The recruiting station was a collection of quickly erected wooden huts near the Gare de l’Est railway station. There he found a small crowd of men, waiting in groups and chatting together before they joined the short line filing in at the doorway. As he certainly wasn’t in a hurry, he paused and surveyed the scene.

There were all sorts of men. Most seemed to be in their thirties. The younger men, he surmised, had been more recently conscripted and were probably already in the reserve. A few were laborers and factory hands, but more of them looked like clerks or shop assistants, mostly in suits, some sporting straw hats or trilbies. And he’d been watching for a couple of minutes when he saw a face he thought he knew.

Who the devil was it? A face from long ago. He was sure of that. And Luc prided himself on never forgetting a face. But it still took him a little time before he realized who it was.

The strange fellow who’d lain in wait that night, long ago, on the rue des Belles-Feuilles. The man who’d wanted to kill that army officer, Roland de Cygne. The man he’d shaken down so successfully in the Bois de Boulogne. Now he remembered the fellow’s name: Le Sourd. That was it.

Luc was wondering whether to hide himself when he remembered that the fellow might not even have known for sure what part he’d played in that little drama. And he never even saw me, Luc thought, except in the Moulin Rouge. It was Luc’s nature to be curious, and he wondered what sort of man Le Sourd had become these days, and why he’d come to the recruiting station. So, cautiously, he drew closer so that Le Sourd could see his face.

It was just as he thought. No reaction. Not a glimmer of recognition.

He went up to him and nodded.

“Taking the plunge?”

“Yes.”

“The rumor I heard,” said Luc amiably, “is that when they start the general call-up, it’ll be everyone up to age forty-five.”

Le Sourd nodded.

“I heard that too.”

“And what age might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Forty. And you?”

Luc did a quick sum in his head. Whatever Le Sourd’s real age, it had to be nearer fifty than forty. Evidently his desire to fight was strong enough to make him lie about his age. That was probably why he’d decided to volunteer rather than wait for the call-up. For when the general call-up came, they’d be checking everyone’s papers carefully, and they might reject a man who was over the age limit. Whereas at present, Luc guessed, they’d take anyone who offered, as long as they were fit enough, with no other questions asked.