Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




                                  THE
                            WAGES OF VIRTUE


                                   BY
                       PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN



                                 LONDON
                     JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET




FIRST EDITION . . . November, 1916
Reprinted . . . . . December, 1916
Reprinted . . . . . May, 1917
Reprinted . . . . . September, 1917
Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1920
Reprinted (3/6) . . April, 1925
Reprinted . . . . . September, 1925
Reprinted (2/-) . . November, 1925
Reprinted (3/6) . . December, 1925
Reprinted . . . . . March, 1926
Reprinted (2/-) . . August, 1926
Reprinted (3/6) . . October, 1926
Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1927
Reprinted (3/6) . . March, 1927
Reprinted (2/-) . . March, 1927
Reprinted (2/-) . . June, 1927
Reprinted (3/6) . . June, 1927
Reprinted (2/-) . . February, 1928
Reprinted (3/6) . . May, 1928



_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

BEAU GESTE
BEAU SABREUR
THE WAGES OF VIRTUE
STEPSONS OF FRANCE
THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD
FATHER GREGORY
DEW AND MILDEW
DRIFTWOOD SPARS
THE YOUNG STAGERS



                         _All rights reserved_




                                   TO
                         THE CHARMINGEST WOMAN




                                CONTENTS


Prologue

      I. Soap and Sir Montague Merline
     II. A Barrack-Room of the Legion
    III. Carmelita et Cie
     IV. The Canteen of the Legion
      V. The Trivial Round
     VI. Le Cafard and Other Things
    VII. The Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing
   VIII. The Temptation of Sir Montague Merline
     IX. The Café and the Canteen
      X. The Wages of Sin
     XI. Greater Love...

Epilogue




"Vivandière du régiment,
C’est Catin qu’on me nomme;
Je vends, je donne, je bois gaiment,
Mon vin et mon rogomme;
J’ai le pied leste et l’oeil mutin,
Tintin, tintin, tintin, r’lin tintin,
Soldats, voilà Catin!

"Je fus chère à tous nos héros;
Hélas! combien j’en pleure,
Ainsi soldats et généraux
Me comblaient à tout heure
D’amour, de gloire et de butin,
Tintin, tintin, tintin, r’lin tintin
D’amour, de gloire et de butin,
Soldats, voilà Catin!"

BÉRANGER.




                                PROLOGUE


Lord Huntingten emerged from his little green tent, and strolled over to
where Captain Strong, of the Queen’s African Rifles, sat in the
"drawing-room."  The drawing-room was the space under a cedar fir and
was furnished with four Roorkee chairs of green canvas and white wood,
and a waterproof ground-sheet.

"I do wish the Merlines would roll up," he said. "I want my dinner."

"Not dinner time yet," remarked Captain Strong. "Hungry?"

"No," answered Lord Huntingten almost snappishly.  Captain Strong
smiled.  How old Reggie Huntingten always gave himself away!  It was the
safe return of Lady Merline that he wanted.

Captain Strong, although a soldier, the conditions of whose life were
almost those of perpetual Active Service, was a student--and
particularly a student of human nature.  Throughout a life of great
activity he found, and made, much opportunity for sitting in the stalls
of the Theatre of Life and enjoying the Human Comedy.  This East African
shooting-trip with Lord Huntingten, Sir Montague, and Lady Merline, was
affording him great entertainment, inasmuch as Huntingten had fallen in
love with Lady Merline and did not know it.  Lady Merline was falling in
love with Huntingten and knew it only too well, and Merline loved them
both.  That there would be no sort or kind of "dénouement," in the
vulgar sense, Captain Strong was well and gladly aware--for Huntingten
was as honourable a man as ever lived, and Lady Merline just as
admirable.  No saner, wiser, nor better woman had Strong ever met, nor
any as well balanced.  Had there been any possibility of "developments,"
trouble, and the usual fiasco of scandal and the Divorce Court, he would
have taken an early opportunity of leaving the party and rejoining his
company at Mombasa.  For Lord Huntingten was his school, Sandhurst and
lifelong friend, while Merline was his brother-in-arms and comrade of
many an unrecorded, nameless expedition, foray, skirmish, fight and
adventure.

"Merline shouldn’t keep her out after dusk like this," continued Lord
Huntingten.  "After all, Africa’s Africa and a woman’s a woman."

"And Merline’s Merline," added Strong with a faint hint of reproof.
Lord Huntingten grunted, arose, and strode up and down.  A fine
upstanding figure of a man in the exceedingly becoming garb of khaki
cord riding-breeches, well-cut high boots, brown flannel shirt and
broad-brimmed felt hat.  Although his hands were small, the arms exposed
by the rolled-up shirtsleeves were those of a navvy, or a blacksmith.
The face, though tanned and wrinkled, was finely cut and undeniably
handsome, with its high-bridged nose, piercing blue eyes, fair silky
moustache and prominent chin.  If, as we are sometimes informed,
impassivity and immobility of countenance are essential to aspirants for
such praise as is contained in the term "aristocratic," Lord Huntingten
was not what he himself would have described as a "starter," for never
did face more honestly portray feeling than did that of Lord Huntingten.
As a rule it was wreathed in smiles, and brightly reflected the joyous,
sunny nature of its owner.  On those rare occasions when he was angered,
it was convulsed with rage, and, even before he spoke, all and sundry
were well aware that his lordship was angry.  When he did speak, they
were confirmed in the belief without possibility of error.  If he were
disappointed or chagrined this expressive countenance fell with such
suddenness and celerity that the fact of so great a fall being inaudible
came as a surprise to the observant witness.  At that moment, as he
consulted his watch, the face of this big, generous and lovable man was
only too indicative of the fact that his soul was filled with anxiety,
resentment and annoyance. Captain Strong, watching him with malicious
affection, was reminded of a petulant baby and again of a big naughty
boy who, having been stood in the corner for half an hour, firmly
believes that the half-hour has long ago expired.  Yes, he promised
himself much quiet and subtle amusement, interest and instruction from
the study of his friends and their actions and reactions during the
coming weeks.  What would Huntingten do when he realised his condition
and position? Run for his life, or grin and bear it?  If the former,
where would he go?  If, living in Mayfair and falling in love with your
neighbour’s wife, the correct thing is to go and shoot lions in East
Africa, is it, conversely, the correct thing to go and live in Mayfair
if, shooting lions in East Africa, you fall in love with your
neighbour’s wife?  Captain Strong smiled at his whimsicality, and showed
his interesting face at its best.  A favourite remark of his was to the
effect that the world’s a queer place, and life a queer, thing.  It is
doubtful whether he realised exactly how queer an example of the fact
was afforded by his being a soldier in the first place, and an African
soldier in the second. When he was so obviously and completely cut out
for a philosopher and student (with relaxations in the direction of the
writing of Ibsenical-Pinerotic plays and Shavo-Wellsian novels), what
did he in that galley of strenuous living and strenuous dying?  Further,
it is interesting to note that among those brave and hardy men, second
to none in keenness, resourcefulness and ability, Captain Strong was
noted for these qualities.

A huge Swahili orderly of the Queen’s African Rifles, clad in a tall
yellow tarboosh, a very long blue jersey, khaki shorts, blue puttees and
hobnail boots, approached Captain Strong and saluted.  He announced that
Merline _Bwana_ was approaching, and, on Strong’s replying that such
things did happen, and even with sufficient frequency to render the
widest publication of the fact unnecessary, the man informed him that
the _macouba Bwana Simba_ (the big Lion Master) had given his bearer
orders to have the approach of Merline _Bwana_ signalled and announced.

Turning to Huntingten, Strong bade that agitated nobleman to be of good
cheer, for Merline was safe--his _askaris_ were safe--his pony was safe,
and it was even reported that all the dogs were safe.

"Three loud cheers," observed his lordship, as his face beamed ruddily,
"but, to tell you the truth, it was of _Lady_ Merline I was thinking....
You never know in Africa, you know...."

Captain Strong smiled.

Sir Montague and Lady Merline rode into camp on their Arab ponies a few
minutes later, and there was a bustle of Indian and Swahili "boys" and
bearers, about the unlacing of tents, preparing of hot baths, the taking
of ponies and guns, and the hurrying up of dinner.

While Sir Montague gave orders concerning the _enyama_[#] for the
_safari_ servants and porters, whose virtue had merited this addition to
their _posho_[#] Lady Merline entered the "drawing-room," and once again
gladdened the heart of Lord Huntingten with her grace and beauty.  He
struck an attitude, laid his hand upon his heart, and swept the ground
with his slouch hat in a most gracefully executed bow.  Lady Merline,
albeit clad in brief khaki shooting-costume, puttees, tiny hobnail
boots, and brown pith helmet, returned the compliment with a Court
curtsey.


[#] Meat.

[#] Food.


Their verbal greeting hardly sustained the dignity of the preliminaries.

"How’s Bill the Lamb?" quoth the lady.

"How’s Margarine?" was the reply.

Their eyes interested Captain Strong more than their words.

(Lady Merline’s eyes were famous; and, beautiful as Strong had always
realised those wonderful orbs to be, he was strongly inclined to fancy
that they looked even deeper, even brighter, even more beautiful when
regarding the handsome sunny face of Lord Huntingten.)

Sir Montague Merline joined the group.

"Hallo, Bill!  Hallo, Strong!" he remarked.  "I say, Strong, what’s
_marodi_, and what’s _gisi_ in Somali?"

"Same as _tembo_ and _mbogo_ in Swahili," was the reply.

"Oh!  Elephant and buffalo.  Well, that one-eyed Somali blighter with
the corrugated forehead, whom Abdul brought in, says there are
both--close to Bamania over there--about thirteen miles you know."

"He’s a liar then," replied Captain Strong.

"Swears the elephants went on the tiles all night in a _shamba_[#]
there, the day before yesterday."


[#] Garden.  Cultivation.


"Might go that way, anyhow," put in Lord Huntingten. "Take him with us,
and rub his nose in it if there’s nothing."

"You’re nothing if not lucid, Bill," said Lady Merline.  "I’m off to
change," and added as she turned away, "I vote we go to Bamania anyhow.
There may be lemons, or mangoes, or bananas or something in the
_shamba_, if there are no elephants or buffaloes."

"Don’t imagine you are going upsetting elephants and teasing buffaloes,
young woman," cried "Bill" after her as she went to her tent.  "The
elephants and buffaloes of these parts are the kind that eat English
women, and feeding the animals is forbidden...."

It occurred to Captain Strong, that silent and observant man, that Lady
Merline’s amusement at this typical specimen of the Huntingten humour
was possibly greater than it would have been had he or her husband
perpetrated it.

"Dinner in twenty minutes, Monty," said he to Sir Montague Merline and
departed to his tent.

"I say, Old Thing, dear," observed Lord Huntingten to the same
gentleman, as, with the tip of his little finger, he "wangled" a
soda-water bottle with a view to concocting a whiskey-and-soda.  "We
won’t let Marguerite have anything to do with elephant or buffalo, will
we?"

"Good Lord, no!" was the reply.  "We’ve promised her one pot at a lion
if we can possibly oblige, but that will have to be her limit, and,
what’s more, you and I will be one each side of her when she does it."

"Yes," agreed the other, and added, "Expect I shall know what nerves
are, when it comes off, too."

"Fancy ’nerves’ and the _Bwana Simba_," laughed Sir Montague Merline as
he held out his glass for the soda....  "Here’s to Marguerite’s first
lion," he continued, and the two men solemnly drank the toast.

Sir Montague Merline struck a match for his pipe, the light illuminating
his face in the darkness which had fallen in the last few minutes.  The
first impression one gathered from the face of Captain Sir Montague
Merline, of the Queen’s African Rifles, was one of unusual gentleness
and kindliness.  Without being in any way a weak face, it was an
essentially friendly and amiable one--a soldierly face without any hint
of that fierce, harsh and ruthless expression which is apparently
cultivated as part of their stock-in-trade by the professional soldiers
of militarist nations.  A physiognomist, observing him, would not be
surprised to learn of quixotic actions and a reputation for being "such
an awful good chap--one of the best-hearted fellers that ever helped a
lame dog over a stile."  So far as such a thing can be said of any
strong and honest man who does his duty, it could be said of Sir
Montague Merline that he had no enemies.  Contrary to the dictum that
"He who has no enemies has no friends" was the fact that Sir Montague
Merline’s friends were all who knew him.  Of these, his best and closest
friend was his wife, and it had been reserved for Lord Huntingten
unconsciously to apprise her of the fact that she was this and nothing
more.  Until he had left his yacht at Mombasa a few weeks before, on the
invitation of Captain Strong (issued with their cordial consent) to join
their projected shooting trip, Lady Merline had fondly imagined that she
knew what love was, and had thought herself a thoroughly happy and
contented woman.  In a few days after his joining the party it seemed
that she must have loved him all her life, and that there could not
possibly be a gulf of some fifteen years between then and the childish
days when he was "Bill the Lamb" and she the unconsidered adjunct of the
nursery and schoolroom, generally addressed as "Margarine."  Why had he
gone wandering about the world all these years? Why had their
re-discovery of each other had to be postponed until now?  Why couldn’t
he have been at home when Monty came wooing and ... When Lady Merline’s
thoughts reached this point she resolutely switched them off.  She was
doing a considerable amount of switching off, these last few days, and
realised that when Lord Huntingten awoke to the fact that he too must
practise this exercise, the shooting trip would have to come to an
untimely end.  As she crouched over the tiny candle-lit mirror on the
_soi-disant_ dressing-table in her tent, while hastily changing for
dinner that evening, she even considered plausible ways and possible
means of terminating the trip when the inevitable day arrived.

She was saved the trouble.

As they sat at dinner a few minutes later, beneath the diamond-studded
velvet of the African sky--an excellent dinner of clear soup, sardines,
bustard, venison, and tinned fruit--Strong’s orderly again appeared in
the near distance, saluting and holding two official letters in his
hand.  These, it appeared, had just been brought by messenger from the
railway-station some nineteen miles distant.

Captain Strong was the first to gather their import, and his feeling of
annoyance and disappointment was more due to the fact of the
interruption of his interesting little drama than to the cancellation of
his leave and return to harness.

"Battle, Murder and Sudden Death!" he murmured.  "I wish people wouldn’t
kill people, and cause other people to interfere with the arrangements
of people....  Our trip’s bust."

"What is it?" asked Lady Merline.

"Mutiny and murder down Uganda way," replied her husband, whose letter
was a duplicate.  "I’m sorry, Huntingten, old chap," he added, turning
to his friend.  "It’s draw stumps and hop it, for Strong and me.  We
must get to the railway to-morrow--there will be a train through in the
afternoon.... Better luck next time."

Lord Huntingten looked at Lady Merline, and Lady Merline looked at her
plate.


                                   2

Down the narrowest of narrow jungle-paths marched a small party of the
Queen’s African Rifles.  They marched, perforce, in single file, and at
their head was their white officer.  A wiser man would have marched in
the middle, for the leading man was inevitably bound to "get it" if they
came upon the enemy, and, albeit brave and warlike men, negroes of the
Queen’s African Rifles (like other troops) fight better when commanded
by an officer.  A "point" of a sergeant and two or three men, a couple
of hundred yards in front, is all very well, but the wily foe in ambush
knows quite enough to take, as it were, the cash and let the credit
go--to let the "point" march on, and to wait for the main body.

Captain Sir Montague Merline was well aware of the unwisdom and military
inadvisability of heading the long file, but did it, nevertheless.  If
called upon to defend his conduct, he would have said that what was
gained by the alleged wiser course was more than lost, inasmuch as the
confidence of the men in so discreet a leader would not be, to say the
least of it, enhanced.  The little column moved silently and slowly
through the horrible place, a stinking swamp, the atmosphere almost
unbreatheable, the narrow winding track almost untreadable, the
enclosing walls of densest jungle utterly unpenetrable--a singularly
undesirable spot in which to be attacked by a cunning and blood-thirsty
foe of whom this was the "native heath."

Good job the beggars did not run to machine guns, thought Captain
Merline; fancy one, well placed and concealed in one of these huge
trees, and commanding the track.  Stake-pits, poisoned arrows,
spiked-log booby-traps, and poisoned needle-pointed snags neatly placed
to catch bare knees, and their various other little tricks were quite
enough to go on with.  What a rotten place for an ambush! The beggars
could easily have made a neat clearing a foot or two from the track, and
massed a hundred men whose poisoned arrows, guns, and rifles could be
presented a few inches from the breasts of passing enemies, without the
least fear of discovery.  Precautions against that sort of thing were
utterly impossible if one were to advance at a higher speed than a mile
a day.  The only possible way of ensuring against flank attack was to
have half the column out in the jungle with axes, hacking their way in
line, ahead of the remainder.  They couldn’t do a mile a day at that
rate.  That "point" in front was no earthly good, nor would it have been
if joined by Daniel Boone Burnham and Buffalo Bill.  The jungle on
either side might as well have been a thirty-foot brick wall. Unless the
enemy chose to squat in the middle of the track, what could the "point"
do in the way of warning?--and the enemy wouldn’t do that.  Of course,
an opposing column might be marching toward them along the same path,
but, in that case, except at a sudden bend, the column would see them as
soon as the "point."  Confound all bush fighting--messy, chancy work.
Anyhow, he’d have ten minutes’ halt and send Ibrahim up a tree for a
look round.

Captain Merline put his hand to the breast pocket of his khaki flannel
shirt for his whistle, with a faint short blast on which he would signal
to his "point" to halt.  The whistle never reached his lips.  A sudden
ragged crash of musketry rang out from the dense vegetation on either
side, and from surrounding trees which commanded and enfiladed the path.
More than half the little force fell at the first discharge, for it is
hard to miss a man with a Snider or a Martini-Henry rifle at three
yards’ range. For a moment there was confusion, and more than one of
those soldiers of the Queen, it must be admitted, fired off his rifle at
nothing in particular.  A burly sergeant, bringing up the rear, thrust
his way to the front shouting an order, and the survivors of the first
murderous burst of fire crouched down on either side of the track and
endeavoured to force their way into the jungle, form a line on either
side, and fire volleys to their left, front and right.  Having made his
way to the head of the column, Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub found his officer
shot through the head, chest and thigh.... A glance was sufficient.
With a loud click of his tongue he turned away with a look of murderous
hate on his ebony face and the lust of slaughter in his rolling yellow
eye.  He saw a leafy twig fall from a tree that overhung the path and
crouched motionless, staring at the spot.  Suddenly he raised his rifle
and fired, and gave a hoarse shout of glee as a body fell crashing to
the ground.  In the same second his tarboosh was spun from his head and
the shoulder of his blue jersey torn as by an invisible claw.  He too
wriggled into the undergrowth and joined the volley-firing, which,
sustained long enough and sufficiently generously and impartially
distributed, must assuredly damage a neighbouring foe and hinder his
approach.  Equally assuredly it must, however, lead to exhaustion of
ammunition, and when the volley-firing slackened and died away, it was
for this reason.  Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub was a man of brains and
resource, as well as of dash and courage.  Since the enemy had fallen
silent too, he would emerge with his men and collect the ammunition from
their dead and wounded comrades.  He blew a number of short shrill
blasts on the whistle which, with the stripes upon his arm, was the
proudest of his possessions.

The ammunition was quickly collected and the worthy Sergeant possessed
himself of his dead officer’s revolver and cartridges....  The next
step? ... If he attempted to remove his wounded, his whole effective
force would become stretcher-bearers and still be inadequate to the
task.  If he abandoned his wounded, should he advance or retire?  He
would rather fight a lion or three Masai than have to answer these
conundrums and shoulder these responsibilities.... He was relieved of
all necessity in the matter of deciding, for the brooding silence was
again suddenly broken by ear-piercing and blood-curdling howls and a
second sudden fusillade, as, at some given signal, the enemy burst into
the track both before and behind the column.  Obviously they were
skilfully handled and by one versed in the art of jungle war. The
survivors of the little force were completely surrounded--and the rest
was rather a massacre than a fight.  It is useless to endeavour to dive
into dense jungle to form a firing line when a determined person with a
broad-bladed spear is literally at your heels. Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub
did his utmost and fought like the lion-hearted warrior he was.  It is
some satisfaction to know that the one man who escaped and made his way
to the temporary base of the little columns to tell the story of the
destruction of this particular force, was Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub.

One month later a Lieutenant was promoted to Captain Sir Montague
Merline’s post, and, twelve months later, Lord Huntingten married his
wife.

Captain Strong of the Queen’s African Rifles, home on furlough, was best
man at the wedding of the handsome and popular Lord Huntingten with the
charming and beautiful Lady Merline.


                                   3

At about the same time as the fashionable London press announced to a
more or less interested world the more or less important news that Lady
Huntingten had presented her lord and master with a son and heir, a
small _safari_ swung into a tiny African village and came to a halt.
The naked Kavarondo porters flung down their loads with grunts and
duckings, and sat them down, a huddled mass of smelly humanity. From a
litter, borne in the middle of the caravan, stepped the leader of the
party, one Doctor John Williams, a great (though unknown) surgeon, a
medical missionary who gave his life and unusual talents, skill and
knowledge to the alleviation of the miseries of black humanity.  There
are people who have a lot to say about missionaries in Africa, and there
are people who have nothing to say about Dr. John Williams because words
fail them.  They have seen him at work and know what his life is--and
also what it might be if he chose to set up in Harley Street.

Doctor John Williams looked around at the village to which Fate brought
him for the first time, and beheld the usual scene--a collection of huts
built of poles and grass, and a few superior dwelling-places with
thatched walls and roofs.  A couple of women were pounding grain in a
wooden mortar; a small group of others was engaged in a kind of rude
basket weaving under the porch of a big hut; a man seated by a small
fire had apparently "taken up" poker work, for he was decorating a
vase-shaped gourd by means of a red-hot iron; a gang of tiny naked
piccaninnies, with incredibly distended stomachs, was playing around
a...

_What?_

Dr.  John Williams strode over to the spot.  A white man, or the ruin of
a sort of a white man, was seated on a native stool and leaning against
the bole of one of the towering palms that embowered, shaded, concealed
and enriched the little village.  His hair was very long and grey, his
beard and moustache were long and grey, his face was burnt and bronzed,
his eyes blue and bright.  On his head were the deplorable ruins of a
khaki helmet, and, for the rest, he wore the rags and remains of a pair
of khaki shorts.  Dr. John Williams stood and stared at him in
open-mouthed astonishment.  He arose and advanced with extended hand.
The doctor was too astounded to speak, and the other could not, for he
was dumb.  In a minute it was obvious to the new-comer that he was
more--that he was in some way "wanting."

From the headman of the villagers, who quickly gathered round, he
learned that the white man had been with them for "many nights and days
and seasons," that he was afflicted of the gods, very wise, and as a
little child.  Why "very wise" Dr. John Williams failed to discover, or
anything more of the man’s history, save that he had simply walked into
the village from nowhere in particular and had sat under that tree, all
day, ever since.  They had given him a hut, milk, corn, cocoanut, and
whatever else they had.  Also, in addition to this propitiation, they
had made a minor god of him, with worship of the milder sorts.  Their
wisdom and virtue in this particular had been rewarded by him with a
period of marked prosperity; and undoubtedly their crops, their cattle,
and their married women had benefited by his benevolent presence....

When Doctor John Williams resumed his journey he took the dumb white man
with him, and, in due course, reached his own mission, dispensary and
wonderful little hospital a few months later.  Had he considered that
there was any urgency in the case, and the time-factor of any
importance, he would have abandoned his sleeping-sickness tour, and gone
direct to the hospital to operate upon the skull of his foundling.  For
this great (and unknown) surgeon, upon examination, had decided that the
removal of a bullet which was lodged beneath the scalp and in the solid
bone of the top of the man’s head was the first, and probably last, step
in the direction of the restoration of speech and understanding.
Obviously he was in no pain, and he was not mad, but his brain was that
of a child whose age was equal to the time which had elapsed since the
wound was caused.  Probably this had happened about a couple of years
ago, for the brain was about equal to that of a two-year-old child. But
why had the child not learned to talk?  Possibly the fact that he had
lived among negroes, since his last return to consciousness, would
account for the fact.  Had he been shot in the head and recovered among
English people (if he were English) he would probably be now talking as
fluently as a two-year-old baby....

The first few days after his return to his headquarters were always
exceedingly busy ones for the doctor.  The number of things able to "go
wrong" in his absence was incredible, and, as he was the only white man
resident in a district some ten thousand square miles in area, the
accumulation of work and trouble was sufficient to appal most people.
But work and trouble were what the good doctor sought and throve on....
One piece of good news there was, however, in the tale of calamities.  A
pencilled note, scribbled on a leaf of a military pocket-book, informed
him that his old friend Strong, of the Queen’s African Rifles, had
passed through his village three weeks earlier, and would again pass
through, on his return, in a week’s time.  Having made a wide détour to
see his friend, Strong was very disappointed to learn of his absence,
and would return by the same devious route, in the hope of better
luck....

Good!  A few days of Strong’s company would be worth a lot.  A visit
from any white man was something; from a man of one’s own class and kind
was a great thing; but from worldly-wise, widely-read, clever old
Strong! ... Excellent! ...


                                   4

Captain Strong, of the Queen’s African Rifles, passed from the strong
sunlight into the dark coolness of Doctor John Williams’ bungalow side
by side with his host, who was still shaking him by the hand, in his joy
and affection.  Laying his riding-whip and helmet on a table he glanced
round, stared, turned as white as a sunburnt man may, ejaculated "Oh, my
God!" and seized the doctor’s arm.  His mouth hung open, his eyes were
starting from his head, and it was with shaking hand that he pointed to
where, in the doctor’s living-room, sat the dumb and weak-witted
foundling.

Doctor Williams was astounded and mightily interested.

"What’s up, Strong?" he asked.

"B--b--b--but he’s _dead_!" stammered Strong with a gasp.

"Not a bit of it, man," was the reply, "he’s as alive as you or I.  He’s
dumb, and he’s dotty, but he’s alive all right....  What’s wrong with
you? You’ve got a touch of the sun..." and then Captain Strong was
himself again.  If Captain Sir Montague Merline, late of the Queen’s
African Rifles, were alive, it should not be Jack Strong who would
announce the fact....

_Monty Merline?_ ... Was that vacant-looking person who was rising from
a chair and bowing to him, his old pal Merline? ... Most undoubtedly it
was.  Besides--there on his wrist and forearm was the
wonderfully-tattooed snake....

"How do you do?" he said.  The other bowed again, smiled stupidly, and
fumbled with the buttons of his coat....  Balmy! ...

Strong turned and dragged his host out of the room.

"Where’s he come from?" he asked quickly. "Who is he?"

"Where he came from last," replied the doctor, "is a village called, I
believe, Bwogo, about a hundred and twenty miles south-east of here.
How he got there I can’t tell you.  The natives said he just walked up
unaccompanied, unbounded, unpursued.  He’s got a bullet or something in
the top of his head and I’m going to lug it out.  And then, my boy, with
any luck at all, he’ll very soon be able to answer you any question you
like to put him.  Speech and memory will return at the moment the
pressure on the brain ceases."

"Will he remember up to the time the bullet hit him, or since, or both?"
asked Strong.

"All his life, up to the moment the bullet hit him, certainly," was the
reply.  "What happened since will, at first, be remembered as a dream,
probably. If I had to prophesy I should say he’d take up his life from
the second in which the bullet hit him, and think, for the moment, that
he is still where it happened.  By-and-by, he’ll realise that there’s a
gap somewhere, and gradually he’ll be able to fill it in with events
which will seem half nightmare, half real."

"Anyhow, he’ll be certain of his identity and personal history and so
forth?" asked Strong.

"Absolutely," said the surgeon.  "It will be precisely as though he
awoke from an ordinary night’s rest....  It’ll be awfully interesting to
hear him give an account of himself....  All this, of course, if he
doesn’t die under the operation."

"I hope he will," said Strong.

"What _do_ you mean, my dear chap?"

"I hope he’ll die under the operation."

"Why?"

"He’ll be better dead....  And it will be better for three other people
that he should be dead.... Is he likely to die?"

"I should say it’s ten to one he’ll pull through all right....  What’s
it all about, Strong?"

"Look here, old chap," was the earnest reply. "If it were anybody else
but you I shouldn’t know what to say or do.  As it’s _you_, my course is
clear, for you’re the last thing in discretion, wisdom and
understanding....  But don’t ask me his name....  I know him....  Look
here, it’s like this.  His wife’s married again....  There’s a kid....
They’re well known in Society....  Awful business....  Ghastly
scandal.... Shockin’ position."  Captain Strong took Doctor John
Williams by the arm.  "Look here, old chap," he said once again.  "Need
you do this?  It isn’t as though he was ’conscious,’ so to speak, and in
pain."

"Yes, I must do it," replied the doctor without hesitation, as the other
paused.

"But why?" urged Strong.  "I’m absolutely certain that if M----,
er--that is--this chap--could have his faculties for a minute he would
tell you not to do it....  You’ll take him from a sort of negative
happiness to the most positive and acute unhappiness, and you’ll simply
blast the lives of his wife and the most excellent chap she’s
married....  She waited a year after this chap ’died’ in--er--that last
Polar expedition--as was supposed....  Think of the poor little kid
too....  And there’s estates and a ti---- so on...."

"No good, Strong.  My duty in the matter is perfectly clear, and it is
to the sick man, as such."

"Well, you’ll do a damned cruel thing ... er--sorry, old chap, I mean
_do_ think it over a bit and look at it from the point of view of the
unfortunate lady, the second husband, and the child....  And of the chap
himself....  By God!  He won’t thank you."

"I look at it from the point of view of the doctor and I’m not out for
thanks," was the reply.

"Is that your last word, Williams?"

"It is.  I have here a man mentally maimed, mangled and suffering.  My
first and only duty is to heal him, and I shall do it."

"Right O!" replied Strong, who knew that further words would be useless.
He knew that his friend’s intelligence was clear as crystal and his will
as firm, and that he accepted no other guide than his own conscience....

As the three men sat in the moonlight that night, after dinner, Captain
Strong was an uncomfortable man.  That tragedy must find a place in the
human comedy he was well aware.  It had its uses like the comic
relief--but for human tragedy, undilute, black, harsh, and dreadful, he
had no taste.  He shivered. The pretty little comedy of Lord Huntingten
and Sir Montague and Lady Merline, of two years ago, had greatly amused
and deeply interested him.  This tragedy of the same three people was
unmitigated horror....  Poor Lady Merline!  He conjured up her beautiful
face with the wonderful eyes, the rose-leaf complexion, the glorious
hair, the tender, lovely mouth--and saw the life and beauty wiped from
it as she read, or heard, the ghastly news ... bigamy ...
illegitimacy....

The doctor’s "bearer" came to take the patient to bed.  He was a
remarkable man who had started life as a ward-boy in Madras.  He it was
who had cut the half-witted white man’s hair, shaved his beard and
dressed him in his master’s spare clothes.  When the patient was asleep
that night, he was going to endeavour to shave the top of his head
without waking him, for he was to be operated on, in the morning....

"Yes, I fully understand and I give you my solemn promise, Strong," said
the doctor as the two men rose to go in, that night.  "The moment the
man is sane I will tell him that he is not to tell me his name, nor
anything else until he has heard what I have to say. I will then break
it to him--using my own discretion as to how and when--that he was
reported dead, that his will was proved, that his widow wore mourning
for a year and then married again, and had a son a year later....  I
undertake that he shall not leave this house, _knowing that_, unless he
is in the fullest possession of his faculties and able to realise with
the utmost clearness _all_ the bearings of the case and _all_ the
consequences following his resumption of identity. And I’ll let him hide
here for just as long as he cares to conceal himself--if he wishes to
remain ’dead’ for a time."

"Yes ... And as I can’t possibly stay till he recovers, nor, in fact,
over to-morrow without gross dereliction of duty, I will leave a letter
for you to give him at the earliest safe moment....  I’ll tell him that
I am the only living soul who knows his name as well as his secret.
He’ll understand that no one else will know this--from me."

As he sat on the side of his bed that night, Captain Strong remarked
unto his soul, "Well--one thing--if I know Monty Merline as well as I
think, ’Sir Montague Merline’ died two years ago, whatever happens....
And yet I can’t imagine Monty committing suicide, somehow.  He’s a chap
with a conscience as well as the soul of chivalry....  Poor, poor, old
Monty Merline!..."




                          THE WAGES OF VIRTUE



                               CHAPTER I

                     SOAP AND SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE


Sir Montague Merline, second-class private soldier of the First
Battalion of the Foreign Legion of France, paused to straighten his
back, to pass his bronzed forearm across his white forehead, and to put
his scrap of soap into his mouth--the only safe receptacle for the
precious morsel, the tiny cake issued once a month by Madame La
République to the Legionary for all his washing purposes.  When one’s
income is precisely one halfpenny a day (paid when it has totalled up to
the sum of twopence halfpenny), one does not waste much, nor risk the
loss of valuable property; and to lay a piece of soap upon the concrete
of _Le Cercle d’Enfer_ reservoir, is not so much to risk the loss of it
as to lose it, when one is surrounded by gentlemen of the Foreign
Legion.  Let me not be misunderstood, nor supposed to be casting
aspersions upon the said gentlemen, but their need for soap is urgent,
their income is one halfpenny a day, and soap is of the things with
which one may "decorate oneself" without contravening the law of the
Legion.  To steal is to steal, mark you (and to deserve, and probably to
get, a bayonet through the offending hand, pinning it to the bench or
table), but to borrow certain specified articles permanently and without
permission is merely, in the curious slang of the Legion, "to decorate
oneself."

Contrary to what the uninitiated might suppose, _Le Cercle d’Enfer_--the
Circle of Hell--is not a dry, but a very wet place, it being, in point
of fact, the _lavabo_ where the Legionaries of the French Foreign Legion
stationed in Algeria at Sidi-bel-Abbès, daily wash their white fatigue
uniforms and occasionally their underclothing.

Oh, that _Cercle d’Enfer_!  I hated it more than I hated the _peloton
des hommes punis, salle de police, cellules_, the "Breakfast of the
Legion," the awful heat, monotony, flies, Bedouins; the solitude,
hunger, and thirst of outpost stations in the south; I hated it more
than I hated _astiquage_, _la boîte_, the _chaussettes russes_,
hospital, the terrible desert marches, sewer-cleaning fatigues, or that
villainous and vindictive ruffian of a _cafard_-smitten _caporal_ who
systematically did his very able best to kill me.  Oh, that accursed
_Cercle d’Enfer_, and the heart-breaking labour of washing a filthy
alfa-fibre suit (stained perhaps with rifle-oil) in cold water, and
without soap!

Only the other day, as I lay somnolent in a long chair in the verandah
of the Charmingest Woman (she lives in India), I heard the regular
_flop, flop, flop_ of wet clothes, beaten by a distant _dhobi_ upon a
slab of stone, and at the same moment I smelt wet concrete as the _mali_
watered the maidenhair fern on the steps leading from Her verandah to
the garden.  Odours call up memories far more distinctly and readily
than do other sense-impressions, and the faint smell of wet concrete,
aided as it was by the faintly audible sound of wet blows, brought most
vividly before my mind’s eye a detailed picture of that well-named
Temple of Hygiea, the "Circle of Hell."  Sleeping, waking, and partly
sleeping, partly waking, I saw it all again; saw Sir Montague Merline,
who called himself John Bull; saw Hiram Cyrus Milton, known as The
Bucking Bronco; saw "Reginald Rupert"; the infamous Luigi Rivoli; the
unspeakable Edouard Malvin; the marvellous Mad Grasshopper, whose name
no one knew; the truly religious Hans Djoolte; the Russian twins,
calling themselves Mikhail and Feodor Kyrilovitch Malekov; the terrible
Sergeant-Major Suicide-Maker, and all the rest of them.  And finally,
waking with an actual and perceptible taste of soap in my mouth, I
wished my worst enemy were in the _Cercle d’Enfer_, soapless, and with
much rifle-oil, dust, leather marks and wine stains on his once-white
uniform--and then I thought of Carmelita and determined to write this
book.

For Carmelita deserves a monument (and so does John Bull), however
humble....  To continue....

Sir Montague Merline did not put his precious morsel of soap into his
pocket, for the excellent reason that there was no pocket to the single
exiguous garment he was at the moment wearing--a useful piece of
material which in its time played many parts, and knew the service of
duster, towel, turban, tablecloth, polishing pad, tea-cloth,
house-flannel, apron, handkerchief, neckerchief, curtain, serviette,
holder, fly-slayer, water-strainer, punkah, and, at the moment, nether
garment.  Having _cached_ his soup and having observed "_Peste!_" as he
savoured its flavour, he proceeded to pommel, punch, and slap upon the
concrete, the greyish-white tunic and breeches, and the cotton vest and
shirt which he had generously soaped before the hungry eyes of numerous
soapless but oathful fellow-labourers, who less successfully sought that
virtue which, in the Legion, is certainly next to, but far ahead of,
mere godliness.

In due course, Sir Montague Merline rinsed his garments in the
reservoir, wrung them out, bore them to the nearest clothes-line, hung
them out to dry, and sat himself down in their shadow to stare at them
unwaveringly until dried by the fierce sun--the ancient enemy, for the
moment an unwilling friend. To watch them unwaveringly and intently
because he knew that the turning of his head for ten seconds might mean
their complete and final disappearance--for, like soap, articles of
uniform are on the list of things with which a Legionary may "decorate"
himself, if he can, without incurring the odium of public opinion.  (He
may steal any article of equipment, clothing, kit, accoutrement, or
general utility, but his patron saint help him and Le Bon Dieu be
merciful to him, if he be caught stealing tobacco, wine, food, or
money.)

Becoming aware of the presence of Monsieur le Légionnaire Edouard
Malvin, Sir Montague Merline increased the vigilance of his scrutiny of
his pendent property, for ce cher Edouard was of pick-pockets the very
prince and magician; of those who could steal the teeth from a Jew while
he sneezed and would steal the scalp from their grandmamma while she
objected.

"Ohé!  Jean Boule, lend me thy soap," besought this stout and dapper
little Austrian, who for some reason pretended to be a Belgian from the
Congo. "This cursed alfa-fibre gets dirtier the more you wash it in this
cursed water," and he smiled a greasy and ingratiating grin.

Without for one second averting his steady stare from his clothes, the
Englishman slowly removed the soap from his mouth, expectorated,
remarked "_Peaudezébie_,"[#] and took no further notice of the quaint
figure which stood by his side, clad only in ancient red Zouave breeches
and the ingratiating smile.


[#] An emphatic negative.


"Name of a Name!  Name of the Name of a Pipe! Name of the Name of a
Dirty Little Furry Red Monkey!" observed Monsieur le Légionnaire Edouard
Malvin as he turned to slouch away, twirling the dripping grey-white
tunic.

"Meaning me?" asked Sir Montague, replacing the soap in its safe
repository and preparing to rise.

"But no!  But not in the least, old cabbage.  Thou hast the _cafard_.
Mais oui, tu as le cafard," replied the Belgian and quickened his
retreat.

No, the grey Jean Boule, so old, so young, doyen of Légionnaires, so
quick, strong, skilful and enduring at _la boxe_, was not the man to
cross at any time, and least of all when he had _le cafard_, that
terrible Legion madness that all Legionaries know; the madness that
drives them to the cells, to gaol, to the Zephyrs, to the firing-party
by the open grave; or to desertion and death in the desert.  The grey
Jean Boule had been a Zephyr of the Penal Battalions once, already, for
killing a man, and Monsieur Malvin, although a Legionary of the Foreign
Legion, did not wish to die. No, not while Carmelita and Madame la
Cantinière lived and loved and sold the good Algiers wine at
three-halfpence a bottle....  No, bon sang de sort!

M. le Légionnaire Malvin returned to the dense ring of labouring
perspiring washers, and edged in behind a gigantic German and a short,
broad, burly Alsatian, capitalists as joint proprietors of a fine cake
of soap.

Sacré nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de sort! Dull-witted German pigs
might leave their soap unguarded for a moment, and, if they did not,
might be induced to wring some soapy water from their little pile of
washing, upon the obstinately greasy tunic of the good M. Malvin.

Légionnaire Hans Schnitzel, late of Berlin, rinsed his washing in clean
water, wrung it, and took it to the nearest drying line.  Légionnaire
Alphonse Dupont, late of Alsace, placed his soap in the pocket of the
dirty white fatigue-uniform which he wore, and which he would wash as
soon as he had finished the present job.  Immediately, Légionnaire
Edouard Malvin transferred the soap from the side pocket of the tunic of
the unconscious Légionnaire Alphonse Dupont to that of his own red
breeches, and straightway begged the loan of it.

"_Merde!_" replied Dupont.  "Nombril de Belzébutt! I will lend it thee
_peaudezébie_.  Why should I lend thee soap, _vieux dégoulant_?  Go
decorate thyself, _sale cochon_.  Besides ’tis not mine to lend."

"And that is very true," agreed M. Malvin, and sauntered toward
Schnitzel, who stood phlegmatically guarding his drying clothes.  In his
hand was an object which caused the eyebrows of the good M. Malvin to
arch and rise, and his mouth to water--nothing less than an actual, real
and genuine scrubbing-brush, beautiful in its bristliness.  Then
righteous anger filled his soul.

"Saligaud!" he hissed.  "These pigs of filthy Germans!  Soap _and_ a
brush.  Sacripants!  Ils me dégoutant à la fin."

As he regarded the stolid German with increasing envy, hatred, malice
and all uncharitableness, and cast about in his quick and cunning mind
for means of relieving him of the coveted brush, a sudden roar of wrath
and grief from his Alsatian partner, Dupont, sent Schnitzel running to
join that unfortunate man in fierce and impartial denunciations of his
left-hand and right-hand neighbours, who were thieves, pigs, brigands,
dogs, Arabs, and utterly _merdant_ and _merdable_.  Bursting into the
fray, Herr Schnitzel found them, in addition, _bloedsinnig_ and
_dummkopf_ in that they could not produce cakes of soap from empty
mouths.

As the rage of the bereaved warriors increased, more and more Pomeranian
and Alsatian patois invaded the wonderful Legion-French, a French which
is not of Paris, nor of anywhere else in the world save La Légion.  As
Dupont fell upon a laughing Italian with a cry of "Ah! zut!  Sacré
grimacier," Schnitzel spluttered and roared at a huge slow-moving
American who regarded him with a look of pitying but not unkindly
contempt....

"Why do the ’eathen rage furious _to_gether and _im_agine a vain thing?"
he enquired in a slow drawl of the excited "furriner," adding "Ain’t yew
some _schafs-kopf_, sonny!" and, as the big German began to whirl his
arms in the windmill fashion peculiar to the non-boxing foreigner who
meditates assault and battery, continued--

"Now yew stop _zanking_ and playing _versteckens_ with me, yew pie-faced
Squarehead, and be _schnell_ about it, or yew’ll git my goat, see?
_Vous obtiendrez mon chèvre_, yew perambulating _prachtvoll bierhatte_,"
and he coolly turned his back upon the infuriated German with a polite,
if laborious, "Guten tag, mein Freund."

Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton (late of Texas, California, the Yukon, and the
"main drag" generally of the wild and woolly West) was exceeding proud
of his linguistic knowledge and skill.  It may be remarked, en passant,
that his friends were even prouder of it.

At this moment, le bon Légionnaire Malvin, hovering for opportunity,
with a sudden _coup de savate_ struck the so-desirable scrubbing-brush
from the hand of Herr Schnitzel with a force that seemed like to take
the arm from the shoulder with it.  Leaping round with a yell of pain,
the unfortunate German found himself, as Malvin had calculated, face to
face with the mighty Luigi Rivoli, to attack whom was to be brought to
death’s door through that of the hospital.

Snatching up the brush which was behind Schnitzel when he turned to face
Rivoli, le bon M. Malvin lightly departed from the vulgar scuffle in the
direction of the drying clothes of Herren Schnitzel and Dupont, the
latter, last seen clasping, with more enthusiasm than love, a wiry
Italian to his bosom.  The luck of M. Malvin was distinctly in, for not
only had he the soap and a brush for the easy cleansing of his own
uniform, but he had within his grasp a fresh uniform to wear, and
another to sell; for the clothing of ce bon Dupont would fit him to a
marvel, while that of the pig-dog Schnitzel would fetch good money, the
equivalent of several litres of the thick, red Algerian wine, from a
certain Spanish Jew, old Haroun Mendoza, of the Sidi-bel-Abbès ghetto.

Yes, the Saints bless and reward the good Dupont for being of the same
size as M. Malvin himself, for it is a most serious matter to be short
of anything when showing-down kit at kit-inspection, and that thrice
accursed Sacré Chien of an _Adjudant_ would, as likely as not, have
spare white trousers shown-down on the morrow.  What can a good
Légionnaire do, look you, when he has not the article named for
to-morrow’s _Adjutant’s_ inspection, but "decorate himself"?  Is it
easy, is it reasonable, to buy new white fatigue-uniform on an income of
one halfpenny per diem? Sapristi, and Sacré Bleu, and Name of the Name
of a Little Brown Dog, a litre of wine costs a penny, and a packet of
tobacco three-halfpence, and what is left to a gentleman of the Legion
then, on pay-day, out of his twopence-halfpenny, nom d’un pétard? As for
ce bon Dupont, he must in his turn "decorate" himself.  And if he
cannot, but must renew acquaintance with _la boîte_ and _le peloton des
hommes punis_, why--he must regard things in their true light, be
philosophical, and take it easy.  Is it not proverbial that "Toutes
choses peut on souffrir qu’aise"?  And with a purr of pleasure, a
positive licking of chops, and a murmur of "Ah!  Au tient frais," he
deftly whipped the property of the embattled Legionaries from the line,
no man saying him nay.  For it is not the etiquette of the Legion to
interfere with one who, in the absence of its owner, would "decorate"
himself with any of those things with which self-decoration is
permissible, if not honourable.  Indeed, to Sir Montague Merline,
sitting close by, and regarding his proceedings with cold impartial eye,
M. Malvin observed--

"’Y a de bon, mon salop!  I have heard that le bon Dieu helps those who
help themselves.  I do but help myself in order to give le bon Dieu the
opportunity He doubtless desires.  I decorate myself incidentally. Mais
oui, and I shall decorate myself this evening with a p’tite ouvrière and
to-morrow with une réputation d’ivrogne," and he turned innocently to
saunter with his innocent bundle of washing from the _lavabo_, to his
_caserne_.  Ere he had taken half a dozen steps, the cold and quiet
voice of the grey Jean Boule broke in upon the resumed day-dreams of the
innocently sauntering M. Malvin.

"Might one aspire to the honour of venturing to detain for a brief
interview Monsieur le Légionnaire Edouard Malvin?" said the soft
metallic voice.

"But certainly, and without charge, mon gars," replied that gentleman,
turning and eyeing the incomprehensible and dangerous Jean Boule, _à
coin de l’oeil_.

"You seek soap?"

"I do," replied the Austrian "Belgian" promptly. The possession of one
cake of soap makes that of another no less desirable.

"Do you seek sorrow also?"

"But no, dear friend.  ’J’ai eu toutes les folies.’  In this world I
seek but wine, woman, and peace.  Let me avoid the ’gros bonnets’ and
lead my happy tumble life in peaceful obscurity.  A modest violet, I.  A
wayside flow’ret, a retiring primrose, such as you English love."

"Then, cher Malvin, since you seek soap and not sorrow, let not my
little cake of soap disappear from beneath the polishing-rags in my
sack.  The little brown sack at the head of my cot, cher Malvin. Enfin!
I appoint you guardian and custodian of my little cake of soap.  But in
a most evil hour for le bon M. Malvin would it disappear.  Guard it
then, cher Malvin.  Respect it.  Watch over it as you value, and would
retain, your health and beauty, M. Malvin. And when _I_ have avenged
_my_ little piece of soap, the true history of the last ten minutes will
deeply interest those earnest searchers after truth, Legionaries
Schnitzel and Dupont.  Depart in peace and enter upon your new office of
Guardian of my Soap!  Vous devez en être joliment fier."

"Quite a speech, in effect, mon drôle," replied the stout Austrian as he
doubtfully fingered his short beard _au poinçon_, and added uneasily, "I
am not the only gentleman who ’decorates’ himself with soap."

"No?  Nor with uniforms.  Go in peace, Protector of my Soap."

And smiling wintrily M. Malvin winked, broke into the wholly deplorable
ditty of "Pére Dupanloup en chemin de fer," and pursued his innocent
path to barracks, whither Sir Montague Merline later followed him, after
watching with a contemptuous smile some mixed and messy fighting (beside
the apparently dead body of the Legionary Schnitzel) between an Alsatian
and an Italian, in which the Italian kicked his opponent in the stomach
and partly ate his ear, and the Alsatian used his hands solely for
purpose of throttling.

Why couldn’t they stand up and fight like gentlemen under Queensberry
rules, or, if boxing did not appeal to them, use their sword-bayonets
like soldiers and Legionaries--the low rooters, the vulgar,
rough-and-tumble gutter-scrappers....

Removing his almost dry washing from the line, Sir Montague Merline
marched across to his barrack-block, climbed the three flights of stone
stairs, traversed the long corridor of his Company, and entered the big,
light, airy room wherein he and twenty-nine other Legionaries (one of
whom held the very exalted and important rank of _Caporal_) lived and
moved and had their monotonous being.

Spreading his tunic and breeches on the end of the long table he
proceeded to "iron" them, first with his hand, secondly with a tin
plate, and finally with the edge of his "quart," the drinking-mug which
hung at the head of his bed ready for the reception of the early morning
_jus_, the strong coffee which most effectively rouses the Legionary
from somnolence and most ineffectively sustains him until midday.

Anon, having persuaded himself that the result of his labours was
satisfactory, and up to Legion standards of smartness--which are as high
as those of the ordinary _piou-piou_ of the French line are low--he
folded his uniform in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths, placed it with the
_paquetage_ on the shelf above his bed, and began to dress for his
evening walk-out. The Legionary’s time is, in theory, his own after 5
p.m., and the most sacred plank in the most sacred platform of all his
sacred tradition is his right to promenade himself at eventide and
listen to the Legion’s glorious band in the Place Sadi Carnot.

Having laid his uniform, belt, bayonet, and képi on his cot, he stepped
across to the next but one (the name-card at the head of which bore the
astonishing legend "Bucking Bronco, No. 11356.  Soldat 1ère Classe),
opened a little sack which hung at the head of it, and took from it the
remains of an ancient nail-brush, the joint property of Sir Montague
Merline, alias Jean Boule, and Hiram Cyrus Milton, alias Bucking Bronco,
late of Texas, California, Yukon, and "the main drag" of the United
States of America.

Even as Sir Montague’s hand was inserted through the neck of the sack,
the huge American (who had been wrongfully accused and rashly attacked
by Legionary Hans Schnitzel) entered the barrack-room, caught sight of a
figure bending over his rag-sack, and crept on tiptoe towards it, his
great gnarled fists clenched, his mouth compressed to a straight thin
line beneath his huge drooping moustache, and his grey eyes ablaze.
Luckily Sir Montague heard the sounds of his stealthy approach, and
turned just in time.  The American dropped his fists and smiled.

"Say," he drawled, "I thought it was some herring-gutted weevil of a
Dago or a Squarehead shenannikin with my precious jools.  An’ I was jest
a’goin’ ter plug the skinnamalink some.  Say, Johnnie, if yew hadn’t
swivelled any, I was jest a’goin’ ter slug yew, good an’ plenty, behind
the yeer-’ole."

"Just getting the tooth-nail-button-boot-dandy-brush, Buck," replied Sir
Montague.  "How are you feeling?"

"I’m feelin’ purty mean," was the reply.  "A dirty Squarehead of a
dod-gasted Dutchy from the Farterland grunted in me eye, an’ I thought
the shave-tail was fer rough-housin’, an’ I slugged him one, just ter
start ’im gwine.  The gosh-dinged piker jest curled up.  He jest wilted
on the floor."

The Bucking Bronco, in high disgust, expectorated and then chid himself
for forgetting that he was no longer on the free soil of America, where
a gentleman may spit as he likes and be a gentleman for a’ that and a’
that.

"I tell yew, Johnnie," he continued, "he got me jingled, the lumberin’
lallapaloozer!  There he lay _an’_ lay--and then some.  ’Git up, yew
rubberin’ rube,’ I ses, ’yew’ll git moss on your teeth if yew lie so
quiet; git up, an’ deliver the goods,’ I ses, ’I had more guts then yew
when I was knee high to a June bug.’  Did he arise an’ make good?   _I_
should worry. Nope.  Yew take it from Uncle, that bonehead is there yit,
an’ afore I could make him wise to it thet he didn’t git the bulge on
Uncle with _thet_ bluff, another Squarehead an’ a gibberin’ Dago put up
a dirty kind o’ scrap over his body, gougin’ and kickin’ an’ earbitin’
an’ throttlin’, an’ a whole bunch o’ boobs jined in an’ I give it up an’
come ’ome."  And the Bucking Bronco sat him sadly on his bed and
groaned.

