The clock was approaching five, a winter morning in Syria. At the platform in Aleppo stood the train, which was described in a boastful manner by the railway conductors as the Bull's Express. It consisted of a dining and kitchen car, a sleeping car with bunks, and two simple passenger cars. Next to the step leading into the bunk car stood a young French lieutenant, in uniform and impressive, who was conversing with a short, thin man wrapped in a scarf, from whom nothing could be seen except the tip of a bright red nose and the two ends of a mustache curled upward. The cold was biting, and this duty of bidding farewell to a distinguished visitor was not enviable, but Lieutenant Dibosk performed his role flawlessly. Polite phrases flowed from his lips in well-phrased French. Not that he knew exactly what it was about. Various rumors circulated, of course, as is always the case in such situations. In recent days, the mood of the general—his own general—had shown a gradual deterioration.
And then this unknown Belgian appeared and, in fact, traveled from England, as had been heard. A week passed—a week of strange tension. Afterwards, some things happened. A high-ranking officer committed suicide, another resigned— the anxious faces suddenly lost their worry, some military protective measures were relaxed. And the general—Lieutenant Dibosk's general—suddenly looked ten years younger. Dibosk happened to overhear part of the conversation between his superior and the foreigner. "You saved us, mon cher," the general said emotionally, his enormous white mustache trembling as he spoke. "You saved the honor of the French army... and prevented terrible bloodshed! How can I thank you for accepting my request? You made such a journey..."