mr Verloc in a deep
deferential bass of an oratorical quality, so utterly different
from the tone in which he had spoken before that his interlocutor
remained profoundly surprised. “It exists to a dangerous degree.
My reports for the last twelve months make it sufficiently clear.”
“Your reports for the last twelve months,” State Councillor Wurmt
began in his gentle and dispassionate tone, “have been read by me.
I failed to discover why you wrote them at all.”
A sad silence reigned for a time. Mr Verloc seemed to have
swallowed his tongue, and the other gazed at the papers on the
table fixedly. At last he gave them a slight push.
“The state of affairs you expose there is assumed to exist as the
first condition of your employment. What is required at present is
not writing, but the bringing to light of a distinct, significant
fact – I would almost say of an alarming fact.”
“I need not say that all my endeavours shall be directed to that
end,” Mr Verloc said, with convinced modulations in his
conversational husky tone. But the sense of being blinked at
watchfully behind the blind glitter of these eye-glasses on the
other side of the table disconcerted him. He stopped short with a
gesture of absolute devotion. The useful, hard-working, if obscure
member of the Embassy had an air of being impressed by some newly-
born thought.
“You are very corpulent,” he said.
This observation, really of a psychological nature, and advanced
with the modest hesitation of an officeman more familiar with ink
and paper than with the requirements of active life, stung Mr
Verloc in the manner of a rude personal remark. He stepped back a
pace.
“Eh? What were you pleased to say?” he exclaimed, with husky
resentment.
The Chancelier d’Ambassade entrusted with the conduct of this
interview seemed to find it too much for him.
“I think,” he said, “that you had better see Mr Vladimir. Yes,
decidedly I think you ought to see Mr Vladimir. Be good enough to
wait here,” he added, and went out with mincing steps.
At once Mr Verloc passed his hand over his hair. A slight
perspiration had broken out on his forehead. He let the air escape
from his pursed-up lips like a man blowing at a spoonful of hot
soup. But when the servant in brown appeared at the door silently,
Mr Verloc had not moved an inch from the place he had occupied
throughout the interview. He had remained motionless, as if
feeling himself surrounded by pitfalls.
He walked along a passage lighted by a lonely gas-jet, then up a
flight of winding stairs, and through a glazed and cheerful
corridor on the first floor. The footman threw open a door, and
stood aside. The feet of Mr Verloc felt a thick carpet. The room
was large, with three windows; and a young man with a shaven, big
face, sitting in a roomy arm-chair before a vast mahogany writing-
table, said in French to the Chancelier d’Ambassade, who was going
out with, the papers in his hand:
“You are quite right, mon cher. He’s fat – the animal.”
Mr Vladimir, First Secretary, had a drawing-room reputation as an