"Cheer up, Buck, we’ll all soon be dead," replied his comrade, "don’t
_you_ go getting cafard," and he looked anxiously at the
angry-lugubrious face of his friend.  "What’s the _ordre du jour_ for
walking-out dress to-day?" he added.  "Blue tunic and red trousers?  Or
tunic and white?  Or _capote_, or what?"

"It was tunic an’ white yesterday," replied the American, "an’ I guess
it is to-day too."

"It’s my night to howl," he added cryptically "Let’s go an’ pow-wow
Carmelita ef thet fresh gorilla Loojey Rivoli ain’t got ’er in ’is
pocket.  I’ll shoot ’im up some day, sure...."

A sudden shouting, tumult, and running below, and cries of "Les bleus!
Les bleus!" interrupted the Bronco’s monologue and drew the two old
soldiers to a window that overlooked the vast, neat, gravelled
barrack-square, clean, naked, and bleak to the eye as an ice-floe.

"Strike me peculiar," remarked the Bucking Bronco.  "It’s another big
gang o’ tenderfeet."

"A draft of rookies!  Come on--they’ll all be for our Company in place
of those _poumpists_,[#] and there may be something Anglo-Saxon among
them," said Legionary John Bull, and the two men hastily flung their
capotes over their sketchy attire and hurried from the room, buttoning
them as they went.


[#] Deserters.


Like Charity, the Legionary’s overcoat covers a multitude of
sins--chiefly of omission--and is a most useful garment.  It protects
him from the cold dawn wind, and keeps him warm by night; it protects
him from the cruel African sun, and keeps him cool by day, or at least,
if not cool, in the frying-pan degree of heat, which is better than that
of the fire. He marches in it without a tunic, and relies upon it to
conceal the fact when he has failed to "decorate" himself with
underclothing.  Its skirts, buttoned back, hamper not his legs, and its
capacious pockets have many uses.  Its one drawback is that, being
double-breasted, it buttons up on either side, a fact which has brought
the grey hairs of many an honest Legionary in sorrow to the cellules,
and given many a brutal and vindictive Sergeant the chance of that
cruelty in which his little tyrant soul so revels.  For, incredible as
it may seem to the lay mind, the ingenious devil whose military mind
concocts the ordres du jour, changes, by solemn decree, and almost
daily, the side upon which the overcoat is to be buttoned up.

Clattering down the long flights of stone stairs, and converging across
the barrack-square, the Legionaries came running from all directions, to
gaze upon, to chaff, to delude, to sponge upon, and to rob and swindle
the "Blues"--the recruits of the _Légion Étrangère_, the embryo
_Légionnaires d’Afrique_.

In the incredibly maddeningly dull life of the Legion in peace time, the
slightest diversion is a god-send and even the arrival of a batch of
recruits a most welcome event.  To all, it is a distraction; to some,
the hope of the arrival of a fellow-countryman (especially to the few
English, Americans, Danes, Greeks, Russians, Norwegians, Swedes, and
Poles whom cruel Fate has sent to La Légion).  To some, a chance of
passing on a part of the brutality and tyranny which they themselves
suffer; to some, a chance of getting civilian clothes in which to
desert; to others, an opportunity of selling knowledge of the ropes, for
litres of canteen wine; to many, a hope of working a successful trick on
a bewildered recruit--the time-honoured villainy of stealing his new
uniform and pretending to buy him another _sub rosa_ from the dishonest
quartermaster, whereupon the recruit buys back his own original uniform
at the cost of his little all (for invariably the alleged
substitute-uniform costs just that sum of money which the poor wretch
has brought with him and augmented by the compulsory sale of his
civilian kit to the clothes-dealing harpies and thieves who infest the
barrack-gates on the arrival of each draft).

As the tiny portal beside the huge barrack-gate was closed and fastened
by the Corporal in charge of the squad of "blues" (as the French army
calls its recruits[#]), the single file of derelicts halted at the order
of the Sergeant of the Guard, who, more in sorrow than in anger, weighed
them and found them wanting.


[#] In the days of the high, tight stock and cravat, the recruit was
supposed to be livid and blue in the face until he grew accustomed to
them.


"Sweepings," he summed them up in passing judgment.  "Foundlings.
Droppings.  Crumbs. Tripe.  Accidents.  Abortions.  Cripples.  Left by
the tide.  Blown in by the wind.  Born pékins.[#]  Only one man among
them, and he a pig of a Prussian--or perhaps an Englishman.  Let us hope
he’s an Englishman...."


[#] Civilians.


In speaking thus, the worthy Sergeant was behaving with impropriety and
contrary to the law and tradition of the Legion.  What nouns and
adjectives a non-commissioned officer may use wherewith to stigmatise a
Legionary, depend wholly and solely upon his taste, fluency and
vocabulary.  But it is not etiquette to reproach a man with his
nationality, however much a matter for reproach that nationality may be.

"Are you an Englishman, most miserable _bleu_?" he suddenly asked of a
tall, slim, fair youth, dressed in tweed Norfolk-jacket, and grey
flannel trousers, and bearing in every line of feature and form, and in
the cut and set of his expensive clothing, the stamp of the man of
breeding, birth and position.

"By the especial mercy and grace of God, I am an Englishman, Sergeant,
thank you," he replied coolly in good, if slow and careful French.

The Sergeant smiled grimly behind his big moustache. Himself a cashiered
Russian officer, and once a gentleman, he could appreciate a gentleman
and approve him in the strict privacy of his soul.

"_Slava Bogu!_" he roared.  "Vile _bleu_!  And now by the especial mercy
and grace of the Devil you are a Légionnaire--or will be, if you survive
the making...." and added _sotto voce_, "Are you a degraded dog of a
broken officer?  If so, you can claim to be appointed to the _élèves
caporaux_ as a non-commissioned officer on probation, if you have a
photo of yourself in officer’s uniform.  Thus you will escape all
recruit-drill and live in hope to become, some day, Sergeant, even as
I," and the (for a Sergeant of the Legion) decent-hearted fellow smote
his vast chest.

"I thank you, Sergeant," was the drawled reply. "You really dazzle
me--but _I_ am not a degraded dog of a broken officer."

"_Gospodi pomilui!_" roared the incensed Sergeant. "Ne me donnez de la
gabatine, pratique!" and, for a second, seemed likely to strike the cool
and insolent recruit who dared to bandy words with a Sergeant of the
Legion.  His eyes bulged, his moustache bristled, and his scarlet face
turned purple as he literally showed his teeth.

"Go easy, old chap," spoke a quiet voice, in English, close beside the
Englishman.  "That fellow can do you to death if you offend him," and
the recruit, turning, beheld a grey-moustached, white-haired elderly
man, bronzed, lined, and worn-looking--a typical French army _vielle
moustache_--an "old sweat" from whose lips the accents of a refined
English gentleman came with the utmost incongruity.

The youth’s face brightened with interest.  Obviously this old dear was
a public-school, or ’Varsity man, or, very probably, an _ex_-British
officer.

"Good egg," quoth he, extending a hand behind him for a surreptitious
shake.  "See you anon, what?"

"Yes, you’ll all come to the Seventh Company.  We are below strength,"
said Legionary John Bull, in whose weary eyes had shone a new light of
interest since they fell upon this compatriot of his own caste and
kidney.

A remarkably cool and nonchalant recruit--and surely unique in the
history of the Legion’s "blues" in showing absolutely no sign of
privation, fear, stress, criminality, poverty, depression, anxiety, or
bewilderment!

"Now, what’n hell is he doin’ in thet bum outfit?" queried the Bucking
Bronco of his friend John Bull, who kept as near as possible to the
Englishman whom he had warned against ill-timed causticity of humour.

"He’s some b’y, thet b’y, but he’d better quit kickin’.  He’s a way-up
white man I opine.  What’s ’e a’doin’ in this joint?  He’s a gay-cat and
a looker. He’s a fierce stiff sport.  He has sand, some--sure. Yep," and
Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton checked himself only just in time from defiling
the immaculate and sacred parade-ground, by "signifying in the usual
manner" that he was mentally perturbed, and himself in these
circumstances of expectoration-difficulty by observing that the boy was
undoubtedly "some" boy, and worthy to have been an American citizen had
he been born under a luckier star--or stripe.

"I can’t place him, Buck," replied the puzzled John Bull, his quiet
voice rendered almost inaudible by the shouts, howls, yells and cries of
the seething mob of Legionaries who swarmed round the line of recruits,
assailing their bewildered ears in all the tongues of Europe, and some
of those of Asia and Africa.

"He doesn’t look hungry, and he doesn’t look hunted.  I suppose he is
one of the few who don’t come here to escape either starvation,
creditors, or the Law.  And he doesn’t look desperate like the average
turned-down lover, ruined gambler, deserted husband, or busted
bankrupt....  Wonder if he’s come here in search of ’Romance’?"

"Wal, ef he’s come hyar for his health an’ amoosement he’d go to Hell to
cool himself, or ter the den of a grizzly b’ar fer gentle stimoolation
and recreation. Gee whiz!  Didn’t he fair git ole Bluebottle’s goat? He
sure did git nixt him."

"Bit of a contrast to the rest of the gang, what?" remarked John Bull,
and indeed the truth of his remark was very obvious.

"Ain’t they a outfit o’ dodgasted hoboes an’ bindlestiffs!" agreed his
friend.

Straight as a lance, thin, very broad in the shoulders and narrow of
waist and hip; apparently as clean and unruffled as when leaving his
golf-club pavilion for a round on the links; cool, self-possessed,
haughty, aristocratic and clean-cut of feature, this Englishman among
the other recruits looked like a Derby winner among a string of equine
ruins in a knacker’s yard; like a panther among bears--a detached and
separated creature, something of different flesh and blood. Breed is a
very remarkable thing, even more distinctive than race, and in this
little band of derelicts was another Englishman, a Cockney youth who had
passed from street-arab and gutter-snipe, _via_ Reformatory, to
hooligan, coster and soldier.  No man in that collection of wreckage
from Germany, Spain, Italy, France, and the four corners of Europe
looked less like the tall recruit than did this brother Englishman.

To Sir Montague Merline, fallen and shattered star of the high social
firmament, the sight of him was as welcome as water in the desert, and
he thanked Fate for having brought another Englishman to the Legion--and
one so debonair, so fine, so handsome, cool and strong.

"There’s Blood there," he murmured to himself.

"His shoulders hev bin drilled somewheres, although he’s British," added
the Bucking one.  "Yep.  He’s one o’ the flat-backed push."

"I wonder if he can be a cashiered officer.  He’s drilled as you say....
If he has been broke for something it hasn’t marked him much.  Nothing
hang-dog there," mused Legionary John Bull.

"Nope.  He’s a blowed-in-the-glass British aristocrat," agreed the
large-minded Hiram Cyrus, "and I opine an ex-member of the commishunned
ranks o’ the British Constitootional Army.  He ain’t niver bin batterin’
the main-stem for light-pieces like them other hoodlums an’ toughs an’
smoudges.  Nope. He ain’t never throwed his feet fer a two-bit
poke-out.... Look at that road-kid next ’im!  Ain’t he a peach?  I
should smile!  Wonder the medicine-man didn’t turn down some o’ them
chechaquos...."

And, truly, the draft contained some very queer odd lots.  By the side
of the English gentleman stood a big fat German boy in knicker-bockers
and jersey, bare-legged and wearing a pair of button-boots that had
belonged to a woman in the days when they still possessed toe-caps.
Pale face, pale hair, and pale eyes, conspired to give him an air of
terror--the first seeming to have the hue of fright, the second to stand
_en brosse_ with fear, and the last to bulge like those of a hunted
animal.

Presumably M. le Médicin-Major must have been satisfied that the boy was
eighteen years of age, but, though tall and robust, he looked nearer
fifteen--an illusion strengthened, doubtless, by the knickerbockers,
bare calves, and button-boots.  If he had enlisted in the Foreign Legion
to avoid service in the Fatherland, he had quitted the frying-pan for a
furnace seven times heated.  Possibly he hoped to emulate Messieurs
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego.  In point of fact, he was a deserter
(driven to the desperate step of fleeing across the French frontier by a
typical Prussian non-commissioned officer), and already wishing himself
once more _zwei jahriger_ in the happy Fatherland.

Already, to his German soul and stomach, the lager-bier of Munich, the
sausage, _zwieback_, and _kalte schnitzel_ of home, seemed things of the
dim and distant past, and unattainable future.

Next to him stood a gnarled and knotted Spaniard, whose face appeared to
be carven from his native mahogany, and whose ragged clothing--grimy,
oily, blackened--proclaimed him wharfside coal-heaver, dock-rat, and
longshoreman.  What did he among the Legion’s blues?  Was it lack of
work, was it slow starvation?  Or excess of temper and a quick blow with
a coal-shovel upon the head of an enemy in some Marseilles
coal-barge--that had brought him to Sidi-bel-Abbès in the sands of
Africa?

By his side slouched a dark-faced, blunt-featured Austrian youth, whose
evil-looking mouth was unfortunately in no wise concealed by a sparse
and straggling moustache, laboriously pinched into two gummed spikes,
and whose close-set eyes were not in harmony of focus.  His dress
appeared to be that of a lower-class clerk, ill-fitting black cloth of
lamentable cut, the type of suit that, in its thousands, renders day
horrible in European and American cities, and is, alas, spreading to
many Asiatic.  His linen was filthy, his crinkly hair full of dust, his
boots cracked and shapeless.  He looked what he was--an absconding
Viennese tout who had had a very poor time of it. He proved to be a
highly objectionable and despicable scoundrel.

His left-hand neighbour was a weedy, olive-faced youth, wearing a velvet
tam-o’-shanter cap, and a brown corduroy suit, of which the baggy,
peg-top trousers fitted tightly at the ankles over pearl-buttoned
spring-side patent boots.  He had long fluffy brown hair, long fluffy
brown beard, whiskers, and moustache! long filthy finger nails, and no
linen.  Apparently a French student of the Sorbonne, or artist from The
Quarter, overwhelmed by some terrible cataclysm, some _affaire_ of the
heart, the pocket, or _l’honneur_.

Beside this gentleman, whose whole appearance was highly offensive to
the prejudiced insular eye of the Englishman, stood a typical
_Apache_--a horrible-looking creature whose appalling face showed the
cunning of the fox, the ferocity of the panther, the cruelty of the
wolf, the treachery of the bear, the hate of the serpent, and the rage
of the boar.  Monsieur l’Apache had evidently chosen the Legion as a
preferable alternative to the hulks and the chain-gang--Algeria rather
than Noumea.  He lived to doubt the wisdom of his choice.

Beside him, and evidently eyeing him askance, stood two youths as
extraordinarily similar as were ever twins in this world.  Dark,
slightly "rat-faced," slender, but decidedly athletic looking.

"Cheer up, _golubtchik_!  If one cannot get _vodka_ one must drink
_kvass_," whispered one.

"All right, Fedia," replied the other.  "But I am so hungry and tired.
What wouldn’t I give for some good hot tea and _blinni_!"

"We’re bound to get something of some sort before long--though it won’t
be _zakuska_.  Don’t give way on the very threshold now.  It is our one
chance, or I would not have brought you here, Olichka."

"Ssh!" whispered back the other.  "Don’t call me that here, Feodor."

"Of course not, Mikhail, stout fellow," replied Feodor, and smote his
companion on the back.

Regarding them, sharp-eyed, stood the Cockney, an undersized,
narrow-chested, but wiry-looking person--a typical East End sparrow;
impudent, assertive, thoroughly self-reliant, tenacious, and courageous;
of the class that produces admirable specimens of the genus "Tommy."

In curious contrast to his look of _gamin_ alertness was that of his
neighbour, a most stolid, dull and heavy-looking Dutchman, whose sole
conversational effort was the grunt "_Verstaan nie_," whenever
addressed.  Like every other member of the draft he appeared "to feel
his position" keenly, and distinctly to deplore it.  Such expression as
his bovine face possessed, suggested that Algerian sun and sands
compared unfavourably with Dutch mists and polders, and the
barrack-square of the Legion with the fat and comfortable stern of a
Scheldt canal boat.

Square-headed, flat-faced Germans, gesticulating Alsatians and
Lorraines, fair Swiss, and Belgians, with a sprinkling of Italians,
swarthy Spaniards, Austrians and French, made up the remainder of the
party, men whose status, age, appearance, bearing, and origins were as
diverse as their nationalities levelled by a common desperate need (of
food, or sanctuary, or a fresh start in life), and united by a common
filthiness, squalor, and dejection--a gang powerless in the bonds of
hunger and fear, delivered bound into the relentless, grinding mills of
the Legion.

And thus, distinguished and apart, though in their midst, stood the
well-dressed Englishman, apparently calm, incurious, with equal mind;
his linen fresh, his face shaven, his clothing uncreased, his air rather
that of one who awaits the result of the footman’s enquiry as to whether
Her Ladyship is "at home" to him.

More and more, the heart of Sir Montague Merline warmed to this young
man of his own race and class, with his square shoulders, flat back,
calm bearing, and hard high look.  He approved and admired his air and
appearance of being a Man, a Gentleman, and a Soldier.  Had he a son, it
was just such a youth as this he would have him be.

"Any ’Murricans thar?" suddenly bawled the Bucking Bronco.

"Nao," replied the Cockney youth, craning forward. "But I’m
Henglish--which is better any d’y in the week, ain’t it?"

The eye of the large American travelled slowly and deliberately from the
crown of the head to the tip of the toe of the Cockney, and back.  He
then said nothing--with some eloquence.

"Say, ma honey, yew talk U.S. any?" queried a gigantic Negro, in the
uniform of the Legion (presumably recruited in France as a free American
citizen of Anglo-Saxon speech), addressing himself to the tall
Englishman.  "Youse ain’t Dago, nor Dutchie, nor French.  Cough it up,
Bo, right hyar ef youse U.S."

The eyes of the young Englishman narrowed slightly, and his naturally
haughty expression appeared to deepen toward one of contempt and
disgust. Otherwise he took no notice of the Negro, nor of his question.

Remarking, "Some poah white trash," the Negro turned to the next man
with the same query.

Cries in various tongues, such as "Anybody from Spain?" "Anyone from
Vienna?" "Any Switzers about?" and similar attempts by the crowding,
jostling Legionaries to discover a compatriot, and possibly a "towny,"
evoked gleams and glances of interest from the haggard, wretched eyes of
the "blues," and, occasionally, answering cries from their grim and
grimy lips.

A swaggering, strutting Sergeant emerged from the neighbouring
regimental offices, roared "_Garde à vous_," brought the recruits to
attention, and called the roll.  As prophesied by Legionary John Bull,
the whole draft was assigned to the Seventh Company, recently depleted
by the desertion, en masse, of a _cafard_-smitten German _escouade_, or
section, who had gone "on pump," merely to die in the desert at the
hands of the Arabs--several horribly tortured, all horribly mangled.

Having called the roll, this Sergeant, not strictly following the
example of the Sergeant of the Guard, looked the draft over more in
anger than in sorrow.

"Oh, Name of the Name of Beautiful Beelzebub," bawled he, "but what have
we here?  To _drill_ such worm-casts!  Quel métier!  Quel chien d’un
métier! Stand up, stand up, oh sons of Arab mothers and pariah dogs,"
and then, feigning sudden and unconquerable sickness, he turned upon the
Corporal in charge with a roar of--

"March these sacred pigs to their accursed sties."

As the heterogeneous gang stepped off at the word of command, "_En
avant.  Marche!_" toward the Quartermaster’s store of the Seventh
Company, it was clear to the experienced eye that the great majority
were "Back to the army again," and were either deserters, or men who had
already put in their military service in the armies of their own
countries.

In the store-room they were endowed by the _Fourrier-Sergent_, to the
accompaniment of torrential profanity, with white fatigue-uniforms,
night-caps, rough shirts, harsh towels, and scraps of soap.  From the
store-room the squad was "personally conducted" by another, and even
more terrible, Sergeant to a washing-shed beyond the drill-ground, and
bidden to soap and scour itself, and then stand beneath the primitive
shower-baths until purged and clean as never before in its unspeakable
life.

As they neared the washing-shed, the bare idea of ablutions, or the idea
of bare ablutions, appeared to strike consternation, if not positive
terror, into the heart of at least one member of the squad, for the
young Russian who had been addressed by his twin as Mikhail suddenly
seized the other’s arm and said with a gasp--

"Oh, Fedichka, how can I?  Oh Fedia, Fedia, what shall I do?"

"We must trust in God, and use our wits, Olusha. I will..."

But a roar of "Silence, Oh Son of Seven Pigs," from the Sergeant, cut
him short as they reached the shed.

"Now strip and scrub your mangy skins, you dogs. Scrape your crawling
hides until the floor is thick in hog-bristles and earth, oh
Great-grandsons of Sacréd Swine," he further adjured the wretched
"blues," with horrible threats and fearful oaths.

"Wash, you mud-caked vermin, wash, for the carcase of the Legionary must
be as spotless as the Fame of the Legion, or the honour of its smartest
Sergeant--Sergeant Legros," and he lapped his bulging chest lest any
Boeotian present should be ignorant of the identity of Sergeant Legros
of the Legion.

Walking up and down before the doorless stalls in which the naked
recruits washed, Sergeant Legros hurled taunts, gibes, insults, and
curses at his charges, stopping from time to time to give special
attention to anyone who had the misfortune to acquire his particular
regard.  Pausing to stare at the tall Englishman in affected disgust at
the condition of his brilliant and glowing skin, he enquired--

"Is that a vest, disclosed by scrubbing and the action of water?  Or is
it your hide, pig?"  And was somewhat taken aback by the cool and
pleasant reply,

"No, that is not a new, pink silk vest that you see, Sergeant, it really
is my own skin--but many thanks for the kind compliment, none the less."

Sergeant Legros eyed the recruit with something dimly and distantly akin
to pity.  Mad as a March hare, poor wretch, of course--it could not be
intentional impudence--and the Sergeant smiled austerely--he would
probably die in the cells ere long, if _le cafard_ did not send him to
the Zephyrs, the firing-platoon, or the Arabs.  Mad to begin with!  Ho!
Ho!  What a jest!--and the Sergeant chuckled.

But what was this?  Did the good Sergeant’s eyes deceive him?  Or was
there, in the next compartment, a lousy, lazy "blue" pretending to
cleanse his foul and sinful carcase without completely stripping?  The
young Russian, Mikhail, standing with his back to the doorway, was
unenthusiastically washing the upper part of his body.

Sergeant Legros stiffened like a pointer, at the sight. Rank
disobedience!  Flagrant defiance of orders, coupled with the laziest and
filthiest indifference to cleanliness!  This vile "blue" would put the
Legion’s clean shirt and canvas fatigue-suit on an indifferently washen
body, would he?  Let him wait until he was a Legionary, and no longer a
recruit--and he should learn something of the powers of the Sergeant
Legros.

"Off with those trousers, thou mud-caked flea-bitten scum," he
thundered, and then received perhaps the greatest surprise of a
surprising life. For, ere the offending recruit could turn, or obey,
there danced forth from the next cubicle, with a wild whoop, his exact
double, who, naked as he was born, turned agile somersaults and
Catherine-wheels past the astounded Sergeant, down the front of the
bathing-shed, and round the corner.

"Sacré Nom de Nom de Bon Dieu-de-Dieu!" ejaculated Sergeant Legros, and
rubbed his eyes. He then displayed a sample of the mental quickness of
the trained Legionary in darting to the neighbouring corner of the
building instead of running down the entire front in the wake of the
vanished acrobat.

Dashing along the short side-wall, Sergeant Legros turned the corner and
beheld the errant lunatic approaching in the same literally
revolutionary manner.

On catching sight of the Sergeant, the naked recruit halted, and broke
into song and dance, the latter being of that peculiarly violent Cossack
variety which constrains the performer to crouch low to earth and fling
out his legs, alternately, straight before him.

For the first time in his life, words failed Sergeant Legros.  For some
moments he could but stand over the dancer and gesticulate and stutter.
Rising to his feet with an engaging smile--.

"Ça va mieux, mon père?" observed the latter amiably.

Seizing him by arm and neck, the apoplectic Sergeant Legros conducted
this weird disciple of Terpsichore back to his cubicle, while his mazed
mind fumbled in the treasure-house of his vocabulary, and the armoury of
his weapons of punishment.

Apparently there was method, however, in the madness of Feodor
Kyrilovitch Malekov, for a distinct look of relief and satisfaction
crossed his face as, in the midst of a little crowd of open-mouthed, and
half-clothed recruits, he caught sight of his brother in complete
fatigue-uniform.

Gradually, and very perceptibly the condition of Sergeant Legros
improved.  His halting recriminations and imprecations became a steady
trickle, the trickle a flow, the flow a torrent, and the torrent an
overwhelming deluge.  By the time he had almost exhausted his vocabulary
and himself, he began to see the humorous and interesting aspect of
finding two lunatics in one small draft.  He would add them to his
collection of butts.  Possibly one, or both of them, might even come to
equal the Mad Grasshopper in that rôle.  Fancy more editions of La
Cigale--who had provided him with more amusement and opportunities for
brutality than any ten sane Legionaries!

"Now, do great and unmerited honour to your vile, low carcases by
putting on the fatigue-uniform of the Legion.  Gather up your filthy
civilian rags, and hasten," he bawled.

And when the, now wondrously metamorphosed, recruits had all dressed in
the new canvas uniforms, they were marched to a small side gate in the
wall of the barrack-square, and ordered to sell immediately everything
they possessed in the shape of civilian clothing, including boots and
socks.  Civilian clothing is essential to the would-be deserter, and La
Légion does not facilitate desertion.

That the unfortunate recruits got the one or two francs they did receive
was solely due to the absence of a "combine" among the scoundrelly
Arabs, Greeks, Spanish Jews, Negroes, and nondescript rogues who
struggled for the cast-off clothing.  For the Englishman’s expensive
suit a franc was offered, and competition advanced this price to four.
For the sum of five francs he had to sell clothes, hat, boots, collar,
tie, and underclothing that had recently cost him over fifty times as
much.  That he felt annoyed, and that, in spite of his apparent
nonchalance, his temper was wearing thin, was evidenced by the fact that
a big Arab who laid a grimy paw upon his shoulder and snatched at his
bundle, received the swift blow of dissuasion--a sudden straight-left in
the eye, sending him flying--to the amusement and approval of the sentry
whose difficult and arduous task it was to keep the scrambling, yelling
thieves of old-clo’ dealers from invading the barrack-square, and
repentant recruits from quitting it.

When the swindle of the forced sale was complete, and several poor
wretches had parted with their all for a few _sous_, the gate was shut
and the weary squad marched to the offices of the Seventh Company that
each man’s name and profession might be entered in the Company Roll, and
that he might receive his _matricule_ number, the number which would
henceforth hide his identity, and save him the trouble of retaining a
personality and a name.

To Colour-Sergeant Blanc, the tall English youth, like most Legionaries,
gave a _nom d’emprunt_, two of his own names, Reginald Rupert.  He
concealed his surname and sullied the crystal truth of fact by stating
that his father was the Commander-in-Chief of the Horse Marines of Great
Britain and Inspector-General of the Royal Naval Horse Artillery; that
he himself was by profession a wild-rabbit-tamer, and by conviction a
Plymouth Rock--all of which was duly and solemnly entered in the great
tome by M. Blanc, a man taciturn, _très boutonné_, and of no
imagination.

Whatever the recruit may choose to say is written down in the Company
lists, and should a recruit wax a little humorous, why--the Legion will
very soon cure him of any tendency to humour.  The Legion asks no
questions, answers none, takes the recruit at his own valuation, and
quickly readjusts it for him. Reconducted to the Store-room of the
Seventh Company, the batch of recruits, again to the accompaniment of a
fusillade of imprecations, and beneath a torrential deluge of insults
and oaths, was violently tailored by a number of non-commissioned
officers, and a fatigue-party of Légionnaires.

To "Reginald Rupert," at any rate, the badges of rank worn by the
non-commissioned officers were mysterious and confusing--as he noted a
man with one chevron giving peremptory orders in loud tone and bullying
manner to a man who wore two chevrons. It also puzzled him that the fat
man, who was evidently the senior official present, was addressed by the
others as "_chef_," as though he were a cook.  By the time he was fitted
out with kit and accoutrement, he had decided that the "chef" (who wore
two gold chevrons) was a Sergeant-Major, that the men wearing one gold
chevron were Sergeants, and that those wearing two red ones were
Corporals; and herein he was entirely correct.

Every man had to fit (rather than be fitted with) a red képi having a
brass grenade in front; a double-breasted, dark blue tunic with red
facings and green-fringed red epaulettes; a big blue greatcoat, or
_capote_; baggy red breeches; two pairs of boots; two pairs of linen
spats, and a pair of leather gaiters. He also received a long blue
woollen cummerbund, a knapsack of the old British pattern, a bag of
cleaning materials, belts, straps, cartridge-pouches, haversack, and
field flask.

To the fat Sergeant-Major it was a personal insult, and an impudence
amounting almost to blasphemy, that a képi, or tunic should not fit the
man to whom it was handed.  The idea of adapting a ready-made garment to
a man appeared less prominent than that of adapting a ready-made man to
a garment.

"What!" he roared in Legion French, to the fat German boy who understood
not a word of the tirade. "What?  Nom d’un pétard!  Sacré Dieu!  The
tunic will not easily button?  Then contract thy vile body until it
will, thou offspring of a diseased pig and a dead dog.  I will fit thee
to that tunic, and none other, within the week.  Wait!  But wait--till
thou has eaten the Breakfast of the Legion once or twice, fat sow...."

A gloomy, sardonic Legionary placed a képi upon the crisply curling hair
of Reginald Rupert.  It was miles too big--a ludicrous extinguisher.
The Englishman removed it, and returned it with the remark, "Ça ne
marche pas, mon ami."

"_Merde!_" ejaculated the liverish-looking soldier, and called Heaven to
witness that he was not to blame if the son of a beetle had a walnut for
a head.

Throwing the képi back into the big box he fished out another, banged it
on Rupert’s head, and was about to bring his open hand down on the top
of it, when he caught the cold but blazing eye of the recruit, and
noticed the clenched fist and lips.  Had the Legionary’s right hand
descended, the recruit’s left hand would have risen with promptitude and
force.

"If that is too big, let the sun boil thy brains and bloat thy skull
till it fits, and if it be too small, sleep in it," he remarked sourly,
and added that thrice-accursed "blues" were creatures of the kind that
ate their young, encumbered the earth, polluted the air, loved to _faire
Suisse_,[#] and troubled Soldiers of the Legion who might otherwise have
been in the Canteen, or at Carmelita’s--instead of being the valets of
sons of frogs, nameless excrescences....


[#] To drink alone; to sulk.


"Too small," replied Rupert coolly, and flung the cap into the box.
"Valet?  I should condole with a crocodile that had a clumsy and
ignorant yokel like you for a valet," he added, in slow and careful
French as he tried on a third cap, which he found more to his liking.

The old Legionary gasped.

"Il m’enmerde!" he murmured, and wiped his brow.  He, Jules Duplessis,
Soldat 1ère Classe, with four years’ service and the _medaille
militaire_, had been outfaced, browbeaten, insulted by a miserable
"blue."  What were the World and La Légion coming to?  "_Merde!_"

While trying on his tunic, Rupert saw one of the Russians hand to the
other the tunic and trousers which he had tried on.  Apparently being as
alike as two pins in every respect they had adopted the labour-saving
device of one "fitting on" for both.

Having put on the képi, Mikhail bundled up the uniform, struck an
attitude with arms akimbo, and inquired of the other--

"Do I look _very_ awful in this thing, Fedia?"

"Shut up, you little fool," replied Feodor, with a quick frown.  "Try
and look more like a _mujik_ in _maslianitza_,[#] and less like a young
student at private theatricals.  You’re a Legionary now."


[#] The week before Lent, or "mad week," when all good _mujiks_ get
drunk--or used to do.


When, at length, the recruits had all been fitted into uniforms, and
were ready to depart, they were driven forth with the heart-felt curse
and comprehensive anathema of the Sergeant-Major--

"Sweep the room clear of this offal, Corporal," quoth he.  "And if thou
canst make a Légionnaire’s little toe out of the whole draft--thou shalt
have the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour--I promise it."

"_En avant.  Marche!_" bawled the Corporal, and the "blues" were led
away, up flights of stairs, and along echoing corridors to their future
home, their new quarters.  A Légionnaire, carrying a huge earthenware
jug, encountering them outside the door thereof, gave them their first
welcome to the Legion.

"Oh thrice-condemned souls, welcome to Hell," he cried genially, and
kicking open the door of a huge room, he liberally sprinkled each
passing recruit, murmuring as he did so--

"Le diable vous bénisse."




                               CHAPTER II

                      A BARRACK-ROOM OF THE LEGION


The room which Reginald Rupert entered, with a dozen of his fellow
"blues," was long and lofty, painfully orderly, and spotlessly clean.
Fifteen cots were exactly aligned on each long side, and down the middle
of the floor ran long wooden tables and benches, scoured and polished to
immaculate whiteness.  Above each bed was a shelf on which was piled a
very neat erection of uniforms and kit. To the eye of Rupert
(experienced in barrack-rooms) there was interesting novelty in the
absence of clothes-boxes, and the presence of hanging-cupboards
suspended over the tables from the ceiling.

Evidently the French authorities excelled the English in the art of
economising space, as nothing was on the floor that could be
accommodated above it. In the hanging cupboards were tin plates and cups
and various utensils of the dinner-table.

The Englishman noted that though the Lebel rifles stood in a rack in a
corner of the room, the long sword-bayonets hung by the pillows of their
owners, each near a tin quart-pot and a small sack.

On their beds, a few Légionnaires lay sleeping, or sat laboriously
polishing their leatherwork--the senseless, endless and detested
_astiquage_ of the Legion--or cleaning their rifles, bayonets, and
buttons.  Whatever else the Légionnaire is, or is not, he is
meticulously clean, neat, and smart, and when his day’s work is done (at
four or five o’clock) he must start a half-day’s work in "making
_fantasie_"--in preparation for the day’s work of the morrow.

Rising from his bed in the corner as the party entered, Legionary John
Bull approached the Corporal in charge of the room and suggested that
the English recruit should be allotted the bed between his own and that
of Légionnaire Bronco, as he was of the same mother-tongue, and would
make quicker progress in their hands than in those of foreigners.  As
the Corporal, agreeing, indicated the second bed from the window, to
Rupert, and told him to take possession of it and make his _paquetage_
on the shelf above, the Cockney recruit pushed forward:

"’Ere, I’m Henglish too!  I better jine these blokes."

"Qu’est-ce-qu’il dit, Jean Boule?" enquired the Corporal.

On being informed, Corporal Achille Martel allotted the fourth bed, that
on the other side of the Bucking Bronco, to Recruit Higgins with an
intimation that the sooner he learnt French, and ceased the use of
barbarous tongues the better it would be for his welfare.  The Corporal
then assigned berths to the remaining recruits, each between those of
two old soldiers, of whom the right-hand man was to be the new recruit’s
guide, philosopher and friend, until he, in his turn, became a prideful,
full-blown Legionary.

The young Russian who had given his name as Mikhail Kyrilovitch Malekov
observed that the card at the head of the cot on his right-hand bore the
inscription: "Luigi Rivoli, No. 13874, Soldat 2ième Classe."

As he stood, irresolute, and apparently in great anxiety and
perturbation, nervously opening and shutting a cartridge-pouch, his face
suddenly brightened as his twin entered the room and intercepted the
departing Corporal.

"_Mille pardons_, Monsieur," he said, saluting smartly and respectfully.
"But I earnestly and humbly request that you will permit me to inhabit
this room in which is my brother.  As we reached this door another
_sous-officier_ took me and the remainder to the next room when twelve
had entered here....  Alas! My brother was twelfth, and I thirteenth,"
he added volubly.  "Look you, Monsieur, he is my twin, and we have never
been separated yet.  We shall get on much faster and better, helping
each other, and be more credit to you and your room, _petit père_."

"Sacré Dieu, and Name of a Purple Frog!  Is this a scurvy and lousy
beggar, whining for alms at a mosque door?  And am I a God-forsaken and
disgusting _pékin_ that you address me as ’Monsieur’? Name of a Pipe!
Have I no rank?  Address me henceforth as Monsieur le Caporal, thou
kopeck-worth of Russian."

"Oui, oui; milles pardons, Monsieur le Caporal. But grant me this favour
and I and my brother will be your slaves."

"Va t’en, babillard!  Rompez, jaseur!" snarled the Corporal.

But the Russian, true to type, was tenacious. Producing a five-franc
piece he scratched his nose therewith, and dropping the wheedling and
suppliant tone, asked the testy Corporal if he thought it likely
Messieurs les Caporaux of the Seventh Company could possibly be induced
to drink the health of so insignificant an object as Recruit Feodor
Kyrilovitch Malekov.

"Corporals do not drink with Légionnaires," was the answer, "but
doubtless Corporal Gilles of the next room will join me in a drink to
the health of a worthy and promising ’blue,’" and, removing his képi, he
stretched his gigantic frame and yawned hugely as the Russian
dexterously, and apparently unnoticed, slipped the coin into the képi.
Having casually examined the lining of his képi, Monsieur le Caporal
Martel replaced it on his head, and with astounding suddenness and
ferocity pounced upon an ugly, tow-haired German, and with a shout of
"Out, pig!  Out of my beautiful room!  Thy face disfigures it," he
hunted him forth and bestowed him upon the neighbouring Corporal, M.
Auguste Gilles, together with a promise of ten bottles of Madame la
Cantinière’s best, out of the thirty-and-five which the Russian’s
five-franc piece would purchase.

In a moment the Russian had opened negotiations with the Spaniard who
had taken the bed next but one to that of Mikhail.

Like all educated Russians, Feodor Kyrilovitch was an accomplished
linguist, and, while speaking French and English idiomatically, could
get along very comfortably in Spanish, Italian, and German.

A very few minutes enabled him to make it clear to the Spaniard that an
exchange of beds would do him no harm, and enrich him by a two-franc
piece.

"No hay de que, Señor.  Gracias, muchas gracias," replied the Spaniard.
"En seguida, con se permiso," and transferred himself and his belongings
to the berth vacated by the insulted and dispossessed German.

Meanwhile, Reginald Rupert, with soldierly promptitude, lost no time in
setting about the brushing and arrangement of his kit, gathering up, as
he did so, the pearls of local wisdom that fell from the lips of his
kindly mentor, whose name and description he observed to be "Légionnaire
John Bull, No. 11867, Soldat 2ième Classe."

Having shown his pupil the best and quickest way of folding his uniform
in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths, and so arranging everything that he
could find it in the dark, and array himself _en tenue de campagne
d’Afrique_ in ten minutes without a light, he invited him to try his own
hand at the job.

"Now you try and make that ’_paquetage_ of the Legion,’" observed the
instructor, "and the sooner you learn to make it quickly, the better.
As you see, you have no chest for your kit as you had in the British
Army, and so you keep your uniform on your shelf, _en paquetage_, for
tidiness and smartness, without creases. The Légionnaire is as _chic_
and particular as the best trooper of the crackest English
cavalry-corps.  We look down on the _piou-piou_ from a fearful height,
and swagger against the _Chasseur d’Afrique_ himself.  I wish to God we
had spurs, but there’s no cavalry in the Legion--though there are kinds
of Mounted-Rifle Companies on mules, down South.  I miss spurs damnably,
even after fourteen years of foot-slogging in the Legion.  You can’t
really swagger without spurs--not that the women will look at a
Legionary in any case, or the men respect him, save as a fighter.  But
you can’t swing without spurs."

"No," agreed Rupert, "I was just thinking I should miss them, and it’ll
take me some time to get used to a night-cap, a neck-curtained képi, a
knapsack, and a steel bayonet-scabbard."

"You’ll appreciate the first when you sleep out, and the second when you
march, down South.  The nights are infernally cold, and the days
appallingly hot--and yet sunstroke is unknown in the Legion.  Some put
it down to wearing the overcoat to march in.  The steel scabbard is
bad--noisy and heavy.  The knapsack is the very devil on the march, but
it’s the one and only place in the world in which you can keep a photo,
letter, book, or scrap of private property, besides spare uniform and
small kit.  You’ll soon learn to pack it, to stow underclothing in the
haversack, and to know the place for everything, so that you can get
from bed to barrack-square, fully equipped and accoutred in nine minutes
from the bugle....  And don’t, for Heaven’s sake, lose anything, for a
spiteful N.C.O. can send you to your death in Biribi--that’s the Penal
Battalion--by running you in two or three times for ’theft of
equipment.’  Lost kit is regarded as stolen kit, and stolen kit is sold
kit (to a court-martial), and the penalty is six months with the
Zephyrs.  It takes a good man to survive that....  If you’ve got any
money, try and keep a little in hand, so that you can always replace
missing kit.  The fellows here are appalling thieves--of uniform.  It is
regarded as a right, natural and proper thing to steal uniforms and kit,
and yet we’d nearly kill a man who stole money, tobacco, or food.  The
former would be ’decorating’ yourself, the latter disgracing yourself.
We’ve some queer beasts here, but we’re a grand regiment."

The disorderly heap of garments having become an exceedingly neat and
ingenious little edifice, compact, symmetrical, and stable, Rupert’s
instructor introduced the subject of that bane of the Legionary’s
life--the eternal _astiquage_, the senseless and eternal polishing of
the black leather straps and large cartridge-pouches.

"This stuff looks as though it had been left here by the Tenth Legion of
Julius Cæsar, rather than made for the Foreign Legion," he remarked.
"Let’s see what we can make of it.  Watch me do this belt, and then you
can try the cartridge-cases.  Don’t mind firing off all the questions
you’ve got to ask, meanwhile."

"Thanks.  What sort of chaps are they in this room?" asked Rupert,
seating himself on the bed beside his friendly preceptor, and inwardly
congratulating himself on his good luck in meeting, on the threshold of
his new career, so congenial and satisfactory a bunk-mate.

"Very mixed," was the reply.  "The fellow on the other side of your
berth is an American, an _ex_-U.S.A. army man, miner, lumber-jack,
tramp, cow-boy, bruiser, rifle and revolver trick-shooter, and my very
dear friend, one of the whitest men I ever met, and one of the most
amusing.  His French conversation keeps me alive by making me laugh, and
he’s learning Italian from a twopenny dictionary, and a Travellers’
Phrase Book, the better to talk to Carmelita.  The next but one is a
Neapolitan who calls himself Luigi Rivoli.  He used to be a champion
Strong Man, and music-hall wrestler, acrobat, and juggler.  Did a bit of
lion-taming too, or, at any rate, went about with a show that had a
cageful of mangy performing lions.  He is not really very brave though,
but he’s a most extraordinary strong brute.  Quite a millionaire here
too, for Carmelita gives him a whole franc every day of his life."

"What made him enlist then?" asked Rupert, carefully watching the
curious _astiquage_ methods, so different from the pipe-clay to which he
was accustomed.

"This same girl, and she’s worth a thousand of Rivoli.  It seems she
pretended to turn him down, and take up with some other chap to punish
Rivoli after some lover’s quarrel or other, and our Luigi in a fit of
jealous madness stabbed the other chap in the back, and then bolted and
enlisted in the Legion, partly to pay her out, but chiefly to save
himself.  He was doing a turn at a _café-chantant_ over in Algiers at
the time.  Of course, Carmelita flung herself in transports of grief,
repentance, and self-accusation upon Luigi’s enormous bosom, and keeps
him in pocket-money while she waits for him.  She followed him, and runs
a _café_ for Légionnaires here in Sidi-bel-Abbès. She gets scores of
offers from our Non-coms., and from Frenchmen of the regular army
stationed in Sidi, and her _café_ is a sort of little Italian club.  My
friend, the Bucking Bronco, proposes to her once a week, but she remains
true to Luigi, whom she intends to marry as soon as he has done his
time.  The swine’s carrying on at the same time with Madame la
Cantinière, who is a widow, and whose canteen he would like to marry.
Between the two women he has a good time, and, thanks to Carmelita’s
money, gets all his work done for him.  The brute never does a stroke.
Pays substitutes for all fatigues and corvées, has his kit and
accoutrements polished, and his clothes washed.  Spends the balance of
Carmelita’s money at the Canteen, ingratiating himself with Madame!
Keeps up his great strength with extra food too.  He is a Hercules, and,
moreover, seems immune from African fever and _le cafard_, which is
probably due to his escaping three-parts of the work done by the average
penniless.  And he’s as nasty as he is strong."

"What’s his particular line of nastiness--besides cheating women I
mean?" asked Rupert, who already knew only too well how much depends on
the character, conduct, manners, and habits of room-mates with whom one
is thrown into daily and nightly intimate contact, year after year,
without change, relief, or hope of improvement.

"Oh, he’s the Ultimate Bounder," replied the other, as he struck a match
and began melting a piece of wax with which to rub his leather belt.
"He’s the Compleat Cad, and the Finished Bully.  He’s absolute monarch
of the rank-and-file of the Seventh Company by reason of his vast
wealth, and vaster strength. Those he does not bribe he intimidates.
Remember that the Wages of Virtue here is one halfpenny a day as opposed
to the Wages of Sin which is rather worse than death.

"Think of the position of a man who has the income of all in this room
put together, in addition to the run of his best girl’s own _café_.
What with squaring Non-coms., hiring substitutes, and terrorising
’fags,’ he hasn’t done a stroke, outside parades of course, since he
joined--except hazing recruits, and breaking up opponents of his rule."

"How does he fight?" asked Rupert.

"Well, wrestling’s his _forte_--and he can break the back of any man he
gets his arms round--and the rest’s a mixture of boxing, ju-jitsu, and
_la savate_, which, as you know, is kicking.  Yes, he’s a dirty tighter,
though it’s precious rarely that it comes to what you could call a
fight.  What I’m waiting for is the most unholy and colossal turn-up
that’s due to come between him and Buck sooner or later.  It’s bound to
come, and it’ll be a scrap worth seeing.  Buck has been a professional
glove-man among other things, and he holds less conservative views than
I do, as to what is permissible against an opponent who kicks, clinches,
and butts....  No, fighting’s apt to be rather a dirty business here,
and, short of a proper duel, a case of stand face to face and do all you
can with all Nature’s weapons, not forgetting your teeth.... ’_C’est la
Légion._’"

"How disgustin’!" murmured the young man. "Will this bird trouble me?"

"He will," answered the other, "but I’ll take a hand, and then Buck will
too.  He hates Luigi like poison, and frequently remarks that he has it
in for him when the time comes, and Luigi isn’t over anxious to tackle
him, though he hankers.  Doesn’t understand him, nor like the look in
his eye.  Buck is afraid of angering Carmelita if he ’beats up’
Rivoli....  Yes, I dare say Buck and I can put the gentle Neapolitan off
between us."

Reginald Rupert stiffened.

"I beg that you will in no way interfere," he observed coldly.  "I
should most strongly resent it."

The heart of the old soldier warmed to the youth, as he contrasted his
slim boyish grace with the mighty strength, natural and developed, of
the professional Strong Man, Wrestler, and Acrobat--most tricky,
cunning, and dangerous of relentless foes.

"You keep clear of Luigi Rivoli as long as you can," he said with a
kindly smile.  "And at least remember that Buck and I are with you.
Personally, I’m no sort of match for our Luigi in a rough-and-tumble
nowadays, should he compel one.  But he has let me alone since I told
him with some definiteness that he would have to defend himself with
either lead or steel, if he insisted on trouble between him and me."

"There now," he continued, rising, "now try that for yourself on a
cartridge-pouch....  First melt the wax a bit, with a match--and don’t
forget that matches are precious in the Legion as they’re so damned
dear--and rub it on the leather as I did.  Then take this flat block of
wood and smooth it over until it’s all evenly spread.  And then rub hard
with the coarse rag for an hour or two, then harder with the fine rag
for about half an hour.  Next polish with your palm, and then with the
wool.  Buck and I own a scrap of velvet which you can borrow before
Inspection Parades, and big shows--but we don’t use it extravagantly of
course....

"Well, that’s the _astiquage_ curse, and the other’s washing white kit
without soap, and ironing it without an iron.  Of course, Madame la
République couldn’t give us glazed leather, or khaki webbing--nor could
she afford to issue one flat-iron to a barrack-room, so that we could
iron a white suit in less than a couple of hours....  The devil of it is
that it’s all done in our ’leisure’ time when we’re supposed to be
resting, or recreating....  Think of the British ’Tommy’ in India with
his _dhobi_, his barrack-sweeper, his table-servant, and his _syce_--or
his share in them.  If we did nothing in the world but our daily
polishing, washing and ironing, we should be busy men.  However! ’_C’est
la Legion!_’  And one won’t live for ever.... You won’t want any help
with the rifle and bayonet, I suppose?"

"No, thanks, I’ve ’had some,’ though I haven’t handled a Lebel before,"
and Reginald Rupert settled down to work while Legionary John Bull
proceeded with his toilet.

"Anything else you want to know?" enquired the latter, as he put a final
polish upon his gleaming sword-bayonet.  "You know enough not to cut
your rifle-sling stropping your razor on it....  Don’t waste your cake
of soap making a candlestick of it.  Too rare and precious here."

"Well, thanks very much; the more you tell me, the better for me, if
it’s not troubling you, Sir."

John Bull paused and looked at the recruit.

"Why do you call me ’Sir’?" he enquired.

"Why? ... Because you are senior and a Sahib, I suppose," replied the
youth.

"Thanks, my boy, but don’t.  I am just Légionnaire John Bull 11867,
Soldier of the Second Class.  You’ll be a soldier of the First Class,
and my senior in a few months, I hope....  I suppose you’ve assumed a
_nom de guerre_ too," replied the other, making a mental note that the
recruit had served in India.  He had already observed that he pointed
his toes as he walked, and had a general cavalry bearing.

"Yes, I gave part of my own name; I’m ’Reginald Rupert’ now.  Didn’t see
why I should give my own. I’ve only come to have a look round and learn
a bit. Very keen on experiences, especially military ones."

"Merciful God!" ejaculated John Bull softly. "Out for experiences!
You’ll get ’em, here."

"Keen on seein’ life, y’know," explained the young man.

"Much more likely to see death," replied the other. "Do you realise that
you’re in for five years--and that no money, no influence, no diplomatic
representations, no extradition can buy, or beg, or drag you out; and
that by the end of five years, if alive, you’ll be lucky if you’re of
any use to the Legion, to yourself, or to anyone else?  I, personally,
have had unusual luck, and am of unusual physique.  I re-enlisted twice,
partly because at the end of each five years I was turned loose with
nothing in the world but a shapeless blue slop suit--partly for other
reasons...."

"Oh!  I’ve only come for a year, and shall desert. I told them so
plainly at the enlistment bureau, in Paris," was the ingenuous reply.

The old Legionary smiled.

"A good many of our people desert, at least once," he said, "when under
the influence of _le cafard_--especially the Germans.  Ninety-nine per
cent come to one of three ends--death, capture, or surrender. Death with
torture at the hands of the Arabs; capture, or ignominious return and
surrender after horrible sufferings from thirst, starvation and
exposure."

"Yes; I heard the Legion was a grand military school, and a pretty warm
thing, and that desertion was a bit of a feat, and no disgrace if you
brought it off--so I thought I’d have a year of the one, and then a shot
at the other," replied the young man coolly. "Also, I was up against it
somewhat, and well--you know--seeking sorrow."

"You’ve come to the right place for it then," observed Legionary John
Bull, sheathing his bayonet with a snap, as the door banged open....
"Ah!  Enter our friend Luigi," he added as that worthy swaggered into
the room with an obsequious retinue, which included le bon Légionnaire
Edouard Malvin, looking very smart and dapper in the uniform of
Légionnaire Alphonse Dupont of the Eleventh Company.

"Pah!  I smell ’blues’!  Disgusting!  Sickening!" ejaculated Légionnaire
Luigi Rivoli in a tremendous voice, and stood staring menacingly from
recruit to recruit.

Reginald Rupert, returning his hot, insolent glare with a cold and
steady stare, beheld a huge and powerful-looking man with a pale, cruel
face, coarsely handsome, wherein the bold, heavily lashed black eyes
were set too close together beneath their broad, black, knitted brows,
and the little carefully curled black moustache, beneath the little
plebeian nose, hid nothing of the over-ripe red lips of an over-small
mouth.

