“What is the war news to-day?...”
And while the old sailor was giving him the news,
he read feverishly the few lines grouped beneath that
name.
He was bewildered. The heading told little to
one ignorant of the preceding facts to which the periodical
alluded. These lines were simply voicing a protest
against the government for not having made the famous
Freya Talberg pay the penalty to which she had been
sentenced. The paragraph terminated with mention
of the beauty and elegance of the delinquent as though
to these qualities might be attributed the delay in
punishment.
Ferragut put forth all his efforts to give his voice
a tone of indifference.
“Who is this individual?” he said, pointing
to the heading of the article.
His companion had some difficulty in recalling her.
So many things were happening because of the war....
“She is a boche, a spy, sentenced to
death.... It appears that she did a great deal
of work here and in other ports, sending word to the
German submarines about the departure of our transports....
They arrested her in Paris two months ago when she
was returning from Brest.”
His friend said this with a certain indifference.
These spies were so numerous!... The newspapers
were constantly publishing notices of their shooting:—two
lines, no more, as though treating of an ordinary
casualty.
“This Freya Talberg,” he continued, “has
had enough said about her personality. It seems
that she is a chic woman,—a species
of lady from a novel. Many are protesting because
she has not yet been executed. It is sad to have
to kill one of her sex,—to kill a woman
and especially a beautiful woman!... But nevertheless
it is very necessary.... I believe that she is
to be shot at any moment.”
AMPHITRITE!... AMPHITRITE!
The Mare Nostrum made another trip from Marseilles
to Salonica.
Before sailing, Ferragut hunted vainly through the
Paris periodicals for fresh news of Freya. For
some days past, the attention of the public had been
so distracted by various other events that for the
time being the spy was forgotten.
On arriving at Salonica, he made discreet inquiries
among his military and marine friends in the harbor
cafes. Hardly any one had ever heard the name
of Freya Talberg. Those who had read it in the
newspapers merely replied with indifference.
“I know who she is: she is a spy who was
an actress,—a woman with a certain chic.
I think that they’ve shot her.... I don’t
know certainly, but they ought to have shot her.”
They had more important things to think about.
A spy!... On all sides they were discovering
the intrigues of German espionage. They had to
shoot a great many.... And immediately they forgot
this affair in order to speak of the difficulties
of the war that were threatening them and their comrades-at-arms.