"Corpo di Bacco!" he roared in Italian and Legion French.  "The place
reeks of the stinking ’blues.’  Were it not that I now go _en ville_ to
dine and drink my Chianti wine (none of your filthy Algerian slops for
Luigi Rivoli), and to smoke my _sigaro estero_ at my _café_, I would
fling them all down three flights of stairs," and, like his companions,
he commenced stripping off his white uniform.  Having bared his truly
magnificent arms and chest, he struck an attitude, ostentatiously
contracted his huge right biceps, and smote it a resounding smack with
the palm of his left hand.

"Aha!" he roared, as all turned to look at him.

"Disgustin’ bounder," remarked Reginald Rupert very distinctly, as, with
a second shout of "Aha!" Rivoli did the same with the left biceps and
right hand, and then bunched the vast _pectoralis major_ muscles of his
chest.

"Magnifique:" cried Légionnaire Edouard Malvin, who was laying out his
patron’s uniform from his _paquetage_, preparatory to helping him to
dress.

"As thou sayest, my _gallo_, ’C’est magnifique,’" replied Luigi Rivoli,
and for five minutes contracted, flexed, and slapped the great muscles
of his arms, shoulders, and chest.

"Come hither--thou little bambino Malvin, thou Bad Wine, thou Cattevo
Vino Francese, and stand behind me....  What of the back?  Canst thou
see the ’bull’s head’ as I set the _trapezius_, _rhomboideus_, and
_latissimus dorsi_ muscles?"

"As clearly as I see your own head, Main de Fer," replied the Austrian
in affected astonishment and wonder.  "It is the World’s Most Wonderful
Back! Why, were Maxick and Saldo, Hackenschmidt, the three Saxons,
Sandow--yea--Samson and Hercules themselves here, all would be
humiliated and envious."

"Aha!" again bawled Rivoli, "thou art right, _piccolo porco_," and,
sinking to a squatting position upon his raised heels, he rose and fell
like a jack-in-the-box for some time, before rubbing and smiting his
huge thighs and calves to the accompaniment of explosive shouts.
Thereafter, he fell upon his hands and toes, and raised and lowered his
stiffened body a few dozen times.

The display finished, he enquired with lordly boredom: "And what are the
absurd orders for walking-out dress to-night.  Is it blue and red, or
blue and white, or overcoats buttoned on the left--or what?"

"Tunic and red, Hercule, and all ready, as you see," replied Malvin, and
he proceeded to assist at the toilet of the ex-acrobat, the plutocrat
and leader of the rank-and-file of the Seventh Company by virtue of his
income of a franc a day, and his phenomenal strength and ferocity.

Turning round that Malvin might buckle his belt and straighten his
tunic, the great man’s foot touched that of Herbert Higgins (late of
Hoxton and the Loyal Whitechapel Regiment) who had been earnestly
endeavouring for the past quarter of an hour to follow the instructions
of the Bucking Bronco--instructions given in an almost incomprehensible
tongue, of choice American and choicer French compact.

Profound disgust, deepening almost to horror, was depicted on the face
of the Italian as he bestowed a vicious, hacking kick upon the shin of
the offending "blue."

"Body of Bacchus, what is this?" he cried.  "Cannot I move without
treading in _vidanges_?  Get beneath the bed and out of my sight,
_cauchemar_!"

But far from retreating as bidden, the undersized Cockney rose promptly
to his feet with a surprised and aggrieved look upon his face, hitherto
expressive only of puzzled bewilderment.

"’Ere!  ’Oo yer fink you’re a kickin’ of?" he enquired, adding with
dignity, "I dunno’ ’oo yer fink you _are_.  I’m ’Erb ’Iggins, I am, an’
don’t yer fergit it."

That Mr. Herbert Higgins stood rubbing his injured shin instead of
flying at the throat of the Italian, was due in no wise to personal
fear, but to an utter ignorance of the rank, importance, and powers of
this "narsty-lookin’ furriner."  He might be some sort of an officer,
and to "dot ’im one" might mean lingering gaol, or sudden death.
Bitterly he regretted his complete ignorance of the French tongue, and
the manners and customs of this strange place.  Anyhow, he could give
the bloke some lip in good old English.

"Bit too ’andy wiv yer feet, ain’t yer?  Pretty manners, I _don’t_ fink!
’Manners none, an’ customs narsty’s’ abart your mark, ain’t it?"

But ere he could proceed with further flowers of rhetoric, and rush in
ignorance upon his fate, the huge hand of the American fell upon his
shoulder from behind and pressed him back upon his cot.

"Hello, Loojey dear!  Throwin’ bouquets to yerself agin, air yew?
Gittin’ fresh agin, air yew, yew greasy Eye-talian, orgin-grindin’,
ice-cream-barrer-pushin’, back-stabbin’, garlic-eatin’, street-corner,
pink-spangled-tights ackerobat," he observed in his own inimitable
vernacular, as he unwound his long blue sash preparatory to dressing for
the evening.

"Why don’t yew per*chase* a barrel-orgin an’ take yure dear pal Malvin
along on it?  Snakes!  I guess I got my stummick full o’ yew an’
Mon-seer Malvin some.  I wish yew’d kiss yureself good-bye, Loojey. Yew
fair git my goat, yew fresh gorilla!  _Oui, vous gagnez mon chevre
proprement_."

"_Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?_" asked Rivoli, his contemptuously curled lips
baring his small, even teeth.

"Keskerdee?  Why, yep!  We uster hev a bunch o’ dirty little’
keskerdees’ at the ol’ Glowin’ Star mine, way back in Californey when I
was a road-kid. Keskerdees!--so named becos they allus jabbered
’Keskerdee’ when spoke to.  We uster use their heads fer cleanin’
fryin’-pans.  ’Keskerdee’ is Eye-talian--a kind o’ sorter low French,"
observed the Bucking Bronco.

It is to be feared that his researches into the ethnological and
etymological truths of the European nations were limited and
unprofitable, in spite of the fact that (like all other Legionaries of
any standing) he spoke fluent Legion French on everyday military
matters, and studied Italian phrases for the benefit of Carmelita.  The
Bucking Bronco’s conversational method was to express himself
idiomatically in the American tongue, and then translate it literally
into the language of the benighted foreigner whom he honoured at the
moment.

The Italian eyed the American malevolently, and, for the thousandth
time, measured him, considered him, weighed him as an opponent in a
boxing-wrestling-kicking match, remembered his uncanny magic skill with
rifle and revolver, and, for the thousandth time, postponed the
inevitable settlement, misliking his face, his mouth, his eye, and his
general manner, air, and bearing.

"Give some abominable ’bleu’ the honour of lacing the boots of Luigi
Rivoli," he roared, turning with a contemptuous gesture from the
American and the Cockney, to his henchman, Malvin.  Fixing his eye upon
the swarthy, spike-moustached Austrian, who sat at the foot of the bed
opposite his own, he added:

"Here, dog, the privilege is thine.  Allez schieblos"[#] and thrust out
the unlaced boots that Malvin had pulled on to his feet.


[#] A curious piece of Legion "French" meaning "Be quick."


The Austrian, squatting dejected, with his head between his fists,
affected not to understand, and made no move.

"_Koom.  Adji inna.  Balek! fahesh beghla,_"[#] adjured the Italian,
airing his Arabic, and insulting his intended victim by addressing him
as though he were a native.


[#] "Get up.  Come here.  Take care!  You ugly mule."


The Austrian did not stir.

"Quick," hissed the Italian, and pointed to his boots that there might
be no mistake.

The Austrian snarled.

"Bring it to me," said the great man, and, in a second, the recruit was
run by the collar of his tunic, his ears, his twisted wrists, his woolly
hair, and by a dozen willing hands, to the welcoming arms of the bully.

"Oh, thou deserter from the _Straf Bataillon_,"[#] growled the latter.
A sudden grab, a swift twist, and the Austrian was on his face, his
elbows meeting and overlapping behind his back, and his arms drawn
upward and backward.  He shrieked.


[#] Penal battalion.


A quick jerk and he was on his feet, and then swung from the ground face
downward, his wrists behind him in one of Rivoli’s big hands, his
trouser-ends in the other.  Placing his foot in the small of the
Austrian’s back, the Italian appeared to be about to break the spine of
his victim, whose screams were horrible to hear.  Dashing him violently
to the ground, Rivoli re-seated himself, and thrust forward his right
foot. Groaning and gasping, the cowed Austrian knelt to his task, but,
fumbling and failing to give satisfaction, received a kick in the face.

Reginald Rupert dropped the cartridge-pouch which he was polishing, and
stepped forward, only to find himself thrust back by a sweep of the
American’s huge arm, which struck him in the chest like an iron bar, and
to be seized by Légionnaire John Bull who quietly remarked:

"Mind your own business, recruit....  _C’est la Légion_!"

No one noticed that the Russian, Mikhail, was white and trembling, and
that his brother came and led him to the other end of the room.

"Bungler!  _Polisson_!  _Coquin_!  Lick the soles of my boots and go,"
cried Rivoli, and, as the lad hesitated, he rose to his feet.

Cringing and shrinking, the wretched "blue" hastened to obey, thrust
forth his tongue, and, as the boot was raised, obediently licked the
nether surface and the edges of the sole until its owner was satisfied.

"Austria’s proper attitude to Italy," growled the bully.  "Now lick the
other...."

Le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli might expect prompt obedience henceforth
from le Légionnaire Franz Joseph Meyer.

Standing in the ring of amused satellites was the evil-looking _Apache_,
a deeply interested spectator of this congenial and enjoyable scene.
His hang-dog face caught the eye of the Italian.

"Come hither, thou _blanc-bec_," quoth he.  "Come hither and show this
_vaurien_ how to lace the boots of a gentleman."

The Apache obeyed with alacrity, and, performing the task with rapidity
and skill, turned to depart.

"A nimble-fingered sharper," observed the Italian, and, rising swiftly,
bestowed a shattering kick upon the retreating Frenchman.  Recovering
his balance after the sudden forward propulsion, the _Apache_ wheeled
round like lightning, bent double, and flew at his assailant.  Courage
was his one virtue, and he was the finest exponent of the art of butting
in all the purlieus and environs of Montmartre, and had not only laid
out many a good bourgeois, but had overcome many a rival, by this
preliminary to five minutes’ strenuous kicking with heavy boots.  If he
launched himself--a one-hundred-and-fifty pound projectile--with his
hard skull as battering-ram, straight at the stomach of his tormentor,
that astounded individual ought to go violently to the ground, doubled
up, winded and helpless.  A score of tremendous kicks would then teach
him that an _Apache_ King (and he, none other than Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat,
_doyen_ of the heroes of the Rue de Venise, Rue Pirouette, and Rue des
Innocents, _caveau_-knight and the beloved of the beauteous Casque d’Or)
was not a person lightly to be trifled with.

But if Monsieur Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat was a _Roi des Apaches_, Luigi
Rivoli was an acrobat and juggler, and, to mighty strength, added
marvellous poise, quickness and skill.

"_Ça ne marche pas, gobemouche,_" he remarked, and, at the right moment,
his knee shot up with tremendous force and crashed into the face of the
butting _Apache_. For the first time the famous and terrible attack of
the King of the Paris hooligans had failed.  When the unfortunate
monarch regained his senses, some minutes later, and took stock of his
remaining teeth and features, he registered a mental memorandum to the
effect that he would move along the lines of caution, rather than
valour, in his future dealings with the Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli--until
his time came.

"_Je m’en souviendrai_," said he....

An interesting object-lesson in the effect, upon a certain type of mind,
of the methods of the Italian was afforded by the conduct of a Greek
recruit, named Dimitropoulos.  Stepping forward with ingratiating bows
and smiles, as the unfortunate M. Tou-Tou was stretched senseless on the
floor, he proclaimed himself to be the best of the _lustroi_ of the city
of Corinth, and begged for the honour and pleasure of cleaning the boots
of Il Signor Luigi Rivoli.

Oh, but yes; a _lustros_ of the most distinguished, look you, who had
polished the most eminent boots in Greece at ten _leptas_ a time.  Alas!
that he had not all his little implements and sponges, his cloth of
velvet, his varnish for the heel.  Had he but the tools necessary to the
true artist in his profession, the boots of Il Illustrissimo Signor
should be then and thenceforth of a brightness dazzling and remarkable.

As he gabbled, the Greek scrubbed at Rivoli’s boots with a rag and the
palm of his hand.  Evidently the retinue of the great man had been
augmented by one who would be faithful and true while his patron’s
strength and money lasted.  As, at the head of his band of henchmen and
parasites, the latter hero turned to leave the barrack-room with a shout
of "_Allons, mes enfants d’Enfer,_" he bent his lofty brow upon, cocked
his ferocious eye at, and turned his haughty regard toward the remaining
recruits, finishing with Reginald Rupert:

"I will teach useful tricks to you little dogs later," he promised.
"You shall dance me the _rigolboche_, and the _can-can_," and swaggered
out....

"Nice lad," observed Rupert, looking up from his work--and wondered what
the morrow might bring forth.  There should be a disappointed Luigi, or
a dead Rupert about, if it came to interference and trouble.

"Sure," agreed Légionnaire Bronco, seating himself on the bed beside his
beloved John Bull.  "He’s some stiff, that guy, an’ I allow it’ll soon
be up ter me ter _con_duct our Loojey ter the bone-orchard.  He’s a
plug-ugly.  He’s a ward-heeler.  Land sakes!  I wants ter punch our
Loojey till Hell pops; an’ when it comes ter shootin’ I got Loojey
skinned a mile--sure thing. _J’ai Loojey écorché un mille_....  Nope,
there ain’t ’nuff real room fer Looje an’ me in Algery--not while
Carmelita’s around....

"Say, John," he continued, turning to his friend, "she up an’ axed me
las’ night ef he ever went ter the Canteen an’ ef Madam lar Canteenair
didn’t ever git amakin’ eyes at her beautiful Looje!  Yep!  It _is_ time
Loojey kissed hisself good-bye."

"Oh?  What did you tell her?" enquired John Bull.  "There is no doubt
the swine will marry the Canteen if he can.  More profitable than poor
little Carmelita’s show.  He _is_ a low stinker, and she’s one of the
best and prettiest and pluckiest little women who ever lived....  She’s
so _débrouillarde_."

"Wot did I say?  Wal, John, wot I ses was--’Amakin’ eyes at yure Loojey,
my dear.’  I ses, ’Madam lar Canteenair is a woman with horse-sense an’
two eyes in ’er ’ead.  She wouldn’t look twice at a boastin’, swankin’,
fat-slappin’, back-stabbin’, dime-show ackerobat,’ I ses.  ’Yure Loojey
flaps ’is mouth too much. _Il frappe sa bouche trop,_’ I ses.  But I
didn’t tell her as haow ’e’s amakin’ up ter Madam lar Canteenaire all
his possible.  She wouldn’t believe it of ’im.  She wouldn’t even
believe that ’e _goes_ ter the Canteen.  I only ses: ’Yure Loojey’s a
leary lipper so don’t say as haow I ain’t warned yer, Carmelita honey,’
I ses--an’ I puts it inter copper-bottomed Frencho langwago also.  Yep!"

"What did Carmelita say?" asked John Bull.

"Nix," was the reply.  "It passes my com*pre*hension wot she sees in
that fat Eye-talian ice-cream trader.  Anyhaow, it’s up ter Hiram C.
Milton ter git upon his hind legs an’ _fer_bid the bangs ef she goes fer
ter marry a greasy orgin-grinder ... serposin’ he don’t git Madam lar
Canteenair," and the Bucking Bronco sighed deeply, produced some strong,
black Algerian tobacco, and asked High Heaven if he might hope ever
again to stuff some real Tareyton Mixture (the best baccy in the world)
into his "guley-brooley"--whereby Legionary John Bull understood him to
mean his _brûle-gueule_, or short pipe--and relapsed into lethargic and
taciturn apathy.

"How would you like a prowl round?" asked John Bull, of Rupert.

"Nothing better, thank you, if you think I could pass the Sergeant of
the Guard before being dismissed recruit-drills."

"Oh, that’ll be all right if you are correctly dressed. Hop into the
tunic and red breeches and we’ll try it. You’re free until five-thirty
to-morrow morning, and can do some more at your kit when we return.
We’ll go round the barracks and I’ll show you the ropes before we stroll
round Sidi-bel-Abbès, and admire the wonders of the Rue Prudon, Rue
Montagnac, and Rue de Jerusalem.  Our band is playing at the Military
Club to-night, and the band of the Première Légion Étrangère is the
finest band in the whole world--largely Germans and Poles.  We are
allowed to listen at a respectful distance.  We’ll look in at the
_Village d’Espagnol_, the _Mekerra_, and the _Faubourg des Palmiers_
another time, as they’re out of bounds.  Also the _Village Négre_ if you
like, but if we’re caught there we get a month’s hard labour, if not
solitary confinement and starvation in the foul and stinking
_cellules_--because we’re likely to be killed in the _Village Négre_."

"Let’s go there now," suggested Rupert eagerly, as he buttoned his
tunic.

"No, my boy.  Wait until you know what _cellule_ imprisonment really is,
before you risk it.  You keep out of the _trou_ just as long as you can.
It’s different from the Stone Jug of a British regiment--very.  Don’t do
any _rabiau_[#] until you must.  We’ll be virtuous to-night, and when
you must go out of bounds, go with me.  I’ll take you to see Carmelita
this evening at the Café de la Légion, and we’ll look in on Madame la
Cantinière, at the Canteen, before the Last Post at nine o’clock....
Are you coming, Buck?"


[#] Time spent in prison or in the Penal Battalions--which does not
count towards the five years period of service.


And these three modern musketeers left the _chambrée_ of their _caserne_
and clattered down the stone stairs to the barrack-square.




                              CHAPTER III

                            CARMELITA ET CIE


"Those boots comfortable?" asked John Bull as they crossed the great
parade-ground.

"Wonderfully," replied Rupert.  "I could do a march in them straight
away.  Fine boots too."

"Yes," agreed the other.  "That’s one thing you can say for the Legion
kit, the boots are splendid--probably the best military boots in the
world.  You’ll see why, before long."

"Long marches?"

"Longest done by any unit of human beings.  Our ordinary marches would
be records for any other infantry, and our forced marches are
incredible--absolute world’s records.  They call us the ’_Cavalerie à
pied_’ in the Service, you know.  One of the many ways of killing us is
marching us to death, to keep up the impossible standard.  Buck, here,
is our champion."

"Waal, yew see--I strolled crost Amurrica ten times," apologised the
Bronco, "ahittin’ the main drag, so I oughter vamoose some.  Yep!  I can
throw me feet _con_siderable."

"I’ve never been a foot-slogger myself," admitted Rupert, "but I’ve
Mastered a beagle pack, and won a few running pots at school and during
my brief ’Varsity career.  What are your distances?"

"Our minimum, when marching quietly out of barracks and back, without a
halt is forty kilometres under our present Colonel, who is known in the
Legion as The Marching Pig, and we do it three or four times a week.  On
forced marches we do anything that is to be done, inasmuch as it is the
unalterable law of the Legion that all forced marches must be done in
one march.  If the next post were forty miles away or even fifty, and
the matter urgent, we should go straight on without a halt, except the
usual ’cigarette space,’ or five minutes in every hour, until we got
there.  I assure you I have very often marched as much as six hundred
kilometres in fifteen days, and occasionally much more.  And we carry
the heaviest kit in the world--over a hundred-weight, in full marching
order."

"What is a kilometre?" asked the interested Rupert.

"Call it five furlongs."

"Then an ordinary day’s march is about thirty miles without a halt, and
you may have to do four hundred miles straight off, at the rate of
twenty-five consecutive miles a day?  Good Lord above us!"

"Yes, my own personal record is five hundred and sixty miles in nineteen
days, without a rest day--under the African sun and across sand...."

"I say--what’s _this_ game?" interrupted Rupert, as the three turned a
corner and entered a small square between the rear of the _caserne_ of
the Fourth Company and the great barrack-wall--a square of which all
exits were guarded by sentries with fixed bayonets.  Round and round in
a ring at a very rapid quick-step ran a dismal procession of suffering
men, to the monotonously reiterated order of a Corporal--

"A droit, _droit_.  A droit, _droit_.  A droit, _droit_."

Their blanched, starved-looking faces, glazed eyes, protruding tongues
and doubled-up bodies made them a doleful spectacle.  On each man’s back
was a burden of a hundred pounds of stones.  On each man’s emaciated
face, a look of agony, and on the canvas-clad back of one man, a great
stain of wet blood from a raw wound caused by the cutting and rubbing of
the stone-laden knapsack.  Each man wore a fatigue-uniform, filthy
beyond description.

"Why the hell can’t they be set ter sutthin’ useful--hoein’ pertaties,
or splittin’ rails, or chewin’ gum--’stead o’ that silly strain-me-heart
and break-me-sperrit game on empty stummicks twice a day?" observed the
Bucking Bronco.

Every panting, straining, gasping wretch in that pitiable _peloton des
hommes punis_ looked as though his next minute must be his last, his
next staggering step bring him crashing to the ground.  What could the
dreadful alternative be, the fear of which kept these suffering,
starving wretches on their tottering, failing legs?  Why would they
_not_ collapse, in spite of Nature?  Fear of the Legion’s prison?  No,
they were all serving periods in the Legion’s prison already, and twice
spending three hours of each prison-day in this agony.  Fear of the
Legion’s Hospital?  Yes, and of the Penal Battalion afterwards.

"What sort of crimes have they committed?" asked Rupert, as they turned
with feelings of personal shame from the sickening sight.

"Oh, all sorts, but I’m afraid a good many of them have earned the
enmity of some Non-com.  As a rule, a man who wants to, can keep out of
that sort of thing, but there’s a lot of luck in it.  One gets run in
for a lost strap, a dull button, a speck of rust on rifle or bayonet, or
perhaps for being slow at drill, slack in saluting, being out of bounds,
or something of that sort.  A Sergeant gives him three days’ confinement
to barracks, and enters it in the _livre de punitions_. Very likely, the
Captain, feeling liverish when he examines the book, makes it eight
days’ imprisonment. That’s not so bad, provided the Commander of the
Battalion does not think it might be good for discipline for him to
double it.  And that again is bearable so long as the Colonel does not
think the scoundrel had better have a month--and imprisonment, though
only called ’Ordinary Arrest,’ carries with it this beastly _peloton de
chasse_.  Still, as I say, a good man and keen soldier can generally
keep fairly clear of _salle de police_ and _cellule_."

"So Non-coms. can punish off their own bat, in the Legion, can they?"
enquired Rupert as they strolled toward the main gate.

"Yes.  The N.C.O. is an almighty important bird here, and you have to
salute him like an officer. They can give extra corvée, confinement to
barracks, and up to eight days’ _salle de police_, and give you a pretty
bad time while you’re doing it, too.  In peace time, you know, the
N.C.O.s run the Legion absolutely. We hardly see our officers except on
marches, or at manoeuvres.  Splendid soldiers, but they consider their
duty is to lead us in battle, not to be bothered with us in peace.  The
N.C.O.s can do the bothering for them.  Of course, we’re pretty
frequently either demonstrating, or actually fighting on the Southern,
or the Moroccan border, and then an officer’s job is no sinecure.  They
are real soldiers--but the weak spot is that they avoid us like poison,
in barracks."

"We’re mostly foreigners, of course," he continued, "half German, and
not very many French, and there’s absolutely none of that mutual liking
and understanding which is the strength of the British Army.... And
naturally, in a corps like this, they’ve got to be severe and harsh to
the point of cruelty.  After all, it’s not a girls’ school, is it?  But
take my advice, my boy, and leave the Legion’s punishment system of
starvation, over-work, and solitary confinement outside your
’experiences’ as much as possible...."

"I say--what a ghastly, charnel-house stink," remarked the recipient of
this good advice, as the trio passed two iron-roofed buildings, one on
each side of the closed main-entrance of the barracks.  "I noticed it
when I first came in here, but I was to windward of it I suppose.  It’s
the bally limit.  Poo-o-oh!"

"Yes, you live in that charming odour all night, if you get _salle de
police_ for any offence, and all day as well, if you get ’arrest’ in the
regimental lock-up--except for your two three-hour turns of _peloton des
hommes punis_.  It’s nothing at this distance, but wait until you’re on
sentry-go in one of those barrack-prisons. There’s a legend of a runaway
pig that took refuge in one, gave a gasp, and fell dead....  Make Dante
himself envious if he could go inside.  The truth of that Inferno is
much stranger than the fiction of his."

"Yep," chimed in the American.  "But what gits my goat every time is
_cellules_.  Yew squats on end in a dark cell fer the whole of yure
sentence, an’ yew don’t go outside it from start to finish, an’ thet may
be thirty days.  Yew gits a quarter-ration o’ dry bread an’ a double
ration of almighty odour.  ’Nuff ter raise the roof, but it don’t do it.
No exercise, no readin’, no baccy, no nuthin’.  There yew sits and there
yew starves, an’ lucky ef yew don’t go balmy...."

"I hope we get you past the Sergeant of the Guard," interrupted John
Bull.  "Swank it thick as we go by."

The cold eye of the Sergeant ran over the three Legionaries as they
passed through the little side wicket without blazing into wrath over
any lack of smartness and _chic_ in their appearance.

"One to you," said John Bull, as they found themselves safe in the
shadow of the Spahis’ barracks outside. "If you had looked too like a
recruit he’d have turned you back, on principle...."

To Reginald Rupert the walk was full of interest, in spite of the fact
that the half-vulgar, half-picturesque Western-Eastern appearance of the
town was no novelty.  He had already seen all that Sidi-bel-Abbès could
show, and much more, in Algiers, Tangiers, Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said,
and Suez.  But, with a curious sense of proprietorship, he enjoyed
listening to the distant strains of the band--their "own" band.  To see
thousands of Legionaries, Spahis, Turcos, Chasseurs d’Afrique, Sapeurs,
Tirailleurs, Zouaves, and other French soldiery, from their own level,
as one of themselves, was what interested him.  Here was a new
situation, here were new conditions, necessities, dangers, sufferings,
relationships.  Here, in short, were entirely new experiences....

"This is the Rue Prudon," observed John Bull. "It separates the Military
goats on the west, from the Civil sheep on the east.  Not that you’ll
find them at all ’civil’ though....  Reminds me of a joke I heard our
Captain telling the Colonel at dinner one night when I was a Mess
Orderly.  A new man had taken over the Grand Hotel, and he wrote to the
Mess President to say he made a speciality of dinner-parties for
Military and _Civilised_ officers!  Bit rough on the Military, what?"

Having crossed the Rue Prudon rubicon, and invaded the Place de
Quinconces with its Palais de Justice and prison, the Promenade Publique
with its beautiful trees, and the Rue Montagnac with its shops and life
and glitter, the three Legionaries quitted the quarter of electric
arc-lights, brilliant cafés, shops, hotels, aperitif-drinking citizens,
promenading French-women, newspaper kiosks, loitering soldiers, shrill
hawkers of the _Echo d’Oran_, white-burnoused Arabs (who gazed coldly
upon the hated Franswazi, and bowed to officials with stately dignity,
arms folded on breast), quick-stepping Chasseurs, scarlet-cloaked
Spahis, and swaggering Turcos, crossed the Place Sadi Carnot, and made
for the maze of alleys, slums, and courts (the quarter of the Spanish
Jews, town Arabs, _hadris_, _odjar_-wearing women, Berbers, Negroes,
half-castes, semi-Oriental scum, "white trash," and Legionaries), in one
of which was situated Carmelita’s Café de la Légion.


                                   §2

La Belle Carmelita, black-haired, red-cheeked, black-eyed, red-lipped,
lithe, swift, and graceful, sat at the receipt of custom.  Carmelita’s
Café de la Légion was for the Legion, and had to make its profits out of
men whose pay is one halfpenny a day.  It is therefore matter for little
surprise that it compared unfavourably with Voisin’s, the Café de la
Paix, the Pré Catalan, Maxim’s, the Café Grossenwahn, the Das Prinzess
Café, the restaurants of the Place Pigalle, Le Rat Mort, or even Les
Noctambules, Le Cabaret de l’Enfer, the Chat Noir, the Elysée
Montmartre, and the famous and infamous _caveaux_ of Le Quartier--in the
eyes of those Legionaries who had tried some, or all, of these places.

However, it had four walls, a floor, and a roof; benches and a large
number of tables and chairs, many of which were quite reliable.  It had
a bar, it had Algerian wine at one penny the bottle, it had _vert-vert_
and _tord-boyaud_ and _bapédi_ and _shum-shum_.  It had really good
coffee, and really bad cigarettes. It had meals also--but above all, and
before all, it had a welcome.  A welcome for the Legionary.  The man to
whose presence the good people of Sidi-bel-Abbès (French petty
officials, half-castes, Spanish Jews, Arabs, clerks, workmen,
shopkeepers, waiters, and lowest-class bourgeoisie) took exception at
the bandstand, in the Gardens, in the Cafés, in the very streets; the
man from the contamination of whose touch the very cocottes, the
demi-mondaines, the joyless _filles de joie_, even the daughters of the
pavement; drew aside the skirts of their dingy finery (for though the
Wages of Virtue are a halfpenny a day for the famous Legion, the Wages
of Sin are more for the infamous legion); the man at whom even the
Goums, the Arab _gens-d’armes_ shouted as at a pariah dog, this man, the
Soldier of the Legion, had a welcome in Carmelita’s Café.  There were
two women in all the world who would endure to breathe the same air as
the sad Sons of the Legion--Madame la Cantinière (official _fille du
régiment_) and Carmelita.  Is it matter for wonder that the Legion’s
sons loved them--particularly Carmelita, who, unlike Madame, was under
no obligation to shed the light of her countenance upon them?  Any man
in the Legion might speak to Carmelita provided he spoke as a gentleman
should speak to a lady--and did not want to be pinned to her bar by the
ears, and the bayonets of his indignant brothers-in-arms--any man who
might speak to no other woman in the world outside the Legion.  (Madame
la Cantinière is inside the Legion, _bien entendu_, and always married
to it in the person of one of its sons.)  She would meet him as an equal
for the sake of her beautiful, wonderful, adored Luigi Rivoli, his
brother-in-arms.  Perhaps one must be such an outcast that the sight of
one causes even painted lips to curl in contemptuous disdain; such a
_thing_ that one is deterred from entering decent Cafés, decent places
of amusement and decent boulevards; so low that one is strictly doomed
to the environment of one’s prison, or the slums, and to the society of
one’s fellow dregs, before one can appreciate the attitude of the Sons
of the Legion to Carmelita.  They revered her as they did not revere the
Mother of God, and they, broken and crucified wretches, envied Luigi
Rivoli as they did not envy the repentant thief absolved by Her Son.

_She_, Carmelita, welcomed _them_, Legionaries!  It is perhaps
comprehensible if not excusable, that the attitude of Madame la
Cantinière was wholly different, that she hated Carmelita as a rival,
and with single heart, double venom and treble voice, denounced her, her
house, her wine, her coffee, and all those _chenapans_ and _sacripants_
her clients.

"_Merde!_" said Madame la Cantiniére.  "That which makes the slums of
Naples too hot for it, is warm indeed!  Naples!  Ma foi!  Why Monsieur
Le Bon Diable himself must be reluctant when his patrol runs in a
_prisonnier_ from Naples to the nice clean guard-room and _cellules_ in
his Hell ... Naples! ... La!  La!..." which was unkind and unfair of
Madame, since the very worst she knew of Carmelita was the fact that she
kept a Café whereat the Legionaries spent their half-pence.  It is not
(rightly or wrongly) in itself an indictable offence to be a Neapolitan.

So the Legion loved Carmelita, Madame la Cantiniére hated her, the
Bucking Bronco worshipped her, John Bull admired her, le bon M. Edouard
Malvin desired her, and Luigi Rivoli owned her--body, soul and
cash-box--what time he sought to do the same for Madame la Cantinière
whose body and cash-box were as much larger than those of Carmelita as
her soul was smaller.

Between two fools one comes to the ground--sometimes--but Luigi intended
to come to a bed of roses, and to have a cash-box beneath it.  One of
the fools should marry and support him, preferably the richer fool, and
meantime, oh the subtlety, the cleverness, the piquancy--of being loved
and supported by both while marrying neither!  Many a time as he lay on
his cot while a henchman polished the great cartridge-pouches (that
earned the Legion the sobriquet of "the Leather-Bellies" from the
Russians in the Crimea), the belts, the buttons, the boots, and the
rifle and bayonet of the noble Luigi, while another washed his fatigue
uniforms and underclothing, that honourable man would chuckle aloud as
he saw himself frequently cashing a ten-franc piece of Carmelita’s at
Madame’s Canteen, and receiving change for a twenty-franc piece from the
fond, yielding Madame.  Ten francs too much, a sigh too many, and a kiss
too few--for Madame did not kiss, being, contrary to popular belief with
regard to vivandières in general, and the Legion’s vivandière in
particular, of rigid virtue, oh, but yes, of a respectability profound
and colossal--during "vacation."  Her present vacation had lasted for
three months, and Madame felt it was time to replace le pauvre Etienne
Baptiste--cut in small pieces by certain Arab ladies.  Madame was a
business woman, Madame needed a husband in her business, and Madame had
an eye for a fine man.  None finer than Luigi Rivoli, and Madame had
never tried an Italian.  Husbands do not last long in the Legion, and
Madame had had three French, one Belgian, and one Swiss (seriatim, _bien
entendu_).  No, none finer in the whole Legion than Rivoli.  None, nom
de Dieu! But a foreign husband may be a terrible trial, look you, and an
Italian is a foreigner in a sense that a French-speaking Belgian or
Swiss is not.  No, an Italian is not a Frenchman even though he be a
Légionnaire.  And there were tales of him and this vile shameless
creature from Naples, who decoyed les braves Légionnaires from their
true and lawful Canteen to her noisome den in the foul slums, there to
spend their hard-earned sous on her poisonous red-ink wine, her
muddy-water coffee, and her--worse things.  Yes, that cunning little fox
le Légionnaire Edouard Malvin had thrown out hints to Madame about this
Neapolitan _ragazza_--but then, ce bon M. Malvin was himself a suitor
for Madame’s hand--as well as a most remarkable liar and rogue.  Perhaps
’twould be as well to accept ce beau Luigi at once, marry him
immediately, and see that he spent his evenings helping in the Canteen
bar, instead of gallivanting after Neapolitan hussies of the bazaar.
Men are but men--and sirens are sirens.  What would you?  And Luigi so
gay and popular.  Small blame that he should stray when Madame was
unkind or coy....  Yes, she would do it, if only to spite this
Neapolitan cat....  But--he was a foreigner and something of a
rogue--and incredibly strong.  Still, Madame had tamed more than one
recalcitrant husband by knocking the bottom off an empty bottle and
stabbing him in the face with it.  And however strong one’s husband
might be, he must, like Sisera, sleep sometimes.

The beautiful Luigi would hate to be awakened with a bottomless bottle,
and would not need it more than once....  And the business soul of
scheming, but amorous Madame, much troubled, still halted between two
opinions--while the romantic and simple soul of loving little Carmelita
remained steadfast, and troubled but little.  Just a little, because the
fine _gentilhomme_, Légionnaire Jean Boule, and the great, kind
Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau, and certain others, seemed somehow _to
warn her_ against her Luigi; seemed to despise him, and hint at
treachery. She did not count the sly Belgian (or Austrian) Edouard
Malvin.  The big stupid Americano was jealous, of course, but Il Signor
Inglese was not and he was--oh, like a Reverend Father--so gentle and
honest and good.  But no, her Luigi could not be false, and the next
Légionnaire who said a word against him should be forbidden Le Café de
la Légion, ill as it could afford to lose even halfpenny custom--what
with the rent, taxes, _bakshish_ to gens-d’armes, service, cooking,
lighting, wine, spirits, coffee, and Luigi’s daily dinner, Chianti and
franc pocket-money.... If only that franc could be increased--but one
must eat, or get so thin--and the great Luigi liked not skinny women.
What was a franc a day to such a man as Luigi, her Luigi, strongest,
finest, handsomest of men?--and but for her he would never have been in
this accursed Legion.  Save for her aggravating wickedness, he would
never have stabbed poor Guiseppe Longigotto and punished her by
enlisting.  How great and fine a hero of splendid vengeance!  A true
Neapolitan, yet how magnanimous when punishment was meted!  He had
forgiven--and forgotten--the dead Guiseppe, and he had forgiven her, and
he accepted her miserable franc, dinner and Chianti wine daily. Also he
had allowed her--miserable ingrate that she had been to annoy him and
make him jealous--to find the money that had mysteriously but materially
assisted in procuring the perpetual late-pass that allowed him to remain
with her till two in the morning, long after all the other poor
Légionnaires had returned to their dreadful barracks.  Noble Luigi!  Yet
there were people who coupled his name with that of wealthy Madame la
Cantinière in the barrack yonder.

She had overheard Légionnaires doing it, here in her own Café, though
they had instantly and stoutly denied it when accused, and had looked
furtive and ashamed.  Absurd, jealous wretches, whose heads Luigi could
knock together as easily as she could click her castanets....

Almost time that the Légionnaires began to drop in for their litre and
their _tasse_--and Carmelita rose and went to the door of the Café de la
Légion and looked down the street toward the Place Sadi Carnot.  One of
three passing Chasseurs d’Afrique made a remark, the import of which was
not lost on the Italian girl though the man spoke in Paris slum argot.

"If Monsieur would but give himself the trouble to step inside and sit
down for a moment," said Carmelita in Legion-French, "Monsieur’s
question shall be answered by Luigi Rivoli of La Legion.  Also he will
remove Monsieur’s pretty uniform and scarlet _ceinturon_ and will do for
Monsieur what Monsieur’s mamma evidently neglected to do for Monsieur
when Monsieur was a dirty little boy in the gutter....  Monsieur will
not come in as he suggested?  Monsieur will not wait a minute? No?
Monsieur is a very wise young gentleman...."

An Arab Spahi swaggered past and leered.

"_Sabeshad zareefeh chattaha_," said he, "_saada atinee_."

"_Roh!  Imshi!_" hissed Carmelita and Carmelita’s hand went to her
pocket in a significant manner, and Carmelita spat.

A Greek ice-cream seller lingered and ogled.

"_Bros!_" snapped Carmelita with a jerk of her thumb in the direction in
which the young person should be going.

A huge Turco, with a vast beard, brought his rolling swagger to a halt
at her door and made to enter.

"_Destour!_" said the tiny Carmelita to the giant, pointed to the street
and stared him unwaveringly in the eye until, grinning sheepishly, he
turned and went.

Carmelita did not like Turcos in general, and detested this one in
particular.  He was too fond of coming when he knew the Café to be empty
of Légionnaires.

An old Spanish Jew paused in his shuffle to ask for a cigarette.

"_Varda!_" replied Carmelita calmly, with the curious thumb-jerking
gesture of negation, distinctive of the uneducated Italian.

A most cosmopolitan young woman, and able to give a little of his own
tongue to any dweller in Europe and to most of those in Northern Africa.
Not in the least a refined young woman, however, and her many
accomplishments not of the drawing-room.  Staunch, courageous,
infinitely loving, utterly honest, loyal, reliable, and very
self-reliant, she was, upon occasion, it is to be feared, more emphatic
than delicate in speech, and more uncompromising than ladylike in
conduct.  She was not _une maîtresse vierge_, and her standards and
ideals were not those of the Best Suburbs.  You see, Carmelita had begun
to earn her own living at the unusually early age of three, and earned
it in coppers on a dirty rug, on a dirtier Naples quay, for a decade or
so, until at the age of fourteen, or fifteen, she, together with her
Mamma, her reputed Papa, her sister and her brother, performed painful
acrobatic feats on the edge of the said quay for the delectation of the
passengers of the big North German Lloyd and other steamers that tied up
thereat for purposes of embarkation and debarkation, and for the
reception of coal and the discharge of cargo.

At the age of fifteen, Carmelita, most beautiful of form and coarsely
beautiful of face, of perfect health, grace, poise, and carriage, fell
desperately in love with the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi
Rivoli, a star of her own firmament but of far greater magnitude.

Luigi Rivoli, one of a troupe of acrobats who performed at the Naples
Scala, Vésuvie, and Variétés, meditating setting up on his own account
as Strong Man, Acrobat, Juggler, Wrestler, Dancer, and Professor of
Physical Culture, was, to the humble "tumbler" of the quay, as the
be-Knighted Actor-Manager of a West End Theatre to the last joined
chorus girl, or walking-lady on his boards.  And yet the great Signor
Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli, meditating desertion from his troupe
and needing an "assistant," deigned to accept the services and
whole-souled adoration of the girl who was as much more skilful as she
was less powerful than he.

When, in her perfect, ardent, and beautiful love, her reckless and
uncounting adoration, she gave herself, mind, body and soul, to her hero
and her god, he accepted the little gift "without prejudice"--as the
lawyers say.  "Without prejudice" to Luigi’s future, that is.

During their short engagement at the Scala--terminated by the Troupe’s
earnest endeavour to assassinate the defaulting and defalcating Luigi,
and her family’s endeavour to maim Carmelita for setting up on her own
account, and deserting her loving "parents"--it was rather the girl whom
the public applauded for her wonderful back-somersaults, contortions,
hand-walking, Catherine-wheels, trapeze-work, and dancing, than the man
for his feats with dumb-bells of doubtful solidity, his stereotyped
ball-juggling, his chain-breaking, and weight-lifting, his
muscle-slapping and _Ha!_ shouting, his posturing and grimacing, and his
issuing of challenges to wrestle any man in the world for any sum he
liked to name, and in any style known to science.  And, when engagements
at the lower-class halls and cafés of Barcelona, Marseilles, Toulon,
Genoa, Rome, Brindisi, Venice, Trieste, Corinth, Athens, Constantinople,
Port Said, Alexandria, Messina, Valetta, Algiers, Oran, Tangiers, or
Casa Blanca were obtained, it was always, and obviously, the girl,
rather than the man, who decided the proprietor or manager to engage
them, and who won the applause of his patrons.

When times were bad, as after Luigi’s occasional wrestling defeats and
during the bad weeks of Luigi’s typhoid, convalescence, and long
weakness at Marseilles, it was Carmelita, the humbler and lesser light,
who (the Halls being worked out) tried desperately to keep the wolf from
the door by returning to the quay-side business, and, for dirty coppers,
exhibiting to passengers, coal-trimmers, cargo-workers, porters and
loafers, the performances that had been subject of signed contracts and
given on fine stages in beautiful music-halls and _cafés_, to refined
and appreciative audiences.  Incidentally the girl learned much French
(little knowing how useful it was to prove), as well as smatterings of
Spanish, Greek, Turkish, English and Arabic.

So Carmelita had "assisted" the great Luigi in the times of his
prosperity and had striven to maintain him in eclipse, by quay-side,
public-house, workmen’s dinner-hour, low _café_, back-yard,
gambling-den, and wine-shop exhibitions of her youthful skill, grace,
agility, and beauty--and had failed to make enough by that means.  To
the end of her life poor Carmelita could never, never forget that
terrible time at Marseilles, try as she might to thrust it into the
background of her thoughts.  For there, ever there, in the background it
remained, save when called to cruel prominence by some mischance, or at
rare intervals by the noble Luigi himself, when displeased by some
failure on the part of Carmelita.  A terrible, terrible memory, for
Carmelita’s nature was essentially virginal, delicate, and of crystal
purity.  Where she loved she gave all--and Luigi was to Carmelita as
much her husband as if they had been married in every church they had
passed, in every cathedral they had seen, and by every _padre_ they had
met....

A terrible, terrible memory....  But Luigi’s life was at stake and what
true woman, asked Carmelita, would not have taken the last step of all
(when every other failed) to raise the money necessary for doctors,
medicine, delicacies, food, fuel, and lodging?  If, by thrusting her
right hand into the fire, Carmelita could have burnt away those haunting
and corroding Marseilles memories, then into the fire her right hand
would have been thrust.  Yet, side by side with the self-horror and
self-disgust was no remorse nor repentance. If, to-morrow, Luigi’s life
could only thus again be saved, thus saved should it be, as when at
Marseilles he lay convalescent but dying for lack of the money wherewith
to buy the delicacies that would save him.... Luigi’s life always, and
at any time, before Carmelita’s scruples and shrinkings.

In return, Luigi had been kind to her and had often spoken of
matrimony--some day--in spite of what she had done at Marseilles when he
was too ill to look after her, and provide her with all she needed.
Once even, when they were on the crest of a great wave of prosperity,
Luigi had gone so far as to mention her seventeenth birthday as a
possibly suitable date for their wedding.  That had been a great and
glorious time, though all too short, alas! and the sequel to a brilliant
scheme devised by that poor dear Guiseppe Longigotto in the interests of
his beloved and adored friend Carmelita.  Poor Guiseppe!  He had
deserved as Carmelita was the first to admit, something better, than a
stab in the back from Luigi Rivoli, for the idea had been wholly and
solely his, until the great Roman sporting Impresario had taken it up
and developed it.  First there was a tremendous syndicate-engineered
campaign of advertisement, which let all Europe know that _Il Famoso e
Piu Grande Professors Carlo Scopinaro_, Champion Wrestler of Europe,
America and Australia, would shortly meet the Egregious Egyptian, or
Conquering Copt, Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia, in Rome, and
wrestle him in the Graeco-Roman style, for the World’s Championship and
ten thousand pounds a side.  (Yes actually and authoritatively
_diecimila lire sterline_.)  From every hoarding in Rome, Venice, Milan,
Turin, Genoa, Florence, Naples, Brindisi, and every other town in Italy,
huge posters called your attention to the beauties and marvels of the
smiling face and mighty form of the great Carlo Scopinaro; to the
horrors and terrors of the scowling face and enormous carcase of the
dreadful Conquering Copt.  (To positively none but Luigi, Guiseppe, and
the renowned Roman Impresario was it known that the Conquering Copt was
none other than Luigi’s old pal, Abdul Hamid, chucker-out at a Port Said
music-hall, and most modest and retiring of gentlemen--until this
greatness of Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia was suddenly thrust
upon him, and he was summoned from Port Said to Rome to be coached by
Luigi in the arts and graces of realistic stage-wrestling, and
particularly in those of life-like and convincing defeat after a long
and obviously terrible struggle.) ... Excitement was splendidly
engineered, the newspapers of every civilised country and of Germany
advertised the epoch-making event, speculated upon its result, and
produced interesting articles on such questions as, "_Should a
Colour-Line be drawn in Wrestling?_" and, "_Is Scopinaro the White
Hope?_"  A self-advertising reverend Nonconformist announced his
intention in the English press of proceeding to Rome to create a
disturbance at the Match.  He got himself frequently interviewed by
specimens of the genus, "Our representative," and the important fact
that he was a Conscientious Objector to all forms of sport was brought
to the notice of the Great British Public.

The struggle was magnificently staged and magnificently acted.  Every
spectator in the vast theatre, no matter whether he had paid one hundred
lire or a paltry fifty centesimi for his seat, felt that he had had his
money’s worth.  In incredibly realistic manner the White Hope of Europe
and the Champion of Africa and Asia struck attitudes, cried "_Ha!_",
snatched at each other, stamped, straddled, pushed, pulled, embraced,
slapped, jerked, hugged, tugged, lugged, and lifted each other with
every appearance of fearful exertion, dauntless courage, fierce
determination and unparalleled skill for one crowded hour of glorious
life, during which the house went mad, rose at them to a man, and, with
tears and imprecations, called upon the Italian to be worthy of his
country and upon the Conquering Copt to be damned.

Few scenes in all the troubled history of Rome can have equalled, for
excitement, that which ensued when the White Hope finally triumphed, the
honour of Europe in general was saved, and that of Italy in particular
illuminated with a blaze of glory.

Anyhow, what was solid fact, with no humbug about it, was that Luigi
received the renowned Roman Impresario’s fervid blessing and five
hundred pounds, while the complacent Abdul received blessings equally
fervid, though a less enthusiastic cheque.  Both gentlemen were then
provided by the kind Impresario with single tickets to the most distant
spot he could induce them to name.

For Carmelita, the days following that on which her Luigi won the great
World’s Championship match, were a glorious time of expensive dinners,
fine apartments, and beautiful clothes; a time of being _café_ and
music-hall patrons instead of performers; of being entertained instead
of entertaining.  The joy of Carmelita’s life while the five hundred
pounds lasted was to sit in a stage-box, proud and happy, beside her
noble Luigi, and criticise the various "turns" upon the stage.  Never an
evening performance, nor a matinée did they miss, and Luigi drank a
quart of champagne at lunch, and another at dinner. Luigi must keep his
strength up, of course, and the soothing influence of innumerable Havana
cigars was not denied to his nerves.

And then, just as the five hundred pounds was finished, a wretched
Russian (quickly followed by an American, two Russians, a Turk, a
Frenchman, and an Englishman) publicly challenged Luigi in the press of
Europe, to wrestle for the Championship of the World in any style he
liked, for any amount he liked, when and where he liked--and that branch
of his profession was closed to Luigi--for these men were giants and
terrors, arranging no "crosses," stern fighters, and out for fame,
money, genuine sport, and the real Championship.

Then had come a time of poverty, straits, mean shifts and misery,
followed by Luigi’s job as a "tamer" of tame lions.  This post of
lion-tamer to a cageful of mangy, weary lions, captive-born,
pessimistic, timid and depressed, had been secured by Guiseppe
Longigotto, and handed over to Luigi (on its proving safe and
satisfactory), in the interests of Giuseppe’s adored and hungry
Carmelita.  Arrayed in the costume worn by all the Best Lion-tamers,
Luigi looked a truly noble figure, as, with flashing eyes and gleaming
teeth, he cracked the whip and fired the revolver that induced the bored
and disgusted lions to amble round the cage, crouching and cringing in
humility and fear. That insignificant little rat, Guiseppe, was far more
in the picture, of course, as fiddler to the show, than he was in his
original role of tamer of the lions. Followed a bad time along the
African coast, culminating, at Algiers, in poor Guiseppe’s impassioned
pleadings that Carmelita would marry him (and, leaving this dreadful
life of the road, live with him and his beautiful violin on the banked
proceeds of his great Wrestling Championship scheme), Luigi’s jealousy,
his overbearing airs of proprietorship, his drunken cruelty, his
presuming on her love and obedience to him until she sought to give him
a fright and teach him a lesson, his killing of the poor, pretty
musician, and his flight to Sidi-bel-Abbès....

To Sidi-bel-Abbès also fled Carmelita, and, with the proceeds of
Guiseppe’s dying gift to her, eked out by promises of many things to
many people, such as Jew and Arab lessors and landlords, French dealers,
Spanish-Jew jobbers and contractors, and Negro labourers, contrived to
open La Café de la Légion, to run it with herself as proprietress,
manageress, barmaid, musician, singer, actress, and _danseuse_, and to
make it pay to the extent of a daily franc, bottle of Chianti, and a
macaroni, polenta, or spaghetti meal for Luigi, and a very meagre living
for herself. When in need of something more, Carmelita performed at
matinées at the music-hall and at private stances in Arab and other
houses, in the intervals of business. When professional dress would have
rendered her automatic pistol conspicuous and uncomfortable, Carmelita
carried a most serviceable little dagger in her hair.  Also she let it
be known among her patrons of the Legion that she was going to a certain
house, garden, or _café_ at a certain time, and might be there enquired
for if unduly delayed.  Carmelita knew the seamy side of life in
Mediterranean ports, and African littoral and hinterland towns, and took
no chances....

And by-and-by her splendid and noble Luigi would marry her, and they
would go to America--where that little matter of manslaughter would
never crop up and cause trouble--and live happily ever after.

So, faithful, loyal, devoted, Carmelita might be; generous, chaste, and
brave, Carmelita might be--but alas! not refined, not genteel, not above
telling a Chasseur d’Afrique what she thought of him and his insults;
not above spitting at a leering, gesture-making Spahi.  No lady....

"_Ben venuti, Signori!_" cried Carmelita on catching sight of Il Signor
Jean Boule and the Bucking Bronco. "_Soyez le bien venu, Monsieur Jean
Boule et Monsieur Bronco.  Che cosa posso offrirvi?_" and, as they
seated themselves at a small round table near the bar, hastened to bring
the wine favoured by these favoured customers--the so gentle English
Signor, _gentilhomme_, (doubtless once a _milord_, a _nobile_), and the
so gentle, foolish Americano, so slow and strong, who looked at her with
eyes of love, kind eyes, with a good true love.  No _milordino_ he, no
_piccol Signor_ (but nevertheless a good man, a _uomo dabbéne_, most
certainly...)

Reginald Rupert was duly presented as Légionnaire Rupert, with all
formality and ceremony, to the Madamigella Carmelita, who ran her
bright, black eye over him, summed him up as another _gentiluomo_, an
obvious _gentilhomme_, pitied him, and wondered what he had "done."

Carmelita loved a "gentleman" in the abstract, although she loved Luigi
Rivoli in the concrete; adored aristocrats in general, in spite of the
fact that she adored Luigi Rivoli in particular.  To her experienced and
observant young eye, Légionnaire Jean Boule and this young _bleu_ were
of the same class, the _aristocratico_ class of _Inghilterra_; birds of
a feather, if not of a nest.  They might be father and son, so alike
were they in their difference from the rest.  So different even from the
English-speaking Americano, so different from her Luigi.  But then, her
Luigi was no mere broken aristocrat; he was the World’s Champion
Wrestler and Strong Man, a great and famous Wild Beast Tamer, and--her
Luigi.

"_Buona sera, Signor_," said Carmelita to Rupert. "_Siete venuto per la
via di Francie?_" and then, in Legion-French and Italian, proceeded to
comment upon the new recruit’s appearance, his _capetti riccioluti_ and
to enquire whether he used the _calamistro_ and _ferro da ricci_ to
obtain the fine crisp wave in his hair.

Not at all a refined and ladylike maiden, and very, very far from the
standards of Surbiton, not to mention Balham.

Reginald Rupert (to whom love and war were the two things worth living
for), on understanding the drift of the lady’s remarks, proposed
forthwith "to cross the bar" and "put out to see" whether he could not
give her a personal demonstration of the art of hair-curling, but--

"_Non vi pigliate fastidio_," said Carmelita.  "Don’t trouble yourself
Signor Azzurro--Monsieur Bleu. And if Signor Luigi Rivoli should enter
and see the young Signor on my side of the bar--Luigi’s side of the
bar--why, one look of his eye would so make the young Signor’s hair curl
that, for the rest of his life, the _calamistro_, the curling-tongs,
would be superfluous."

"Yep," chimed in the Bucking Bronco.  "I guess as haow it’s about time
yure Loojey’s bright eyes got closed, my dear, an’ I’m goin’ ter bung
’em both up one o’ these fine days, when I got the cafard.  Yure
Loojey’s a great lady-killer an’ recruit-killer, we know, an’ he can
talk a tin ear on a donkey.  I say _Il parlerait une oreille d’etain sur
un âne_.  Yure Loojey’d make a hen-rabbit git mad an’ bark.  I say
_Votre Loojey causer ait une lapine devenir fou et écorcer_.  I got it
in fer yure Loojey.  I say _Je l’ai dans pour votre Loojey_....
Comprenny?  _Intendete quel che dico?_" and the Bucking Bronco drank off
a pint of wine, drew his tiny, well-thumbed French dictionary from one
pocket and his "Travellers’ Italian Phrase-book" from another, cursed
the Tower of Babel, and all foreign tongues, and sought words wherewith
to say that it was high time for Luigi Rivoli "to quit beefin’ aroun’
Madam lar Canteenair, to wipe off his chin considerable, to cease being
a sticker, a sucker, and a skinamalink girl-sponging meal-and-money
cadger; and to quit tellin’ stories made out o’ whole cloth,[#] that cut
no ice with nobody except Carmelita."


[#] Untrue.


This young lady gathered that, as usual, the poor, silly jealous
Americano was belittling and insulting her Luigi, if not actually
threatening him.  _Him_, who could break any Americano across his knee.
With a toss of her head and a contemptuous "Invidioso! Scioccone!" for
the Bronco, a flick on the nose with the _krenfell_ flower from her ear
for Rupert, a blown kiss for _Babbo_ Jean Boule, Carmelita flitted away,
going from table to table to minister to the mental, moral, and physical
needs of her other devoted Légionnaires as they arrived--men of strange
and dreadful lives who loved her then and there, who remembered her
thereafter and elsewhere, and who sent her letters, curios, pressed
flowers and strange presents from the ends of the earth where flies the
_tricouleur_, and the Flag of the Legion--in Tonkin, Madagascar,
Senegal, Morocco, the Sahara--in every Southern Algerian station
wherever the men of the Legion tramped to their death to the strains of
the regimental march of "_Tiens, voilà du boudin_."

"Advise me, Mam’zelle," said a young Frenchman of the Midi, rising to
his feet with a flourish of his képi and a sweeping bow, as Carmelita
approached the table at which he and three companions sat, "Advise me as
to the investment of this wealth, fifty centimes, all at once.  Shall it
be five glorious green absinthes or five _chopes_ of the wine of
Algiers?--or shall I warm my soul with burning bapédi...?"

"Four bottles of wine is what you want for André, Raoul, Léon, and
yourself," was the reply.  "Absinthe is the mamma and the papa and all
the ancestors of _le cafard_ and you are far too young and tender for
bapédi. It mingles not well with mother’s milk, that...."

In the extreme corner of the big, badly-lit room, a Legionary sat alone,
his back to the company, his head upon his folded arms.  Passing near,
on her tour of ministration, Carmelita’s quick eye and ear perceived
that the man was sobbing and weeping bitterly. It might be the poor
Grasshopper passing through one of his terrible dark hours, and
Carmelita’s kind heart melted with pity for the poor soul, smartest of
soldiers, and maddest of madmen.

Going over to where he sat apart, Carmelita bent over him, placed her
arm around his neck, and stroked his glossy dark hair.

"_Pourquoi faites-vous Suisse, mon pauvre?_" she murmured with a
motherly caress.  "What is it? Tell Carmelita."  The man raised his face
from his arms, smiled through his tears and kissed the hand that rested
on his shoulder.  The handsome and delicate face, the small, well-kept
hands, the voice, were those of a man of culture and refinement.

"_I ja nai ka!_--How delightful!" he said.  "You will make things right.
I am to be made _machi-bugiyo_, governor of the city to-morrow, and I
wish to remain a Japanese lady.  I do not want to lay aside the
_suma-goto_ and _samisen_ for the _wakizashi_ and the _katana_--the lute
for the dagger and sword.  I don’t want to sit on a _tokonoma_ in a
_yashiki_ surrounded by _karo_...."

"No, no, no, mon cher, you shall not indeed.  See le bon Dieu and le bon
Jean Boule will look after you," said Carmelita, gently stroking his hot
forehead and soothing him with little crooning sounds and caresses as
though he had really been the child that, in mind and understanding, he
was.

John Bull, followed by Rupert, unobtrusively joined Carmelita.  Seating
himself beside the unhappy man, he took his hands and gazed steadily
into his suffused eyes.

"Tell me all about it, Cigale," said he.  "You know we can put it right.
When has Jean Boule failed to explain and arrange things for you?"

The madman repeated that he dreaded to have to sit on the raised dais of
the Palace of a Governor of a City surrounded by officials and advisers.

"I know I should soon be involved in a _kataki-uchi_ with a neighbouring
clan, and have to commit hara-kiri if I failed to keep the Mikado’s
peace.  It is terrible. You don’t know how I long to remain a lady.  I
want silk and music and cherry-blossom instead of steel and blood," and
again he laid his head upon his arms and continued his low, hopeless
sobbing.

Reginald Rupert’s face expressed blank astonishment at the sight of the
weeping soldier.

"What’s up?" he said.

Légionnaire John Bull tapped his forehead.

"Poor chap will behave _more Japonico_ for the rest of the day now.  I
fancy he’s been an attaché in Japan. You don’t know Japanese by any
chance?  I have forgotten the little I knew."

Rupert shook his head.

"Look here, Cigale," said John Bull, raising the afflicted man and again
fixing the steady, benign gaze upon his eyes, "why are you making all
this trouble for yourself?  You know I am the Mikado and All-powerful!
You have only to appeal to me and the Shogun must release you.  Of
course you can remain a Japanese lady--and I’ll tell you what, ma chère,
ma petite fille Japonaise, not only shall you remain a lady, but a lady
of the old school and of the days before the accursed Foreign Devils
came in to break down ancient customs.  I promise it.  To-morrow you
shall shave off your eyebrows and paint them in two inches above your
eyes.  I promise it.  More.  Your teeth shall be lacquered black.  Now
cease these ungrateful repinings, and be a happy maiden once again.  By
order of the Mikado!"

Once again the voice and eye, and the gentle wise sympathy and
comprehension of ce bon Jean Boule had succeeded and triumphed.  The
madman, falling at his feet, knelt and bowed three times, his forehead
touching the ground, in approved geisha fashion.

"And now you’ve got to come and lie down, or you won’t be fit for the
eyebrow-shaving ceremony to-morrow," said Carmelita, and led him to a
broad, low divan, which made a cosy, if dirty, corner remote from the
bar.

"That’s as extraordinary a case as ever I came across," remarked John
Bull to Rupert as they rejoined the Bucking Bronco, who was talking to
the Cockney and the Russian twins, "as mad as any lunatic in any asylum
in the world, and yet as absolutely competent and correct in every
detail of soldiering as any soldier in the Legion.  He is the Perfect
Private Soldier--and a perfect lunatic.  Most of the time, off parade
that is, he thinks he’s a grasshopper, and the rest of the time he
thinks he’s of some remarkably foreign nationality, such as a Zulu, an
Eskimo, or a Chinaman.  I should very much like to know his story.  He
must have travelled pretty widely.  He has certainly been an officer in
the Belgian Guides (their Officers’ Mess is one of the most exclusive
and aristocratic in the world, as you know) and he has certainly been a
Military Attaché in the East.  He is perfectly harmless and a most
thorough gentleman, poor soul....  Yes, I should greatly like to know
his story," and added as he poured out a glass of wine, "but we don’t
ask men their ’stories’ in the Legion...."

Carmelita returned to her high seat by the door of her little room
behind the bar--the door upon the outside of which many curious regards
had oftentimes been fixed.

Carmelita was troubled.  Why did not Luigi come? Were his duties so
numerous and onerous nowadays that he had but a bare hour for his late
dinner and his bottle of Chianti?  Time was, when he arrived as soon
after five o’clock as a wash and change of uniform permitted.  Time was,
when he could spend from early evening to late night in the Café de la
Légion, outstaying the latest visitors.  And that time was also the time
when Madame la Cantinière was not a widow--the days before Madame’s
husband had been sliced, sawn, snapped, torn, and generally mangled by
certain other widows--of certain Arabs--away to the South. This might be
coincidence of course, and yet--and yet--several Légionnaires who had no
axe to grind and who were not jealous of Luigi’s fortune, had
undoubtedly coupled his name with that of Madame....

"An’ haow did yew find yure little way to our dope-joint hyar?" the
Bucking Bronco enquired of Mikhail Kyrilovitch, as he did the honours of
Carmelita’s "joint" to the three _bleus_ who had entered while John Bull
was talking to the Grasshopper.

"Well, since you arx, we jest ups an’ follers you, old bloke, when yer
goes aht wiv these two uvver Henglish coves," replied the Cockney.

The American regarded him with the eye of large and patient tolerance.
He preferred the Russians, particularly Mikhail, and rejoiced that they
spoke English.  It would have been too much to have attempted to add a
working knowledge of Russian to his other linguistic stores.
Nevertheless, he would, out of compliment to their nationality, produce
such words of their strange tongue as he could command. It might serve
to make them feel more at home like.

"I’m afraid I can’t ask yew moojiks ter hev a little caviare an’ wodky,
becos’ Carmelita is out of it....  But there’s cawfy in the sammy-var I
hev no doubt," he said graciously.

The Russians thanked him, and Feodor pledging him in a glass of
absinthe, promised to teach him the art of concocting _lompopo_, while
Mikhail quietly sipped his glass of sticky, sweet Algerian wine.

Restless Carmelita joined the group, and her friend Jean Boule
introduced the three new patrons.

"Prahd an’ honoured, Miss, I’m shore," said the Cockney.  "’Ave a
port-an’-lemon or thereabahts?"

But Carmelita was too interested in the startling similarity of the
twins to pay attention to the civilities and blandishments of the
Cockney, albeit he surreptitiously wetted his fingers with wine and
smoothed his smooth and shining "cowlick" or "quiff" (the highly
ornamental fringe which, having descended to his eyebrows, turned
aspiringly upward).

"_Gemello_," she murmured, turning from Feodor and his cheery greeting
to Mikhail, who responded with a graceful little bow, suddenly
terminated and changed to a curt nod, like that given by Feodor.  As
Carmelita continued her direct gaze, a dull flush grew and mantled over
his face.

"_Cielo_!  But how the boy blushes!  Now is it for his own sins, or
mine, I wonder?" laughed Carmelita, pointing accusingly at poor
Mikhail’s suffused face.

"Gawdstreuth!  Can’t ’e blush," remarked Mr. Higgins.

The dull flush became a vivid, burning blush under Carmelita’s pointing
finger, and the regard of the amused Legionaries.

"Corpo di Bacco!" laughed the teasing girl.  "A blushing Legionary!  The
dear, sweet, good boy.  If only _I_ could blush like that.  And he
brings his blushes to Madame la République’s Legion.  Well, it is not
_porta vasi a Samo!_"[#]


[#] Lit., "to carry coals to Newcastle."


"Never mind, Sonny," said the American soothingly, "there’s many a worse
stunt than blushin’.  I uster use blushes considerable meself--when I
was a looker ’bout yure age."  He translated.

Carmelita’s laughter pealed out again at the idea of the blushing
American.  Feodor’s laughter mingled with Carmelita’s, but sounded
forced.

"Isn’t it funny?" he remarked.  "My brother has always been like that,
but believe me, Padrona, I could not blush to save my life."

"Si, si," laughed Carmelita.  "You have sinned and he has blushed--all
your lives, is it not so--le pauvre petit?" and saucily rubbed the side
of Mikhail’s crimson face with the backs of her fingers--and looked
unwontedly thoughtful as he jerked his head away with a look of
annoyance.

"La, la, la!" said Carmelita.  "Musn’t he be teased then?..."

"Come, Signora," broke in Feodor again, "you’re making him blush worse
than ever.  Such kindness is absolutely wasted.  Now I..."

"No, _you_ wouldn’t blush with shame and fright, no, nor yet with
innocence, would you, Signor Feodor? _E un peccato!_" replied the girl,
and lightly brushed his cheek as she spoke.

The good Feodor did not blush, but the look of thoughtfulness deepened
on Carmelita’s face.

To the finer perceptions of John Bull there seemed to be something
strained and discomfortable in the atmosphere.  Carmelita had fallen
silent, Feodor seemed annoyed and anxious, Mikhail frightened and
anxious, and Mr. ’Erb ’Iggins of too gibing a humour.

"You are making me positively jealous, Signora Carmelita, and leaving me
thirsty," he said, and with a small repentant squeal Carmelita flitted
to the bar.

"Would you like a biscuit too, Signor Jean Boule?" she called, and
tossed one across to him as she spoke. John Bull neatly caught the
biscuit as it flew somewhat wide.  Carmelita, like most women, could not
throw straight.

"_Tiro maestro,_" she applauded, and launched another at the unprepared
Mikhail with a cry of "Catch, _goffo_."  Instinctively, he "made a lap"
and spread out his hands.

"_Esattamente!_" commented Carmelita beneath her breath and apparently
lost interest in the little group....

A quartet of Legionaries swaggered into the _café_ and approached the
bar--Messieurs Malvin, Borges, Bauer and Hirsch, henchmen and satellites
of Luigi Rivoli--and saluted to Carmelita’s greeting of "Buona sera,
Signori...."

"Bonsoir, M. Malvin," added she to the dapper, low-bowing Austrian,
whose evil face, with its close-set ugly eyes, sharp crooked nose, waxed
moustache, and heavy jowl, were familiar to her as those of one of
Luigi’s more intimate followers.  "Where is Signor Luigi Rivoli
to-night?  He has no guard duty?"

"No, mia signora--er--that is--yes," replied Malvin in affected
discomfort.  "He is--ah--on duty."

"On duty in the Canteen?" asked Carmelita, flushing.

"What do I know of the comings and goings of the great Luigi Rivoli?"
answered Malvin.  "Doubtless he will fortify himself with a litre of
wine at Madame’s bar in the Canteen before walking down here."

"Luigi Rivoli drinks no sticky Algerian wine," said Carmelita angrily
and her eyes and teeth flashed dangerously.  "He drinks Chianti from
Home.  He never enters her Canteen."

"Ah!  So?" murmured Malvin in a non-committal manner.  And then
Carmelita’s anxiety grew a little greater--greater even than her dislike
and distrust of M. Edouard Malvin, and she did what she had never done
before.  She voiced it to him.

"Look you, Monsieur Malvin, tell me the truth. I will not tell my Luigi
that you have accused him to me, or say that you have spoken ill of him
behind his back.  Tell me the truth.  _Is_ he in the Canteen? Tell me,
cher Monsieur Malvin."

"Have I the double sight, bella Carmelita?  How should I know where le
Légionnaire Rivoli may be?" fenced the soi-disant Belgian, who desired
nothing better than to win the woman from the man--and toward himself.
Failing Madame la Cantinière and the Legion’s Canteen, what better than
Carmelita and the Café de la Légion for a poor hungry and thirsty
soldier?  If the great Luigi must win the greater prize let the little
Malvin win the lesser.  To which end let him curry favour with La Belle
Carmelita--just as far as such a course of action did not become
premature, and lead to a painful interview with an incensed Luigi
Rivoli.

"Tell me the truth, cher Monsieur Malvin.  Where is my Luigi?" again
asked Carmelita pleadingly.

"_Donna e Madonna_," replied the good M. Malvin, with piteous eyes,
broken voice, and protecting hand placed gently over that of Carmelita
which lay clenched upon the zinc-covered bar.  "What shall I say?  Luigi
Rivoli is a giant among men--I, a little fat _deboletto_, a _sparutello_
whom the great Luigi could kill with one hand.  Though I love Carmelita,
I fear Luigi.  How shall I tell of his doings with that husband-seeking
_puttana_ of the Canteen; of his serving behind the bar, helping her,
taking her money, drinking her wine (wine of Algiers); of his passionate
and burning prayers that she will marry him?  How can I, his friend,
tell of those things?  But oh!  Carmelita, my poor honest heart is
wrung..." and le bon Monsieur Malvin paused to hope that his neck also
would not be wrung as the result of this moving eloquence.

For a moment Carmelita’s eyes blazed and her hands and her little white
teeth clenched.  Mother of God! if Luigi played her false after all she
had done for him, after all she had given him--given _for_ him!... But
no, it was unthinkable....  This Malvin was an utter knave and liar, and
would fool her for his own ends--the very man _fare un pesce d’Aprile a
qualcuno_. He should see how far his tricks succeeded with Carmelita of
the Legion, the chosen of Carlo Scopinaro!  And yet ... and yet...  She
would ask Il Signor Jean Boule again.  He would never lie.  He would
neither backbite Luigi Rivoli, nor stand by and see Carmelita deceived.
Yes, she would ask Jean Boule, and then if he _too_ accused Luigi she
would find some means to see and hear for herself....  Trust her woman’s
wit for that.  And meantime this serpent of a Malvin...

"_Se ne vada!_" she hissed, whirling upon him suddenly, and pointed to
the door.  Malvin slunk away, by no means anxious to be present at the
scene which would certainly follow should Luigi enter before Carmelita’s
mood had changed.  He would endeavour to meet and delay him....

"What do yew say to acontinuin’ o’ this hyar gin-crawl?" asked the
Bucking Bronco of Rupert. "Come and see our other pisen-joint and Madame
lar Cantenair."

"Anything you like," replied Rupert.

"Let’s go out when they do," said Mikhail quickly, in Russian, to
Feodor.

"All right, silly Olka," was the whispered reply.

"Silly Fedka, to call me Olka," was the whispered retort.  "You’re a
pretty _budotchnik_,[#] aren’t you?"


[#] Guardian, watchman.


"Yus," agreed Mr. ’Erb Higgins, nodding cordially to Rupert, and
bursting into appropriate and tuneful song--

    "Come where the booze is cheaper,
      Come where the pots ’old more,
    Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
      Ho! come to the pub next door."


Evidently a sociable and expansive person, easily thawed by a _chope_ of
cheap wine withal; neither standoffish nor haughty, for he thrust one
friendly arm through that of Jean Boule, and another round the waist of
Reginald Rupert.  Let it not be supposed that it was under the influence
of liquor rather than of sheer, expansive geniality that ’Erb proposed
to walk _a braccetto_, as Carmelita observed, with his new-found
friends....

As the party filed out of the _café_, Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who was
walking last of the party, felt a hand slip within his arm to detain
him.  Turning, he beheld Carmelita’s earnest little face near his own.
In his ear she whispered in French--

"I have your secret, little one--but have no fear. Should anyone else
discover it, come to Carmelita," and before the astonished Mikhail could
reply she was clearing empty glasses and bottles from their table.




                               CHAPTER IV

                       THE CANTEEN OF THE LEGION


From the Canteen, a building in the corner of the barrack-square,
proceeded sounds of revelry by night.

"Blimey!  Them furriners are singin’ ’Gawd save the Queen’ like bloomin’
Christians," remarked ’Erb as the little party approached the modest
Temple of Bacchus.

"No, they are Germans singing ’_Heil dir im Sieges-Kranz_,’ replied
Feodor Kyrilovitch in English.

"And singing it most uncommonly well," added Legionary John Bull.

"Fancy them ’eathens pinchin’ the toon like that," commented ’Erb.
"They oughtn’t to be allowed... Do they ’old concerts ’ere?  I dessay
they’d like to ’ear some good Henglish songs...."

Reginald Rupert never forgot his first glimpse of the Canteen of the
Legion, though he entered it hundreds of times and spent hundreds of
hours beneath its corrugated iron roof.  Scores of Legionaries,
variously clad in blue and red or white sat on benches at long tables,
or lounged at the long zinc-covered bar, behind which were Madame and
hundreds of bottles and large wine-glasses.

Madame la Vivandière de la Légion was not of the school of "Cigarette."
Rupert failed to visualise her with any clearness as leading a cavalry
charge (the _Drapeau_ of La France in one hand, a pistol in the other,
and her reins in her mouth), inspiring Regiments, advising Generals,
softening the cruel hearts of Arabs, or "saving the day" for La Patrie,
in the manner of the vivandière of fiction.  Madame had a beady eye, a
perceptible moustache, a frankly downy chin, two other chins, a more
than ample figure, and looked, what she was, a female camp-sutler.
Perhaps Madame appeared more Ouidaesque on the march, wearing her
official blue uniform as duly constituted and appointed _fille du
régiment_.  At present she looked...  However, the bow of Reginald
Rupert, together with his smile and honeyed words, were those of
Mayfair, as he was introduced by Madame’s admired friend ce bon Jean
Boule, and he stepped straight into Madame’s experienced but capacious
heart.  Nor was the brightness of the image dulled by the ten-franc
piece which he tendered with the request that Madame would supply the
party with her most blushful Hippocrene.  ’Erb, being introduced, struck
an attitude, his hand upon his heart. Madame coughed affectedly.

"Makes a noise like a ’igh-class parlour-maid bein’ jilted, don’ she?"
he observed critically.

Having handed a couple of bottles and a large glass to each member of
the party, by way of commencement in liquidating the coin, she returned
to her confidential whispering with Monsieur le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli
(who lolled, somewhat drunk, in a corner of the bar) as the group seated
itself at the end of a long table near the window.

It being "holiday," that is, pay-day, the Canteen was full, and most of
its patrons had contrived to emulate it.  A very large number had laid
out the whole of their _décompté_--every farthing of two-pence
halfpenny--on wine.  Others, wiser and more continent, had reserved a
halfpenny for tobacco.  In one corner of the room an impromptu German
glee party was singing with such excellence that the majority of the
drinkers were listening to them with obvious appreciation.  With hardly
a break, and with the greatest impartiality they proceeded from
part-song to hymn, from hymn to drinking-song, from drinking-song to
sentimental love-ditty.  Finally _Ein feste burg ist unser Gott_ being
succeeded by _Die Wacht am Rhein_ and _Deutschland über Alles_, the
French element in the room thought that a little French music would be a
pleasing corrective, and with one accord, if not in one key, gave a
spirited rendering of the Marseillaise, followed by--

    "Tiens, voilà du boudin
      Tiens, voilà du boudin
    Tiens, voià du boudin
      Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,
    Four les Belges il n’y en a plus
      Car ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,

immediately succeeded by--

    "As-tu vu la casquette
      La casquette
    Du Père Bougeaud," etc.


As the ditty came to a close a blue-jowled little Parisian--quick,
nervous, and alert--sprang on to a table, and with a bottle in one hand,
and a glass in the other, burst into the familiar and favourite--

    "C’est l’empereur de Danemark
      Qui a dit a sa moitié
    Depuis quelqu’ temps je remarque
      Que tu sens b’en fort les pieds..." etc.

    "C’est la reine Pomaré
      Qui a pour tout tenue
    Au milieu de l’été..."

the song being brought to an untimely end by reason of the parties on
either side of the singer’s table entering into a friendly tug-of-war
with his feet as rope-ends.  As he fell, amid howls of glee and the
crashing of glass, the Bucking Bronco remarked to Rupert--

"Gwine ter be some rough-housin’ ter-night ef we’re lucky," but ere the
mêlée could become general, Madame la Cantinière, descending from her
throne behind the bar, bore down upon the rioters and rated them
soundly--imbeciles, fools, children, vauriens, and _sales cochons_ that
they were.  Madame was well aware of the fact that a conflagration
should be dealt with in its earliest stages and before it became
general.

"This is really extraordinarily good wine," remarked Rupert to John
Bull.

"Yes," replied the latter.  "It’s every bit as good at three-halfpence a
bottle as it is at three-and-six in England, and I’d advise you to stick
to it and let absinthe alone.  It does one no harm, in reason, and is a
great comfort.  It’s our greatest blessing and our greatest curse.
Absinthe is pure curse--and inevitably means ’cafard.’"

"What is this same ’cafard’ of which one hears so much?" asked Rupert.

"Well, the word itself means ’beetle,’ I believe, and sooner or later
the man who drinks absinthe in this climate feels the beetle crawling
round and round in his brain.  He then does the maddest things and
ascribes the impulse to the beetle.  He finally goes mad and generally
commits murder or suicide, or both.  That is one form of _cafard_, and
the other is mere fed-upness, a combination of liverish temper, boredom
and utter hatred and loathing of the terrible ennui of the life."

"Have you had it?" asked the other.

"Everyone has it at times," was the reply, "especially in the tiny
desert-stations where the awful heat, monotony, and lack of employment
leave one the choice of drink or madness.  If you drink you’re certain
to go mad, and if you don’t drink you’re sure to.  Of course, men like
ourselves--educated, intelligent, and all that--have more chance than
the average ’Tommy’ type, but it’s very dangerous for the highly strung
excitable sort.  He’s apt to go mad and stay mad.  We only get fits of
it."

"Don’t the authorities do anything to amuse and employ the men in desert
stations, like we do in India?" enquired the younger man.

"Absolutely nothing.  They prohibit the _Village Négre_ in every
station, compel men to lie on their cots from eleven till four, and do
nothing at all to relieve the maddening monotony of drill, sentry-go and
punishment.  On the other hand, _cafard_ is so recognised an institution
that punishments for offences committed under its influence are
comparatively light.  It takes different people differently, and is
sometimes comic--though generally tragic."

"I should think you’re bound to get something of the sort wherever men
lead a very hard and very monotonous life, in great heat," said Rupert.

"Oh yes," agreed John Bull.  "After all _le cafard_ is not the private
and peculiar speciality of the Legion. We get a very great deal of
madness of course, but I think it’s nearly as much due to predisposition
as it is to the hard monotonous life....  You see we are a unique
collection, and a considerable minority of us must be more or less queer
in some way, or they wouldn’t be here."

Rupert wondered why the speaker was "here" but refrained from asking.

"Can you classify the recruits at all clearly?" he asked.

"Oh yes," was the reply.  "The bulk of them are here simply and solely
for a living; hungry men who came here for board and lodging.  Thousands
of foreigners in France have found themselves down on their uppers, with
their last sou gone, fairly on their beam-ends and their room-rent
overdue.  To such men the Foreign Legion offers a home.  Then, again,
thousands of soldiers commit some heinous military ’crime’ and desert to
the Foreign Legion to start afresh.  We get most of our Germans and
Austrians that way, and not a few French who pretend to be Belgians to
avoid awkward questions as to their papers.  We get Alsatians by the
hundred of course, too.  It is their only chance of avoiding service
under the hated German.  They fight for France, and by their five years’
Legion-service earn the right to naturalisation also.  There are a good
many French, too, who are ’rehabilitating’ themselves.  Men who have
come to grief at home and prefer the Legion to prison.  Then there is
undoubtedly a wanted-by-the-police class of men who have bolted from all
parts of Europe and taken sanctuary here.  Yes, I should say the
out-of-works, deserters, runaways and Alsatians make up three parts of
the Legion."

"And what is the other part?"

"Oh, keen soldiers who have deliberately chosen the Legion for its
splendid military training and constant fighting experience--romantics
who have read vain imaginings and figments of the female mind like
’Under Two Flags’; and the queerest of Queer Fish, oddments and remnants
from the ends of the earth...."  A shout of "Ohé, Grasshopper!" caused
him to turn.

In the doorway, crouching on his heels, was the man they had left lying
on the settee at Carmelita’s. Emitting strange chirruping squeaks,
turning his head slowly from left to right, and occasionally brushing it
from back to front with the sides of his "forelegs," the Grasshopper
approached with long, hopping bounds.

"And that was once an ornament of Chancelleries and Courts," said John
Bull, as he rose to his feet. "Poor devil!  Got his _cafard_ once and
for all at Aïn Sefra.  There was a big grasshopper or locust in his
_gamelle_ of soup one day....  I suppose he was on the verge at the
moment.  Anyhow, he burst into tears and has been a grasshopper ever
since, except when he’s a Jap or something of that sort....  He’s a
grasshopper when he’s ’normal’ you might say."

Going over to where the man squatted, the old Legionary took him by the
arm.  "Come and sit on my blade of grass and drink some dew, Cigale,"
said he.

Smiling up brightly at the face which he always recognised as that of a
sympathetic friend, the Grasshopper arose and accompanied John Bull to
the end of the long table at which sat the Englishmen, the Russians, and
the American....

Yet more wine had made ’Erb yet more expansive, and he kindly filled his
glass and placed it before the Grasshopper.

"’Ere drink that hup, Looney, an’ I’ll sing yer a song as’ll warm the
cockles o’ yer pore ol’ ’eart," he remarked, and suiting the action to
the word, rose to his feet and, lifting up his voice, delivered himself
mightily of that song not unknown to British barrack-rooms--

    "A German orficer crossin’ the Rhine
      ’E come to a pub, an’ this was the sign
    Skibooo, skibooo,
      Skibooo, skiana, skibooo."


The raucous voice and unwonted British accents (for Englishmen are rare
in the Legion) attracted some attention, and by the time ’Erb had
finished with the German officer and commenced upon "’Oo’s that
aknockin’ on the dawer," he was well across the footlights and had the
ear and eye of the assembly. Finding himself the cynosure of not only
neighbouring but distant eyes, ’Erb mounted the table and "obliged" with
a clog-dance and "double-shuffle-breakdown" to the huge delight of an
audience ever desiring a new thing.  Stimulated by rounds of applause,
and by the cheers and laughter which followed the little Parisian’s cry
of "Vive le goddam biftek Anglais," ’Erb burst into further Barrack-room
Ballads unchronicled by, and probably quite unknown to, Mr. Kipling, and
did not admit the superior claims of private thirst until he had dealt
faithfully with "The Old Monk," "The Doctor’s Boy," and the indiscreet
adventure of Abraham the Sailor with the Beautiful Miss Taylor....

"Some boy, that _com_patriot o’ yourn, John," remarked the Bucking
Bronco, "got a reg’lar drorin’ room repertory, ain’t ’e?" and the soul
of ’Erb was proud within him, and he drank another pint of wine.

"Nutthink like a little--_hic_--’armony," he admitted modestly, "fer
making a _swarry_ sociable an’ ’appy.  Wot I ses is--_hic_--wot I ses
is--_hic_--wot I ses is--_hic_...."

"It is so, sonny, and that’s almighty solemn truth," agreed the Bucking
Bronco.

"Wot I ses is--_hic_--" doggedly repeated ’Erb.

"Right again, sonny....  He knows what ’e’s sayin’ all right," observed
the American, turning to the Russians.

"Wot I ses is--_hic_--" repeated ’Erb dogmatically....

"’_Hic jacet!_’ Monsieur would say, perhaps?" suggested Feodor.

’Erb turned upon the last speaker with an entirely kindly contempt.

"Don’t yer igspose yer _hic_-norance," he advised. "You’re a foreiller.
You’re a neathen.  You’re a pore _hic_-norant foreiller.  Wot I was
goin’ ter say was..."  But ’Erb lost the thread of his discourse. "Wisht
me donah wos ’ere," he confided sadly to Mikhail Kyrilovitch, wept with
his arm about Mikhail’s waist, his head upon Mikhail’s shoulder, and
anon lapsed into dreams.  Feodor roused the somnolent ’Erb with the
offer of another bottle of wine, and changed places with Mikhail.  ’Erb
accepted this tribute to the attractiveness of his personality with
modesty, and with murmured words, the purport of which appeared to be
that Feodor was a discriminating heathen.

As the evening wore on, the heady wine took effect. The fun, which had
been fast and furious, grew uproarious.  Dozens of different men were
singing as many different songs, several were merely howling in sheer
joyless glee, many were dancing singly, others in pairs, or in fours;
one, endeavouring to clamber on to the bar and execute a _pas seul_, was
bodily lifted and thrown half-way down the room by the fighting-drunk
Luigi Rivoli.  It was noticeable that, as excitement waxed, the use of
French waned, as men reverted to their native tongues.  It crossed the
mind of Rupert that a blindfolded stranger, entering the room, might
well imagine himself to be assisting at the building of the Tower of
Babel.  A neighbouring party of Spaniards dropping their guttural,
sibilant Legion-French (with their _ze_ for _je_, _zamais_ for _jamais_,
and _zour_ for _jour_) with one accord broke into their liquid Spanish
and _Nombre de Dios_ took the place of _Nom de Dieu_, as their saturnine
faces creased into leathery smiles.  Evidently the new recruit who sat
in their midst was paying his footing with the few francs that he had
brought with him, or obtained for his clothes, for each of the party had
four bottles in solemn row before him, and it was not with the clearest
of utterance that the recruit solemnly and portentously remarked, as he
drained his last bottle--

"Santissima Maria!  Wine is the tomb of memory, but he who sows in sand
does not reap fish," the hearing of which moved his neighbour to drop
his empty bottles upon the ground with a tear, and a farewell to them--

"Vaya usted con Dios.  Adios."  He then turned with truculent ferocity
and a terrific scowl upon the provider of the feast and
growled--"_Sangre de Cristo!_ thou peseta-less burro, give me a
cigarillo or with the blessing and aid of el Eterno Padre I will cut thy
throat with my thumb-nail.  Hasten, perro!"

With a grunt of "Cosas d’Espafia," the recruit removed his képi, took a
cigarette therefrom and placed it in the steel-trap mouth of his
_amigo_, to be rewarded with an incredibly sweet and sunny smile and a
"Bueno!  Gracias, Senor José...."

Letting his eye roam from this queer band of ex-muleteers, brigands and
smugglers to another party who were wading in the wassail, it needed not
the loud "Donnerwetters!" and rambling reminiscent monologue of a fat
brush-haired youth (on the unspeakable villainies of der Herr
Wacht-meister whose wicked _schadenfreude_ had sent good men to this
_schweinerei_ of a Legion, and who was only fit for the military-train
or to be decapitated with his own _pallasch_) to label them Germans
enjoying a _kommers_. Their stolid, heavy bearing, their business-like
and somewhat brutish way of drinking in great gulps and draughts--as
though a distended stomach rather than a tickled palate was the serious
business of the evening, if not the end and object of life--together
with their upturned moustaches, piggish little eyes, and tow-coloured
bristles, proclaimed them sons of Kultur.

Rupert could not forbear a smile at the heavy, philosophical gravity
with which the speaker, ceasing his monologue, heaved a deep, deep sigh
and delivered the weighty dictum that a _schoppen_ of the beer of Munich
was worth all the wine of Algiers, and the Hofbrauhaus worth all the
vineyards and canteens of Africa.

It interested him to notice that among all the nationalities
represented, the French were by far the gayest (albeit with a humour
somewhat _macabre_) and the Germans the most morose and gloomy. He was
to learn later that they provided by far the greatest number of
deserters, that they were eternally grumbling, notably bitter and
resentful, and devoid of the faintest spark of humour.

His attention was diverted from the Germans by a sudden and horrible
caterwauling which arose from a band of Frenchmen who suddenly commenced
at the tops of their voices to howl that doleful dirge the "Hymne des
Pacifiques."  Until they had finished, conversation was impossible.

"Not all foam neither, Miss, please," murmured the sleeping ’Erb in the
comparative silence which followed the ending of this devastating chant.

"What’s the penalty here for drunkenness?" asked Rupert of John Bull.

"Depends on what you do," was the reply.  "There’s no penalty for
drunkenness, as such, so long as it leads to no sins of omission nor
commission.... The danger of getting drunk is that it gives such an
opportunity to any Non-com. who has a down on you. When he sees his man
drunk, he’ll follow him and give him some order, or find him some
_corvée_, in the hope that the man will disobey or abuse him--possibly
strike him.  Then it’s Biribi for the man, and a good mark, as well as
private vengeance, for the zealous Sergeant, who is again noted as a
strong disciplinarian.... I’m afraid it’s undeniably true that nothing
helps promotion in the non-commissioned ranks so much as a reputation
for savage ferocity and a brutal insatiable love of punishing.  A
knowledge of German helps too, as more than half the Legion speaks
German, but harsh domineering cruelty is the first requisite, and a
Non-commissioned Officer’s merit is in direct proportion to the number
of punishments he inflicts. Our Sergeant-Major, for example, is known as
the ’Suicide-maker,’ and is said to be very proud of the title.  The
number of men he has sent to their graves direct, or _via_ the Penal
Battalions, must be enormous, and, so far as I can see, he has attained
his high and exceedingly influential position simply and solely by
excelling in the art of inventing crimes and punishing them
severely--for he is a dull uneducated peasant without brains or ability.
It is this type of Non-com., the monotony, and the poverty, that make
the Legion such a hell for anyone who is not dead keen on soldiering for
its own sake...."

"I’m very glad you’re keen," he added.

"Oh, rather.  I’m as keen as mustard," replied Rupert, "and I was
utterly fed up with peace-soldiering and poodle-faking.  I have done
Sandhurst and had a turn as a trooper in a crack cavalry corps. I wanted
to have a look-in at the North-west Frontier Police in Canada after
this, and then the Cape Mounted Rifles.  I shan’t mind the hardships and
monotony here if I can get some active service, and feel I am learning
something.  I have a few thousand francs, too, at the _Crédit Lyonnais_,
so I shan’t have to bear the poverty cross."

"A few thousand francs, my dear chap!" observed John Bull, smiling.
"Croesus I A few thousand francs will give you a few hundred
fair-weather friends, relief from a few hundred disagreeable corvées,
and duties; give you wine, tobacco, food, medicine, books,
distractions--almost anything but escape from the Legion’s military
duties as distinguished from the menial.  There is nowhere in the world
where money makes so much difference as in the Legion--simply because
nowhere is it so rare.  If among the blind the one-eyed is king, among
Legionaries he who has a franc is a bloated plutocrat.  Where else in
the world is tenpence the equivalent of the daily wages of twenty
men--twenty soldier-labourers?  Yes, a few thousand francs will greatly
alleviate your lot in the Legion, or expedite your departure when you’ve
had enough--for it’s quite hopeless to desert without mufti and money."

"I’ll leave some in the bank then, against the time I feel I’ve had
enough....  By the way, if you or your friend--er--Mr. Bronco at any
time....  If I could be of service ... financially..." and he coloured
uncomfortably.

To offer money to this grave, handsome gentleman of refined speech and
manners was like tipping an Ambassador, or offering the "price of a pot"
to your Colonel, or your Grandfather.

"What do you mean by _corvée_ and the Legion’s menial duties, and
soldier-labourers?" he continued hurriedly to change the subject.

"Yesterday," replied Sir Montague Merline coolly, "I was told off as one
of a fatigue-party to clean the congested open sewers of the native gaol
of Sidi-bel-Abbès. While I and my brothers-in-arms (some of whom had
fought for France, like myself, in Tonkin, Senegal, Madagascar, and the
Sahara) did the foulest work conceivable, manacled Negro and Arab
criminals jeered at us, and bade us strive to give them satisfaction.
Having been in India, you’ll appreciate the situation.  Natives watching
white ’sweepers’ labouring on their behalf."

"One can hardly believe it," ejaculated Rupert, and his face froze with
horror and indignation.

"Yes," continued the other.  "I reflected on the dignity of labour, and
remembered the beautiful words of John Bright, or John Bunyan, or some
other Johnnie about, ’Who sweeps a room as unto God, makes himself and
the action fine.’  I certainly made myself very dirty....  The
Legionaries are the labourers, scavengers, gardeners, builders,
road-makers, street-cleaners, and general coolies of any place in which
they are stationed.  They are drafted to the barracks of the Spahis and
Turcos--the Native Cavalry and Infantry--to do jobs that the Spahis and
Turcos would rather die than touch; and, of course, they’re employed for
every kind of work to which Government would never dream of setting
French regulars.  I have myself worked (for a ha’penny a day) at
wheeling clay, breaking stones, sawing logs, digging, carrying bricks,
hauling trucks, shovelling sand, felling trees, weeding gardens,
sweeping streets, grave-digging, and every kind of unskilled manual
corvée you can think of--in addition, of course, to the daily
routine-work and military training of a soldier of the Legion--which is
three times as arduous as that of any other soldier in the world."

"Sa--a--ay, John," drawled the Bucking Bronco, rousing himself at last
from the deep brooding reverie into which he had plunged in search of
mental images and memories of Carmelita, "give yure noo soul-affinity
the other side o’ the medal likewise, or yew’ll push him off the
water-waggon into the absinthe-barrel."

"Well," continued John Bull, "you can honestly say you belong to the
most famous, most reckless, most courageous regiment in the world; to
the regiment that has fought more battles, won more battles, lost more
men and gained more honours, than any in the whole history of war.  You
belong to the Legion that never retreats, that dies--and of whose deaths
no record is kept....  It is the last of the real Mercenaries, the
Soldiers of Fortune, and if France sent it to-morrow to such a task that
five thousand men were wastefully and vainly killed, not a question
would be asked in the Chamber, nor the Press: nothing would be said,
nothing known outside the War Department. We exist to die for France in
the desert, the swamp, or the jungle, by bullet or disease--in Algeria,
Morocco, Sahara, the Soudan, West Africa, Madagascar, and Cochin
China--in doing what her regular French and Native troops neither could
nor would do.  We are here to die, and it’s the duty of our officers to
kill us--more or less usefully.  To kill us for France, working or
fighting...."

"’Ear, ’ear, John!" applauded the Bucking Bronco. "Some orator, ain’t
he?" he observed with pride, turning to Mikhail who had been following
the old Legionary with parted lips and shining eyes.  "Guess ol’ John’s
some stump-speecher as well as a looker.... Go it, ol’ section-boss, git
on a char," and he smote his beloved John resoundingly upon the back.

John Bull, despite his years and grey hairs, blushed painfully.

"Sorry," he grunted.

"But indeed, Monsieur speaks most interestingly and with eloquence.
Pray continue," said Mikhail with diffident earnestness.

John Bull looked still more uncomfortable.

"Do go on," said Rupert.

"Oh, that’s all," replied John Bull....  "But we are the cheapest
labourers, the finest soldiers, the most dangerous, reckless devils ever
gathered together....  The incredible army--and there’s anything from
eight to twelve thousand of us in Africa and China, and nobody but the
War Minister knows the real number.  You’re a ha’penny hero now, my boy,
and a ha’penny day-labourer, and you’re not expected to wear out in less
than five years--unless you’re killed by the enemy, disease, or the
Non-coms."

"Have you ever regretted coming here?" asked Rupert, and could have
bitten his tongue as he realised he had asked a personal and prying
question.

"Well, I have re-enlisted twice," parried the other, "and that is a
pretty good testimonial to La Légion. I have had unlimited experience of
active service of all kinds, against enemies of all sorts except
Europeans, and I hope to have that--against Germany[#]--before I’ve
done."


[#] Written in 1913.--AUTHOR.


"But what about all the Germans in the Legion, in that case?" enquired
Rupert.

"Oh, they wouldn’t be sent," was the reply. "They’d all go to the
Southern Stations, and the Moroccan border, or to Madagascar and Tonkin.
Of course, the Alsatians and Lorraines would jump for joy at the
chance."

Conversation at this point again became more and more difficult in the
increasing din, which was not diminished as ’Erb awoke, yawned, stated
that he had a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage, that he was
thoroughly blighted, and indeed blasted, produced a large mouth-organ,
and rendered "Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road," with enthusiastic soul
and vigorous lungs.

Roused to a pinnacle of joyous enthusiasm and yearning for emulation,
not only the little Parisian, but the whole party of Frenchmen leapt
upon their table with wild whoops, and commenced to dance, some the
_carmagnole_, some the _can-can_, some the cake-walk, and others the
_bamboula_, the _chachuqua_, or the "_singe-sur-poele_."  Glasses and
bottles crashed to the ground, and Legionaries with them.  A form broke.

Above the stamping, howling, smashing, and crashing, Madame’s shrill
screams rang clear, as she mingled imprecations and commands with
lamentations that Luigi Rivoli had departed.  Pandemonium increased to
"_tohuwabohu_."  Louder wailed the mouth-organ, louder bawled the
Frenchmen, louder screamed Madame, loudest of all shrilled the "Lights
Out" bugle in the barrack-square--and peace reigned.  In a minute the
room was empty, silent and dark, as the clock struck nine.


                                   §2

"You’ll be awakened by yells of ’_Au jus_’ from the garde-chambre at
about five to-morrow," said John Pull to Rupert as they undressed.  "As
soon as you have swallowed the coffee he’ll pour into your mug from his
jug, hop out and sweep under your bed. The room-orderly has got to sweep
out the room and be on parade as soon as the rest, and it’s impossible
unless everybody sweeps under his own bed and leaves the orderly to do
the rest."

"What about food?" asked the other, who had the healthy appetite of his
years and health.

"Oh--plain and sufficient," was the answer.  "Good soup and bread; hard
biscuit twice a week; and wine every other day--monotonous of course.
Meals at eleven o’clock and five o’clock only....  By the way unless
your feet are fairly tough, you’d better wear _chaussettes russes_ until
they harden--strips of greasy linen bound round, you know.  The skin
will soon toughen if you pour _bapédi_, or any other strong spirit into
your boots, and you can tallow your feet before a long march.  Having no
socks will seem funny at first, but in time you come to hate the idea of
them. Much less cleanly really, and the cause of all blisters."

Rupert looked doubtful, and thought of his silk-sock bills.  Even as a
trooper he had always kept one silk pair to put on after the bath which
followed a long march.  (There are few things so refreshing as the
vigorous brushing of one’s hair and the putting of silk socks on to
bathed feet after a heavy day.)

"Good night, and Good Luck in the Legion," added John Bull as he lay
down.

"Good night--and thanks awfully, sir, for your kindness," replied
Rupert, and vainly endeavoured to compose himself to sleep on his bed
which consisted of a straw-stuffed mattress, a straw-stuffed pillow, and
two thin raspy blankets....

Mikhail Kyrilovitch sat on his bed whispering with his brother, about
the medical examination of recruits which would take place on the
morrow.

"Well, we can only hope for the best," said Feodor at last, "and they
all say the same thing--that it is generally the merest formality.  The
Médecin-Major looks at your face and teeth and asks if you are healthy.
It’s not like what Ivan and I went through in Paris....  They wouldn’t
have two searching medical examinations unless there appeared to be
signs of weakness, I should think."

When the room was wrapped in silence and darkness the latter arose.

"Good night, _golubtchik_," he whispered, "and when your heart fails
you, remember Marie Spiridinoff--and be thankful you are here rather
than There."

Mikhail shuddered.

Anon, every soul in the room was awakened by the uproarious entrance of
the great Luigi Rivoli supported by Messieurs Malvin, Borges and Bauer,
all very drunk and roaring "_Brigadier vous avez raison_," a song which
tailed off into an inane repetition of--

    "Si le Caporal savait ça
    Il dirait ’nom de Dieu,’"

in the midst of which the great man collapsed upon his bed, while, with
much hiccupping laughter and foul jokes, his faithful satellites
contrived to remove his boots and leave him to sleep the sleep of the
just and the drunken....

Anon the Dutch youth, Hans Djoolte, sat up and looked around.  All was
quiet and apparently everyone was asleep.  The conscience of Hans was
pricking him--he had said his prayers lying in bed, and that was not the
way in which he had been taught to say them by his good Dutch mother,
whose very last words, as she died, had been, "Say your prayers each
night, my son, wherever you may be."

Hans got out of bed, knelt him down, and said his prayers again.
Thenceforward, he always did so as soon as he had undressed, regardless
of consequences--which at first were serious.  But even the good Luigi
Rivoli, in time, grew tired of beating him, particularly when the four
English-speaking occupants of the _chambrée_ intimated their united
disapproval of Luigi’s interference.  The most startling novelty, by
repetition, becomes the most familiar commonplace, and the day, or
rather the night, arrived when Hans Djoolte could pray unmolested....
Occupants of less favoured _chambrées_ came to see the sight.  The
_escouade_ indeed became rather proud of having two authentic
lunatics....




                               CHAPTER V

                           THE TRIVIAL ROUND


As he had done almost every night for the last twenty-five years, Sir
Montague Merline lay awake for some time, thinking of his wife.

Was she happy?  Of course she was.  Any woman is happy with the man she
really loves.

Did she ever think of him?  Of course she did.  Any woman thinks, at
times, of the man in whose arms she has lain.  No doubt his photo stood
in a silver frame on her desk or piano.  Huntingten would not mind that.
Nothing petty about Lord Huntingten--and he had been very fond of "good
old Merline," "dear old stick-in-the-mud," as he had so often called
him.

Of course she was happy.  Why shouldn’t she be? Although Huntingten was
poor as English peers go, there was enough for decent quiet comfort--and
Marguerite had never been keen on making a splash. She had not minded
poverty as Lady Merline.... She was certainly as happy as the day was
long, and it would have been the damnedest cruelty and caddishness to
have turned up and spoilt things.  It would have wrecked her life and
Huntingten’s too....

Splendid chap, Huntingten--so jolly clever and original, so full of
ideas and unconventionality.... "How to be Happy though Titled." ...
"How to be a Man though a Peer." ... "Efforts for the Effete," and Sir
Montague smiled as he thought of the eccentric peer’s pleasantries.

Yes, she’d be happy enough with that fine brave big sportsman with his
sunny face and merry laugh, his gentle and kindly ways, his love of
open-air life, games, sport, and all clean strenuous things.  Of course
she was happy....  Did she ever think of him? ... Were there any more
children? ... (And, as always, at this point, Sir Montague frowned and
sighed.)

How he would love a little girl of hers, if she were very, very like
her--and how he would hate a boy if he were like Huntingten.  No--not
hate the boy--hate the idea of her having a boy who was like Huntingten.
But how she would love the boy....

What would he not give to see her!  Unseen himself, of course.  He hoped
he would not get _cafard_ again, when next stationed in the desert.  It
had been terrible, unspeakably terrible, to feel that resolution was
weakening, and that when it failed altogether, he would desert and go in
search of her....  Suppose that, with madman’s cunning, and with
madman’s strength, he should be successful in an attempt to reach
Tunis--the only possible way for a deserter without money--and should
live to reach her, or to be recognised and proclaimed as the lost Sir
Montague Merline.  Her life in ruins and her children
illegitimate--nameless bastards....  It was a horribly disturbing
thought, that under the influence of _cafard_ his mind might lose all
ideas and memories and wishes except the one great longing to see her
again, to clasp her in his arms again, to have and to hold....  Well--he
had a lot to be thankful for.  So long as Cyrus Hiram Milton was his
bunk-mate it was not likely to happen. Cyrus would see that he did not
desert, penniless and mad, into the desert.  And now this English boy
had come--a man with the same training, tastes, habits, haunts and
_clichés_ as himself.  Doubtless they had numbers of common
acquaintances.  But he must be wary when on that ground.  Possibly the
boy knew Lord and Lady Huntingten....  After all it’s a very small
world, and especially the world of English Society, clubs, Services, and
sport....  This boy would be a real _companion_, such as dear old Cyrus
could never be, best of friends as he was.  He would make a hobby of the
boy, look after him, live his happy past again in talking of London,
Sandhurst, Paris, racing, golf, theatres, clubs, and all the lost things
whose memories they had in common.  The boy might perhaps have been at
Winchester too....  Thank Heaven he had come!  It would make all the
difference when _cafard_ conditions arose again.  Of course he’d get
promoted _Soldat première classe_ before long though, and then
_Caporal_.  Corporals may not walk and talk with private soldiers.
Yes--the boy would rise and leave him behind.  Just his luck....  Might
he not venture to accept promotion now--after all these years, and rise
step by step with him?  No, better not.  Thin end of the wedge.  Once he
allowed himself to be _Soldat première classe_ he’d be accepting
promotion to _Caporal_ and _Sergent_ before he knew it.  The temptation
to go on to _Chef_ and _Adjudant_ would be overwhelming, and when
offered a commission (and the return to the life of an officer and
gentleman) would be utterly irresistible.  Then would come the very
thing to prevent which he had buried himself alive in this hell of a
Legion--recognition and then the public scandal of his wife’s innocent
bigamy, and her children’s illegitimacy.  As an officer he would meet
foreign officers and visitors to Algeria.  His portrait might get into
the papers.  He might have to go to Paris, or Marseilles, and run risks
of being recognised.  No--better to put away temptation and take no
chance of the evil thing.  Poor little Marguerite!  Think of the cruel
shattering blow to her. It would kill her to give up Huntingten in
addition to knowing her children to be nameless, unable to inherit title
or estates....  No--unthinkable!  Do the thing properly or not at
all....  But it was hell to be a second-class soldier all the time, and
never be exempt from liability to sentry-duty, guards, fatigues, filthy
corvées and punishment at the hands of Non-coms. seeking to acquire
merit by discovering demerit....  And he could have had a commission
straight away, when he got his bit of _ferblanterie_[#] in Tonkin and
again in Dahomey.  They knew he could speak German and had been an
officer....  It had been a sore temptation--but, thank God, he had
conquered it and not run the greatly enhanced risk of discovery.  He
ought really to have committed suicide directly he learned that she was
married.  No business to be alive--let alone grumbling about promotion.
Moreover, if any living soul on this earth discovered that he was alive
he must not only die, but let his wife have proof that he really was
dead, this time.  Then she and Huntingten could re-marry as the first
ceremony was null and void, and the children be legitimatised....  Of
course there would be more children--they loved each other so....


[#] lit., tin-ware (medals and decorations).


As things were, his being alive did the Huntingtens no harm.  It was the
_knowledge_ of his existence that would do the injury--both legal and
personal.... No harm, so long as it wasn’t known.  They were quite
innocent in the sight of le bon Dieu, and so long as neither they, nor
anyone else, knew--nothing mattered so far as they were concerned....

But fourteen years as a second-class soldier of the Legion! ... And what
was he to do at the end of the fifteenth?  They would not re-enlist him.
He would get a pension of five hundred francs a year--twenty pounds a
year--and he had got the cash "bonus" given him when he won the
_médaille militaire_.  Where could he hide again?  Perhaps he could get
a job as employed-pensioner of the Legion--such as sexton at the
graveyard or assistant-cook, or Officers’-Mess servant? ... Otherwise
he’d find himself one fine morning at the barracks-gates, dressed in a
suit of blue sacking from the Quartermaster’s store, fitting him where
it touched him; a big flat tam-o’-shanter sort of cap; a rough shirt,
and a blue cravat "to wind twice round the neck"; a pair of socks (for
the first time in fifteen years), and a decent pair of boots.  He’d have
his papers, a free pass to any part of France he liked to name, a franc
a day for the journey thereto, and his week’s pay.

And what good would the papers and pass be to him--who dared not leave
the shelter of the all-concealing Legion? ... Surely it would be safe
for him to return to England, or at any rate to go to France or some
other part of Europe?  Why not to America or the Colonies?  No, nowhere
was safe, and nothing was certain.  Besides, how was he to get there?
His pass would take him to any part of France, and nowhere else.  A fine
thing--to hide in the Legion for fifteen years, actually to survive
fifteen years of a second-class soldier’s life in the Legion, and then
to risk rendering it all useless!  One breath of rumour--and
Marguerite’s life was spoilt....  Discovery--and it was ruined, just
when her children (if she had any more) were on the threshold of their
careers.... Well, life in the Legion was remarkably uncertain, and there
still remained a year in which all problems might be finally solved by
bullet, disease, or death in some other of the many forms in which it
visited the step-sons of France....  Where was old Strong now? ...

Legionary John Bull fell asleep.

Meanwhile, a few inches from him, Reginald Rupert had found himself
unusually and unpleasantly wakeful. It had been a remarkably full and
tiring day, and as crowded with new experiences as the keenest
experience-seeker could desire....  He was very glad he had come.  This
was going to be a good toughening man’s life, and real soldiering.  He
would not have missed it for anything.  It would hold a worthy place in
the list of things which he had done and been, the list that, by the end
of his life, he hoped would be a long and very varied one.  By the time
"the governor" died (and he trusted that might not happen for another
forty years) he hoped to have been in many armies and Frontier Police
forces, to have been a sailor, a cowboy, a big-game hunter, a trapper,
an explorer and prospector, a gold-miner, a war correspondent, a
gumdigger, and many other things in many parts of the world, in addition
to his present record of Public-school, Sandhurst, ’Varsity man, British
officer, trooper, and French Légionnaire.  He hoped to continue to turn
up in any part of the world where there was a war.

What Reginald, like his father, loathed and feared was Modern Society
life, and in fact all modern civilised life as it had presented itself
to his eyes--with its incredibly false standards, values and ideals, its
shoddy shams and vulgar pretences, its fat indulgences, slothfulness and
folly.

To him, as to his father (whose curious mental kink he had inherited),
the world seemed a dreadful place in which drab, dull folk followed
drab, dull pursuits for drab, dull ends.  People who lived for pleasure
were so occupied and exhausted in its pursuit that they got no pleasure.
People who worked were so closely occupied in earning their living that
they never lived.  He did not know which class he disliked more--the men
who lived their weary lives at clubs, grand-stands, country-house
parties, Ranelagh and Hurlingham, the Riviera, the moors, and the Yacht
Squadron; or those who lived dull laborious days in offices, growing
flabby and grey in pursuit of the slippery shekel.

The human animal seemed to him to have become as adventurous, gallant,
picturesque and gay as the mole, the toad, and the slug.  An old tomcat
on a backyard fence seemed to him to be a more independent, care-free,
self-respecting and gentlemanly person than his owner, a man who, all
God’s wide world before him, was, for a few monthly metal discs, content
to sit in a stuffy hole and copy hieroglyphics from nine till six--that
another man might the quicker amass many dirty metal discs and a double
chin.  To Reginald, the men of even his own class seemed travesties and
parodies of a noble original, in that they were content to lead the
dreadful lives they did--killing tame birds, knocking little balls about
the place, watching other people ride races, rushing around in motors,
sailing sunny seas in luxury and safety, seeing foreign lands only from
their best hotels, poodle-faking and philandering, doing everything but
anything--pampered, soft, useless; each a most exact and careful copy of
his neighbour.  Reginald loved, and excelled at, every form of sport,
and had been prominent in the playing-fields at Winchester, Sandhurst
and Oxford, but he could not live by sport alone, and to him it had
always been a means and not an end, a means to health, strength, skill
and hardihood--the which were to be applied--not to _more_ games--but to
the fuller living of life.  The seeds of his father’s teaching had
fallen on most receptive and fertile soil, and their fruit ripened not
the slower by reason of the fact that his father was his friend,
confidant, hero and model....  He could see him now as he straddled
mightily on the rug before the library fire, in his pink and cords, his
spurred tops splashed with mud, and grey on the inner sides with the
sweat of his horse....

"Brown-paper prisons for poor men, and pink-silk cages for rich--that’s
Life nowadays, my boy, unless you’re careful....  Get hold of Life,
don’t let Life get hold of you.  Take the family motto for your guidance
in actual fact.  ’_Be all, see all_.’  Try to carry it out as far as
humanly possible.  _Live_ Life and live it in the World.  Don’t live a
thousandth part of Life in a millionth part of the World, as all our
neighbours do.  When you succeed me here and marry and settle down, be
able to say you’ve seen everything, done everything, been everything....
Be a gentleman, of course, but one can be a man as well as being a
gentleman--gentility is of the heart and conduct and manners--not of
position and wealth and rank.  What’s the good of seeing one little
glimpse of life out of one little window--whether it’s a soldier’s
window (which is the best of windows), or a sailor’s, or a lawyer’s,
parson’s, merchant’s, scholar’s, sportsman’s, landowner’s, politician’s,
or any other.... And go upwards and downwards too, my boy.  Tramps,
ostlers, costermongers and soldiers are a dam’ sight more interestin’
than kings--and a heap more human. A chap who’s only moved in one plane
of society isn’t educated--not worth listening to..." and much more to
the same effect--and Rupert smiled to himself as he thought of how his
father had advised him not to "waste" more than a year at Sandhurst,
another at Oxford, and another in an Officers’ Mess, before setting
forth to see real life, and real men living it hard and to the full, in
the capitals and the corners of the earth.

"How the dear old boy must have worshipped mother--to have married and
settled down, at forty," he reflected, "and what a beauty she must have
been. She’s lovely now," and again his rather hard face softened into a
smile as he thought of the interview in which he told her of his
intention to "chuck" his commission and go and do things and see things.
Little had he known that she had fully anticipated and daily expected
the declaration which he feared would be a "terrible blow" to her....
Did she expect him to be anything else than the son of his father and
his eccentric and adventurous House?

"I wouldn’t have you be anything but a chip of the old block, my darling
boy.  You’re of age and your old mother isn’t going to be a millstone
round your neck, like she’s been round your father’s.  Only one woman
can have the right to be that, and you will give her the right when you
marry her....  Your family really ought not to marry."

"Mother, Mother!" he had protested, "and ’bring up our children to do
the same,’ I suppose?"

She had been bravely gay when he went, albeit a little damp of eye and
red of nose....  Really he was a lucky chap to have such a mother.  She
was one in a thousand and he must faithfully do his utmost to keep his
promise and go home once a year or thereabouts--also "to take care of
his nails, not crop his hair, change damp socks, and wear wool next his
skin...."  Want a bit of doin’ in the Legion, what! Good job the poor
darling couldn’t see Luigi Rivoli breaking up recruits, or Sergeant
Legros superintending the ablutions of her Reginald.  What would she
think of this galley and his fellow galley-slaves--of ’Erb, the
_Apache_, Carmelita, the Grasshopper, and the drunkards of the Canteen?
The Bucking Bronco would amuse her, and she’d certainly be interested in
John Bull, poor old chap....  What could his story be, and why was he
here?  Was there a woman in it? ... Probably.  He didn’t look the sort
of chap who’d "done something."  Poor devil! ... Yes, her big warm heart
would certainly have a corner for John Bull.  Had she not been well
brought up by her husband and son in the matter of seeing a swan in
every goose they brought home?  Yes, he’d repay John Bull’s kindness to
the full when he left the Legion.  He should come straight to Elham Old
Hall and his mother should have the chance, which she would love, of
thanking and, in some measure, repaying the good chap.  He wouldn’t tell
him exactly who they were and what they were, lest he should pretend
that fifteen years of Legion life had spoilt him for _la vie de
château_, and refuse to visit them.... He’d like to know his story.
What _could_ be the cause of a man like him leading this ha’penny-a-day
life for fourteen years?  Talk of paper prisons and silken cages--this
was a prison of red-hot stone.  Fancy this the setting for the best
years of your life, and he sat up and looked round the moonlit room.

Next to him lay the Bucking Bronco, snoring heavily, his moustache
looking huge and black in the moonlight that made his face appear pale
and fine.... A strong and not unkindly face, with its great jutting chin
and square heavy jaw.

’Erb lay on the neighbouring cot, his hands clasped above his head as he
slept the sleep of the just and innocent, for whom a night of peaceful
slumber is the meet reward of a well-spent day.  His pinched and cunning
little face was transfigured by the moonlight, and the sleeping Herbert
Higgins looked less the vulgar, street-bred guttersnipe than did the
waking "’Erbiggins" of the day.

Beyond him lay the mighty bulk of Luigi Rivoli, breathing stertorously
in drunken slumber as he sprawled, limb-scattered, on his face, fully
dressed, save for his boots....

What an utter swine and cad--reflected Reginald--and what would happen
when he selected him for his attentions?  Of course, the Neapolitan had
ten times his strength and twice his weight--but there would have to be
a fight--or a moral victory for the recruit. He would obey no behests of
Luigi Rivoli, nor accept any insults nor injuries tamely.  He would land
the cad one of the best, and take the consequences, however humiliating
or painful.  And he’d do it every time too, until he were finally
incapacitated, or Luigi Rivoli weary of the game.  Evidently the brute
had some sort of respect for the big American and for John Bull.  He
should learn to have some for "Reginald Rupert," too, or the latter
would die in the attempt to teach it.  The prospect was not alluring
though, and the Austrian and the _Apache_ had received sharp and painful
lessons on the folly of defying or attacking Luigi Rivoli.
Still--experiences, dangers, difficulties and real, raw, primitive life
were what his family sought--and here were some of them.  Yes, he was
ready for Il Signor Luigi Rivoli....

In the next bed lay the Russian, Mikhail.  Queer, shy chap.  What a
voice, and what a complexion for a recruit of the Foreign Legion!  How
extraordinarily alike he and his brother were, and yet there was a great
difference between their respective voices and facial expressions....
Another queer story there. They looked like students....  Probably
involved in some silly Nihilist games and had to bolt for their lives
from the Russian police or from Nihilist confederates, or both.  It was
nice to see how the manlier brother looked after the other.  He seemed
to be in a perpetual state of concern and anxiety about him.

Beyond the Russian recruit lay the mad Legionary known as the
Grasshopper.  What a pathetic creature--an ex-officer of one of the most
aristocratic corps in Europe.  In fact he must be a nobleman or he could
not have been in the Guides.  Must be of an ancient family moreover.
Besides, he was so very obviously of _ceux qui ont pris la peine de
naître_.  What could his story be?  Fancy the man being a really
first-class soldier on parade, manoeuvres, march, or battlefield, and an
obvious lunatic at the same time....  Poor devil!...

Next to him was the other Russian, and then Edouard Malvin, the
nasty-looking cad who appeared to be Rivoli’s chief toady.  His
neighbour was the fat and dull-looking Dutch lad (who was to display
such unusual and enviable moral courage)....

Footsteps resounded without, and the Room-Corporal entered with a
clatter.  Turning down his blanket, as though expecting to find
something beneath it, he disclosed some bottles, a few packets of
tobacco and cigarettes, and a little heap of coins.

"Bonheur de Dieu vrai!" he ejaculated.  "’Y’a de bon!" and examined the
packets for any indication of their orientation.  "’Les deux Russes,’"
he read, and broke into a guinguette song.  Monsieur le Caporal loved
wine and was _un ramasseur de sous_.  These Russians were really worthy
and sensible recruits, and, though they should escape none of their
duties, they should be regarded with a tolerant and non-malicious eye by
Monsieur le Caporal.  No undue share of corvées should be theirs....  No
harm in their complimenting their good Caporal and winning his
approval--but, on the other hand, no bribery and corruption.  Mais
non--c’est tout autre chose!

As the Corporal disrobed, the Grasshopper rose from his cot, crouched,
and hopped towards him.

The Corporal evinced no surprise.

"Monsieur le Caporal," quoth the Grasshopper. "How can a Cigale steer a
gunboat? ... I ask you.... How can I possibly dip the ensign from peak
to taffrail, cat the anchor or shoot the sun, by the pale glimmer of the
binnacle light? ... And I have, for cargo, the Cestus of Aphrodite...."

"And _I_ have, for cargo, seven bottles of good red wine--beneath my
Cestus of Corporal--so I can’t tell you, Grasshopper," was the reply....
"Va t’en! ... You go and ask Monsieur le bon Diable--and tell him his
old _ami_ Caporal Achille Martel sent you.... Go on--_allez schteb’
los_--and let me sleep...."

The Grasshopper hopped to the door and out into the corridor....

Rupert fell asleep....

As John Bull had prophesied, he was awakened by yells of "_Au jus!  Au
jus!  Au jus!_" from the garde-chambre, the room-orderly on duty, as he
went from cot to cot with a huge jug.

Each sleepy soul roused himself sufficiently to hold out the tin mug
which hung at the head of his bed, and to receive a half-pint or so of
the "gravy"--which proved to be really excellent coffee.  For his own
part, Rupert would have been glad of the addition of a little milk and
sugar, but he had swallowed too much milkless and sugarless tea (from a
basin) in the British Army, to be concerned about such a trifle....

"Good morning.  Put on the white trousers and come downstairs with me,"
said John Bull, as he also swallowed his coffee.  "Be quick, or you
won’t get a chance at the lavatory.  There’s washing accommodation for
six men when sixty want it....  Come on."

As he hurried from the room, Rupert noticed that Corporal Martel lay
comfortably in bed while the rest hurriedly dressed.  From time to time
he mechanically shouted: "Levez-vous, mes enfants...."  "Levez-vous,
assassins...."  "Levez-vous, scélérats...."

After each of his shouts came, in antistrophe, the anxious yell of the
garde-chambre (who had to sweep the room before parade) of "Balayez
au-dessous vos lits!"

Returning from his hasty and primitive wash, Rupert noticed that the
Austrian recruit was lacing Rivoli’s boots, while the _Apache_,
grimacing horribly behind his back, brushed the Neapolitan down, Malvin
superintending their labours.

"Shove on the white tunic and blue sash," said John Bull to his
protégé--"and you’ll want knapsack, cartridge-belt, bayonet and
rifle....  Bye-bye!  I must be off.  You’ll have recruit-drills separate
from us for some time....  See you later...."


                                   §3

Légionnaire Reginald Rupert soon found that French drill methods of
training differed but little from English, though perhaps more thorough
and systematically progressive, and undoubtedly better calculated to
develop initiative.

It did not take the Corporal-Instructor long to single him out as an
unusually keen and intelligent recruit, and Rupert was himself surprised
at the pleasure he derived from being placed as Number One of the
_escouade_ of recruits, after a few days.  His knowledge of French
helped him considerably, of course, and on that first morning he had
obeyed the Corporal’s roar of "_Sac à terre_," "_A gauche_," "_A
droit_," "_En avant, marche_," "_Pas gymnastique_," or "_Formez les
faisceaux_," before the majority of the others had translated them.  He
also excelled in the eating of the "Breakfast of the Legion," which is
nothing more nor less than a terribly punishing run, in quick time,
round and round the parade-ground. By the time the Corporal called a
halt, Rupert, who was a fine runner, in the pink of condition, was
beginning to feel that he had about shot his bolt, while, with one or
two exceptions, the rest of the squad were in a state of real distress,
gasping, groaning, and coughing, with protruding eyeballs and faces
white, green, or blue.  During the brief "cigarette halt," he gazed
round with some amusement at the prostrate forms of his exhausted
comrades.

The Russian, Feodor, seemed to be in pretty well as good condition as
himself--in striking contrast to Mikhail, whose state was pitiable, as
he knelt doubled up, drawing his breath in terrible gasps, and holding
his side as though suffering agonies from "stitch."

’Erb was in better case, but he lay panting as though his little chest
would burst.

"Gawdstrewth, matey," he grunted to M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, "I ain’t
run so much since I last see a copper."

The _Apache_, green-faced and blue-lipped, showed his teeth in a vicious
snarl, by way of reply.  Absinthe and black cigarettes are a poor
training-diet.

The fat Dutch lad, Hans Djoolte, appeared to be in extremis and likely
to disappear in a pool of perspiration.  The gnarled-looking Spaniard
drew his breath with noisy whoops, and stout Germans, Alsatians,
Belgians and Frenchmen gave the impression of persons just rescued from
drowning or suffocation by smoke.  Having finished his cigarette, the
Corporal ran to the far side of the parade-ground, raised his hand with
a shout, and cried, "_A moi_."

"Well run, _bleu_," he observed to Rupert, who arrived first.

Before the "breakfast" half-hour was over, he was thoroughly tired, and
more than a little sorry for some of the others.  M. Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat was violently sick; the plump Dutchman was soaked from head
to foot; many a good, stout Hans, Fritz and Carl wished he had never
been born; and Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself by falling flat
in a dead faint, to the contemptuous and outspoken disgust of the
Corporal.

It was indeed a kill-or-cure training, and, in some cases, bade fair to
kill before it cured.  One drill-manoeuvre interested Rupert by its
novelty and yet by its suggestion of the old Roman _testudo_.  On the
order "_A genoux_," all had to fall on their knees and every man of the
squad, not in the front rank, to thrust his head well under the knapsack
of the man in front of him.  Since, under service conditions, knapsacks
would be stuffed with spare uniforms and underclothing, and covered with
tent-canvas, blanket, spare boots, fuel or a cooking-pot, excellent
head-cover was thus provided against shrapnel and shell-fragments, and
from bullets from some of such rifles as are used by the Chinese,
African, Madagascan, and Arab foes of the Legion.  Interested or not, it
was with unfeigned thankfulness that, at about eleven o’clock, Rupert
found himself marching back to barracks and heard the "_Rompez_" command
of dismissal outside the _caserne_ of his Company.  Hurrying up to the
_chambrée_ he put his Lebel in the rack, his knapsack and belts on the
shelf above his bed, and lay down to get that amount of rest without
which he felt he could not face breakfast.

"Hallo, Rupert!  Had a gruelling?" enquired John Bull, entering and
throwing off his accoutrements. "They make you earn your little bit of
corn, don’t they?  You feel it less day by day though, and soon find you
can do it without turning a hair.  Not much chance of a chap with weak
lungs or heart surviving the ’Breakfast of the Legion,’ for long. You
see the point of the training when you begin the desert marches."

"Quite looking forward to it," said Rupert.

"It’s better looking back on it, on the whole," rejoined the other
grimly....  "Feel like breakfast?" he added in French, remembering that
the more his young friend spoke in that tongue the better.

"Oh, I’m all right.  What’ll it be?"

"Well, not _bec-fins_ and _pêche Melba_ exactly.  Say a mug of
bread-soup, containing potato and vegetables and a scrap of meat.  Sort
of Irish stew."

"_Arlequins_ at two sous the plate, first, for me, please," put in M.
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, whose small compact frame seemed to have recovered
its normal elasticity and vigour.

As he spoke, the voice of a kitchen-orderly was raised below in a
long-drawn howl of "_Soupe!  A la Soupe!_" Turning with one accord to
the garde-chambre the Legionaries bawled "_Soupe!_" as one man, and like
an arrow from a bow, the room-orderly sped forth, to return a minute
later bearing the soup-kettle and a basket of loaves of grey bread.  Tin
plates and utensils were snatched from the hanging-cupboards, and mugs
from their hooks on the wall and the Legionaries seated themselves on
the benches that ran down either side of the long table.

"’Fraid you’ll have to stand out, Rupert, being a recruit," said John
Bull.  "There’s only room for twenty at this table."

"Of course.  Thanks," was the reply, and the speaker betook himself to
his bed, and sat him down with his mug and crust.

With cheerful sociability, ’Erb had already seated himself at table, and
was beating a loud tattoo with mug and plate as he awaited the
administrations of the soup-laden Ganymede.

Suddenly the expansive and genial smile faded on ’Erb’s happy face, as
he felt himself seized by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his
trousers, and raised four feet in the air....  For a second he hovered,
descended a foot and was then shot through the air with appalling
violence to some distant corner of the earth.  Fortunately for ’Erb,
that corner contained a bed and he landed fairly on it....  The
Legionary Herbert Higgins in the innocence of his ignorance had occupied
the Seats of the Mighty, had sat him down in the place of Luigi
Rivoli--and Luigi had removed the insect.

"Gawd love us!" said ’Erb.  "’Oo’d a’ thought it?" as he realised that
he was still in barracks and had only travelled from the table to a cot,
a distance of some six feet....

Mikhail Kyrilovitch lay stretched on his bed, too exhausted to eat.  It
interested and rather touched Rupert to see how tenderly the other
Russian half raised him from the bed, coaxed him with soup and, failing,
produced a bottle of wine from behind the _paquetage_ on his shelf, and
induced him to drink a little....

"Potato fatigue after this, Rupert," said John Bull as he came over to
the recruit, and offered him a cigarette.  "Ghastly stuff you’ll find
this black Algerian tobacco, but one gets used to it.  It’s funny, but
when I get a taste of any of the tobaccos from Home, I find my palate so
ruined that I don’t enjoy it.  Seems acrid and strong though it’s
infinitely milder...."

The Kitchen-Corporal thrust his head in at the door of the _chambrée_,
roared "_Aux palates_" and vanished. Trooping down to the kitchen, the
whole Company stood in a ring and solemnly peeled potatoes.  Here, at
any rate, Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself among the recruits,
for not only was his the first potato to fall peeled into the bucket,
but his peel was the thinnest, his output the greatest.  Standing next
to him, Rupert noticed how tiny were his hands and wrists, and how
delicate his nails.

"Apparently this is part of regular routine and not a corvée," he
remarked.

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

"Great tip to get cunning at dodging extra fatigues when you’re a
soldier," continued Rupert.

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

"Expect they’ll catch us wretched recruits on that lay until we get
artful."

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

What a funny shy lad he was, with his eternal "Mais oui, Monsieur" ...
Perhaps that was all the French he knew!...

"Do you think the medical-examination will be very--er--searching,
Monsieur?" asked Mikhail.

So he did know French after all.  What was he trembling about now?

"Shouldn’t think so.  Why?  You’re all right, aren’t you?  You wouldn’t
have passed the doctor when you enlisted, otherwise."

"Non, Monsieur."

"Where did you enlist?"

"At Paris, Monsieur."

"So did I; Rue St. Dominique.  LIttle fat cove in red breeches and a
white tunic.  I suppose you had the same chap?"

"Er--oui, Monsieur."

"I suppose he overhauled you very thoroughly? ... Wasn’t it infernally
cold standing stark naked in that beastly room while he punched you
about?"

"Oh!--er--oui, Monsieur.  Oh, please let us ... Er--wasn’t that running
dreadful this morning?" ...

"I say, Monsieur Rupaire, do you think we shall have the same
’breakfast’ every morning?" put in Feodor Kyrilovitch.  "It’ll be the
death of my brother here, if we do.  He never was a runner."

"’Fraid so, during recruits’ course," replied Rupert, and added: "I
noticed a great difference between you and your brother."

"Oh, it’s only just in that respect," was the reply. "I’ve always been
better winded than he....  Illness when he was a kid....  Lungs not over
strong...."

Even as he had prophesied, an Orderly-Sergeant swooped down upon them as
the potato-fatigue finished, and, while the old Legionaries somehow
melted into thin air and vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision,
the recruits were captured and commandeered for a barrack-scavenging
corvée which kept them hard at work until it was time to fall in for
"theory."

This Rupert discovered to be instruction in recognition of badges of
rank, and, later, in every sort and kind of rule and regulation; in
musketry, tactics, training and the principles and theory of drill,
entrenchment, scouting, skirmishing, and every other branch of military
education.

At two o’clock, drill began again, and lasted until four, at which hour
Monsieur le Médicin-Major held the medical examination, the idea of
which seemed so disturbing to Mikhail Kyrilovitch.  It proved to be the
merest formality--a glance, a question, a caution against excess, and
the recruits were passed and certified as _bon pour le service_ at the
rate of twenty to the quarter-hour.  They were, moreover, free for the
remainder of the day (provided they escaped all victim-hunting
Non-coms., in search of corvée-parties) with the exception of such hours
as might be necessary for labours of _astiquage_ and the _lavabo_.

On returning to the _chambrée_, Rupert found his friend John Bull
awaiting him.

"Well, Rupert," he cried cheerily, "what sort of a day have you had?
Tired?  We’ll get ’soupe’ again shortly.  I’ll take you to the _lavabo_
afterwards, and show you the ropes.  Got to have your white kit, arms
and accoutrements all _klim-bim_, as the Germans say, before you dress
and go out, or else you’ll have to do it in the dark."

"Yes, thanks," replied Rupert.  "I’ll get straight first.  I hate ’spit
and polish’ after Lights Out. What’ll the next meal be?"

"Same as this morning--the eternal ’soupe.’  The only variety in food is
when dog-biscuit replaces bread....  Nothing to grumble at really,
except the infernal monotony.  Quantity is all right--in fact some
fellows save up a lot of bread and biscuit and sell it in the town.
(Eight days _salle de police_ if you’re caught.)  But sometimes you feel
you could eat anything in the wide world except Legion ’soupe,’ bread
and biscuit...."

After the second and last meal of the day, at about five o’clock, Rupert
was introduced to the _lavabo_ and its ways--particularly its ways in
the matter of disappearing soap and vanishing "washing"--and, his first
essay in laundry-work concluded, returned with Legionary John Bull and
the Bucking Bronco for an hour or two of leather-polishing,
accoutrement-cleaning and "Ironing" without an iron.

The room began to fill and was soon a scene of more or less silent
industry.  On his bed, the great Luigi Rivoli lay magnificently asleep,
while, on neighbouring cots and benches, his weapons, accoutrements,
boots and uniform received the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Meyer,
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Dimitropoulos, Borges, Bauer, Hirsch, and others,
his henchmen.

Anon the great man awoke, yawned cavernously, ejaculated "_Dannazione_"
and sat up.  One gathered that the condition of his mouth was not all
that it might be, and that his head ached.  Even he was not exempt from
the penalties incurred by lesser men, and even he had to recognise the
fact that a next-morning follows an evening-before.  Certain denizens of
the _chambrée_ felt, and looked, uneasy, but were reassured by the
reflection that there was still a stock of _bleus_ unchastened, and
available for the great man’s needs and diversion.  Rising, he roared
"_Oho!_", smacked and flexed his muscles according to his evening
ritual, and announced that a recruit might be permitted to fetch him
water.

Feodor Kyrilovitch unobtrusively changed places with his brother
Mikhail, whose bed was next to that of the bully.

"Here, dog," roared the Neapolitan, and brought his "quart" down with a
right resounding blow upon the bare head of Feodor.  Without a word the
Russian took the mug and hurried to the nearest lavatory. Returning he
handed it respectfully to Rivoli, and pointing into it said in broken
Italian--

"There would appear to be a mark on the bottom of the Signor’s cup."

The great man looked--and smiled graciously as he recognised a gold
twenty-franc piece.  "A thoroughly intelligent recruit," he added,
turning to Malvin who nodded and smiled drily.  It entered the mind of
le bon Légionnaire Malvin that this recruit should also give an
exhibition of his intelligence to le bon Légionnaire Malvin.

"Where’s that fat pig from Olanda who can only whine ’_Verstaan nie_’
when he is spoken to?" enquired Rivoli, looking round.  "Let me see if I
can ’Verstaan’ him how to put my boots on smartly."

But, fortunately for himself, the Dutch recruit, Hans Djoolte, was not
present.

"Not there?" thundered the great man, on being informed.  "How dare the
fat calf be not there? Let it be known that I desire all the recruits of
this room to be on duty from ’Soupe’ till six, or later, in case I
should want them.  Let them all parade before me now."

Some sheepishly grinning, some with looks of alarm, some under strong
protest, all the recruits with one exception, "fell in" at the foot of
the Italian’s bed. Some were dismissed as they came up; the two
Russians, as having paid their footing very handsomely; the _Apache_,
and Franz Josef Meyer, as having been properly broken to bit and curb;
the Greek, as a declared admirer and slave; and one or two others who
had already wisely propitiated, or, to their sorrow, encountered less
pleasantly, the uncrowned king of the Seventh Company.  The remainder
received tasks, admonitions and warnings, the which were received
variously, but without open defiance.

"The attitude of le Légionnaire ’Erbiggins was characteristic.
Realising that he had not a ghost of a chance of success against a man
of twice his weight and thrice his strength, he took the leggings which
were given him to clean and returned a stream of nervous English, of
which the pungent insults and vile language accorded but ill with the
bland innocence of his face, and the deferential acquiescence of his
manner.

"Ain’t yew goin’ ter jine the merry throng?" asked the Bucking Bronco of
Reginald Rupert, upon hearing that recruit reply to Malvin’s order to
join the line, with a recommendation that Malvin should go to the devil.

"I am not," replied Rupert.

"Wal, I guess we’ll back yew up, sonny," said the American with an
approving smile.

"I shall be glad if you will in no way interfere," returned the
Englishman.

"Gee-whillikins!" commented the Bucking Bronco.

John Bull looked anxious.  "He’s the strongest man I have ever seen," he
remarked, "besides being a professional wrestler and acrobat."

Malvin again approached, grinning maliciously.

"Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would be sorry to have to come and fetch you,
English pig," said he.  "Sorry for you, that is.  Do you wish to find
yourself _au grabat_,[#] you scurvy, mangy, lousy cur of a recruit? ...
What reply shall I take Il Signor Luigi Rivoli?"


[#] On a sick bed.


"_That!_" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a
most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand,
sending him staggering several yards.  Without paying further attention
to the great man’s ambassador, he strode in the direction of the great
man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw.

"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was
rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his
body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight
at the point of his jaw.

It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the
very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither
standing nor sitting.

He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.

Into the perfect silence of the _chambrée_ fell the voice of the Bucking
Bronco.  Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of
"OUT!" threw his képi to the roof and roared "_Hurrah!_" repeatedly.

"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert’s
handiwork with experienced, professional eye.

Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe.

"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as
"Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.

But le Légionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.

"You’ve made two bad enemies, my boy, I’m afraid....  What about when he
comes round?"

"I’ll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don’t interfere,
anyhow."

"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An’ look at hyar.
Let’s interfere, to the extent o’ makin’ thet cunning coyote fight down
in the squar’.... Yew won’t hev no chance--so don’t opine yew will--but
yew’ll hev’ more chance than yew will right hyar....  Yew want space
when you roughhouses with Loojey.  Once he gits a holt on yew--yure
monica’s up.  Savvy?"

"Thanks," replied the Englishman.  "Right-ho! If he won’t fight
downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us."

"Fower, matey.  Us fower Henglishmen agin’ ’im an’ ’is ’ole bleedin’
gang," put in ’Erb.  "’E’s a bloke as wants takin’ dahn a peg....  Too
free wiv’ hisself....  Chucks ’is weight abaht too much.... An’ I’ll
tell yer wot, Cocky.  Keep a heye on that cove as you giv’ a smack in
the chops."

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who
stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a
broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad.
Don’t yew git handlin’ yure Rosalie[#] any dark night.  Yew try ter
_zigouiller_[#] my pal Rupert, an’ I’ll draw yure innards up through
yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin’ on the end of
half a yard of macaroni.  Twiggez vous?  _Je tirerai vos gueutes à
travers votre bouche jusqu’à vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au
bout d’un demi-yard de macaroni_....  Got it?  ..."


[#] Bayonet.

[#] To bayonet.


Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned.  It was interesting to note that
none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance.  The sceptre of
the great man swayed in his hand.  Were he beaten, those whom he ruled
by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of
wolves.  The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he
licked his lips.

"_Je m’en souviendrai_," he murmured.

Rivoli sat up.

"Donna e Madonna!" he said.  "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around.  "What
has happened?..." and then he remembered.  "A minute," he said. "Wait
but a minute--and then bring him to me."

Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters.  The
great Luigi was alive and on his throne again.  The Greek passed him a
mug of water.

"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me....  One of you
might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he
added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the
cemetery and tell him to start another grave."

"You’re coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert
contemptuously.  "You’re going to fight me down below.  There’s going to
be a ring, and fair play.  Will you come now, or will you wait till
to-morrow?  I can wait if you feel shaken."

"Plug the ugly skunk while he’s rattled, Bub," advised the American, and
turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey.  Ef yew ain’t hed
enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev’ a five-bunch frame-up with the
b’y.  Ef yew start rough-housin’ up hyar, I’ll take a hand too.  I would
anyhaow, only the b’y wants yew all to himself....  Greedy young punk."

"I will kill him and eat him _now_," said the Italian rising
magnificently.  Apparently his splendid constitution and physique had
triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck.

"Come on, b’ys," yelped the American, "an’ ef thet Dago don’t fight as
square as he knows haow, I’ll pull his lower jaw off his face."

In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat
on the edge of his brother’s bed and shuddered.

Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party
made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back
entrance of the Company’s _caserne_, a safe and secluded spot for
fights.  As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young
friend.

"Remember he’s a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public
opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect
him to clinch and kick as well as butt."

"Right-o!" said Rupert.

A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a
ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare
that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any
supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.

The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other.  It was a
pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger
"peeled," than he did when dressed.  (It is a good test of muscular
development.)  Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had
systematically developed his muscles.  But for the presence of Rivoli,
the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring
comments.  As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him,
for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose
stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength....
It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between
Apollo and Hercules.

The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands
advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.

The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.

As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of
the crowd was in favour of the weaker party.  No one supposed for a
moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and
English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted to _la boxe_....
He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed....  For a full minute
the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the
Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with
his left hand at the Englishman’s neck.  The latter ducked; the great
arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like
pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific
force upon the Italian’s ribs.  Rivoli’s gasp was almost as audible as
the blows.  He sprang back, breathing heavily.

John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his
opponent, sparring for an opening.  Slowly ... slowly ... almost
imperceptibly, the Italian’s head and shoulders bent further and further
back.  What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting
his head out of danger?  Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen....
Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide.  If he
could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il
Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing
seconds.  Rupert made a spring.  As he did so, the Italian’s body turned
sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his
right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the
force of a horse’s kick.  It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on
the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit.  The
Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.

"Assez!" he shouted.  "Let him get up."  At this point his Legion French
failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu’re
gwine ter kick him while he’s down, yew’ve got another think comin’,
Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.

John Bull raised Rupert’s head on to his knee.  He was senseless and
bleeding from mouth and nose.

Pushing his way through the ring, came ’Erb, a mug of water in one hand,
a towel in the other.  Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine
spray over Rupert’s face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two
corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.

The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.

"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and
faculties.

"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.

"You do the sime fer ’im, matey.  Kick ’is bleedin’ faice in....  W’y
carn’t ’e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his
ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of
his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs:
"Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers
to his nose and emitting a bellowing _Boo-oo-oo!_ of incredibly
bull-like realism.  "If I wasn’t yer second, matey, I’d go an’ kick ’im
in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of
love.

Rupert struggled to his feet.

"Give me the mug," he said to ’Erb, and washed out his mouth.  "How long
’time’ is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.

"Oh, nothing’s regular," was the reply.  "’Rounds’ end when you fall
apart, and ’time’ ends when both are ready....  You aren’t going for him
again, are you?"

"I’m going for him as long as I can stand and see," was the answer.
’Erb patted him on the back.

"Blimey!  You’re a White Man, matey," he commended.  "S’welp me, you
are!"

"Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking Bronco, and
unceremoniously shoved back all who delayed.

A look of incredulity spread over the face of the Italian.  Could it be
possible that the fool did not know that he was utterly beaten and
abolished? ... He tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs....

It was true.  The Englishman advanced upon him, the light of battle in
his eyes, and fierce determination expressed in the frown upon his white
face.  His mouth bore no expression--it was merely a mess.

A cheer went up from the spectators.

A recruit asking for it _twice_, from Luigi Rivoli!

That famous man, though by no means anxious, was slightly perplexed.
There was something here to which he was not accustomed.  It was the
first time in his experience that this had happened.  Few men had defied
and faced him once--none had done it twice.  This, in itself was bad,
and in the nature of a faint blow to his prestige....  He had tried a
grapple--with unfortunate results; he had tried a kick--most
successfully, and he would try another in a moment.  Lest his opponent
should be warily expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram
butt.  He crouched forward, extending his open hands as though to
grapple, and, suddenly ducking his head, flung himself forward,
intending to drive the breath from his enemy’s body and seize him by the
throat ere he recovered.

Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped and, as he did so, smote
the Italian with all his strength full upon the ear--a blow which caused
that organ to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours.  Rivoli staggered
sideways and fell.  The Englishman stood back and waited.  Rivoli arose
as quickly as he fell, and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the
Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and right, cutting his
knuckles to the bone.  Heavy and true as were the blows, they could not
avail to stop that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the
Italian’s arms were round him.  One mighty hug and heave, and his whole
body, clasped as in a vice to that of the Italian, was bent over
backward in a bow.

"Thet’s torn it," groaned the American, and dashed his képi upon the
ground.  "Fer two damns I’d..."

John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

"Go it, Rupert," bawled ’Erb, dancing in a frenzy of excitement.  "Git
’is froat....  Swing up yer knee....  Kick ’im."

"Shut up," snapped John Bull.  "He’s not a hooligan...."

One of Rupert’s arms was imprisoned in those of the Italian.  True to
his training and standards, he played the game as he had learnt it, and
kept his free right hand from his opponent’s throat.  With his failing
strength he rained short-arm blows on the Italian’s face, until it was
turned sideways and crushed against his neck and shoulder.

John Bull mistook the bully’s action.

"If you bite his throat, I’ll shoot you, Rivoli," he shouted, and
applauding cheers followed the threat.

The muscles of Rivoli’s back and arms tightened and bunched as he
strained with all his strength. Slowly but surely he bent further over,
drawing the Englishman’s body closer and closer in his embrace.

To John Bull, the seconds seemed years.  Complete silence reigned.
Rupert’s blows weakened and became feeble.  They ceased.  Rivoli bent
over further.  As Rupert’s right arm fell to his side, the Italian
seized it from behind.  His victim was now absolutely powerless and
motionless.  John Bull was reminded of a boa-constrictor which he had
once seen crush a deer. Suddenly the Italian’s left arm was withdrawn,
his right arm continuing to imprison Rupert’s left while his right hand
retained his grip of the other.  Thrusting his left hand beneath the
Englishman’s chin he put all his colossal strength into one great
effort--pushing the head back until it seemed that the neck must break,
and at the same time contracting his great right arm and bending himself
almost double.  He then raised his opponent and dashed him to the
ground....

Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the Legion’s Hospital.

A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided that his back was
not broken but only badly sprained. On leaving hospital, a fortnight
later, he did eight days _salle de police_ by way of convalescence.

On return to duty, he found himself something of a hero in the Seventh
Company, and decidedly the hero of the recruits of his _chambrée_.

Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull and the reiterated
advice of the Bucking Bronco, and of the almost worshipping ’Erb--he
awaited Luigi Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged him
to fight.

The great man burst into explosive laughter--laughter almost too
explosive to be wholly genuine.

"Fight you, whelp!  Fight you, _whelp_!" he scoffed. "_Why_ should I
fight you?  Pah!  Out of my sight--I have something else to do."

"Oh have you?  Well, don’t forget that I have nothing else to do, any
time you feel like fighting. See?" replied the Englishman.

The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert with beating heart
and well-concealed sense of mighty relief, returned to his cot to work.

It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli invariably had something
else to do, so far as Rupert was concerned, and molested him no more.




                               CHAPTER VI

                       LE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGS


For Légionnaire Reginald Rupert the days slipped past with incredible
rapidity, and, at the end of six months, this adaptable and exceedingly
keen young man felt himself to be an old and seasoned Legionary, for
whom the Depôt held little more in the way of instruction and
experience.

His thoughts began to turn to Foreign Service. When would he be able to
volunteer for a draft going to Tonkin, Madagascar, Senegal, or some
other place of scenes and experiences entirely different from those of
Algeria?  When would he see some active service--that which he had come
so far to see, and for which he had undergone these hardships and
privations?

Deeply interested as he was in all things military, and anxious as he
was to learn and become the Compleat Soldier, he found himself beginning
to grow very weary of the trivial round, the common task, of Life in the
Depôt.  Once he knew his drill as an Infantryman, he began to feel that
the proportion of training and instruction to that of corvée and
fatigues was small.  He had not travelled all the way to Algiers to
handle broom and wheelbarrow, and perform non-military labours at a wage
of a halfpenny per day.  Of course, one took the rough with the smooth
and shrugged one’s shoulders with the inevitable "Que voulez-vous?
C’est la Légion," but, none the less, he had had enough, and more than
enough, of Depôt life.

He sometimes thought of going to the _Adjudant-Major_, offering to
provide proofs that he had been a British officer, and claiming to be
placed in the class of _angehende corporale_ (as he called the _élèves
Caporaux_ or probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion and a
wider and different sphere of action.

There were reasons against this course, however. It would, very
probably, only result in his being stuck in the Depôt permanently, as a
Corporal-Instructor--the more so as he spoke German.  Also, it was
neither quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as he did not
intend to spend more than a year in the Legion and was looking forward
to his attempt at desertion as his first real Great Adventure.

He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of those who go "on
pump," as, for no discoverable reason, the Legionary calls desertion.
In every barrack-room there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the
mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into the hands of the Arabs
and been tortured by their women.  He had himself seen wretched
deserters dragged back by Goums,[#] a mass of rags, filth, blood and
bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the end of a rope attached to
an Arab’s saddle.  Inasmuch as the captor got twenty-five francs for
returning a deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or
starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and galloped with him
to the nearest outpost or barracks. When the Roumi[#] could no longer
run, he was quite welcome to fall and be dragged.


[#] Arab gens d’armes.

[#] White man.


Rupert had also gathered a fairly accurate idea of the conditions of
life--if "life" it can be called--in the Penal Battalions.

Yes, on the whole, desertion from the Legion would be something in the
nature of an adventure, when one considered the difficulties, risks, and
dangers, which militated against success, and the nature of the
punishment which attended upon failure.  No wonder that desertion was
regarded by all and sundry as being a feat of courage, skill and
endurance to which attached no slightest stigma of disgrace!  One
gathered that most men "made the promenade" at some time or
other--generally under the influence of _le cafard_ in some terrible
Southern desert-station, and were dealt with more or less leniently
(provided they lost no articles of their kit) in view of the fact that
successful desertion from such places was utterly impossible, and only
attempted by them "while of unsound mind."  Only once or twice, in the
whole history of the Legion, had a man got clear away, obtained a camel,
and, by some miracle of luck, courage and endurance, escaped death at
the hands of the Arabs, thirst, hunger, and sunstroke, to reach the
Moroccan border and take service with the Moors--who are the natural and
hereditary enemies of the Touaregs and Bedouins.

Yes, he had begun to feel that he had certainly come to the end of a
period of instruction and experience, and was in need of change to fresh
fields and pastures new.  Vegetating formed no part of his programme of
life, which was far too short, in any case, for all there was to see and
to do....

Sitting one night on his cot, and talking to the man for whom he now had
a very genuine and warm affection, he remarked--

"Don’t you get fed up with Depôt life, Bull?"

"I have been fed up with life, Depôt and otherwise, for over twenty
years," was the reply....  "Don’t forget that life here in Sidi is a
great deal better than life in a desert station in the South.  It is
supportable anyhow; there--it simply isn’t; and those who don’t desert
and die, go mad and die.  The exceptions, who do neither, deteriorate
horribly, and come away very different men....  Make the most of Sidi,
my boy, while you are here, and remember that foreign service, when in
Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa, inevitably means fever and
dysentery, and generally broken health for life....  Moreover, Algeria
is the only part of the French colonial possessions in which the climate
lets one enjoy one’s pipe."

That very night, shortly after the _caserne_ had fallen silent and
still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary,
an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later,
non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "_Aux
armes!  Aux armes!  Aux armes!_" at the top of their voices.

Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout,
"_Levez-vous donc.  Levez-vous! Faites le sac!  Faites le sac!  En tenue
de Campagne d’Afrique_."

"’Ooray!" shrilled ’Erb.  "Oo-bloomin’-ray."

"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull.  "We’ve got to be on the
barrack-square in full ’African field equipment’ in ten minutes."

The _chambrée_ became the scene of feverish activity, as well as of
delirious excitement and joy.  In spite of it being the small hours of
the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song,
without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies
early-morning effort.  The great Luigi’s slaves worked at double
pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as
themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with
one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of
cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished
his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer.  Speculation
was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether
the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the
torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.

In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on
parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a
beast of burden.  One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes
were brought from the magazine and prised open.  _What would the
cardboard packets contain_?  A few seconds after the first packet had
been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had
spread throughout the Battalion.

_Ball-Cartridge!_

The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost
every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active
service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the
blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge
from the Legion.  The blessing of change, to begin with.

There was one exception however.  When Caporal Achille Martel "told off"
Légionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch for orderly-duty to the _Adjudant
Vaguemestre_,[#] duty which would keep him behind in barracks, that
Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any disappointment that he may
have felt.


[#] The postmaster.


A few minutes later the Legion’s magnificent band struck up the Legion’s
march of "_Tiens, voilà du boudin_," and the Battalion swung out of the
gate, past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet sleeping
streets into the main road, and so out of the town to which many of them
never returned.

In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company marched the Bucking
Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert, and Herbert Higgins.  In the row in
front of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Grass hopper, and
Feodor Kyrilovitch.  In the front row old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef
Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte.  In front of them marched
the four drummers.  At the head of the Company rode Captain
d’Armentières, beside whom walked Lieutenant Roberte.

Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities and
possibilities of the expedition.  All the signs and tokens to be read by
experienced soldier-eyes, were those of a long march and active service.

"It’ll be a case of ’best foot foremost’ a few hours hence, Rupert, I
fancy," remarked John Bull.  "I shouldn’t be surprised if we put up
thirty miles on end, with no halt but the ’cigarette spaces.’"

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco.  "I got a hunch we’re gwine ter
throw our feet some, to-day. We wouldn’t hev’ hiked off like this with
sharp ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an hour ef little
Johnnie hadn’t wanted the doctor. Well, I’m sorry fer the b’ys as ain’t
good mushers... Guess we shan’t pound our ears[#] before we wants tew,
this trip."


[#] Sleep.


Marching along the excellent sandy road through the cool of the night,
under a glorious moon, with the blood of youth, and health, and strength
coursing like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert to
realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily dragging one foot
after the other, his rifle weighing a hundredweight, his pack weighing a
ton, his mouth a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache.  He had had some
pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first time that the
Battalion had gone out on a night alarm with ball-cartridge, and every
indication of it being the "real thing."

On tramped the Legion.

Anon there was a whistle, a cry of _Halt!_ and there was a few minutes’
rest.  Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and
endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them.  Malvin made his master lie
down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth
removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be
thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from
the word "_Halt!_" to the word "_Fall in!_" The knapsack of black canvas
is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and
sundries.  Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it,
tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot,
drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.

Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel
scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an
entrenching tool, and his "sac."  Add his rifle and water-bottle, and
you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world.  He does not carry
his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy
overcoat to be correct desert wear.  Under his overcoat he has only a
canvas shirt and white linen trousers (when _en tenue de campagne
d’Afrique_), tucked into leather gaiters.  Round his waist, his blue
sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and
body-support.  The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the
white cover of his képi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some
extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....

The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "_Le
sac, ma foi, toujours au dos_," and the old favourite marching songs
"_Brigadier_," "_L’Empereur de Danmark_," "_Père Bugeaud_," and "_Tiens,
voilà du boudin_."  Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid
voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--

    "Trinken wir noch ein Tröpfchen
    Aus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."

or _Die Wacht am Rhein_ or the pathetic _Morgenlied_.

At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were
few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down.  As
the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from
the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbès overtook it.  At the head rode a
white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and
shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion
of Honour.

"That’s the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert.
"That settles it: we’re out for business this time, and I fancy you’ll
see some Arab-fighting before you are much older....  Feet going to be
all right, do you think?"

"Fine," replied Rupert.  "My boots are half full of tallow, and I’ve got
a small bottle of bapédi in my sack...."

On tramped the Legion.

The day grew hot and packs grew heavy.  The Battalion undeniably and
unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their
straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks
of coal.  Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left.  There was
no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths
was an occasional bitter curse.  Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder
straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy
weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of
constriction about the heart and lungs.  He realised that he quite
understood how people felt when they fainted....

By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or twenty-seven miles lay
behind the Battalion.  At the word _Halt!_ every man had thrown himself
at full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious moments of the
inexorably exact five minutes of the rest-period in removing knapsacks.
Hardly a man spoke; none smoked.

On tramped the Legion.

Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care humour--that queer
_macabre_ and bitter humour of the Legion.  Men slouched and staggered,
and dragged their feet in utter hopeless weariness.  Backs rounded more
and more, heads sank lower, and those who limped almost outnumbered
those who did not.  A light push would have sent any man stumbling to
the ground.

As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion sank to the ground
with a groan, as though it would never rise again.  As the whistle blew
for the advance the Legion staggered to its feet as one man.... Oh, the
Legion marches!  Is not its motto, "_March or Die_"?  The latter it may
do, the former it must. The Legion has its orders and its destination,
and it marches.  If it did not reach its destination at the appointed
time, it would be because it had died in getting there.

On tramped the Legion.

With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its raw-rubbed backs,
its protesting, aching legs and blistered heels and toes, the Legion
staggered on, a silent pitiable mass of suffering.  Up and down the
entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the Marching Pig."
Every few yards he bawled with brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March
or die, my children!  March or die!"  And the Legion clearly understood
that it must march or it must die. To stagger from the ranks and fall
was to die of thirst and starvation, or beneath the _flissa_ of the
Arab.

Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the Legion" and the hard
training which achieved and maintained the hard condition of the
Legionary. Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could keep
going at least as long as the average, and by the time the average man
had reached the uttermost end of his tether, the end of their march must
be reached.  After all, though they were Legionaries whose motto was
"March or Die," they were only human beings--and to all human effort and
endeavour there is a limit.  He glanced at his comrades.  The Bucking
Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across his shoulder by the
muzzle, and his belt, with all its impedimenta, swinging from his right
hand.  He stared straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless iron
body, "threw his feet."

Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn and old.  He leant
heavily against the pull of his straps and marched with his chest bare.
On Rupert’s left, ’Erb, having unbuttoned and unbuckled everything
unbuttonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a picture of slack
unsoldierliness and of dauntless dogged endurance.  Suddenly throwing up
his head he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn’earted?" and, having
painfully swallowed, answered his own strident question with a
long-drawn, contemptuous "Ne--a--ow."  Captain d’Armentières, who knew
England and the English, looked round with a smile.... "Bon garçon," he
nodded.

On the right of the second row of fours marched Luigi Rivoli, in better
case than most, as the bulk of his kit was now impartially distributed
among Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif.  (The power of money in
the Legion is utterly incredible.)  Feodor Kyrilovitch was carrying the
Grasshopper’s rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the end of
a thirty-mile march.

At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared that he could not
get up....  At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.

"Kind God!  What _shall_ I do?" he groaned.  It was his first failure as
a soldier.

"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply.  "Here, pull off his kit," he
added and unfastened the Belgian’s belt.  Between them they pulled him
to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks.  John Bull took
his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor
his rifle.  His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground.

"Here," said Rupert to ’Erb.  "Get in his place and let him march in
yours beside me.  We’ll hold him up."

"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied ’Erb, and left Rupert with hands
free to assist the Grasshopper.

With his right arm round the Belgian’s waist, he helped him along, while
John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow’s right hand on his left
shoulder.

On tramped the Legion.

Before long, almost the whole weight of the Grasshopper’s body was on
Rupert’s right arm and John Bull’s left shoulder.

"Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to time, "we are sure
to stop at the fifty-kilometre stone."

The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did not reply.  His feet
began to drag, and occasionally his two comrades bore his full weight
for a few paces. Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round. These
four, in their anxiety for their weaker brother, forgot their own raw
thighs, labouring lungs, inflamed eyes, numbed arms and agonising feet.

Just as the Colonel rode by, the Grasshopper’s feet ceased to move, and
dragged lifeless along the ground.

Rupert stumbled and the three fell in a heap, beneath the Colonel’s eye.

"Sacré Baptême!" he swore--the oath he only used when a Legionary fell
out on the march--"March or die, accursed pigs."

Rupert and John Bull staggered to their feet, but the Grasshopper lay
apparently lifeless.  The Colonel swore again, and shouted an order.
The Grasshopper was dragged to the side of the road, and a baggage-cart
drove up.  A tent-pole was thrust through its sides and tied securely.
To this pole the Belgian was lashed, the pole passing across the upper
part of his back and under his arms, which were pulled over it and tied
together.  If he could keep his feet, well and good.  If he could not,
he would hang from the pole by his arms (as an athlete hangs from a
parallel-bar in a gymnasium, before revolving round and round it).

On tramped the Legion.

Before long, the Grasshopper’s feet dragged in the dust as he drooped
inanimate, and then hung in the rope which lashed him to the pole.

At the fifty-fifth kilometre, thirty-five miles from Sidi-bel-Abbès, the
command to halt was followed by the thrice-blessed God-sent order:

"_Campez!_"

Almost before the words, "_Formez les faisceaux_" were out of the
Company-Commanders’ mouths, the men had piled arms.  Nor was the order
"_Sac à terre_" obeyed in any grudging spirit.  In an incredibly short
space of time the jointed tent-poles and canvas had been removed from
the knapsacks.  Corporals of sections had stepped forward, holding the
tent-poles above their heads, marking each Company’s tent-line, and a
city of small white tents had come into being on the face of the desert.
A few minutes later, cooking-trenches had been dug, camp-fires lighted
and water, containing meat and macaroni, put on to boil.

A busy and profitable hour followed for Madame la Cantinière, who, even
as her cart stopped, had set out her folding tables, benches and bar for
the sale of her Algerian wine.  Her first customer was the great Luigi,
who, thanks to Carmelita’s money, could sit and drink while his
employees did his work.  The fly in the worthy man’s ointment was the
fact that his Italian dinner and Italian wine were thirty-five miles
behind him at Carmelita’s café.  Like ordinary men, he must, to-night
and for many a night to come, content himself with the monotonous and
meagre fare of common Legionaries.  However--better half a sofa than no
bed; and he was easily prime favourite with Madame....  This would be an
excellent chance for consolidating his position with her, winning her
for his bride, and apprising Carmelita, from afar, of the fact that he
was now respectably settled in life. Thus would a disagreeable scene be
avoided and, on the return of the Battalion to Sidi-bel-Abbès, he would
give the Café de la Légion a wide berth....  Could he perhaps _sell_ his
rights and goodwill in the _café_ and Carmelita to some Legionary of
means?  One or two of his own _chambrée_ seemed to have money--the
Englishman; the Russians....  Better still, sell out to Malvin, Tou-tou,
Meyer, or some other penniless toady and _make him pay a weekly
percentage_ of what he screwed out of Carmelita.  Excellent!  And if the
scoundrel did not get him enough, he would supplant him with a more
competent lessee....  Meanwhile, to storm Madame’s experienced and
undecided heart. Anyhow, if she wouldn’t have Luigi she shouldn’t have
anyone else....

There was, that evening, exceeding little noise and movement, and "the
stir and tread of armed camps."  As soon as they had fed--and, in many
cases, before they had fed--the soldiers lay on their blankets, their
heads on their knapsacks and their overcoats over their bodies.

Scarcely, as it seemed to Rupert, had they closed their eyes, when it
was time to rise and resume their weary march.  At one o’clock in the
morning, the Battalion fell in, and each man got his two litres of water
and strict orders to keep one quarter of it for to-morrow’s cooking
purposes.  If he contributed no water to the cooking-cauldron he got no
cooked food.

On tramped the Legion.

Day after day, day after day, it marched, and, on the twelfth day from
Sidi-bel-Abbès, had covered nearly three hundred and fifty miles.  Well
might the Legion be known in the Nineteenth Division as the _Cavalerie à
pied_.


                                   §2

Life for the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of the Legion in
Aïnargoula was, as John Bull had promised Rupert, simply hell.  Not even
the relief of desert warfare had broken the cruel monotony of desert
marches and life in desert stations--stations consisting of red-hot
barracks, and the inevitable filthy and sordid _Village Négre_.  Men
lived--and sometimes died--in a state of unbearable irritation and
morose savageness.  Fights were frequent, suicide not infrequent, and
murders not unknown.  _Cafard_ reigned supreme.  The punishment-cells
were overcrowded night and day, and abortive desertions occurred with
extraordinary frequency.

The discontent and sense of wasted time, which had begun to oppress
Rupert at Sidi-bel-Abbès, increased tenfold.  To him and to the Bucking
Bronco (who daily swore that he would desert that night, and tramp to
Sidi-bel-Abbès to see Carmelita) John Bull proved a friend in need.
Each afternoon, during that terrible time between eleven and three, when
the incredible heat of the barrack-room made it impossible for any work
to be done, and the men, by strict rule, were compelled to lie about on
their cots, it was John Bull who found his friends something else to
think about than their own sufferings and miseries.

A faithful coadjutor was ’Erb, who, with his mouth-organ and Jew’s-harp,
probably saved the reason, or the life, of more than one man.  ’Erb
seemed to feel the heat less than bigger men, and he would sit
cross-legged upon his mattress, evoking tuneful strains from his beloved
instruments when far stronger men could only lie panting like distressed
dogs.  Undoubtedly the three Englishmen and the American exercised a
restraining and beneficial influence, inasmuch as they interfered as one
man (following the lead of John Bull, the oldest soldier in the room)
whenever a quarrel reached the point of blows, in their presence....
Under those conditions of life and temper a blow is commonly but the
prelude to swift homicide.

One terrible afternoon, as the Legionaries lay on their beds, almost
naked, in that stinking oven, the suddenness of these tragedies was
manifested.  It was too hot to play _bloquette_ or _foutrou_, too hot to
sing, too hot to smoke, too hot to do anything, and the hot bed
positively burnt one’s bare back.  The Bucking Bronco lay gasping, his
huge chest rising and falling with painful rapidity.  John Bull was
showing Rupert a wonderfully and beautifully Japanese-tattooed serpent
which wound twice round his wrist and ran up the inner side of his white
forearm, its head and expanded hood filling the hollow of his elbow.
Rupert, who would have liked to copy it, was wondering how its brilliant
colours had been achieved and had remained undimmed for over thirty-five
years, as John Bull said was the case, it having been done at Nagasaki
when he was a midshipman on the _Narcissus_.  It was too hot even for
’Erb to make music and he lay fanning himself with an ancient copy of
the _Echo d’Oran_.  It was too hot to sleep, save in one or two cases,
and these men groaned, moaned and rolled their heads as they snored.  It
was too hot to quarrel--almost.  But not quite.  Suddenly the swift
_zweeep_ of a bayonet being snatched from its steel scabbard hissed
through the room, and all eyes turned to where Legionary Franz Josef
Meyer flashed his bayonet from his sheath and, almost in the same
movement, drove it up through the throat of the Greek, Dimitropoulos,
and into his brain.

"Take that, you scum of the Levant," he said, and then stared, wide-eyed
and open-mouthed, at his handiwork.  There had been bad blood between
the men for some time, and for days the Austrian had accused the Greek
of stealing a piece of his wax. Some taunt of the dead man had completed
the work of _le cafard_....

That night Meyer escaped from the cells--and his body, three days later,
was delivered up in return for the twenty-five francs paid for a live or
dead deserter. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that parts of
his body were brought in--sufficient, at any rate, for identification.

He had fallen into the hands of the Arabs.

To give the Arabs their due, however, they saved the situation.  Just
when Legionary John Bull had begun to give up hope, and nightly to dread
what the morrow might bring forth for his friends and himself, the Arabs
attacked the post.  The strain on the over-stretched cord was released
and men who, in another day, would have been temporarily or permanently
raving madmen, were saved.

The attack was easily beaten off and without loss to the Legionaries,
firing from loopholes and behind stone walls.

On the morrow, a reconnaissance toward the nearest oasis discovered
their camp and, on the next day, a tiny punitive column set forth from
Aïnargoula--the Legionaries as happy, to use Rupert’s too appropriate
simile, as sand-boys.  Like everybody else, he was in the highest
spirits.  Gone was the dark shadow of _le cafard_ and the feeling that,
unless something happened, he would become a homicidal maniac and run
amuck.

Here was the "real thing."  Here was that for which he had been so long
and so drastically trained--desert warfare.  He thrilled from head to
foot with excitement, and wondered whether the day would bring forth one
of the famous and terrible Arab cavalry charges, and whether he would
have his first experience of taking part in the mad and fearful joy of a
bayonet charge.  Anyhow, there was a chance of either or both.

The Company marched on at its quickest, alternating five minutes of
swift marching with five minutes of the _pas gymnastique_, the long,
loping stride which is the "double" of the Legion.

Far ahead marched a small advance-guard; behind followed a rear-guard,
and, well out on either side, marched the flankers.  Where a sandy ridge
ran parallel with the course of the Company, the flankers advanced along
the crest of it, that they might watch the country which lay beyond.
This did not avail them much, for, invariably, such a ridge was
paralleled by a similar one at no great distance.  To have rendered the
little Company absolutely secure against sudden surprise-attack on
either flank, would have necessitated sending out the majority of the
force for miles on either side.  Rupert, ever keen and deeply interested
in military matters, talked of this with John Bull, who agreed with him
that, considerable as the danger of such an attack was, it could not be
eliminated.

"Anyhow," concluded he, "we generally get something like at least five
hundred yards’ margin and if the Arabs can cut us up while we have
that--they deserve to.  Still, it’s tricky country I admit, with all
these _wadis_ and folds in the ground, as well as rocks and ridges."

On marched the Company, and reached an area of rolling sand-hills, and
loose heavy sand under foot.

The day grew terribly hot and the going terribly heavy.  As usual, all
pretence and semblance of smart marching had been abandoned, and the men
marched in whatever posture, attitude or style seemed to them best....

... It came with the suddenness of a thunderclap on a fine day, at a
moment when practically everything but the miseries of marching through
loose sand in the hottest part of one of the hottest days of the year
had faded from the minds of the straining, labouring men.

A sudden shout, followed by the firing of half a dozen shots, brought
the column automatically to a halt and drew all eyes to the right.

From a wide shallow _wadi_, or a fold in the ground, among the
sand-hills a few hundred yards away, an avalanche of _haik_ and
_djellab_-clad men on swift horses suddenly materialised and swept down
like a whirlwind on the little force.  Behind them, followed a far
bigger mass of camel-riders howling "_Ul-Ul-Ullah-Akbar!_" as they came.
Almost before the column had halted, a couple of barks from Lieutenant
Roberte turned the Company to the right in two ranks, the front rank
kneeling, the rear rank standing close up behind it, with bayonets fixed
and magazines charged... Having fired their warning shots, the flankers
were running for their lives to join the main body.  The Company watched
and waited in grave silence.  It was Lieutenant Roberte’s intention
that, when the Arabs broke and fled before the Company’s withering blast
of lead, they should leave the maximum number of "souvenirs" behind
them.  His was the courage and nerve that is tempered and enhanced by
imperturbable coolness.  He would let the charging foe gallop to the
very margin of safety for his Legionaries. To turn them back at fifty
yards would be much more profitable than to do it at five hundred.

Trembling with excitement and the thrilling desire for violent action,
Rupert knelt between John Bull and the Bucking Bronco, scarcely able to
await the orders to fire and charge.  Before any order came he saw a
sight that for a moment sickened and shook him, a sight which remained
before his eyes for many days.  Corporal Auguste Gilles, who was
commanding the flankers, either too weary or too ill to continue his
sprint for comparative safety, turned and faced the thundering rush of
the oncoming Arab _harka_, close behind him.  Kneeling by a prickly pear
or cactus bush he threw up his rifle and emptied his magazine into the
swiftly rushing ranks that were almost upon him.  As he fired his last
shot, an Arab, riding ahead of the rest, lowered his lance and, with a
cry of "_Kelb ibn kelb_,"[#] bent over towards him. Springing to his
feet the Corporal gamely charged with his bayonet.  There can be only
one end to such a combat when the horseman knows his weapon.  The
Corporal was sent flying into the cactus, impaled upon the Arab’s lance,
and, as it was withdrawn as the horseman swept by, the horrified Rupert
saw his comrade stagger to his feet and totter forward--tethered to the
cactus by his own entrails.  Happily, a second later, the sweep of an
Arab _flissa_ almost severed his head from his shoulders....


[#] Dog--and son of a dog.


The Company stood firm and silent as a rock, the shining bayonets still
and level.  Just as it seemed to Rupert that it must be swept away and
every man share the fate of that mangled lump of clay in front (for
there is no more nerve-shaking spectacle than cavalry charging down upon
you like a living avalanche or flood) one word rang out from Lieutenant
Roberte.

When the crashing rattle (like mingled, tearing thunder and the wild
hammer of hail upon a corrugated iron roof), ceased as magazines were
emptied almost simultaneously, the Arabs were in flight at top speed,
leaving two-thirds of their number on the plain; and upon the fleeing
_harka_ the Company made very pretty shooting--for the Legion shoots as
well as it marches.

When the "Cease Fire" whistle had blown, Rupert remarked to John Bull--

"No chance for a bayonet charge, then?" to which the old soldier
replied--

"No, my son, that is a pleasure to which the Arab does not treat us,
unless we surprise his sleeping _douar_ at dawn...."

The Arabs having disappeared beyond the horizon, the Company camped and
bivouacked on the battlefield, resuming its march at midnight.  As
Lieutenant Roberte feared and expected, the oasis which was surrounded
and attacked at dawn, was found to be empty.

The Company marched back to Aïnargoula and, a few days later, returned
to Sidi-bel-Abbès.




                              CHAPTER VII

                      THE SHEEP IN WOLF’S CLOTHING


Légionnaire John Bull sat on the edge of his cot at the hour of
_astiquage_.  Though his body was in the _chambrée_ of the Seventh
Company, his mind, as usual, was in England, and his thoughts, as usual,
played around the woman whom he knew as Marguerite, and the world as
Lady Huntingten.

What _could_ he do next year when his third and last period of Legion
service expired?  Where could he possibly hide in such inviolable
anonymity that there was no possible chance of any rumour arising that
the dead Sir Montague Merline was in the land of the living? ... How had
it happened that he had survived the wounds and disease that he had
suffered in Tonkin, Madagascar, Dahomey, and the Sahara--the stake-trap
pit into which he had fallen at Nha-Nam--the bullet in his neck from the
Malagasy rifle--the hack from the _coupe-coupe_ which had split his
collar-bone in that ghastly West African jungle--the lance-thrust that
had torn his arm from elbow to shoulder at Elsefra?

It was an absolute and undeniable fact that the man who desired to die
in battle could never do it; while he who had everything to live for,
was among the first to fall.  If they went South again to-morrow and
were cut up in a sudden Arab _razzia_, he would be the sole survivor.
But if a letter arrived on the previous day, stating that Lord
Huntingten was dead leaving no children, and that Lady Huntingten had
just heard of his survival and longed for his return--would he survive
that fight?  Most certainly not.

What to do at the end of the fifteenth year of his service?  His face
had been far too well known among the class of people who passed through
Marseilles to India and elsewhere--who winter on the Riviera, who golf
at Biarritz, who recuperate at Vichy or Aix, who go to Paris in the
Spring; and who, in short, are to be found in various parts of France at
various times of the year--for him to dream of using the Legion’s free
pass to any part of France.  The risk might be infinitesimal, but it
existed, and he would run no risk of ruining Marguerite’s life, after
more than twenty-five years.

She must be over forty-five now....  Had time dealt kindly with her?
Was she as beautiful as ever? Sure to be.  Marguerite was of the type
that would ripen, mature, and improve until well on into middle life.
Who was the eminent man who said that a woman was not interesting until
she was forty?...

What would he not give for a sight of Marguerite? It would be easy
enough, next year.  Only next year--and it was a thousand to one, a
million to one, against anyone recognising him if he were well disguised
and thoroughly careful.  Just one sight of Marguerite--after more than
twenty-five years!  Had he not made sacrifices enough?  Might he not
take _that_ much reward for half a lifetime of life in death--a lifetime
which his body dragged wretchedly and wearily along among the dregs of
the earth, while his mind haunted the home of his wife, a home in which
another man was lord and master.  Was it much to ask--one glimpse of his
wife after twenty-seven years of renunciation?

"Miserable, selfish cur!" he murmured aloud as he melted a piece of wax
in the flame of a match. "You would risk the happiness of your wife,
your old friend, and their children--all absolutely innocent of
wrong--for the sake of a minute’s self-indulgence.... Be ashamed of
yourself, you whining weakling...."

It had become a habit of Légionnaire John Bull to talk to himself aloud,
when alone--a habit he endeavoured to check as he had recently, on more
than one occasion, found himself talking aloud in the company of others.

Having finished the polishing of his leather-work, he took his Lebel
rifle from the rack and commenced to clean it.  As he threw open the
chamber, he paused, the bolt in his right hand, the rifle balanced in
his left.  Someone was running with great speed along the corridor
toward the room.  What was up?  Was it a case of _Faites le sac_?  Would
the head of an excited and delighted Legionary be thrust in at the door
with a yell of--"_Aux armes!  Faites le sac_"?

The door burst open and in rushed Mikhail Kyrilovitch, bare-headed,
coatless, with staring eyes and blanched cheeks.

"Save me, save me, Monsieur," he shrieked, rushing towards the old
Legionary.  "Save me--_I am a woman_...."

"Good God!" ejaculated Legionary John Bull, involuntarily glancing from
the face to the flat chest of the speaker.

"I am a girl," sobbed the _soi-disant_ Mikhail.... "I am a girl....  And
that loathsome beast Luigi Rivoli has found me out....  He’s coming....
He chased me....  What shall I do?  What _shall_ I do?  Poor Feodor...."

As Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli entered the room, panting slightly with his
unwonted exertions, the girl crouched behind John Bull, her face in her
hands, her body shaken by deep sobs.  It had all happened so quickly
that John Bull found himself standing with his gun balanced, still in
the attitude into which he had frozen on hearing the running feet
without.

So it had come, had it--and he was to try conclusions with Luigi Rivoli
at last?  Well, it should be no inconclusive rough-and-tumble.  Perhaps
this was the solution of his problem, and might settle, once and for
all, the question of his future?

"Ho-ho!  Ho-ho!" roared the Neapolitan, "she’s your girl, is she, you
_aristocratico Inglese_?  Ho-ho! You are _faisant Suisse_ are you?
Ho-ho!  Your own private girl in the very _chambrée_!  Corpo di Bacco!
You shall learn the penalty for breaking the Legion’s first law of
share-and-share-alike.  Get out of my way, _cane Inglese_."

John Bull closed the breech of his rifle, and pointed the weapon at
Rivoli’s broad breast.

"Stand back," he said quietly.  "Stand back, you foul-mouthed scum of
Naples, or I’ll blow your dirty little soul out of your greasy carcase."
He raised his voice slightly.  "Stand back, you dog, do you hear?" he
added, advancing slightly towards his opponent.

Luigi Rivoli gave ground.  The rifle might be loaded. You never knew
with these cursed, quiet Northerners, with their cold, pale eyes....
The rifle might be loaded....  Rivoli was well aware that every
Legionary makes it his business to steal a cartridge sooner or later,
and keeps it by him for emergencies, be they of suicide, murder,
self-defence, or desertion.... The Englishman had been standing in the
attitude of one who loads a rifle at the moment of his entrance.
Perhaps his girl had told him of the discovery and assault, and he had
been loading the rifle to avenge her.

"Listen to me, Luigi Rivoli," said John Bull, still holding the rifle
within a foot of the Italian’s breast. "Listen, and I’ll tell you what
you are.  Then I will tell the Section what you are, when they come
in.... Then I will tell the whole Company....  Then I will stand on a
table in the Canteen and shout it, night after night....  This is what
you are.  You are a coward.  A _coward_, d’you hear?--a miserable,
shrinking, frightened coward, who dare not fight...."

"Fight!  _Iddio_!  _Fight_!  Put down that rifle and I’ll tear you limb
from limb.  Come down into the square and I will break your back.  Come
down now--and fight for the girl."

"... A trembling, frightened coward who dare not fight, and who calls
punching, and hugging and kicking ’fighting.’  I challenge you to fight,
Luigi Rivoli, with rifles--at one hundred yards and no cover; or with
revolvers, at ten paces; or with swords of any sort or kind--if it’s
only sword-bayonets. Will you fight, or will you be known as _Rivoli the
Coward_ throughout both Battalions of the Legion?"

Rivoli half-crouched for a spring, and straightway the rifle sprang to
the Englishman’s shoulder, as his eyes blazed and his fingers fell round
the trigger. Rivoli recoiled.

"I don’t want to shoot you, unarmed, Coward," he said quietly.  "I am
going to shoot you, or stab you, or slash you, in fair fight--or else
you shall kneel and be christened _Rivoli the Coward_ on the barrack
square....  I’ve had enough of you, and so has everybody--unless it’s
your gang of pimps....  Now go.  Go on--get out....  Go on--before I
lose patience. Clear out--and make up your mind whether you will fight
or be christened."

"Oh, I’ll fight you--you mangy old cur.  You are brave enough with a
loaded rifle, eh?  Mother of Christ!  I’ll send you where the birds
won’t trouble you....  Shoot me in the back as I go, Brave Man with a
Gun"--and Luigi Rivoli departed, in a state of horrid doubt and
perturbation....  This cursed Englishman meant what he said....

Legionary John Bull lowered his rifle with a laugh, and became aware of
the fact that the Russian girl was hugging his leg in a way which would
have effectually hampered him in the event of a struggle, and which made
him feel supremely ridiculous.

"Get up, _petite_," he said bending over her, as she lay moaning and
weeping.  "It’s all right--he’s gone. He won’t trouble you again, for I
am going to kill him. Come and lie on your bed and tell me all about
it.... We must make up our minds as to what will be the best thing to
do....  Rivoli will tell everybody."

He helped the girl to her feet, partly led and partly carried her to her
bed, and laid her on it.

Holding his lean brown hand between her little ones, in a voice broken
and choked with sobs, she told him something of her story--a sad little
story all too common.

The listener gathered that the two were children of a prominent
revolutionary who had disappeared into Siberia, after what they
considered a travesty of a trial.  They had been students at the
University of Moscow, and had followed in their father’s political
footsteps from the age of sixteen.  Their youth and inexperience, their
fanatical enthusiasm, and their unselfish courage, had, in a few years,
brought them to a point at which they must choose between death or the
horrors of prison and Siberia on the one hand, and immediate flight, and
most complete and utter evanishment on the other.  When his beloved twin
sister had been chosen by the Society as an "instrument," Feodor’s heart
had failed him.  He had disobeyed the orders of the Central Committee;
he had coerced the girl; he had made disclosures.

They had escaped to Paris.  Before long it had been a question as to
whether they were in more imminent and terrible danger from the secret
agents of the Russian police or from those of the Nihilists.  The sight
of the notice, "_Bureau de recruitment.  Engagements volontaires_," over
the door of a dirty little house in the Rue St. Dominique had suggested
the Légion Etrangère, and a possible means of escape and five years’
safety.

But the Medical Examination? ...

Accompanied by a fellow-fugitive who was on his way to America, Feodor
had gone to the Bureau and they had enlisted, passed the doctor, and
received railway-passes to Marseilles, made out in the names of Feodor
and Mikhail Kyrilovitch; sustenance money; and orders to proceed by the
night train from the Gare de Lyons and report at Fort St. Jean in the
morning, if not met at the station by a Sergeant of the Legion.  Their
compatriot had handed his travelling warrant to the girl (dressed in a
suit of Feodor’s) ind had seen the twins off at the Gare de Lyons with
his blessing....

Monsieur Jean Boule knew the rest, and but for this hateful, bestial
Luigi Rivoli, all might have been well, for she was very strong, and had
meant to be very brave.  Now, what should she do; what _should_ she do?
... And what would poor Feodor say when he came in from corvée and found
that she had let herself get caught like this at last? ... What could
they do?

And indeed, Sir Montague Merline did not know what a lady could do when
discovered in a _chambrée_ of a _caserne_ of the French Foreign Legion
in Sidi-bel-Abbès.  He did not know in the least.  There was first the
attitude of the authorities to consider, and then that of the men.
Would a Court Martial hold that, having behaved as a man, she should be
treated as one, and kept to her bargain, or sent to join the Zephyrs?
Would they imprison her for fraud? Would they repatriate her?  Would
they communicate with the Russian police?  Or would they just fling her
out of the barrack-gate and let her go?  There was probably no
precedent, whatever, to go upon.

And supposing the matter were hushed up in the _chambrée_, and the
authorities never knew--would life be livable for the girl?  Could he,
and Rupert, the Bucking Bronco, Herbert Higgins, Feodor, and perhaps one
or two of the more decent foreigners, such as Hans Djoolte, and old
Tant-de-Soif, ensure her a decent life, free from molestation and
annoyance? No, it couldn’t be done.  Life would be rendered utterly
impossible for her by gross animals of the type of Rivoli, Malvin, the
_Apache_, Hirsch, Bauer, Borges, and the rest of Rivoli’s sycophants.
It was sufficiently ghastly, and almost unthinkable, to imagine a woman
in that sink when nobody dreamed she was anything but what she seemed.
How could one contemplate a woman, who was _known_ to be a woman, living
her life, waking and sleeping, in such a situation? The more devotedly
her bodyguard shielded and protected her, the more venomously determined
would the others be to annoy, insult and injure her in a thousand
different ways.  It would be insupportable, impossible....  But of
course it could not be kept from the authorities for a week.  What was
to be done?

As he did his utmost to soothe the weeping girl, clumsily patting her
back, stroking her hands, and murmuring words of comfort and promises of
protection, Merline longed for the arrival of Rupert. He wanted to take
counsel with another English gentleman as to the best thing to be done
for this unfortunate woman.  He dared not leave her weeping there alone.
Anybody might enter at any moment. Rivoli might return with the choicest
scoundrels of his gang....  Why did not the Bucking Bronco turn up?
When he and Rupert arrived there would be an accession of brawn and of
brains that would be truly welcome.

Curiously enough, Sir Montague Merline’s insular Englishness had
survived fourteen years of life in a cosmopolitan society, speaking a
foreign tongue in a foreign land, with such indestructible sturdiness
that it was upon the Anglo-Saxon party that he mentally relied in this
strait.  He had absolutely forgotten that it was the girl’s own brother
who was her natural protector, and upon whom lay the onus of discovering
the solution of this insoluble problem and extricating the girl from her
terrible position.

What could he do?  It was all very well to say that the three Englishmen
and the American would protect her, that night, by forming a
sentry-group and watching in turn--but how long could that go on?  It
would be all over the barracks to-morrow, and known to the authorities a
few hours later.  Oh, if he could only do her up in a parcel and post
her to Marguerite with just a line, "_Please take care of this poor
girl.--Monty._" Marguerite would keep her safe enough....  But thinking
nonsense wasn’t helping.  He would load his rifle in earnest, and settle
scores with Luigi Rivoli, once and for all, if he returned with a gang
to back him.  Incidentally, that would settle his own fate, for it would
mean a Court Martial at Oran followed by a firing-party, or penal
servitude in the Zephyrs, and, at his age, that would only be a slower
death.

All very well for him and Rivoli, but what of the girl? ... What ghastly
danger it must have been that drove them to such a dreadful expedient.
Truly the Legion was a net for queer fish.  Poor, plucky little soul,
what could he do for her?

Never since he wore the two stars[#] of a British Captain had he longed,
as he did at that moment, for power and authority.  If only he were a
Captain again, Captain of the Seventh Company, the girl should go
straight to his wife, or some other woman.  Suddenly he rose to his
feet, his face illuminated by the brilliance of the idea which had
suddenly entered his mind.


[#] Since increased to three, of course.


"_Carmelita!_" he almost shouted to the empty room.  He bent over the
crying girl again, and shook her gently by the shoulder.

"I have it, little one," he said.  "Thank God! Yes--it’s a chance.  I
believe I have a plan.  Carmelita! Let’s get out of this at once,
straight to the Café de la Legion.  Carmelita has a heart of gold...."

The girl half sat up.  "She may be a kind girl--but she’s Luigi Rivoli’s
mistress," she said.  "She would do anything he ordered."

"Carmelita considers herself Rivoli’s wife," replied the Englishman,
"and so she would be, if he were not the biggest blackguard unhung.
Very well, he can hardly go to the woman who is practically his wife and
say, ’Hand over the woman you are hiding.’"

"When a woman loves a man she obeys him," said the girl, and added with
innocent naïveté, "And I will obey you, Monsieur Jean Boule....  Anyhow,
it is a hope--in a position which is hopeless."

"Get into walking-out kit quickly," urged the old soldier, "and see the
Sergeant of the Guard has no excuse for turning you back.  The sooner
we’re away the better....  I wish Rupert and the Bronco would roll
up....  If you can get to Carmelita’s unseen, and change back into a
girl, you could either hide with Carmelita for a time, or simply desert
in feminine apparel."

"And Feodor?" asked the Russian.  "Will they shoot him?  I can’t
leave..."

"Bother Feodor," was the quick reply.  "One soldier is not responsible
because another deserts. Let’s get you safe to Carmelita’s, and then
I’ll find Feodor and tell him all about it."

Hiram Cyrus Milton, entering the room bare-footed and without noise, was
not a little surprised to behold a young soldier fling his arms about
the neck of the eminently staid and respectable Legionary John Bull,
with a cry of--

"Oh, may God reward you, kind good Monsieur."

"Strike me blue and balmy," ejaculated the Bucking Bronco.  "Ain’t these
gosh-dinged furriners a bunch o’ boobs?  Say, John, air yew his
long-lost che-ild? It’s a cinch.  Where’s that dod-gasted boy ’Erb fer
slow music on the jewzarp? ... Or is the lalapaloozer only a-smellin’
the roses on yure damask cheek?"

"Change quickly, _petite_," said John Bull to the girl as he pushed her
from him, and turned to the American.

"Come here, Buck," said he, taking the big man’s arm and leading him to
the window.

"Don’t say as haow yure sins hev’ come home to roost, John?  Did yew
reckernise the puling infant by the di’mond coronite on the locket, or
by the strawberry-mark in the middle of its back?  Or was his name wrote
on the tail of his little shirt?  Put me next to it, John.  Make me wise
to the secret mystery of this ’ere drarmer."

The Bucking Bronco was getting more than a little jealous.

"I will, if you will give me a chance," replied John Bull curtly.
"Buck, that boy’s a girl.  Rivoli has found her out and acted as you
might expect.  I suppose he spotted her in the wash-house or somewhere.
She rushed to me for protection, and the game’s up.  I am going to take
her to Carmelita."

The big American stared at his friend with open mouth.

"Yew git me jingled, John," he said slowly.  "Thet little looker a
_gal_?  Is this a story made out of whole cloth,[#] John?"


[#] Untrue.


"Get hold of it, Buck, quickly," was the reply. "The two Russians are
political refugees.  Their number was up, in Russia, and they bolted to
Paris. Same in Paris--and they made a dash for here.  Out of the
frying-pan into the fire.  This one’s a girl. Luigi Rivoli knows, and it
will be all over the barracks before to-night.  She rushed straight to
me, and I am going to see her through.  If you can think of anything
better than taking her to Carmelita, say so."

"I’ll swipe the head off’n Mister Lousy Loojey Rivoli," growled the
American.  "God smite me ef I don’t.  Thet’s torn it, thet has....  The
damned yaller-dog Dago....  Thet puts the lid on Mister Loojey Rivoli,
thet does."

"_I’m_ going to deal with Rivoli, Buck," said John Bull.

"He’d crush yew with a b’ar’s hug, sonny; he’d bust in yure ribs, an’
break yure back, an’ then chuck yew down and dance on yew."

"He won’t get the chance, Buck; it’s not going to be a gutter-scrap.
When he chased the girl in here I challenged him to fight with bullet or
steel, and told him I’d brand him all over the shop till he was known as
’Rivoli the Coward,’ or fought a fair and square duel....  Let’s get the
girl out of this, and then we’ll put Master Luigi Rivoli in his place
once and for all."

"Shake!" said the Bucking Bronco, extending a huge hand.

"Seen Rupert lately?" asked the Englishman.

"Yep," replied the other.  "He’s a-settin’ on end a-rubberin’ at his
pants in the lavabo."

"Good!  Go and fetch him quick, Buck."

The American sped from the room without glancing at the girl, returning
a minute or two later with Rupert. The two men hurried to their
respective cots and swiftly changed from fatigue-dress into blue and
red.

"If Carmelita turns us down, let’s all three desert and take the girl
with us," said Rupert to John Bull. "I have plenty of money to buy
mufti, disguises, and railway tickets.  She would go as a woman of
course.  We could be a party of tourists.  Yes, that’s it, English
tourists.  Old Mendoza would fit us out--at a price."

"Thanks," was the reply.  "We’ll get her out somehow....  She’d stand a
far better chance alone though, probably.  If suspicion fell on one of
us they’d arrest the lot."

"Say," put in the American.  "Ef she can do the boy stunt, I reckon as
haow her brother oughter be able ter do the gal stunt ekally well.  Ef
Carmelita takes her in, and fits her out with two of everything, her
brother could skedaddle and jine her, and put on the remainder of the
two-of-everything; then they ups and goes on pump as the Twin Sisters
Golightly, a-tourin’ of the Crowned Heads of Yurrup, otherwise, as The
Twin Roosian Bally-Gals Skiporfski...."

"Smart idea," agreed Rupert.  "I hope Carmelita takes her in.  What the
devil shall we do with her if she won’t?  She can’t very well spend the
night here after Luigi has put it about....  And what’s her position
with regard to the authorities?  Is it a case of Court Martial or toss
for her in the Officers’ Mess, or what?"

"Don’t know, I’m sure.  Haven’t the faintest idea," replied John Bull.
"If only Carmelita turns up trumps...."

"Seenyoreena Carmelita is the whitest little woman as ever lived,"
growled the American.  "She’s a blowed-in-the-glass heart-o’-gold.  Yew
can put yure shirt on Carmelita....  Yew know what I mean--yure bottom
dollar....  Ef it wasn’t fer that filthy Eye-talian sarpint, she’d jump
at the chance of giving this Roosian gal her last crust....  I don’t
care John whether you shoot him up or nit.  I’m gwine ter slug him till
Hell pops.  Let him fight his dirtiest an’ damnedest--I’ll see him and
raise him every time, the double-dealin’ gorilla...."

"I am ready, Monsieur," said the girl Olga to John Bull.  "But I do not
want you, Monsieur, nor these other gentlemen, to make trouble for
yourselves on my account....  I have brought this on myself, and there
is no reason why you..."

"Oh, shucks!  Come on, little gal," broke in the Bucking Bronco.  "We’ll
see yew through.  We ain’t Loojeys...."

"Of course, we will.  We shall be only too delighted," agreed Rupert.
"Don’t you worry."

"Pull yourself together and swagger all you can," advised John Bull.
"It might ruin everything if the Sergeant of the Guard took it into his
head to turn you back.  I wonder if we had better go through in a gang,
or let you go first?  If we are all together there is less likelihood of
excessive scrutiny of any one of us, but on the other hand it may be
remembered that you were last seen with us three, and that might hamper
our future usefulness....  Just as well Feodor isn’t here....  Tell you
what, you and I will go out together, and I’ll use my wits to divert
attention from you if we are stopped.  The others can come a few minutes
later, or as soon as someone else has passed."

"That’s it," agreed Rupert; "come on."

With beating hearts, the old soldier and the young girl approached the
little side door by the huge barrack-gates.  Close by it stood the
Sergeant of the Guard.  Their anxiety increased as they realised that it
was none other than Sergeant Legros, one of the most officious,
domineering and brutal of the Legion’s N.C.O.’s.  Luck was against them.
He would take a positive delight in standing by that door the whole
evening and in turning back every single man whose appearance gave him
the slightest opportunity for fault-finding, as well as a good many
whose appearance did not.

As they drew near and saluted smartly, the little piggish eyes of
Sergeant Legros took in every detail of their uniform.  The girl felt
the blood draining from her cheeks.  What if they had made a mistake?
What if red trousers and blue tunic should be wrong, and the _ordre du
jour_ should be white trousers and blue tunic or capote?  What if she
had a button undone or her bayonet on the wrong side?  What if Sergeant
Legros should see, or imagine a speck upon her tunic? ... Had she been
under his evil gaze for hours?  Was the side of the Guard House miles in
length? ... Thank God, they were through the gate and free.  Free for
the moment, and if the good God were merciful she was free for ever from
the horrors and fears of that terrible place.  Could anything worse
befall her?  Yes, there were worse places for a girl than a barrack-room
of the French Foreign Legion.  There was a Russian prison--there was the
dark prison-van and warder--there was the journey to Siberia--there was
Siberia itself.  Yes, there were worse places than that she had just
left--until her secret was discovered.  A thousand times worse.  And she
thought of her friend, that poor girl who had been less fortunate than
she.  Poor, poor Marie!  Would she herself be sent back to Russia to
share Marie’s fate, if these brave Englishmen and Carmelita failed to
save her?  What would become of Feodor? ... Did this noble Englishman,
with the gentle face, love this girl Carmelita? ... Might not
Carmelita’s house be a very trap if the loathsome Italian brute owned
its owner?...

"Let’s stroll slowly now, my dear," said John Bull, "and let the others
overtake us.  The more the merrier, if we should run into Rivoli and his
gang, or if he is already at Carmelita’s.  I don’t think he will be.  I
fancy he puts in the first part of his evening with Madame la
Cantinière, and goes down to Carmelita’s later for his dinner....  If he
should be there I don’t quite see what line he can take in front of
Carmelita. He could hardly molest you in front of the woman whom he
pretends he is going to marry, and I don’t see on what grounds he could
raise any objection to her befriending you....  It’s a deuced awkward
position--for the fact that I intend to kill Rivoli, if I can, hardly
gives me a claim on Carmelita.  She loves the very ground the brute
treads on, you know, and it would take me, or anybody else, a precious
long time to persuade her that the man who rid the world of Luigi Rivoli
would be her very best friend.... He’s the most noxious and poisonous
reptile I have ever come across, and I believe she is one of the best of
good little women....  It is a hole we’re in.  We’ve got to see
Carmelita swindled and then jilted and broken-hearted; or we’ve got to
bring the blackest grief upon her by saving her from Rivoli."

"Do _you_ love her too, Monsieur?" asked Olga.

"Good Heavens, no!" laughed the Englishman. "But I have a very great
liking and regard for her, and so has my friend Rupert.  It is poor old
Buck who loves her, and I am really sorry for him.  It’s bad enough to
love a woman and be unable to win her, but it must be awful to see her
in the power of a man whom you know to be an utter blackguard.... Queer
thing, Life....  I suppose there is some purpose in it....  Here they
come," he added, looking round.

"Who’s gwine ter intervoo Carmelita, and put her wise to the
sitooation?" asked the Bucking Bronco as he and Rupert joined the
others.  "Guess yew’d better, John.  Yew know more Eye-talian and French
than we do, an’, what’s more, Carmelita wouldn’t think there was any
’_harry-air ponsey_’--or is it ’_double-intender_’--ef the young woman
is interdooced, as sich, by yew."

"All right," replied John Bull.  "I’ll do my best--and we must all weigh
in with our entreaties if I fail."

"Yew’ll do it, John.  I puts my shirt on Carmelita every time...."

Le Café de la Légion was swept and garnished, and Carmelita sat in her
_sedia pieghevole_[#] behind her bar, awaiting her evening guests.


[#] Deck-chair.


It was a sadder-looking, thinner, somewhat older-looking Carmelita than
she who had welcomed Rupert and his fellow _bleus_ on the occasion of
their first visit to her _café_.  Carmelita’s little doubt had grown,
and worry was bordering upon anxiety--for Luigi Rivoli was Carmelita’s
life, and Carmelita was not only a woman, but an Italian woman, and a
Neapolitan at that.  Far better than life she loved Luigi Rivoli, and
only next to him did she love her own self-respect and virtue.  As has
been said before, Carmelita considered herself a married woman.  Partly
owing to her equivocal position, partly to an innate purity of mind,
Carmelita had a present passion for "respectability" such as had never
troubled her before.

And Luigi was causing her grief and anxiety, doubt and care, and fear.
For long she had fought it off, and had stoutly refused to confess it
even to herself, but day by day and night by night, the persistent
attack had worn down her defences of Hope and Faith until at length she
stood face to face with the relentless and insidious assailant and
recognised it for what it was--Fear.  It had come to that, and Carmelita
now frankly admitted to herself that she had fears for the faith,
honesty and love of the man whom she regarded as her husband and knew to
be the father of the so hoped-for _bambino_....

Could it be possible that the man for whom she had lived, and for whom
she would at any time have died, her own Luigi, who, but for her, would
be in a Marseilles graveyard, her own husband--was laying siege to fat
and ugly Madame la Cantinière, because her business was a more
profitable one than Carmelita’s? It could not be.  Men were not devils.
Men did not repay women like that.  Not even ordinary men, far less her
Luigi.  Of course not--and besides, there was the Great Secret.

For the thousandth time Carmelita found reassurance, comfort and cheer
in the thought of the Great Secret, and its inevitable effect upon Luigi
when he knew it.  What would he say when he realised that there might be
another Luigi Rivoli, for, of course, it would be a boy--a boy who would
grow up another giant among men, another Samson, another Hercules,
another winner of a World’s Championship.

What would he do in the transports of his joy? How his face would shine!
How heartily he would agree with her when she pointed out that it would
be as well for them to marry now before the _bambino_ came.  No more
procrastination now.  What a wedding it should be, and what a feast they
would give the brave _soldati_!  Il Signor Jean Boule should have the
seat of honour, and the Signor Americano should come, and Signor Rupert,
and Signor ’Erbiggin, and the poor Grasshopper, and the two Russi (ah!
what of that Russian girl, what would be her fate?  It was wonderful how
she kept up the deception.  Poor, poor little soul, what a life--the
constant fear, the watchfulness and anxiety.  Fancy eating and drinking,
walking, talking and working, dressing and undressing, waking and
sleeping among those men--some of them such dreadful men).  Yes, it
should be a wedding to remember, without stint of food or drink--_un
pranzo di tre portate_ with _i maccheroni_ and _la frittate d’uova_ and
the best of _couscous_, and there should be _vino Italiano_--they would
welcome a change from the eternal _vino Algerino_....

Four Legionaries entered, and Carmelita rose with a smile to greet them.
There was no one she would sooner see than Il Signor Jean Boule and his
friends--since it was not Luigi who entered.

"_Che cosa posso offrirve?_" she asked.  (Although Carmelita spoke
Legion French fluently one noticed that she always welcomed one in
Italian, and always counted in that language.)

"I want a quiet talk with you, carissima Carmelita," said John Bull.
"We are in great trouble, and we want your help."

"I am glad," replied Carmelita.  "Not glad that you are in trouble, but
glad you have come to me."

"It is about Mikhail Kyrilovitch," said the Englishman.

"I thought it was," said Carmelita.

"Don’t think me mad, Carmelita," continued John Bull, "but listen.
Mikhail Kyrilovitch is a _girl_."

"Don’t think me mad, Signor Jean Boule," mimicked Carmelita, "but
listen.  I have known Mikhail Kyrilovitch was a girl from the first
evening that she came here."

The Englishman’s blue eyes opened widely in surprise, as he stared at
the girl.  "How?" he asked.

"Oh, in a dozen ways," laughed Carmelita.  "Hands, voice, manner.  I
stroked her cheek, it was as soft as my own, while her twin brother’s
was like sand-paper. When she went to catch a biscuit she made a ’lap,’
as one does who wears a skirt, instead of bringing her knees together as
a man does....  And what can I do for Mademoiselle Mikhail?"

"You can save her, Carmelita, from I don’t know what dangers and
horrors.  She has been found out, and what her fate would be at the
tender mercies of the authorities on the one hand, and of the men on the
other, one does not like to think.  The very least that could happen to
her is to be turned into the streets of Sidi-bel-Abbès."

"Do the officers know yet?" asked Carmelita. "Who does know?  Who found
her out?"

"Luigi Rivoli found her out," replied John Bull.

"And sent her to me?" asked Carmelita.  "I am glad he..."

"He did not send her to you," interrupted the Englishman gravely.

"What did he do?" asked Carmelita quickly.

"I will tell you what he did, Carmelita, as kindly as I can....  He
forgot he was a soldier, Carmelita; he forgot he was an honest man; he
forgot he was your--er--_fidanzato_, your _sposo_, Carmelita...."

Carmelita went very white.

"Tell me, Signor," she said quickly.  "Did you have to protect this
Russian wretch from Luigi?"

"I did," was the reply.  "Why do you speak contemptuously of the girl?
She is as innocent as--as innocent as you are, Carmelita."

"I hate her," hissed Carmelita....  "Did Luigi kiss her?  What happened?
Did he...?"

The Englishman put his hand over Carmelita’s little clenched fist as it
lay on the bar.

"Listen, little one," he said.  "You are one of the best, kindest and
bravest women I have known.  I am certain you are going to be worthy of
yourself now.  So is Rupert, so is Monsieur Bronco.  He has been blaming
us bitterly when we have even for a moment wondered whether you would
save this girl. He is worth a thousand Rivolis, and loves you a thousand
times better than Rivoli ever could.  Don’t disappoint him and us,
Carmelita.  Don’t disappoint us _in yourself_, I mean....  What has the
girl done that you should hate her?"

"Did Luigi kiss her?" again asked Carmelita.

"He did not," was the reply.  "He behaved..."

"And he could not, of course, while she was with me, could he?" said
Carmelita.

"Exactly," smiled the Englishman.  "Take her in now, little woman, and
lend her some clothes until we can get some things bought or made for
her."

"Clothes cost francs, Signor Jean," was the practical reply of the girl,
who had grown up in a hard school. "I can give her food and shelter, and
I can lend her my things, but I have no francs for clothes."

"Rupert will find whatever is necessary for her clothes and board and
lodging, and for her ticket too. She shan’t be with you long, cara
Carmelita, nor in Sidi-bel-Abbès."

Carmelita passed from behind the bar and went over to the table at which
sat Rupert, the American, and the girl Olga.  Putting her arm around the
neck of the last, Carmelita kissed her on the cheek.

"Come, little one," she said.  "Come to my bed and sleep.  You shall be
as safe as if in the Chapel of the Mother of God," and, as the girl
burst into tears, led her away.

John Bull joined his friends as the two women disappeared through the
door leading to Carmelita’s room.

"Well, thank God for that," he said as he sat down, and wiped his
forehead.  "What’s the next step?"

"Find the other little Roosian guy, an’ put him wise to what’s happened
to sissy, I guess," replied the American.

"Yes," agreed Rupert.  "It’s up to him to carry on now, with any sort or
kind of help that we can give him....  Where did he go after parade, I
wonder?"

"The gal got copped for a wheel-barrer corvée--they was goin’ scavengin’
round the officers’ houses and gardens I think--an’ he took her
place....  He’d be back by dark an’ start washin’ hisself," opined the
American.

"Better get back at once then," said John Bull.

"I feel a most awful cad," he added.

"What on earth for?" asked Rupert.

"About Carmelita," was the reply.  "I’ve got her help under false
pretences.  If I had told her that I was going to fight a serious duel
with her precious Luigi, she’d never have taken that girl in.  If I
don’t fight him now, he’ll make my life utterly unlivable.... I wish to
God Carmelita could be brought to see him as he is and to understand
that the moment the Canteen will have him, he is done with the Café....
I wish Madame la Cantinière would take him and settle the matter.  Since
it has got to come, the sooner the better.  I should really enjoy my
fight with him if he had turned Carmelita down, and she regarded me as
her avenger instead of as the destroyer of her happiness."

"One wouldn’t worry about Madame la Cantinière’s feelings if one
destroyed her young man or her latest husband, I suppose?" queried
Rupert with a smile.

"Nope," replied the American.  "Nit.  Not a damn. Nary a worry.  You
could beat him up, or you could shoot him up, and lay your last red cent
that Madam lar Canteenair would jest say, ’_Mong Jew!  C’est la Legion_’
and look aroun’ fer his doo and lorful successor....  Let’s vamoose,
b’ys, an’ rubber aroun’ fer the other Roosian chechaquo."

The three Legionaries quitted le Café de la Légion and made their way
back to their _caserne_.

"I’ll look in the _chambrée_," said John Bull as they entered the
barrack-square.  "You go to the lavabo, Rupert, and you see if he is in
the Canteen, Buck. Whoever finds him had better advise him to let Luigi
Rivoli alone, and make his plans for going on pump. Tell him I think his
best line would be to see Carmelita and arrange for him and his sister
to get dresses alike, and clear out boldly by train to Oran, as girls.
After that, they know their own business best, but I should recommend
England as about the safest place for them."

"By Jove!  I could give him a letter to my mother," put in Rupert.
"Good idea.  My people would love to help them--especially as they could
tell them all about me."

"Gee-whiz!  Thet’s a brainy notion," agreed the Bucking Bronco.  "Let
’em skin out and make tracks for yure Old-Folk-at-Home.  It’s a cinch."

Legionary John Bull found Legionary Feodor Kyrilovitch sitting on his
cot polishing "Rosalie," as the soldier of France terms his bayonet.
Several other Legionaries were engaged in _astiquage_ and accoutrement
cleaning.  For the thousandth time, the English gentleman realised that
one of the most irksome and maddening of the hardships and disabilities
of the common soldier’s life is its utter lack of privacy.

"Bonsoir, cher Boule," remarked Feodor Kyrilovitch, looking up as the
English approached.  "Have you seen my brother?  He appears to have come
in and changed and gone out without me."

Evidently the boy was anxious.

"Your brother is at Carmelita’s," replied John Bull, and added: "Come
over to my bed and sit beside me with your back to the room.  I want to
speak to you."

"Don’t be alarmed," he continued as they seated themselves.  "Your
brother is absolutely all right."

The Russian gazed anxiously at the kindly face of the man whom he had
instinctively liked and trusted from the first.

"Your brother is quite all right," continued the Englishman, "but I am
afraid you will have to change your plans."

"Change our plans, Monsieur Boule?"

"Yes," replied the older man, as he laid his hand on Feodor’s knee with
a reassuring smile.  "You will have to change your plans, for Mikhail
can be Mikhail no longer."

The Russian bowed his head upon his hands with a groan.

"My poor little Olusha," he whispered.

"Courage, mon brave," said John Bull, patting him on the back.  "We have
a plan for you.  As soon as your sister was discovered, we took her to
Carmelita, with whom she will be quite safe for a while.  Our idea is
that she and Carmelita make and buy women’s clothes for both of you, and
that you escape as sisters. Since she made such a splendid boy, you
ought to be able to become a fairly convincing girl.  Légionnaire
Mikhail Kyrilovitch will be looked for as a man--probably in uniform.
By the time the hue and cry is over, and he is forgotten, everything
will be ready for both of you, then one night you slip into Carmelita’s
café and, next day, two café-chantant girls who have been visiting
Carmelita, walk coolly to the station and take train for Oran....
Rivoli can’t tell on them and still keep in with Carmelita.  He’ll have
to help--or pretend to."

Feodor Kyrilovitch was himself again--a cool and level-headed
conspirator, accustomed to weighing chances, taking risks and facing
dangers.

"Thanks, mon ami," he said.  "I believe I owe you my sister’s
salvation....  There will be difficulties, and there are risks--but it
is a plan."

"Seems fairly hopeful," replied the other.  "Anyhow, we could think of
nothing better."

"We might get to Oran," mused Feodor; "but where we can go from there,
God knows.  We daren’t go to Paris again, and I doubt if we have a
hundred and fifty roubles between us....  And we dare not write to
friends in Russia."

"We’ve thought of that too, my boy," interrupted the Englishman.  "My
friend Rupert has money in the Credit Lyonnais, here in the town.  He
says he will be only too delighted to lend you enough to get you to
England, and write a letter for you to take to his people.  He says his
mother will welcome you with open arms as coming from him....  From what
he has said to me about her at different times, I imagine her to be one
of the best--and the best of Englishwomen are the best of women, let me
tell you."

"And the best of Englishmen are the best of men," replied Feodor,
seizing the old Legionary’s hand and kissing it fervently--to the latter
gentleman’s consternation and utter discomfort.

"Don’t be an ass," he replied in English.... "Clear out now, and go and
have a talk with Carmelita. You can trust her absolutely.  Give her what
money you’ve got, and she’ll poke around in the ghetto for clothes.
She’ll know lots of the Spanish Jew dealers and cheap _couturières_, if
old Mendoza hasn’t what she wants.  Meanwhile, Rupert will draw some
money from the _banque_."

The Russian rose to his feet.

"But how can I thank you, Monsieur?  How can I repay Monsieur Rupert for
his kindness?"

"Don’t thank me, and repay Rupert by visiting his mother and waxing
eloquent over his marvellous condition of health, happiness and
prosperity.  Tell her he is having a lovely time in a lovely place with
lovely people."

"You joke, Monsieur, how _can_ I repay you all?"

"Well, I’ll tell you, my son--by getting your sister clear of this hell
and safe into England."

The Russian struck himself violently on the forehead and turned away.

A minute later Rupert entered the _chambrée_.

"He’s not in the lavabo," he announced.

"No, it’s all right.  I found him here.  He has just gone down to
Carmelita’s....  Let’s go over to the Canteen, I want to meet the gentle
Luigi Rivoli there."

On the stairs they encountered the Bucking Bronco, who was told that
Feodor had been found and informed.

"Our Loojey’s in the road-house," he announced, "layin’ off ter
Madam....  I wish she’d deliver the goods ef she’s gwine ter.  Then we
could git next our Loojey without raisin’ hell with Carmelita."

"Is the Canteen fairly full?" asked John Bull.

"Some!" replied the Bucking Bronco.

"Then I’m going over to seek sorrow," said the other.

"Yure not goin’ ter git fresh, an’ slug the piker any, air yew, John?"
enquired the American anxiously.

"No, Buck," was the reply.  "I’m only going to make an interestin’
announcement," and, turning to Rupert, he advised him not to identify
himself with any proceedings which might ensue.

"You are hardly complimentary, Bull," commented Rupert resentfully....

As the three entered the Canteen, which was rapidly filling up, they
caught sight of Rivoli lolling against the bar in his accustomed corner,
and whispering confidentially to Madame, during her intervals of
leisure.  Pushing his way through the throng John Bull, closely followed
by his two friends, approached the Neapolitan.  His back was towards
them.  The American, whose face wore an ugly look, touched Rivoli with
his foot.

"Makin’ yure sweet self agreeable as usual, Loojey, my dear?" he
enquired, and proceeded with the difficult task of making himself both
sarcastic and intelligible in the French language.  The Italian wheeled
round with a scowl at the sound of the voice he hated.

John Bull stepped forward.

"I have come for your answer, Rivoli," he said quietly.  "I wish to know
when and with what weapons you would prefer to fight me.  Personally, I
don’t care in the least what they are, so long as they’re fatal."

A ring of interested listeners gathered round.  The Neapolitan laughed
contemptuously.

"Weapons!" he growled.  "A _fico_ for weapons. I’ll twist your neck and
break your back, if you trouble me again."

"Very good," replied the Englishman.  "Now listen, bully.  We have had a
little more than enough of you.  You take advantage of your strength to
terrorise men who are not street acrobats, and professional
weight-lifters.  Now _I_ am going to take advantage of this, to
terrorise _you_," and he produced a small revolver from his pocket.
"Now choose.  Try your blackguard-rush games and get a bullet through
your skull, or fight me like a man with any weapon you prefer."

An approving cheer broke from the quickly increasing audience.  The
Italian moistened his lips and glared round.

"Mais oui," observed Madame with cool impartiality, "but that is a fair
offer."

As though stung by her remark, the Italian threw himself into wrestling
attitude and extended his arms.  John Bull moved only to extend his
pistol-arm, and Luigi Rivoli recoiled.  Strangling men who could not
wrestle was one thing, being shot was quite another.  The
thrice-accursed English dog had got him nicely cornered.  To raise a
hand to him was to die--better to face his enemy, himself armed than
unarmed.  Better still to catch him unarmed and stamp the life out of
him.  He must temporise.

"Ho-ho, Brave Little Man with a Pistol," he sneered.  "Behold the
English hero who fears the bare hands of no man--while he has a revolver
in his own."

"You miss the point, Rivoli," was the reply.  "I want nothing to do with
you bare-handed.  I want you to choose any weapon you like to name," and
turning to the deeply interested crowd he raised his voice a little:

"Gentlemen of the Legion," he said, "I challenge le Légionnaire Luigi
Rivoli of the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of La Légion
Etrangère to fight me with whatever weapon he prefers.  We can use our
rifles; he can have the choice of the revolvers belonging to me and my
friend le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau; we can use our sword-bayonets;
we can get sabres from the Spahis; or it can be a rifle-and-bayonet
fight.  He can choose time, place, and weapon--and, if he will not
fight, let him be known as _Rivoli the Coward_ as long as he pollutes
our glorious Regiment."

Ringing and repeated cheers greeted the longest public speech that Sir
Montague Merline had ever made.

A bitter sneer was frozen on Rivoli’s white face.

"_Galamatias!_" he laughed contemptuously, but the laugh rang a little
uncertain.

Madame la Cantinière was charmed.  She felt she was falling in love with
ce brave Jean Boule _au grand galop_.  This was a far finer man, and a
far more suitable husband for a hard-working Cantinière than that lump
of a Rivoli, with his pockets always _pleine de vide_ and his mouth
always full of _langue vert_.  A trifle on the elderly side perhaps, but
aristocrat _au bout des ongles_.  Yes, decidedly grey as to the hair,
but then, how nice to be an old man’s darling!--and Madame simpered,
bridled and tried to blush.

"Speak up thou, Rivoli," she cried sharply.  "Do not stand there like a
_blanc bec_ before a Sergeant-Major. Speak, _bécasse_--or speak not
again to me."

The Neapolitan darted a glance of hatred at her.

"Peace, fat sow," he hissed, and added unwisely--"You wag your beard too
much."

In that moment vanished for ever all possibility of Madame’s trying an
Italian husband.  "Sow" may be a term of endearment, but no gentleman
alludes to beards in the presence of a lady whose chin does not betray
her sex.

Turning to his enemy, Rivoli struck an attitude and pointed to the door.

"Go, dig your grave _ci-devant_," he said portentously, "and I will kill
you beside it, within the week."

"Thanks," replied the Englishman, and invited his friends to join him in
a litre....

The barracks of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion hummed and
buzzed that night, from end to end, in a ferment of excitement over the
two tremendous items of most thrilling and exciting news, to wit, that
there was among them a sheep in wolf’s clothing--a girl in uniform--and,
secondly, that there was a duel toward, a duel in which no less a person
than the great Luigi Rivoli was involved.

_Cherchez la femme_ was the game of the evening; and the catch-word of
the wits on encountering any bearded and grisled _ancien_ in corridor
_chambrée_, canteen, or staircase, was--

"Art _thou_ the girl, petite?"

The wrinkled old grey-beard, Tant-de-Soif, was christened Bébé
Fifinette, provided with a skirt improvised from a blanket, and
subjected to indignities.




                              CHAPTER VIII

                 THE TEMPTATION OF SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE


Il Signor Luigi Rivoli strode forth from the Canteen in an unpleasant
frame of mind.

"Curse the Englishman!" he growled.  "Curse that hag behind the bar.
Curse that Russian _ragazza_. Curse that thrice-damned American...."

In fact--curse everybody and everything.  And among them, Il Signor
Luigi Rivoli cursed Carmelita for not making a bigger financial success
of her Café venture, and saving a Neapolitan gentlemen from the
undignified and humiliating position of having to lay siege to a cursed
fat French _bitche_, to get a decent living....  What a fool he’d been
that evening! He had lost ground badly with Madame, and he had lost
prestige badly with the Legionaries.  He must regain both as quickly as
possible....  That accursed English devil must meet with an accident
within the week.  It would not be the first time by hundreds that a
Légionnaire had been stabbed in the back for his sash and bayonet in the
_Village Négre_ and alleys of the Ghetto....  A little job for Edouard
Malvin, or Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat.  Yes, a knife in the back would settle
the Englishman’s hash quite effectually, and it would be the simplest
thing in the world to leave his body in one of those places to which
Legionaries are forbidden to go--for the very reason that they are
likely to remain in them for ever....  Curse that old cow of the
Canteen!  Had he offended her beyond hope of reconciliation?  The Holy
Saints forbid, for the woman was positively wealthy.  Well, he must
bring the whole battery of his blandishments to bear and make one mighty
effort to win her fortune, hand and heart--in fact, he would give her an
ultimatum and settle things, one way or the other, for Carmelita was
beginning to show distinct signs of restiveness.  Curse Carmelita!  He
was getting very weary of her airs and jealousies--a franc a day did not
pay for it all.  As soon as things were happily settled with Madame he
would be able to sell his rights and goodwill in Carmelita and her Café.
But one must not be precipitate.  There must be no untimely killing of
geese that laid golden eggs.  Carmelita must be kept quiet until
Madame’s affair was settled.  ’Twas but a clumsy fool that would lose
both the substance and the shadow--both the Canteen and the Café.  If
Madame returned an emphatic and final No, to his ultimatum, the Café
must suffice until something better turned up.  Luigi Rivoli and an
unaugmented halfpenny a day would be ill partners, and agree but
indifferently....

Revolving these things in his heart, the gentle Luigi became conscious
of a less exalted organ, and bethought him of dinner, Chianti, and his
cigar.  He turned in the direction of the Café de la Légion, his usual
excellent appetite perhaps a trifle dulled and blunted by uncomfortable
thoughts as to what might happen should this grey English dog survive
the week, in spite of the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Tou-tou, et
Cie.  The choice between facing the rifle or revolver of the Company
marksman, or of being branded for ever as _Rivoli the Coward_ was an
unpleasant one.... Should he choose steel and have a dagger-fight with
sword-bayonets?  No, he absolutely hated cold steel, and his mighty
strength would be almost as useless to him as in a shooting-duel.
Suppose he selected sword-bayonets, to be used as daggers--held his in
his left hand, seized his enemy’s right wrist, broke his arm, and then
made a wrestle of it after all?  He could strangle him or break his back
with ease.  And suppose he missed his snatch at the Englishman’s wrist?
The devil’s bayonet would be through his throat in a second! ... But why
these vain and discomforting imaginings?  Ten francs would buy a hundred
bravos in the _Village Négre_ and slums, if Malvin failed him....

He turned into Carmelita’s alley and entered the Café.

Carmelita, whose eyes had rarely left the door throughout the evening,
saw him as he entered, and her face lit up as does a lantern when the
wick is kindled.  Here was her noble and beautiful Luigi. Away with all
wicked doubts and fears.  Even the good Jean Boule was prejudiced
against her Luigi She would now hear his version of the discovery of the
Russian girl.  How amused he would be to know that she had guessed
Mikhail’s secret long ago.

Rivoli passed behind the bar.  Carmelita held open the door of her room,
and having closed it behind him, turned and flung her arms round his
neck.

"Marito amato!" she murmured as she kissed him again and again.  How
could she entertain these doubts of her Luigi in his absence?  She was a
wicked, wicked girl, and undeserving of her fortune in having so
glorious a mate.  She decided to utter no reproaches and ask no
questions concerning the discovery of the Russian girl.  She would just
tell him that she had taken her in and that she counted on his help in
keeping the girl’s secret and getting her away.

"Beloved and beautiful Luigi of my heart," she said, as she placed a
steaming dish of macaroni before him, "I want your help once more.  That
poor, foolish, little Mikhail Kyrilovitch has come and told me he is in
trouble, and begged my help.  Fancy his thinking he could lead the life
that my Luigi leads--that of a soldier of France’s fiercest Regiment.
Poor little fool.... Guess where he is at this moment, Luigi."

With his mouth full, the noble Luigi intimated that he knew not, cared
not, and desired not to know.

"I will tell my lord," murmured Carmelita, bending over his lordship’s
huge and brawny shoulder, and kissing the tip of the ear into which she
whispered, "He is in my bed."

Luigi had to think quickly.  How much had the Russian girl told of what
had happened in the wash-house?  Nothing, or Carmelita would not be in
this frame of mind.  What did Carmelita know?  Did she know that _he_
knew?  He sprang to his feet with an oath, and a well-assumed glare of
ferocity.  He raised his fist above his head, and by holding his breath,
contrived to induce a dark flush and raise the veins upon his forehead.

"In your bed, _puttana_?" he hissed.  (Carmelita was overjoyed, Luigi
was angered and jealous.  Where there is jealousy, there is love!  Of
course, Luigi loved her as he had always done.  How dared she doubt it?
Throwing her arms around his neck with a happy laugh, she reassured her
ruffled mate until he permitted himself to calm down and resume his
interrupted meal.  Jean Boule had lied to her!  Luigi knew nothing!...)
She went to the bar.

Curse this Russian anarchist!  But for her he would not have been in
danger of losing Madame, nor of finding a violent death.  Curse
Carmelita, the stupid fool, for harbouring her.  What should he do?
What could he say?  If he thwarted Carmelita’s plan, she would think he
desired the Russian wench for himself, and fly into a rage.  She would
be a very fiend from hell if she were jealous!  A pretty pass he would
be brought to if both Canteen and Café were closed to him!  He had
better walk warily here, until he had ascertained the exact amount of
damage he had done by his most unwise allusion to Madame’s whiskers.
(Never tell a cross-eyed man he squints.)  But he must get even with
this Russian she-devil who had thwarted him in the lavatory, struck him
across the face, humiliated him before the Englishman, ruined his
prestige with his comrades and Madame, and brought him to the brink of
an abyss of danger....  He had an idea....  When Carmelita came into the
room again from the bar, she should have the shock of her life, and the
Russian _puttana_, another.  Also the over-clever Jean Boule should
learn that the race is not always to the slow, nor the battle to the
weak....  Carmelita entered.  Picking up his képi, he extended his arms,
and with a smile of lofty sadness, bade her come and kiss him while she
might....

_While she might_!  Carmelita turned pale, and Doubt again reared its
horrid head.  Was this his way of beginning some tale concerning
separation?  Some tale in which Madame la Cantinière’s name would appear
sooner or later?  By the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Bambino, she would
tear the eyes from Luigi Rivoli’s head, before they should look on that
French _meretrice_ as his wife.

"While I may?  Why do you say that, Luigi?" she asked in a dead voice.

The ruffian felt uncomfortable as he watched those great, black eyes
blazing in the pinched, blanched face, and realised that there were
depths in Carmelita that he had not sounded--and would be ill-advised to
sound.  What a devil she looked!  Luigi Rivoli would do well to eat no
food to which Carmelita had had access, when once she knew the truth.
Luigi Rivoli would do well to watch warily, and, move quickly, should
Carmelita’s hand go to the dagger in her garter when he told her that he
was thinking of settling in life.  In fact it was a question whether his
life would be safe, so long as Carmelita was in Sidi-bel-Abbès, and he
was the husband of Madame! Another idea!  _Madre de Dios_!  A brilliant
one. Denounce Carmelita for aiding and abetting a deserter! Two birds
with one stone--Carmelita jailed and deported, and the Russian
recaptured--Luigi Rivoli rid of a danger from the one, and gratified by
a vengeance on the other!  As these thoughts flashed through the
Italian’s evil mind, he maintained his pose, and gently and sadly shook
his head.

"While you may, indeed, my Carmelita," he murmured, and produced the
first of his brilliant ideas.  "While you may.  Do not think I reproach
you, Carmelita, for you have acted but in accordance with the dictates
of your warm young heart in taking in this girl.  How were _you_ to know
that this would involve me in a duel to the death with the finest shot
in the Nineteenth Division, the most famous marksman in the army of
Africa?"

"What?" gasped Carmelita.

"What I say, my poor girl," was the reply, uttered with calm dignity.
"Your English friend, this Jean Boule, who fears to meet me face to
face, and man to man, with Nature’s weapons, has forced a quarrel on me
over this Russian girl.  He challenged me in the Canteen this night, and
I, who could break him like a dried stick, must stand up to be shot by
him, like a dog....  I do not blame _you_, Carmelita.  How were you to
know?..."

Carmelita suddenly sat down.

"I do not understand," she whispered and sat agape.

"The Englishman owns this girl...."

"He brought her here," Carmelita interrupted, nodding her head.

"Ha!  I guessed it....  Yes, he owns her, and when I discovered the
shameless _puttana’s_ sex he drew a pistol on me, an innocent, unarmed
man....  Did he tell you it was I who found the shameful hussy out? What
could I do against him empty-handed? ... And now I must fight him--and
he can put a bullet where he will....  So kiss me, while you may,
Carmelita."

With a low cry the girl sprang into his arms.

"My love!  My love!  My husband!" she wailed, and Luigi hoped that she
would release her clasp from about his neck in time for him to avoid
suffocation....  Curse all women--they were the cause of nine-tenths of
the sorrows of mankind.  But one could not do without them....  Suddenly
Carmelita started back, and clapped her hands with a cry of glee.  "The
Holy Virgin be praised!  I have it!  I have it!  Unless Légionnaire Jean
Boule confesses his fault and begs my Luigi’s pardon--out into the
gutter goes his Russian mistress," and Carmelita pirouetted with joy....
Thank God!  Thank God!  Here was a solution, and she embraced her lover
again and again. Luigi’s face was wreathed in smiles.  _Excellente_!
That would do the trick admirably, and the thrice-accursed, and
ten-times-too-clever English _aristocratico_ should publicly apologise,
if he wished to save his mistress....  Yes, that would be very much
pleasanter than a mere stab-in-the-back revenge, as well as safer.
There is always some slight risk, even in Sidi-bel-Abbès, about
arranging a murder, and blackmail is always unpleasant--for the
blackmailed. Ho-ho!  Ho-ho!  Only to think of the cold and haughty
Englishman publicly apologising and begging Luigi, of his mercifulness,
to cancel the duel.  _Corpo di Bacco_, he should do it on his knees.
"Rivoli the Coward," forsooth, and what of "Jean Boule the Coward,"
after this? ... Yes; Jean Boule defeated, the Russian girl denounced
when clear of Carmelita’s Café, if Madame proved unkind, and denounced
in the Café together with Carmelita if Madame accepted him.  He himself
need not appear personally in the matter at all.  And when Carmelita was
jailed or deported, and the Russian girl sent to Biribi, or turned into
a _figlia del reggimento_, the Englishman should still get it in the
back one dark night--and Signor Luigi Rivoli would wax fat behind
Madame’s bar, until his five years’ service was completed and he could
live happy ever after, upon the earnings of Madame....

Stroking her hair, he smiled superior upon Carmelita.

"A clever thought, my little one," he murmured, "and bravely meant, but
your Luigi’s days are numbered.  Would that proud, cold _aristocratico_
eat the words he shouted before half the Company?  No! He will leave the
girl to shift for herself."

Carmelita’s face fell.

"Do not say so," she begged.  "No!  No!  He would not do that.  You know
how these English treat women.  You know the sort of man this Jean Boule
is," and for a moment, involuntarily, Carmelita contrasted her Luigi
with Il Signor Jean Boule in the matter of their chivalry and honour,
and ere she could thrust the thought from her mind, she had realised the
comparison to be unfavourable to her lover.

"Luigi," she said, "I feel it in my heart that, since the Englishman has
said that he will save his mistress, he will do it at any cost
whatsoever to himself.... Go, dearest Luigi, go now, and I will send to
him, and say I must see him at once.  He will surely come, thinking that
I send on behalf of this Russian fool."

And with a last vehement embrace and burning kiss, she thrust him before
her into the bar and watched him out of the Café.

Le Légionnaire Jean Boule was not among the score or so of Legionaries
who sat drinking at the little tables, nor were either of his friends.
Whom could she send?  Was that funny English _ribaldo_, Légionnaire
Erbiggin, there? ... No....  Ah!--There sat the poor Grasshopper.  He
would do.  She made her way with laugh and jest and badinage to where he
sat, _faisant Suisse_ as usual.

"Bonsoir, cher Monsieur Cigale," she said.  "Would you do me a
kindness?"

The Grasshopper rose, thrust his hands up the sleeves of his tunic as
far as his elbows, bowed three times, and then knelt upon the ground and
smote it thrice with his forehead.  Rising, he poured forth a torrent of
some language entirely unknown to Carmelita.

"Speak French or Italian, cher Monsieur Cigale," she said.

"A thousand pardons, Signora," replied the Grasshopper.  "But you will
admit it is not usual for a Mandarin of the Highest Button to speak
French.  I was saying that the true kindness would be your allowing me
to do you a kindness.  May I doom your _wonk_[#] of an enemy to the
death of the Thousand Cuts?"


[#] Chinese pariah dog.


"Not this evening, dear Mandarin, thank you," replied Carmelita; "but
you can carry a message of the highest military importance.  It is well
known that you are a soldier of soldiers, and have never yet failed in
any military duty."

The Mandarin bowed thrice.

"Will you go straight and find le Légionnaire Jean Boule of your
Company, and tell him to come to me at once.  Say Carmelita sent you and
tell him you have the countersign:--’Our Ally, Russia, is in danger!’"

"I am honoured and I fly," was the reply.  "I will send no official of
the Yamen, but go myself.  Should the Po Sing, they of the Hundred
Names, the [Greek: _hoi polloi_], beset my path I will cry, ’_Sha!
Sha!_--Kill! Kill!--and scatter them before me.  Should the _kwei tzu_,
the Head Dragon from Hell, or the Military Police (and they are _tung
yen_ you know--of the same race and tarred with the same brush) impede
me, they too shall die the death of the Wire Net," and the Grasshopper
placed his képi on his head.

Carmelita knew that John Bull would be with her that evening, and that
the risk of eight days’ _salle de police_, for being out after tattoo,
would not deter him.

In a fever of anxiety, impatience, hope and fear, Carmelita paced up and
down behind her bar, like a panther in its cage.  One thought shone
brightly on the troubled turmoil of her soul.  Luigi loved her still;
Luigi so loved her that he had been ready to strike her dead as the tide
of jealousy surged in his soul.  That was the sort of love that
Carmelita understood.  Let him take her by the throat until she
choked--let him seize her by the hair and drag her round the room--let
him stab her in the breast, so it be for jealousy.  Better Luigi’s knife
in Carmelita’s throat than Luigi’s lips on Madame’s face.  Thank God!
Luigi had suffered those pangs--on hearing of a Russian boy in her
room--that she herself had suffered on hearing Malvin and the rest
couple Luigi’s name with Madame’s.  Thank God! that Luigi knew jealousy
even as she did herself.  Where there is jealousy, there is love....

And then Carmelita struck her forehead with her clenched fists and laid
her head upon her folded arms with a piteous groan.  Luigi had been
acting.  Luigi had _pretended_ that jealousy of the Russian.  Luigi knew
Mikhail Kyrilovitch was a girl--he had fooled her, and once again doubt
raised its cruel head in Carmelita’s poor distracted mind.  "Oh Luigi!
Luigi!" she sobbed beneath her breath.  And then again a ray of
comfort--the _bambino_.  Merciful Mother of God grant that it might be
true, and that her bright and golden hopes were based on more solid
foundation than themselves.  Why had she not told him that evening?  But
no, she was glad she hadn’t.  She would keep the wonderful secret until
such moment as it really seemed to her that it should be produced as the
gossamer fairy chain, weightless but unbreakable, that should bind them
together, then and forever, in its indissoluble bonds.  Yes, she must
force herself to believe devoutly and implicitly in the glorious and
beautiful secret, and she must treasure it up as long as possible and
whisper it in Luigi’s ear if it should ever seem that, for a moment, her
Luigi strayed from the path of justice and honesty to his unwedded wife.

Faith again triumphed over Doubt.

These others were jealous of her Luigi, or mistook his natural and
beautiful politeness to Madame, for overtures and love-making.  Could
not her Luigi converse with, and smile upon, Madame la Cantinière
without setting all their idle and malicious tongues clacking and
wagging?  As for this Russian wretch, Luigi had given her no more
thought than to the dust beneath his feet, and she should go forth into
the gutter, in Carmelita’s night-shift, before her protector should
injure a hair of Luigi’s head.  She was surprised at Jean Boule, but
there--men were all alike, all except her Luigi, that is.  How deceived
she had been in the kindly old Englishman! ... Fancy coming to her with
their cock-and-bull story....

The voice of the man of whom she was thinking broke in upon her reverie.

"What is it, little one?  Nothing wrong about Olga?"

"Come in here, Signor Jean Boule," said Carmelita, and led the way into
her room.

The Englishman involuntarily glanced round the little sanctum into which
no man save Luigi Rivoli had been known to penetrate, and noted the
clean tablecloth, the vase with its bunch of krenfell and oleander
flowers, the tiny, tidy dressing table, the dilapidated chest of
drawers, bright oleographs, cheap rug, crucifix and plaster Madonna--a
room still suggestive of Italy.

Turning, Carmelita faced the Englishman and pointed an accusing finger
at his face, her great black eyes staring hard and straight into the
narrowed blue ones.

"Signor Jean Boule," she said, "you have played a trick on me; you have
deceived me; you have killed my faith in Englishmen--yes, in all
men--except my Luigi.  Why did you bring your mistress to me and beg my
help while you knew you meant to kill my husband, because he had found
you out? Oh, Monsieur Jean Boule--but you have hurt me so. And I had
thought you like a father--so good a man, yes, like a holy padre, a
_prête_.  Oh, Signor Jean Boule, are you like those others, loving
wickedly, killing wickedly?  Are there _no_ good honest men--except my
Luigi?..."

The Englishman shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, twisting his
képi in his fingers, a picture of embarrassment and misery.  How could
he persuade this girl that the man was a double-dealing, villainous
blackguard?  And if he could do so, why should he? Why destroy her faith
and her happiness together? If this hound failed in his attempt upon the
celibacy of Madame, he would very possibly marry the girl, and, in his
own interests, treat her decently. Apparently he had kept her love for
years--why should she not go on worshipping the man she believed her
lover to be, until the end?  But no, it was absurd. How should Luigi
Rivoli ever treat a woman decently? Sooner or later he was certain to
desert her.  What would Carmelita’s life be when Luigi Rivoli had the
complete disposal of it?  Sooner or later she must know what he was, and
better sooner than later.  A thousand times better that she should find
him out now, while there was a risk of his marrying her....  It would be
a really good deed to save Carmelita from the clutches of Luigi Rivoli.
Stepping toward her, he laid his hands upon the girl’s shoulders and
gazed into her eyes with that look which he was wont to fasten upon the
Grasshopper to soothe and influence him.

"Listen to me, Carmelita," he said, "and be perfectly sure that every
word I say to you is absolutely true....  I did not know that Mikhail
Kyrilovitch was a woman more than half an hour before you did. I only
knew it when she rushed to me for protection from Luigi Rivoli, who had
discovered her and behaved to her like the foul beast he is.  I have
challenged him to fight me in the only way in which it is possible for
me to fight him, and I mean to kill him.  I am going to kill him partly
for your sake, partly for my own, and partly for that of every wretched
recruit and decent man in the Company."

Carmelita drew back.

"Coward!" she hissed.  "You only dare face my Luigi with a gun in your
hand."

"I am not a coward, Carmelita.  It is Rivoli who is the coward.  He is
by far the strongest man in the Regiment, and is a professional
wrestler.  He trades on this to bully and terrorise all who do not
become his servants.  He is a brutal ruffian, and he is a coward, for he
would do anything rather than meet me in fair fight.  He is only a
_risquetout_ where there are no weapons and the odds are a hundred to
one in his favour....  If I hear one more word about my trading on my
marksmanship, he shall fight me with revolvers across a handkerchief.
Besides, I have told him he can choose any weapon in the world."

"And now hear _me_," replied Carmelita, "and I would say it if it were
my last word.  Either you take all that back and apologise to my Luigi,
or out into the night goes this Russian girl," and she pointed with the
dramatic gesture of the excited Southerner to the _bassourab_-cloth
which screened off the little inner chamber which was just big enough to
hold Carmelita’s bed.

The Englishman started.

"You don’t mean that, Carmelita!" he asked anxiously.

The girl laughed bitterly, cruelly.

"Do you think a thousand Russians would weigh with me against one hair
of my husband’s head?" she answered.  "Give me your solemn promise now
and here, or I will do more than throw her out, I will denounce her.  I
will give her to the Turcos and Spahis.  I will have her dragged to the
Village Négre."

"Hush!  Carmelita.  I am ashamed of you.  Are you mad?" said John Bull
sternly.

"I am sorry," was the reply.  "Yes, I _am_ mad, Signor Jean Boule.  I am
being driven mad by this horrible plot against my Luigi.  Why are you
all his enemies?  It is because you are jealous of him and because you
fear him--but you shall not hurt him. This, at least, I say and mean:
Take the Russian girl away with you now, or promise me you will never
fight my husband with lead or steel."

"I cannot promise it, Carmelita.  I have challenged Rivoli publicly and
must fight him.  To draw out now would brand me as a coward, would make
him twice the bully he is, and would be a cruelty to you.... You ask too
much, you ask an impossibility.  I must make some other plan for Olga
Kyrilovitch."

Carmelita staggered, and stared open-mouthed. She could not believe her
ears.

"What?" she gasped.

"The girl must go elsewhere," repeated the Englishman. Carmelita
appeared to be about to faint.  Could he mean it?  Was it possible?  Was
her brilliant plan failing?

"Will you lend the girl some clothes?" asked John Bull.

"Most certainly will I not," she whispered.

"Then please go and tell her to dress again in uniform," was the answer,
as he pointed to the uniform lying folded on a chair.

"And will you ruin her chance of escape, Signor Jean Boule?" asked
Carmelita.  "Is _that_ how Englishmen treat women who throw themselves
on their mercy?  Do you put your own vengeance before her safety and
honour and life?"

"No, Carmelita, I do not," answered the man.  "I am in a terrible
position, and am going to choose the lesser of two evils.  It is better
that I take the girl away and help her brother to desert with her, than
let Rivoli wreck your life, break your heart, and doubly regain the
bully’s prestige and power to make weaker comrades’ lives a misery and a
burden.  He, at any rate, shall be the cause of no more suicides."

Carmelita flung herself upon the hideous horsehair couch and burst into
a torrent of hysterical tears. What could she say to this hard, cold
man?  What could she do?  What _could_ she do?

John Bull, suffering acutely as he had ever suffered in his life, stood
silent, and wondered how far the wish was father to the thought that, in
this ghastly dilemma, it was his duty to stand firm in his attitude
toward Rivoli.  For once, the thing he longed to do was the right thing
to do, and the course which he would loathe to follow was the wrong
course for him to pursue.  Olga Kyrilovitch had brought her fate upon
herself, and he had no more responsibility to her than the common duty
of lending a helping hand to a neighbour in trouble.  Had there been no
other consideration, he would have helped her to the utmost of his
power, without counting cost or risk. When it came to a clear choice
between saving Carmelita, protecting recruits, making a stand for
self-respect and decency, and redeeming his own word and honour and
reputation on the one hand, and, on the other hand, helping this rash
and lawless Russian girl, there could be no hesitation.

Carmelita sprang to her feet.

"I will denounce her," she cried.  "I will throw open those shutters and
scream and scream until there is a crowd, and they shall have her in her
nightdress.  _Now_ will you spare my husband?"

"You’ll do nothing of the kind," answered John Bull calmly.  "You know
you would regret it all the days of your life.  Is this Italian
hospitality, womanliness, and honour?  Be ashamed of yourself, to talk
so.  Be fair.  Be just.  Who needs protection most--your bully, or this
wretched girl?" and here Legionary John Bull showed more than his wonted
wisdom in dealing with women.  Stepping up to Carmelita he seized her by
the shoulders and shook her somewhat sharply, saying as he did so, "And
understand once and for all, little fool, I keep my promise to Luigi
Rivoli--whatever you do."

In return for her shaking, the surprising Carmelita smiled up into the
old soldier’s face, and clasped her hands behind his head.

"Monsieur Jean Boule," she said, "I think I would have loved my father
like I love you--but how you try to hide the soft, kind heart with the
hard, cruel face!" and Carmelita gave John Bull the first kiss he had
received for over a quarter of a century.

He pushed her from him roughly.  Carmelita was glad.  This was a
thousand times better than that glacial immobility.  This meant that he
was moved.

"Save Olga’s life, Babbo," she whispered coaxingly. "Save Olga and make
me happy.  Don’t ruin two women for fear men should not think you brave.
Who doubts the courage of the man who wears the _médaille_? The man who
had the courage to challenge Luigi Rivoli can have the courage to
withdraw it if it suits him."

"The man who killed Luigi Rivoli would be your best friend, Carmelita,"
was the reply, "and Olga Kyrilovitch must be saved in some other way.  I
must keep my word.  It is due to others as well as to myself that I do
so."

The two regarded each other without realising that it was across an
abyss of immeasurable width and unfathomable depth.  He was a man, she
was a woman; he a Northerner, she a Southerner.  To him honour came
first; and without love there could be, she thought, neither honour nor
happiness nor life itself.

How should these two understand each other, these two whose souls spoke
languages differing as widely as those spoken by their tongues?  The
woman understood and appreciated the rectitude and honour of the man as
little as he realised and fathomed the depth and overwhelming intensity
of her love and devotion.

Carmelita now made a great mistake and took a false step--a mistake
which turned to her advantage and a false step which led whither she so
yearned to go.  For Luigi’s sake she played the temptress.  In defence
of her virtue let it be said that, as once before, she believed that her
Luigi’s life was actually at stake; in defence of her judgment, let it
be remembered that she had grown up in a hard school, and had reason to
believe that no man does something for nothing where a woman is
concerned.  She advanced with her bewitching smile, took the
Englishman’s face between her hands, drew his head down and kissed him
upon the lips.

The Englishman blushed as he returned her kiss, and laughed to find
himself blushing as the thought struck him that he might have had a
daughter older than Carmelita.  The girl misunderstood the kiss and
smile.  Alas! all men were alike in one thing and the best were like the
worst.  She put her lips to his ear and whispered....

John Bull drew back.  Placing his hands upon the girl’s shoulders, he
gazed into her eyes. Carmelita blushed painfully, and dropped her eyes
before the man’s searching stare.  She heaved a sobbing sigh.  Yes, all
alike, all had their price--and any pretty woman could pay it.  All
alike--even grey-haired, kind old Babbo Jean Boule, who looked as though
he might be her grandfather.

She felt his hand beneath her chin, raising her face to his.  Again he
gazed into her eyes and slowly shook his head.

"And is this what men and Life have taught you, Carmelita?" he said....

A horrid fear gripped Carmelita’s heart.  Could she be wrong?  Could she
have offered herself in vain? Could this man’s pride and hatred be so
great that the bribe was not enough?

"And you would do this--_you_, Carmelita; for that filthy blackguard?"

"I would do anything for my Luigi.  Sell me his life and I will pay you
now, the highest price a woman can.  Kiss me on the lips, dear Monsieur
Jean, and I will trust you to keep your part of the bargain--never to
fight nor attack my Luigi with a weapon in your hand.  Kiss me!  Kiss
me!"

The Englishman drew the pleading girl to him and kissed her on the
forehead.  She flung her arms around his neck in a transport of joy and
relief.

"You will sell me my Luigi’s life?" she cried.  "Oh praise and thanks to
the Mother of God.  You _will_?"

"I will _give_ you your Luigi’s life," said Sir Montague Merline, and
went out.




                               CHAPTER IX

                        THE CAFÉ AND THE CANTEEN


As the door closed behind the departing John Bull, the heavy _purdah_
between the sitting-room and the tiny side-chamber or alcove in which
was Carmelita’s bed, was pushed aside, and Olga Kyrilovitch, barefooted
and dressed in night attire belonging to Carmelita, entered the room.
On the sofa lay Carmelita sobbing, her hands pressed over her eyes.

Looking more boy-like than ever, with her short hair, the Russian girl
advanced noiselessly and shook Carmelita sharply by the shoulder.

"You fool," she hissed between clenched teeth. "You stupid fool.  You
blind, stubborn, hopeless _fool_!"  Carmelita sat up.  This was language
she could understand, and a situation with which she could deal.

"Yes?" she replied without resentment, "and why?"

"Those two men....  Compare them...  I heard every word--I could not
help it.  I could not come out--I should not have been safe, even with
you here, with that vile, filthy Italian in the room, nor could I come,
for shame, like this, while the Englishman was here....  _Why did you
let him say he does not love me?_" and the girl burst into tears.
Carmelita stared.

"Oho! you love him, do you?" quoth she.... "Then if you know what love
is, why do you abuse the man _I_ love?"

The girl raised her impassioned tear-stained face to Carmelita’s.

"Will nothing persuade you, little fool?" she cried, "that that Italian
beast no more loves you than--than Jean Boule loves me--that he is
playing with you, that he is battening on you, and that, the moment the
fat Canteen woman accepts him, he will marry her and you will see him no
more?  Why should Jean Boule lie to you?  Why should the American?  Why
should I?--Ask any Legionary in Sidi."

Carmelita clenched her little fist and appeared to be about to strike
the Russian girl.

"Stop!" continued Olga, and pointed to the uniform which lay folded on
the chair.  "See!  Prove your courage and prove us all liars if you can.
Put on that uniform, disguise yourself, and go to the Canteen any night
in the week.  If your Rivoli is not there behind the bar, hand-in-glove
with Madame, turn me into the street--or leave me at the mercy of your
Rivoli.  There now...."

"_I will_," said Carmelita, and then screamed and laughed, laughed and
screamed, as her overwrought nerves and brain gave way in a fit of
hysterics.

When she recovered, Olga Kyrilovitch discovered that the seed which she
had sown had taken root, and that it was Carmelita’s unalterable
intention to pay a visit to the Canteen on the very next evening.

"For my Luigi’s own sake I will spy upon him," she said, "and to prove
all his vile accusers wrong. When I have done it I will confess to him
with tears and throw myself at his feet.  He shall do as he likes with
me....  But he will understand that it was only to disprove these lies
that I did it, and not because I for one moment doubted him."

But doubt him Carmelita did.  As soon as her decision was taken and
announced, she allowed Olga to talk on as she pleased, and insensibly
came to realise that at the bottom of her heart she knew John Bull to be
incapable of deceiving her.  Why should he? Why should all the
Legionaries, except Rivoli’s own hirelings, take up the same attitude
towards him? Why should there be no man to speak well of him save such
men as Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, Malvin, and the others, all of whom
carried their vileness in their faces?  As her doubts and fears
increased, so did her wrath and excitement, until she strode up and down
the little room like a caged pantheress, and Olga feared for her sanity
and her own safety.  And then again, Love would triumph, and she would
beat her breast and wildly reproach herself for her lack of faith, and
overwhelm Olga with a deluge of vituperation and accusation.

At length came the relief of quiet weeping, and, having whispered to
Olga her Great Secret, or rather her hopes of having one to tell, she
sobbed herself to sleep on the girl’s shoulder, to dream of the most
wonderful of _bambinos_.

Meanwhile, John Bull spent one of the wretchedest evenings of a wretched
life.  Returning to his _chambrée_ to find himself hailed and acclaimed
"hero," he commenced at once, with his usual uncompromising directness
and simplicity, to inform all and sundry, who mentioned the subject,
that there would be no duel.  It hurt him most of all to see the face of
his friend Rupert fall and harden, as he informed him that he could not
fight Rivoli after all.  On his explaining the position to him, Reginald
Rupert, decidedly shocked, remarked--

"_Your_ business, of course," and privately wondered whether _les beaux
yeux_ of Carmelita, or of Olga, had shed the light in which his friend
had come to see things so differently.  Surely, Carmelita’s best friend
would be the person who saved her from Rivoli; and, if it were really
Olga whom Bull were considering, there were more ways of killing a cat
than choking it with melted butter.  Anyhow, he didn’t envy John Bull,
nor yet the weaker vessels of the Seventh Company. What would John Bull
do, if, on hearing of his change of mind, Rivoli simply took him and put
him across his knee?  Would his promise to Carmelita sustain him through
that or similar indignities?  After all, a challenge is a challenge; and
some people would consider that the prior engagement to Rivoli could not
in honour be cancelled afterwards by an engagement with Carmelita or
anybody else.

No.  To the young mind of Rupert this was not "the clean potato," and he
was disappointed in his friend.  As they undressed, in silence, an idea
struck him, and he turned to that gentleman.

"I say, look here, Bull, old chap," quoth he.  "You’ll of course do as
you think best in the matter, and so shall I.  I’m going to challenge
Rivoli myself.  I shall follow your admirable example and challenge him
publicly, and I shall add point to it by wasting a litre of wine on his
face, which I shall also smack with what violence I may.  I am not
Company Marksman like you, but, as Rivoli knows, I am a First Class
shot. I shall say I have been brooding over his breaking my back, and
now want to fight him on even terms."

A look of pain crossed the face of the old soldier.

"Rupert," he said, rising and laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder,
"you’ll do nothing of the kind.... Not, that is, if you value my
friendship in the least, or have the slightest regard for me.  Do you
not understand that I have given Carmelita my word that I will neither
fight Rivoli with a weapon in my hand, nor attack him with one?  Would
she not instantly and naturally suppose that I had got you to do it
_for_ me? ... Would anything persuade her to the contrary?"

"Is he to go unpunished then?  Is he to ride roughshod over us all?
He’ll be ten times worse than before. You know he’ll ascribe your
withdrawal to cowardice--and so will everybody else," was the reply.

"They will," agreed John Bull.

"What’s to be done then?"

"I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what is not to be done.  No friend of
mine is to challenge Rivoli to a duel."

The Bucking Bronco entered.

"Say, John," he drawled, "I jest bin and beat up Mister Mounseer Malvin,
I hev’.  ’Yure flappin’ yure mouth tew much,’ I ses.  ’_Vous frappez
votre bouche trop_,’ I ses.  ’Yew come off it, me lad,’ I ses.  ’Yew
jes’ wipe off yure chin some.  _Effacez votre menton_,’ I ses.  Then I
slugs him a little one."

"What was it all about, Buck?" enquired Rupert.

"Do yew know what the little greasy tin-horn of a hobo was waggin’ his
chin about?  Sed as haow yew was _a-climbin’ down and a-takin’ back the
challenge to our Loojey_!  I told him ef he didn’t wipe off his chin and
put some putty on his gas-escape I’d do five-spot in Biribi fer him.
’Yes, Mounseer Malvin,’ I ses when I’d slugged him, ’I’ll git the _as de
pique_[#] on my collar for yew!’ ... ’_It’s true_,’ he snivelled. ’_It’s
true_,’ and lays on the groun’ so as I shan’t slug him agin.  So I comes
away--not seein’ why I should do the two-step on nuthin’ at the end of a
rope for a dod-gasted little bed-bug like Mounseer Malvin."


[#] Mark of the Zephyrs.


"It _is_ true, Buck," replied John Bull.

"Well then, I wisht I’d stayed and plugged him some more," was the
remarkable reply.

"Rivoli told Carmelita about the duel, and I’ve promised her I’d let him
go," continued John Bull.

"Then yure a gosh-dinged fool, John," said the Bucking Bronco.  "Yew
ain’t to be trusted where wimmin’s about.  It would hev’ bin the best
day’s work yew ever done fer Carmelita ef you’d let daylight through
thet plug-ugly old bluff.  He’ll lie ter her from Revelley to Taps[#]
until old Mother Canteen takes him into her shebang fer good--and then
as like as not, he’ll put Carmelita up at auction.... There’ll be no
holding our Loojey now, John.  I should smile.  Anybody as thinks our
Loojey’ll make it easy fer yew has got another think comin’.  It’s a
cinch.  He’ll give yew a dandy time, John.  What’s a-bitin’ yew anyway?"


[#] Last Post.  So called (in the American Army) because it is the
signal to leave the Canteen and turn off the beer-taps.


"Carmelita," was the reply.

"I allow the right stunt fer eny pal o’ Carmelita’s is ter fill our
Loojey up with lead as you perposed ter do....  Look at here, John.
_I’ll_ do it.  I could hit all Loojey’s buttons with my little gun, one
after the other, at thirty yards--and I’d done it long ago, but I know’d
it meant the frozen mit fer mine from Carmelita, and I wasn’t man enuff
ter kill him fer Carmelita’s good and make my name mud to her fer
keeps."

"Same thing now, Buck," was the answer.  "Challenge Luigi, and you can
never set foot in the Café de la Légion again.  If you killed him--it
would be Carmelita’s duty in life to find you and stab you."

"Sure thing, John--an’ what about yew?  Ef our Looj was to be ’Rivoli
the Coward’ ef he wouldn’t fight, who’s to be ’coward’ now? ... Yew’ve
bitten off more’n yew can chew."

"Anyhow, Buck, if you’re any friend of mine--you’ll let Rivoli alone.
_Qui facit per alium facit per se_, and that’s Dutch for ’I might as
well kill Rivoli with my own hand as kill him through yours.’"

The Bucking Bronco broke into song--

    "But serpose an’ serpose,
    Yure Hightaliand lad shouldn’t die?
    Nor the bagpipes shouldn’t play o’er him
    Ef I punched him in the eye!"

chanted he, as he placed his beloved "gun"--an automatic pistol--under
his pillow.  "I’ll beat him up, Johnnie.  Fer Carmelita’s sake I ain’t
shot him up, an’ fer her sake and yourn I won’t shoot him up now, but
the very first time as he flaps his mouth about this yer dool, I’ll beat
him up--and there’ll be _some_ fight," and the Bucking Bronco dived into
his "flea-bag."

The next day the news spread throughout the _caserne_ of the First
Battalion of the Legion that the promised treat was off, the duel
between the famous Luigi Rivoli and the Englishman, John Bull, would not
take place, the latter, in spite of the publicity and virulence of his
challenge, having apologised.

The news was ill received.  In the first place the promise of a
brilliant break in the monotony of Depôt life was broken.  In the second
place, the undisputed reign of a despotic and brutal tyrant would
continue and grow yet heavier and more insupportable; while, in the
third place, it was not in accordance with the traditions of the Legion
that a man should fiercely challenge another in public, and afterwards
apologise and withdraw.  Italian shares boomed and shot sky-high, while
John Bulls became a drug in the market.

That evening the Bucking Bronco, for the first time in his life,
received a message from Carmelita, a message which raised him to the
seventh heaven of expectation and hope, while the sanguine blood coursed
merrily through his veins.

Carmelita wanted him.  At five o’clock without fail, Carmelita would
expect him at the Café.  She needed his help and relied upon him for
it.... _Gee_-whillikins!  She should have it.

At half-past five that evening, the Bucking Bronco entered le Café de la
Légion and stared in amazement at seeing a strange Legionary behind
Carmelita’s bar. He was a small, slight man in correct walking-out
dress--a blue tunic, red breeches and white spats.  His képi was pulled
well down over a small, intelligent face, the most marked features of
which were very broad black eyebrows, and a biggish dark moustache. The
broad chin-strap of the képi was down, and pressed the man’s chin up
under the large moustache beneath which the strap passed.  The soldier
had a squint and the Bucking Bronco had always experienced a dislike and
distrust of people so afflicted.

"An’ what’n Hell are _yew_ a-doin’ thar, yew swivel-eyed tough?" he
enquired, and repeated his enquiry in Legion French.

The Legionary laughed--a ringing peal which was distinctly familiar.

"Don’t yew git fresh with me, Bo, or I’ll come roun’ thar an’ improve
yure squint till you can see in each ear-’ole," said the American,
trying to "place" the man.

Again the incongruous tinkling peal rang out and the Bucking Bronco
received the shock of his life as Carmelita’s voice issued through the
big moustache. Words failed him as he devoured the girl with his eyes.

"Dear Monsieur Bouckaing Bronceau," said she. "Will you walk out
to-night with the youngest recruit in the Legion?"

The Bronco still stared agape.

"I am in trouble," continued Carmelita, "and I turn to you for help."

The light of hope shone in the American’s eyes.

"Holy Poker!" said he.  "God bless yure sweet eyes, fer sayin’ so,
Carmelita.  But why _me_?  Have yew found yure Loojey out, at last?  Why
me?"

"I turn to you for help, Monsieur Bronco," said the girl, "because you
have told me a hundred times that you love me.  Love gives.  It is not
always asking, asking, asking.  Now give me your help.  I want to get at
the truth.  I want to clear a good and honest man from a web of lies.
Take me to the Canteen with you to-night.  They say my Luigi goes there
to see Madame la Cantinière.  They say he flirts and drinks with her,
that he helps her there, and serves behind her bar. They even dare to
say that he asks her to marry him...."

"It’s true," interrupted the Bucking Bronco.

"Very well--then take me there now.  My Luigi has sworn to me a hundred
times that he never sets foot in Madame’s Canteen, that he would not
touch her filthy Algerian wine--my Luigi who drinks only the best
Chianti from Home.  Take me there and prove your lies.  Take me now, and
either you and your friends, or else Luigi Rivoli, shall never cross my
threshold again."  Carmelita’s voice was rising, tears were starting to
her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell as no man’s ever did.

"Easy, honey," said the big American.  "Ef yure gwine ter carry on right
here, what’ll you do in the Canteen when yew see yure Loojey right thar
doin’ bar-tender fer the woman he’s a-doin’ his damnedest to marry?"

"_Do?_" answered Carmelita in a low tense voice. "Do?  I would be cold
as ice.  I would be still and hard as one of the statues in my own
Naples.  All Hell would be in my breast, but a Hell of frozen fire do
you understand, and I would creep away.  Like a silent spirit I would
creep away--but I would be a spirit of vengeance.  To Monsieur Jean
Boule would I go and I would say, ’Kill him!  Kill him!  For the love of
God and the Holy Virgin and the Blessed Bambino, _kill_ him--and let me
come and stamp upon his face.’  That is what I would say, Monsieur
Bronco."

The American covered the girl’s small brown hand with his huge paw.

"Carmelita, honey," he whispered.  "Don’t go, little gel--don’t go.  May
I be struck blind and balmy right hyar, right naow, ef I tell you a word
of a lie. Every night of his life he’s thar, afore he comes down hyar
with lies on his lips to yew.  Don’t go.  Take my word fer it, an’ John
Bull’s word, and young Rupert’s word.  They’re White Men, honey, they
wouldn’t lie ter yew.  Believe what we tell yew, and give ole John Bull
back his promise, an’ let him shoot-up this low-lifer rattlesnake...."

"I will see with my own eyes," said Carmelita--adding with sound
feminine logic, "and if he’s not there to-night, I’ll know that you have
all lied to me, and that he never was there--and never, never, never
again shall one of you enter my house, or my Legionaries shall nail you
by the ears to the wall with their bayonets....  Shame on me, to doubt
my Luigi for a moment."

The American gave way.

"Come on then, little gel," he said.  "P’raps it’s fer the best."


                                   §2

Entering the Canteen that evening for his modest litre, ’Erb caught
sight of his good friend, the Bucking Bronco, seated beside a Legionary
whom ’Erb did not know.  The American beckoned and ’Erb emitted a joyous
sound to be heard more often in the Ratcliffe Highway than in the wilds
of Algeria.  Apparently his pal’s companion was, or had been, in funds,
for his head reposed upon his folded arms.

"Wotto, Bucko!" exclaimed the genial ’Erb.  "We a-goin’ to ketch this
pore bloke’s complaint?  Luvvus! Wish I got enuff to git as ill as wot
’e is."

"Sit down t’other side of him, ’Erb," responded the American.  "We may
hev’ to help the gay-cat to bed.  He’s got a jag.  Tight as a tick--an’
lef me in the lurch with two-francs’ worth to drink up."

"Bless ’is ’eart," exclaimed ’Erb.  "I dunno wevver ’e’s a-drinkin’ to
drahn sorrer or wevver he’s a-drinkin’ to keep up ’is ’igh sperrits--but
he shan’t say as ’ow ’Erb ’Iggins didn’t stand by ’im to the larst--the
larst boll’ I mean," and ’Erb filled the large glass which the American
reached from the bar.

"’Ere’s ’ow, Cocky," he shouted in the ear of the apparently drunken
man, giving him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

The drunken man gasped at the blow, gave a realistic hiccough and
murmured: "A votre santé, Monsieur."

"Carn’t the pore feller swaller a little more, Buck?" enquired ’Erb with
great concern.  "Fency two francs--an’ he’s ’ad ter giv’ up! ... Never
mind, Ole Cock," he roared again in the ear of the drunkard, "p’raps
you’ll be able ter go ahtside in a minnit an’ git it orf yer chest. Then
yer kin start afresh.  See? ... ’Ope hon, ’ope hever....  ’Sides," he
added, as a cheering afterthought, "It’ll tiste as good a-comin’ up as
wot it did a-goin’ dahn."  He then blew vinously into his mouth-organ
and settled down for a really happy evening.

A knot of Legionaries, friends of Rivoli, stood at the bar talking with
Madame.

"Here he comes," said one of them, leaning with his back against the
bar.  "Ask him."

Luigi Rivoli strode up, casting to right and left the proud glances of
the consciously Great.

"Bonsoir, ma belle," quoth he to Madame.  "And how is the Soul of the
Soul of Luigi Rivoli?"

The drunken man, sitting between the Bucking Bronco and le Légionnaire
’Erbiggin, moved his head. He lay with the right side of it upon his
folded arms and his flushed face toward the bar.  His eyes were
apparently closed in sottish slumber.

Madame la Cantinière fixed Rivoli with a cold and beady eye.  (She
"wagged her beard" too much, did she?  Oho!)

"And since when have I been the Soul of the Soul of Luigi Rivoli?" she
enquired.

"Can you ask it, My Own?" was the reply.  "Did not the virgin fortress
of my heart capitulate to the trumpet of your voice when first its
musical call rang o’er its unsealed walls?"

"Pouf!" replied Madame, bridling....  (What a way he had with him, and
what a fine figure of a man he was, but "_beards_" quotha!)  Raising the
flap of the zinc-covered bar, Luigi, as usual, passed within and poured
himself a bumper of wine.  Raising the glass--

"To the brightest eyes and sweetest face that I ever looked upon," he
toasted, and drank.

Madame simpered.  Her wrath had, to some extent, evaporated....  Not
that she would ever _dream_ of marrying him.  No! that "beard" would be
ever between them.  No!  No!  He had dished himself finally.  He had, as
it were, hanged himself in that beard as did Absalom in the branches of
a tree.  The price he should pay for that insult was the value of her
Canteen and income.  There was balm and satisfaction in the thought.
Still--until his successor were chosen, or rather, the successor of the
late-lamented, so cruelly, if skilfully, carved by those _sacrépans_ and
_galopins_ of Arabs--the assistance of the big man as waiter and
chucker-out should certainly not be refused.  By no means.

"And what is this tale I hear of you and le Légionnaire Jean Boule?"
enquired Madame.  "They say that the Neapolitan trollop of Le Café de la
Légion (_sous ce nom-là!_) has begged your life of him."

The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and Rivoli put down his glass
with a fierce frown.

"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he asked, and laughed
scornfully.  Madame pointed a fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who
leant, head on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.

"Sure thing, Loojey.  I’m spreadin’ the glad joyous tidin’s, as haow
yure precious life has been saved, all over the whole caboodle," and
proceeded to translate.

"Oh, is _that_ the plot?" replied the Italian.  "Is _that_ the best lie
the gang of you could hatch?  Corpo di Bacco!  It’s a poor one.
Couldn’t the lot of you think of a likelier tale than that?"

The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was nuthin’ like the trewth.

"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the assembled loungers.
"This grey English cur--pot-valiant--comes yapping at me, being in his
cups, and challenges me, _me_, Luigi Rivoli, to fight.  I say: ’Go dig
your grave, dog,’ and he goes.  I have not seen him since, but on all
hands I hear that he has arranged with this strumpet of the Café to say
that she has begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with
laughter at the idea.  "Now listen you, and spread this truth abroad....
Madame will excuse me," and he turned with his stage bow to Madame....
"I am no plaster saint, I am a Légionnaire.  Sometimes I go to this
Café--I admit it," and again turning to Madame, he laid his hand upon
his heart.  "Madame," he appealed, "I have no home, no wife, no fireside
to which to be faithful....  And as I honestly admit I visit this Café.
The girl is glad of my custom and possibly a little honoured--of that I
would say nothing.... Accidents will happen to the bravest and most
skilful of men in duels.  The girl begged me not to fight.  ’You are my
best customer,’ said she, ’and the handsomest of all my patrons,’ and
carried on as such wenches do, when trade is threatened.  ’Peace,
woman,’ said I, ’trouble me not, or I go to Zuleika across the way.’ ...
She then took another line.  ’Look you, Signor,’ said she, ’this old
fool, Boule, comes to me when he has money; and he drinks here every
night.  Spare his miserable carcase for what I make out of it,’ and with
a laugh I gave the girl my franc and half-promise.... Still, what is
one’s word to a wanton?  I may shoot the dog yet, if he and his friends
be not careful how they lie."

The drunken man had turned his face on to his arms.  No one but the
American and ’Erb noticed that his body was shaken convulsively.
Perhaps with drunken laughter?

"Tole yer so, Cocky," bawled ’Erb in his ear. "You’ll be sick as David’s
sow in a minnit, ’an’ we’ll all git blue-blind, paralytic drunk,’" and
rising to his feet ’Erb lifted up his voice in song to the effect that--

    "White wings they never grow whiskers,
    They kerry me cheerily over the sea
    To ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonny Doon
    Where we drew ’is club money this mornin’.
    Witin’ to ’ear the verdick on the boy in the prisoner’s dock
    When Levi may I menshun drew my perlite attenshun
    To the tick of ’is grandfarver’s clock.
    Ninety years wivaht stumblin’, Tick, Tick, Tick,--
    Ninety years wivaht grumblin’, gently does the trick,
    When it stopped short, never to go agine
    Till the ole man died.
    An’ ef yer wants ter know the time, git yer ’air cut."


For the moment ’Erb was the centre of interest, though not half a dozen
men in the room understood the words of what the vast majority supposed
to be a wild lament or dirge.

John Bull entered the Canteen, and ’Erb was forgotten. All near the
counter, save the drunken man, watched his approach.  He strode straight
up to the oar, his eyes fixed on Rivoli.

"I wish to withdraw my challenge to you," he said in a clear voice.  "I
am not going to fight you after all."

"_But, Mother of God, you are!_" whispered the drunken man.

"Oho!" roared Rivoli.  "Oho!" and exploded with laughter.  "Sober
to-night are you, English boaster?  And how do you know that I will not
fight you, _flaneur_?"

"That rests with you, of course," was the reply.

"Oho, it does, does it, Monsieur Coup Manqué? And suppose I decide _not_
to fight you, but to punish you as little barking dogs should be
punished?  By the Wounds of God you shall learn a lesson, little
vur...."

The drunken man moved, as though to spring to his feet, but the big
American’s arm flung round him pressed him down, as he lurched his huge
body drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.

"’Ere," expostulated ’Erb.  "’E wants ter be sick, I tell yer.  Free
country ain’t it, if ’e _is_ a bloomin’ Legendary....  Might as well be
a bleed’n drummerdary if ’e carn’t be sick w’en ’e wants to....  ’Ope ’e
ain’t got seven stummicks, eny’ow," he added as an afterthought, and
again applied himself to the business of the evening.

John Bull turned, without a word, and left the Canteen.  The knot about
the bar broke up and Luigi was alone with Madame save for two drunken
men and one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.

"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?" asked Rivoli of Madame, as
she mopped the zinc surface of the bar.

"No," snapped Madame.  "I have not."

"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored.  "Forgive me, and then do one
other thing."

"What is that?" enquired Madame.

"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame’s pudgy fist.

The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the American watching,
thought of the eyes of the snake that lies with broken back watching its
slayer.  There was death and the hate of Hell in them, and while he
shuddered, his heart sang with hope.

"Marry me, Véronique," he repeated.  "Have pity on me and end this
suspense.  See you, I grow thin," and he raised his mighty arms in a
pathetic gesture.

Madame glanced at the poor man’s stomach.  There was no noticeable
_maigreur_.

"And what of the Neapolitan hussy and your goings on in the Café de la
Légion?" she asked.

"To Hell with the _putain_," he almost shouted. "I am like other
men--and I have been to her dive like the rest.  Marry me and save me
from this loose irregular soldier’s life.  Do you think I would stray
from _thee_, Beloved, if thou wert mine?"

"Not twice," said Madame.

"Then away with this jealousy," replied the ardent Luigi.  "Let me
announce our nuptials here and now, and call upon my comrades-in-arms to
drink long life and happiness to my beauteous bride--whom they all so
chastely love and revere.  Come, little Star of my Soul!  Come,
carissima, and I will most solemnly swear upon the Holy Cross that
never, never, never again will I darken the doors of the _casse-croûte_
of that girl of the Bazaar.  I swear it, Véronique--so help me God and
all the Holy Saints--your husband will die before he will set foot in
Carmelita’s brothel."

"Come," said the drunken man, with a little piteous moan.  "Could you
carry me out, Signor?  I am going to faint."

The Bucking Bronco gathered Carmelita up in his arms and strode toward
the door.

"’Ere ’old on," ejaculated ’Erb.  "’Arf a mo’! I’ll tike ’is ’oofs...."

"Stay whar yew are, ’Erb," said the American sternly, over his shoulder.

"Right-o, ole bloke," agreed ’Erb, always willing to oblige.  "Right-o!
Shove ’im in ’is kip[#] while I ’soop ’is bare.’"[#]


[#] Bed.

[#] Drink his beer.


Outside, the Bucking Bronco set Carmelita down upon a bench in a dark
corner and chafed her hands as he peered anxiously into her face.

"Pull yureself together, honey," he urged.  "Don’t yew give way yit.
Yew’ve gotter walk past the Guard ef I carries yew all the rest of the
way."

The broken-hearted girl could only moan.  The American racked his brains
for a solution of the difficulty and wished John Bull and Rupert were
with him.  It would be utterly hopeless to approach the gate with the
girl in his arms.  What would happen if he could not get her out that
night?  Suddenly the girl rose to her feet.  Pride had come to her
rescue.

"Come, Monsieur Bronco," she said in a dead, emotionless voice.  "Let me
get home," and began to walk like an automaton.  Slipping his arm
through hers, the American guided and supported her, and in time,
Carmelita awoke from a terrible dream to find herself at home.  The
Russian girl, in some clothing and a wrap of Carmelita’s, admitted them
at the back door.

"Get her some brandy," said the Bucking Bronco. "Shall I open the Caffy
and serve fer yew, Carmelita, ma gel?" he asked.

Before he could translate his question into Legion French, Carmelita had
understood, partly from his gestures.  She shook her head.

Olga Kyrilovitch looked a mute question at the American.  He nodded
slightly.  Carmelita caught the unspoken communication between the two.

"Yes," she said, turning to Olga, "you were right.... They were all
right.  And I was wrong....  He is the basest, meanest scoundrel who
ever betrayed a woman.  I do not realise it yet--I am stunned.... And I
am punished too.  I shall die or go mad when I understand....  And I
want to be alone.  Go now, dear Signor Orso Americano, and take my love
and this message to Signor Jean Boule.  _I kiss his boots in humility
and apology, and if he will kill this Rivoli for me I will be his slave
for life._"

"Let me kill him fer yew, Carmelita," begged the American as he turned
to go, and then paused as his face lit up with the brightness of an
idea.  "No," he said.  "Almighty God!  I got another think come.  I’ll
come an’ see yew to-morrow, Carmelita--and make yew a _pro_posal about
Mounseer Loojey as’ll do yew good."  At the door he beckoned to the
Russian girl.

"Look at hyar, Miss Mikhail," he whispered. "Stand by her like a man
to-night.  Nuss her, and coddle her and soothe her.  You see she don’t
do herself no harm.  Yew hev’ her safe and in her right mind in the
mornin’--an’ we’ll git yew and yure brother outer Sidi or my name ain’t
Hyram Cyrus Milton."


                                   §3

That night was one of the most unforgettable of all the memorable nights
through which Olga Kyrilovitch ever lived in the course of her
adventurous career.  For it was the only night during which she was shut
up with a violent and dangerous homicidal maniac.  In addition to
fighting for her own life, the girl had, at times, to fight for that of
her assailant, and she deserved well of the Bucking Bronco.  Nature at
length asserted herself and Carmelita collapsed. She slept, and awoke in
the middle of the next day as sane as a person can be, every fibre of
whose being yearns and tingles with one fierce obsession.  Even to the
experienced Russian girl, the wildness of the Neapolitan revenge-passion
was an alarming revelation.

"Though I starve or go mad, I cannot eat nor sleep till I have spat on
his dead face," were the only words she answered to Olga’s entreaty that
she would take food.  But she busied herself about her daily tasks with
pinched white face, pinched white lips, and cavernous black brooding
eyes.

"Rivoli’s next meal here will be his last," thought Olga Kyrilovitch,
and shuddered.

Terrible and unfathomable as was Carmelita’s agony of mind, she insisted
on carrying out the programme for the escape of the two Russians fixed
for that day, and Olga salved a feeling of selfishness by assuring
herself that anything which took the girl’s thoughts from her own
tragedy was for her good.

That afternoon, Feodor Kyrilovitch made his unobtrusive exit from the
Legion and was admitted by his sister at the back door of the Café.  In
his pocket was a letter enclosed in a blank envelope.  On an inner
envelope was the following name and address: "_Lady Huntingten, Elham
Old Hall, Elham, Kent, England._"

By the five-thirty train two flighty females--one blonde, the other
brunette--were seen off from the little Sidi-bel-Abbès station of the
Western Algerian Railway, which runs from Tlemcen to Oran, by
Mademoiselle Carmelita of the Café de la Légion. Their conversation and
playful badinage with the guard of Légionnaires, which is always on duty
at the platform gate, were frivolous and unedifying. Sergeant Boulanger,
as gallant to women as he was ferocious to men, vowed to his admired
Carmelita that it broke his heart to announce that he feared he could
not allow her two friends to proceed on their journey until--Carmelita’s
white face seemed to go a little whiter--they had both given him a
chaste salute.  On hearing this, one of the girls fled squealing to the
train, while the other, with very real blushes and unfeigned reluctance,
submitted her face to partial burial beneath the vast moustache of the
amorous Sergeant....  As the ramshackle little train crawled out of the
station, this girl said to the one who had fled: "You _were_ a sneak to
bolt like that, Feodor," and received the somewhat cryptic reply--

"My dear Olga, and where should we both be now if his lips had felt the
bristles around mine? ... You don’t suppose that a double shave, twice
over, makes a man’s face like a girl’s, do you?..."

These two young females found Lady Huntingten all, and more than all,
her son had prophesied.  When Feodor and Olga Kyrilovitch left the
hospitable roof of Elham Old Hall, she parried their protestations of
gratitude with the statement that she was fully repaid and over-paid,
for anything she had been able to do for them, by the pleasure of
talking with friends of her son, friends who had actually been with him
but a few days before, and who so fully bore out the statements
contained in his letter to the effect that he was in splendid health and
having a splendid time.


On returning to her Café, Carmelita found the Bucking Bronco, John Bull,
Reginald Rupert, ’Erbiggins, and several other Légionnaires awaiting
admittance.  Having opened her bar and mechanically ministered to her
customers’ needs, the unsmiling, broken-looking Carmelita, all of whose
vitality and energy seemed concentrated in her burning eyes beckoned to
the American and led him into her room Gripping his wrist with her cold
hand, and almost shaking him in her too-long suppressed frenzy:

"Have you told Jean Boule?" she asked.  "When will he kill him?  Where?
Quick, tell me!  I must be there.  I must see him do it....  Oh!  He
will die too quickly....  It is too good a death for such a reptile....
It is no punishment....  Why should he not suffer some thousandth part
of what _I_ suffer?"

"Look at hyar, Carmelita, honey," interrupted the American, putting his
arm round the little heaving shoulders as he mentally translated what he
must first say in his own tongue.  "Thet’s jest whar the swine would git
the bulge on yew.  Why shouldn’t he git a glimpse o’ sufferin’, sech as
I had ter sit an’ see yew git, las’ night? ... An’ I gits it in the
think-box las’ night, right hyar.  Listen, ma honey.  _I’m gwine ter
beat him up_, right naow, right hyar, in yure Caffy--an’ before yure
very eyes.  In front of all his bullies an’ all the guys he’s beat up,
I’ll hev’ him on his knees a-blubberin’ an’ a-prayin’ fer mercy.... Then
he shall lick yure boots, little gel, same as he makes recruits lick
his.  Then he shall grovel on the ground an’ beg an’ pray yew to marry
him, and at that insult yew shall ask me to put him across my knee and
irritate his pants with my belt--an’ then throw him neck and crop, tail
over tip, in the gutter! Termorrer John Bull smacks his face on the
barrack-square an’ tells him he was only playin’ with him about lettin’
him off that dool."

When Carmelita clearly understood the purport of this remarkable speech
she put her arms around the Bucking Bronco’s neck.

"Dear Signor Orso Americano," she whispered. "Humiliate him to the dust
before his comrades, bring him grovelling to my feet, begging me to
marry him--and I will be your wife....  Blind, blind, unnameable _fool_
that I have been--to think this dog a god and you a rough barbarian....
Forgive me, Signor....  I could kill myself."

The Bucking Bronco folded the woman in his arms. Suddenly she struggled
free, thrust him from her, and, falling into a chair, buried her face in
her arms and burst into tears.  Standing over her the Bucking Bronco
awkwardly patted her back with his huge hand.

"Do yew good, ma gel," he murmured over and over again.  "Nuth’n like a
good cry for a woman.... Git it over naow, and by’n-by show a smilin’
face an’ a proud one fer Loojey Rivoli to see fer the las’ time."

"The _bambino_," wailed the girl.  "The _bambino_."

"_What?_" exclaimed the Bucking Bronco.

Rising, the girl looked the man in the face and painfully but bravely
stammered out what had been her so-wonderful Secret, and the hope of her
life.

The Bucking Bronco again folded Carmelita in his arms.




                               CHAPTER X

                            THE WAGES OF SIN


It was soon evident that the word had been passed round that there would
be "something doing" at the Café de la Légion that evening.  Never
before had its hospitable roof covered so large an assembly of guests.
Though it was not exactly what could be called "a packed house," it was
far from being a selected gathering of the special friends of Il Signor
Luigi Rivoli.  To Legionaries John Bull, Reginald Rupert and ’Erb
’Iggins it was obvious that the Bucking Bronco had been at some pains to
arrange that the spectators of whatever might befall that evening, were
men who would witness the undoing of Luigi Rivoli--should that
occur--with considerable equanimity.  Scarcely a man there but had felt
at some time the weight of his brutal fist and the indignity of helpless
obedience to his tyrannous behest.  Of one thing they were
sure--whatever they might, or might not behold, they would see a Homeric
fight, a struggle that would become historic in the annals of la Légion.
The atmosphere was electric with suppressed excitement and a sense of
pleasurable expectation.

In a group by the bar, lounged the Bucking Bronco and the three
Englishmen with a few of their more immediate intimates, chiefly
Frenchmen, and members of their _escouade_.  Carmelita, a brilliant spot
of colour glowing on either cheek, busied herself about her duties,
flitting like a butterfly from table to table. Never had she appeared
more light-hearted, gay, and _insouciante_.  But to John Bull, who
watched her anxiously, it was clear that her gaiety was feverish and
hectic, her laughter forced and hysterical.

"Reckon ’e’s got an earthly, matey?" asked ’Erb of Rupert.  "’E’ll ’ave
ter scrag an’ kick, same as Rivoli, if ’e don’t want ter be counted
aht."

"I’d give a hundred pounds to see him win, anyhow," was the reply.  "I
expect he’ll fight the brute with his own weapons.  He’ll go in for what
he calls ’rough-housing’ I hope....  No good following Amateur Boxing
Association rules if you’re fighting a bear, or a Zulu, or a
Fuzzy-wuzzy, or Luigi Rivoli...."

And that was precisely the intention of the American, whose fighting had
been learnt in a very rough and varied school.  When earning his living
as a professional boxer, he had given referees no more than the average
amount of trouble; and in the ring, against a clean fighter, had put up
a clean fight.  A tricky opponent, resorting to fouls, had always found
him able to respond with very satisfying tricks of his own--"and then
some."  But the Bucking Bronco had also done much mixed fighting as a
hobo[#] with husky and adequate bulls[#] in many of the towns of the
free and glorious United States of America, when guilty of having no
visible means of support; with exasperated and homicidal shacks[#] on
most of that proud country’s railways, when "holding her down," and
frustrating their endeavours to make him "hit the grit"; with terrible
and dangerous lumber-jacks in timber camps when the rye whiskey was in
and all sense and decency were out; with cow-punchers and ranchers, with
miners, with Bowery toughs, and assorted desperadoes.


[#] Tramp, a rough.

[#] Policemen.

[#] Train conductors.


To-night, when he stood face to face with Luigi Rivoli, he intended to
do precisely what his opponent would do, to use all Nature’s weapons and
every device, trick, shift and artifice that his unusually wide
experience had taught him.

He knew, and fully admitted, that, tremendously powerful and tough as he
himself was, Rivoli was far stronger.  Not only was the Italian a born
Strong Man, but he had spent his life in developing his muscles, and it
was probable that there were very few more finely developed athletes on
the face of the earth. Moreover, he was a far younger man, far better
fed (thanks to Carmelita), and a trained professional wrestler.  Not
only were his muscles of marvellous development, they were also trained
and educated to an equally marvellous quickness, skill and poise. Add to
this the fact that the man was no mean exponent of the arts of _la
savate_ and _la boxe_, utterly devoid of any scruples of honour and
fair-play, and infused with a bitter hatred of the American--and small
blame accrues to the latter for his determination to meet the Italian on
his own ground.

As he stood leaning against the bar, his elbows on it and his face
toward the big room, it would have required a very close observer to
note any signs of the fact that he was about to fight for his life, and,
far more important, for Carmelita, against an opponent in whose favour
the odds were heavy.  His hard strong face was calm, the eyes level and
steady, and, more significant, the hands and fingers quiet and
reposeful. Studying his friend, John Bull noticed the absence of any
symptoms of excitement, nervousness, or anxiety. There was no moistening
of lips, no working of jaw muscles, no change of posture, no quickening
of speech. It was the same old Buck, large, lazy, and lethargic, with
the same humorous eye, the same measured drawl, the same quaint turn of
speech.  In striking contrast with the immobility of the American, was
the obvious excitement of the Cockney.

"It’ll be an ’Ellova fight," he kept on saying. "Gawdstreuth, it’ll be
an ’Ellova fight," and bitterly regretted the self-denying ordinance
which he had passed upon himself to the effect that no liquor should wet
his lips till all was o’er....

Luigi Rivoli, followed as usual by Malvin, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Borges,
Hirsch and Bauer, strode into the Café.  He was accustomed to attracting
attention and to the proud consciousness of nudges, glances and
whisperings wherever he went.  Not for nothing is one the strongest and
most dangerous man in the Foreign Legion.  But to-night he was aware of
more than usual interest as silence fell upon the abnormally large
gathering in Carmelita’s Café.  He at once ascribed it to the widespread
interest in the public challenge he had received from John Bull to a
_duel à l’outrance_ and the rumour that the Englishman had as publicly
withdrawn it.  He felt that fresh lustre had been added to his brilliant
name....  Carmelita _had_ been useful there, and had delivered him from
a very real danger, positively from the fangs of a mad dog.  Very
useful.  What a pity it was that he could not marry Madame, and run
Carmelita.  Might she not be brought to consent to some such
arrangement?  Not even when she found she could have him in no other
way? ... Never!

_Absolutamente_ ... Curse her.... Well, anyhow, there were a few more
francs, dinners, and bottles of Chianti.  One must take what one can,
while one can--and after all the Canteen was worth ten Cafés. Madame had
been very kind to-night and would give her final answer to-morrow.  That
had been a subtle idea of his, telling her that, unless she married him,
she should marry no one, and remain a widow all the days of her life,
for he’d break the back of any man who so much as looked at her.  That
had given the old sow something to think about.  Ha!  Ha! ...

As he entered, John Bull was just saying to the Bucking Bronco, "Don’t
do it, Buck.  I know all about that

    ’Thrice-armed is he who hath his quarrel just,
    But four times is he who gets his blow in fust.’

But thrice is quite enough, believe me, old chap. You’ve no need to
descend to such a trick as hitting him unawares, by way of starting the
fight."

"Is this my night ter howl, John, or yourn?  Whose funeral is it?"

... "Fight him by his own methods if you like, Buck--but don’t put
yourself in the wrong for a start.... You’ll win all right, or I shall
cease to believe in Eternal Justice of Things."

It had been the purpose of the Bucking Bronco to lessen the odds against
himself, to some extent, by intimating his desire to fight, with a
shattering blow which should begin, and, at the same time, half win the
battle.

Rivoli approached.

Ha!  There was that cursed Englishman, was he? Well, since he had given
his promise to Carmelita and was debarred from a duel, he should repeat
his apology of last night before this large assembly. Moreover, he would
now be free to handle this English dog--to beat and torture and torment
him like a new recruit.  Bull’s hands would be tied as far as weapons
were concerned by his promise to Carmelita....  The dog was leaning
against the flap of the bar which he would have to raise to pass through
to his dinner. Should he take him by the ears and rub his face in the
liquor-slops on the bar, or should he merely put him on the ground and
wipe his feet on him?  Better not perhaps, there was that
thrice-accursed American _scelerato_ and that indestructible young devil
Rupert, who had smitten his jaw and ribs so vilely, and wanted to fight
again directly he had left hospital and _salle de police_.  The Devil
smite all Englishmen....  His wrath boiled over, his arm shot out and he
seized John Bull by the collar, shook him, and slung him from his path.

And then the Heavens fell.

With his open, horny palm, the Bucking Bronco smote the Italian as
cruelly stinging a slap as ever human face received.  But for his
friend’s recent behest, he would have struck with his closed fist, and
the Italian would have entered the fight, if not with a broken jaw, at
least with a very badly "rattled" head.

"_Ponk!_" observed ’Erb, dancing from foot to foot in excitement and
glee.

"Ah--h--h!" breathed Carmelita,

The Italian recovered his balance and gathered himself for a spring.

"No you don’t," shouted Rupert, and the three Englishmen simultaneously
threw themselves in front of him, at the same time calling on the
spectators to make a ring.

In a moment, headed by Tant-de-Soif, the Englishmen’s friends commenced
pulling chairs, tables and benches to the walls of the big room.  Old
Tant-de-Soif had never received a sou or a drink from the bully, though
many and many a blow and bitter humiliation.  Long he had served and
long he had hated.  He felt that a great hour had struck.

The scores and scores of willing hands assisting, the room was quickly
cleared.

"This American would die, it appears, poor madman," observed M. Malvin
ingratiatingly to Carmelita.

"I do not think he will die," replied the girl.  "But I think that
anyone who interferes with him will do so."

The eyes of the good M. Malvin narrowed.  Lay the wind in that quarter?
The excellent Luigi was found out, was he?  Well, there might be a
successor....

Meantime the Italian had removed and methodically folded his tunic and
canvas shirt.  A broad belt sustained his baggy red breeches.

So it had come, had it?  Well, so much the better. This American had
been the fly in the ointment of his comfort too long.  Why had he not
strangled the insolent, or broken his back long ago?  He would break him
now, once and for all--maim him for life if he could; at least make a
serious hospital case of him.

Bidding Malvin mount guard over his discarded garments, Rivoli stepped
forth Into the middle of the large cleared space, flexing and slapping
his muscles. Having done so, he looked round the crowded sides of the
room for the usual applause.  To his surprise none followed.  He gazed
about him again.  Was this a selected audience?  It was certainly not
the audience he would have selected for himself.  It appeared to consist
mostly of _miserabile_ whom he had frequently had to punish for
insubordination and defiance of his orders.  They should have a
demonstration, that evening, of the danger of defying Luigi Rivoli.

As the American stepped forward John Bull caught his sleeve.  "Take off
your tunic, Buck," he said in surprise.

"Take off nix," replied the American.

"But he’ll get a better hold on you," remonstrated his friend.

"I should worry," was the cryptic reply, as the speaker unbuttoned the
upper part of his tunic and pushed his collar well away from his neck at
the back.

"’E’ll cop ’old of ’im wiv that coller, an’ bleed’n well strangle ’im,"
said ’Erb to Rupert.

"Fancy that now, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco, with an exaggerated
air of surprise, and stepped into the arena.

Complete silence fell upon the room as the two antagonists faced each
other.

_Nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu_!  Why had not le Légionnaire Bouckaing
Bronceau stripped?  Was it sheer bravado?  How could he, or any other
living man, afford to add to the already overwhelming risks when
fighting the great Luigi Rivoli?...

The Bucking Bronco got his "blow in fust" after all, and, as his friend
had prophesied, was glad that it had not been a "foul poke"--taking his
opponent unawares.

"Come hither, dog, and let me snap thy spine," growled the Italian as
the Bucking Bronco faced him. As he spoke, he thrust his right hand
forward, as though to seize the American in a wrestling-hold.  With a
swift snatch the latter grabbed the extended hand, gave a powerful
jerking tug and released it before his enemy could free it and fasten
upon him in turn. The violent pull upon his arm swung the Italian half
left and before he could recover his balance and regain his position,
the Bucking Bronco had let drive at the side of his face with all his
weight and strength. It was a terrific blow and caught Rivoli on the
right cheek-bone, laying the side of his face open.

Only those who have seen--or experienced--it, know the effect of skilled
blows struck by hands unhampered by boxing gloves.

The Italian reeled and, like the skilled master of ringcraft that he
was, the Bucking Bronco gave him no time in which to recover.  With a
leap he again put all his strength, weight, and skill behind a slashing
right-hander on his enemy’s face, and, as he raised his arms, a
left-hander on his ribs.  Had any of these three blows found the
Italian’s "point" or "mark," it is more than probable that the fight
would have been decided.  As it was, Rivoli was only shaken--and
exasperated to the point of madness....

Wait till he got his arms round the man! ... Corpo di Bacco!  But wait!
Let him wait till he got his hand on that collar that the rash fool had
left undone and sticking out so temptingly?

Ducking swiftly under a fourth blow, he essayed to fling his arms round
the American’s waist.  As the mighty arms shot out for the deadly
embrace, the Bucking Bronco’s knee flew up with terrific force, to smash
the face so temptingly passed above it. Like a flash the face swerved to
the left, the knee missed it, and the American’s leg was instantly
seized as in a vice.

The spectators held their breath.  Was this the end? Rivoli had him!
Could there be any hope for him?

There could.  This was "rough-housin’"--and at "rough-housin’" the
Bucking Bronco had had few equals.  He suddenly thought of one of _the_
fights of his life--at ’Frisco, with the bucko mate of a hell-ship on
which he had made a trip as fo’c’s’le-hand, from the Klondyke.  The mate
had done his best to kill him at sea, and the Bucking Bronco had "laid
for him" ashore as the mate quitted the ship.  It had been "some" fight
and the mate had collared his leg in just the same way.  He would try
the method that had then been successful....  He seized the Italian’s
neck with both huge hands, and, with all his strength, started to
throttle him--his thumbs on the back of his opponent’s neck, his fingers
crushing relentlessly into his throat.  Of course Rivoli would throw
him--that was to be expected--but that would not free Rivoli’s throat.
Not by any manner of means. With a fair and square two-handed hold on
the skunk’s throat, it would be no small thing to get that throat free
again while there was any life left in its proprietor....

With a heave and a thrust, the Italian threw the Bucking Bronco heavily
and fell heavily upon him. The latter tightened his grip and saw his
enemy going black in the face....  Swiftly Rivoli changed his hold.
While keeping one arm round the American’s leg, at the knee, he seized
his foot with the other hand and pressed it backward with all his
gigantic strength. As the leg bent back, he pressed his other arm more
tightly into the back of the knee.  In a moment the leg must snap like a
carrot, and the American knew it--and also that he would be lame for
life if his knee-joint were thus rent asunder.  It was useless to hope
that Rivoli would suffocate before the leg broke... Nor would a dead
Rivoli be a sufficient compensation for perpetual lameness.  Never to
walk nor ride nor fight....  A lame husband for Carmelita.... Loosing
his hold on his antagonist’s throat, he punched him a paralysing blow on
the muscle of the arm that was bending his leg back, and then seized the
same arm by the wrist with both hands, and freed his foot.... A
deadlock....  They glared into each other’s eyes, mutually impotent, and
then, by tacit mutual consent, released holds, rose, and confronted each
other afresh.

So far, honours were decidedly with the American, and a loud spontaneous
cheer arose from the spectators. "Vive le Bouckaing Bronceau!" was the
general sentiment.

Carmelita sat like a statue on her high chair--lifeless save for her
terrible eyes.  Though her lips did not move, she prayed with all the
fervour of her ardent nature.

Breathing heavily, the antagonists faced each other like a pair of
half-crouching tigers....  Suddenly Rivoli kicked.  Not the horizontal
kick of _la savate_ in which the leg is drawn up to the chest and the
foot shot out sideways and parallel with the floor, so that the sole
strikes the object flatly--but in the ordinary manner, the foot rising
from the ground, to strike with the toe.  The Bucking Bronco raised his
right foot and crossed his right leg over his left, so that the
Italian’s rising shin met his own while the rising foot met nothing at
all.  Had the kick been delivered fully, the leg would have broken as
the shin was suddenly arrested while the foot met nothing.  (This is the
deadliest defence there is against a kicker, other than a savatist.)
But so fine was the poise and skill of the professional acrobat, that,
in full flight, he arrested the kick ere it struck the parrying leg with
full violence. He did not escape scot-free from this venture, however,
for, even as he raised his leg in defence, the Bucking Bronco shot forth
his right hand with one of the terrible punches for which Rivoli was
beginning to entertain a wholesome respect.  He saved his leg, but
received a blow on the right eye which he knew must, before long, cause
it to close completely.  He saw red, lost his temper and became as an
infuriated bull.  As he had done under like circumstances with the
Légionnaire Rupert, he rushed at his opponent with a roar, casting aside
wisdom and prudence in the madness of his desire to get his enemy in his
arms.  He expected to receive a blow in the face as he sprang, and was
prepared to dodge it by averting his head.  With an agility surprising
in so big a man, the Bucking Bronco ducked below the Italian’s
outstretched arms and, covering his face with his bent left arm, drove
at his antagonist’s "mark" with a blow like the kick of a horse.  The
gasping groan with which the wind was driven out of Rivoli’s body was
music to the Bucking Bronco’s ears.  He knew that, for some seconds, his
foe, be he the strongest man alive, was at his mercy. Springing erect he
punched with left and right at his doubled-up and gasping enemy, his
arms working like piston-rods and his fists falling like sledge-hammers.
The cheering became continuous as Rivoli shrank and staggered before
that rain of terrific blows.  Suddenly he recovered, drew a deep breath
and flung his arms fairly round the Bucking Bronco’s waist.

Corpo di Bacco!  He had got him!...

Clasping his hands behind the American, he settled his head comfortably
down into that wily man’s neck, and bided his time.  He had got him....
He would rest and wait until his breathing was more normal. He would
then tire the _scelerato_ down ... tire him down ... and then ...

This was his programme, but it was not that of the Bucking Bronco, or
not in its entirety.  He realised that "Loojey had the bulge on him."
For the moment it was "Loojey’s night ter howl."  He would take a rest
and permit Loojey to support him, also he would feign exhaustion and
distress.  It was a pity that it was his right arm that was imprisoned
in the bear-hug of the wrestler.  However, nothing much could happen so
long as he kept his back convex.

Seconds, which seemed like long minutes, passed.

Suddenly the Italian made a powerful effort to draw him closer and
decrease the convexity of his arched back.  He resisted the constriction
with all his strength, but realised that he had been drawn slightly
inward.

Again a tremendous tensing of mighty muscles, again a tremendous heave
in opposition, and again he was a little nearer.

The process was repeated.  Soon the line of his back would be concave
instead of convex.  That would be the beginning of the end.  Once he
bent over backward there would be no hope; he would finally drop from
the Italian’s grasp with a sprained or broken back, to receive
shattering kicks in the face, ribs and stomach, before Rivoli jumped
upon him with both feet and twenty stone weight.  For a moment he half
regretted having so stringently prohibited any sort or kind of
interference in the fight, whatever happened, short of Rivoli’s
producing a weapon.  But only for a moment.  He would not owe his life
to the intervention of others, after having promised Carmelita to beat
him up and bring him grovelling to her feet.  He had been winning so
far....  He _would_ win....  As the Italian again put all his force into
an inward-drawing hug, the American, for a fraction of a second,
resisted with all his strength and then suddenly did precisely the
opposite.  Shooting his feet between the straddled legs of his
adversary, he flung his left arm around his head, threw all his weight
on to it and brought himself and Rivoli crashing heavily to the ground.
As the arms of the latter burst asunder, the Bucking Bronco had time to
seize his head and bang it twice, violently, upon the stone floor.

Both scrambled to their feet.

It had been a near thing.  He must not get into that rib-crushing hug
again, for the trick would not avail twice.  Like a springing lion,
Rivoli was on him. Ducking, he presented the top of his head to the
charge and felt the Italian grip his collar.  With an inarticulate cry
of glee he braced his feet and with tremendous force and speed revolved
his head and shoulders round and round in a small circle, the centre and
axis of which was Rivoli’s hand and forearm. The first lightning-like
revolution entangled the tightly-gripping hand, the second twisted and
wrenched the wrist and arm, the third completed the terrible work of
mangling disintegration.  In three seconds the bones, tendons,
ligaments, and tissue of Rivoli’s right hand and wrist were broken,
wrenched and torn. The bones of the forearm were broken, the elbow and
shoulder-joints were dislocated.  Tearing himself free, the American
sprang erect and struck the roaring, white-faced Italian between the
eyes and then drove him before him, staggering backward under a
ceaseless rain of violent punches.  Drove him back and back, even as the
bully put his uninjured left hand behind him for the dagger concealed in
the hip pocket of his baggy trousers, and sent him reeling, stumbling
and half-falling straight into the middle of his silent knot of jackals,
Malvin, Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, and Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat.  Against these
he fell.  Malvin was seen to put out his hands to stop him, Borges and
Hirsch closed in on him to catch him, Bauer pressed against Malvin,
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat stooped with a swift movement.  With a grunt Rivoli
collapsed, his knees gave way and, in the middle of the dense throng, he
slipped to the ground.  As the Bucking Bronco thrust in, and the crowd
pressed back, Rivoli lay on his face in the cleared space, a knife in
his left hand, another in his back.

He never moved nor spoke again, but M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat did both.

As he left the Café he licked his lips, smiled and murmured: "_Je m’en
ai souvenu_."




                               CHAPTER XI

                            GREATER LOVE...


At the bottom of the alley, le bon Légionnaire Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat
encountered Sergeant Legros....  A bright idea! ... Stepping up to the
worthy Sergeant, he saluted, and informed him that, passing the
notorious Café de la Légion, a minute since, he had heard a terrible
_tohuwabohu_ and, looking in, had seen a crowd of excited Legionaries
fighting with knives and side-arms.  He had not entered, but from the
door had seen at least one dead man upon the ground.

The worthy Sergeant’s face lit up as he smacked his lips with joy.  Ah,
ha! here were punishments.... Here were crimes....  Here were victims
for _salle de police_ and _cellules_....  Fodder for the _peloton des
hommes punis_ and the Zephyrs....  Here was distinction for that keen
disciplinarian, Sergeant Legros.

"_V’la quelqu’un pour la boîte_," quoth he, and betook himself to the
Café at the _pas gymastique_.


                                   §2

At the sight of the knife buried in the broad naked back of the Italian,
the silence of horror fell upon the stupefied crowd.

_Nombril de Belzébuth_!  How had it happened?

_Sacré nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de Dieu de sort_!  Who had done
it?  Certainly not le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau.  Never for one
second had the Légionnaire Rivoli’s back been toward him.  Never for one
instant had there been a knife in the American’s hand.  Yet there lay
the great Luigi Rivoli stabbed to the heart.  There was the knife in his
back.  _Dame_!

Men’s mouths hung open stupidly, as they stared wide-eyed.  Gradually it
grew clear and obvious.  Of course--he had been knocked backwards into
that group of his jackals, Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer, and one of
them, who hated him, had been so excited and uplifted by the sight of
his defeat that he had turned upon him.  Yes, he had been stabbed by one
of those four.

"Malvin did it.  I saw him," ejaculated Tant-de-Soif. He honestly
thought he had--or thought he thought so.  "God bless him," he added
solemnly.

He had many a score to settle with M. Malvin, but he could afford to
give him generous praise--since he was booked for the firing-party
beside the open grave, or five years _rabiau_ in Biribi.  It is not
every day that one’s most hated enemies destroy each other....

"Wal!  I allow thet’s torn it," opined the Bucking Bronco as he surveyed
his dead enemy.

Carmelita came from behind the bar and down the room.  What was
happening?  Why had the fight stopped?  She saw the huddled heap that
had been Rivoli....  She saw the knife--and thought she understood.
This was as things should be.  This was how justice and vengeance were
executed in her own beloved Naples.  Il Signor Americano was worthy to
be a Neapolitan, worthy to inherit and transmit _vendetta_.  How cruelly
she had misjudged him in thinking him a barbarian....

"_Payé_," she cried, turning in disgust from the body, and threw her
arms round the Bucking Bronco’s neck, as the Sergeant burst in at the
door.  Sergeant Legros was in his element.  Not only was there here a
grand harvest of military criminals for his reaping, but here was
vengeance--and vengeance and cruelty were the favourite food of the soul
of Sergeant Legros. Here was a grand opportunity for vengeance on the
Italian trollop who had, when he was a private Legionary, not only
rejected his importunities with scorn, but had soundly smacked his face
withal. Striding forward, as soon as he had roared, "_Attention!_" he
seized Carmelita roughly by the arm and shook her violently, with a
shout of: "To your kennel, _prostituée_."  Whereupon the Bucking Bronco
felled his superior officer to the ground with a smashing blow upon the
jaw, thereby establishing an indisputable claim to life-servitude in the
terrible Penal Battalions.

Among the vices of vile Sergeant Legros, physical cowardice found no
place.  Staggering to his feet, he spat out a tooth, wiped the blood
from his face, drew his sword-bayonet, and rushed at the American
intending to kill him forthwith, in "self-defence." At the best of times
Sergeant Legros looked, and was, a dangerous person--but the blow had
made him a savage, homicidal maniac.  The Bucking Bronco was dazed and
astonished at what he had done.  Circumstances had been too strong for
him.  He had naturally been in an abnormal state at the end of such a
fight, and in no condition to think and act calmly when his adored
Carmelita was insulted and assaulted.... What had he done?  This meant
death or penal servitude from the General Court Martial at Oran. He had
lost her in the moment of winning her, and he dropped his hands as the
Sergeant flew at him with the sword-bayonet poised to strike.  No--he
would fight....  He would make his get-away....  He would skin out and
Carmelita should join him.... He would fight...  Too late! ... The
bayonet was at his throat....  Crash! ... Good old Johnny! ... That had
been a near call.  As the maddened Legros was in the act to thrust,
Legionary John Bull had struck him on the side of the head with all his
strength, sending him staggering, and had leapt upon him to secure the
bayonet as they went crashing to the ground.  As they struggled,
Legionary Rupert set his foot heavily on the Sergeant’s wrist and
wrenched the bayonet from his hand.

The problem of Sir Montague Merline’s future was settled and the hour
for Reginald Rupert’s desertion had struck.

An ominous growl had rumbled round the room at the brutal words and
action of the detested Legros, and an audible gasp of consternation had
followed the Bucking Bronco’s blow.  Sacré Dieu!  Here were doings of
which ignorance would be bliss--and there was a rush to the door, headed
by Messieurs Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer.

Several Legionaries, as though rooted to the spot by a fearful
fascination, or by the hope of seeing Legros share the fate of Rivoli,
had stood their ground until John Bull struck him and Rupert snatched
the bayonet as though to kill him.  Then, with two exceptions, this
remainder fled.  These two were Tant-de-Soif and the Dutchman, Hans
Djoolte; the former, absolutely unable to think of flight and the
establishment of an _alibi_ while the man who had made his life a hell
was fighting for his own life; the latter, clear of conscience, honestly
innocent and wholly unafraid. Staring round-eyed, they saw Sergeant
Legros mightily heave his body upward, his head pinned to the ground by
’Erb ’Iggins, his throat clutched by Légionnaire Jean Boule, his right
hand held down by Légionnaire Rupert.  Again he made a tremendous
effort, emitted a hideous bellowing sound and then collapsed and lay
curiously still.  Meanwhile, Carmelita had closed and fastened the doors
and shutters of the Café and was turning out the lamps.  Within half a
minute of the entrance of the Sergeant, the Café was closed and in
semi-darkness.

"The bloomin’ ol’ fox is shammin’ dead," panted ’Erb, and removed his
own belt.  "’Eave ’im up and shove this rahnd ’is elbers while ’e’s
a-playin’ ’possum. Shove yourn rahnd ’is legs, Buck," he added.

While still lying perfectly supine, the Sergeant was trussed like a
fowl.

"Naow we gotter hit the high places.  We gotter vamoose some," opined
the Bucking Bronco, as the four arose, their task completed.  They
looked at each other in consternation.  Circumstances had been too much
for them.  Fate and forces outside themselves had whirled them along in
a spate of mischance, and cast them up, stranded and gasping.  Entering
the place with every innocent and praiseworthy intention, they now stood
under the shadow of the gallows and the gaol.  With them in that room
was a murdered man, and an assaulted, battered and outraged superior....

The croaking voice of Tant-de-Soif broke the silence.  "_Pour vous_,"
quoth he, "_il n’y a plus que l’Enfer_."

"Shut up, you ugly old crow," replied Reginald Rupert, "and clear
out....  Look here, what are you going to do about it?  What are you
going to say?"

"I?" enquired Tant-de-Soif.  "Le Légionnaire Djoolte and I have seen
each other in the Bar de Madagascar off the Rue de Daya the whole
evening. We have been here _peaudezébie_.  Is it not, my Djoolte? Eh,
_mon salop_?"

But the sturdy Dutch boy was of a different moral fibre.

"I have not been in the Bar de Madagascar," replied he, in halting
Legion French.  "I have been in le Café de la Légion the whole evening
and seen all that happened."

"’E’s a-seekin’ sorrer.  ’E wants a fick ear," put in ’Erb in his own
vernacular.

"If my evidence is demanded, I saw a fair fight between the Légionnaire
Bouckaing Bronceau and le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli.  I then saw le
Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli fall dead, having been stabbed by either le
Légionnaire Malvin or le Légionnaire Bauer, if it were not le
Légionnaire Hirsch, or le Légionnaire Borges.  I believe Malvin stabbed
him while these three held him, but I do not know.  I then saw le
Sergent Legros enter and assault and abuse Mam’zelle Carmelita.  I then
saw him fall as though someone had struck him and he then attempted to
murder le Légionnaire Bronco with his Rosalie.  I then saw some
Légionnaires tie him up....  That is the evidence that I shall give if I
give any at all.  I may refuse to answer, but I shall tell no lies."

"That is all right," said the Bucking Bronco. "Naow yew git up an’ yew
git--an’ yew too, Tant-de-Soif, and tell the b’ys ter help Carmelita any
they can, ef Legros gits ’er inter trouble an’ gits ’er Caffy shut....
An’ when yew gits the Gospel truth orf yure chest, Fatty, yew kin say,
honest Injun, as haow I tol’ yew, thet me an’ John Bull was a-goin’ on
pump ter Merocker, an’ Mounseers Rupert an’ ’Erb was a-goin’ fer ter do
likewise ter Toonis.  Naow git," and the two were hustled out of the
Café.

"Now," said John Bull, taking command, "we’ve got to be quick, as it’s
just possible the news of what’s happened may reach the picket and you
may be looked for before you’re missing.  First thing is Carmelita,
second thing’s money, and third thing’s plan of campaign....  Is
Carmelita in any danger over this?"

"Don’t see why she should be," said Rupert.  "It’s not her fault that
there was a fight in her Café.  It has never been in any sense a
’disorderly house,’ and what happened, merely happened here."

"Yep," agreed the Bucking Bronco.  "But I’m plum’ anxious.  I’m sure
tellin’ yew, I don’t like ter make my gitaway an’ leave her hyar.  But
we can’t take a gal on pump."

"Arx the young lidy," suggested ’Erb, and with one consent they went to
the bar, leaning on which Carmelita was sobbing painfully.  The strain
and agony of the last twenty-four hours had been too much and she had
broken down.  As they passed the two silent bodies, ’Erb stopped and
bent over Sergeant Legros, remarking: "Knows ’ow ter lie doggo, don’t
’e--the ol’ cunnin’-chops?"  He fell silent a moment, and then in a very
different voice ejaculated, "Gawds-treuth ’e’s _mort_, ’e is.  ’E’s
_tué_."

John Bull and Reginald Rupert looked at each other, and then turned back
quietly to where the Sergeant was lying.

"Cerebral hemorrhage," suggested John Bull.  "I struck him on the side
of the head."

"’Eart failure," suggested ’Erb.  "I set on ’is ’ead till ’is ’eart
stopped, blimey!"

"Apple Plexy, I opine," put in the Bucking Bronco. "All comes o’ gittin’
excited, don’t it?"

"He certainly made himself perfectly miserable when I took his bayonet
away," admitted Legionary Rupert.

"Anyhow, it’s a fair swingin’ job nah, wotever it was afore," said ’Erb.
Whatever the cause and whosesoever the hand, Sergeant Legros was
undoubtedly dead.  They removed the belts, straightened his limbs,
closed his eyes and ’Erb placed the dead man’s képi over the face,
bursting as he did so into semi-hysterical song--

    "Ours is a ’appy little ’ome,
    I wisht I was a kipper on the foam,
    There’s no carpet on the door,
    There’s no knocker on the floor,
    Oo!  Ours is a ’appy little ’ome."


"Shut that damned row," said Legionary Rupert.

"Carmelita, honey," said the Bucking Bronco, stroking the hair of the
weeping girl.  "Yew got the brains.  Wot’ll we do?  Shall we stop an’
look arter ye?  Will yew come on pump with us?  Will yew ketch the
nine-fifteen ter Oran?  Yew could light out fer the railroad _de_-pot
right now--or will yew stick it out here, an’ see ef they takes away
yure licence?  They couldn’t do nuthin’ more....  Give it a name, little
gal--we’ve gotter hike quick, ef we ain’t a-goin’ ter stay."

Carmelita controlled herself with an effort and dried her eyes.  Not for
nothing had her life been what it had.

"You must all go at once," she said unhesitatingly. "Take Signor
Rupert’s money and make for Mendoza’s in the Ghetto.  He’ll sell you
mufti and food.  Change, and then run, all night, along the railway.
Lie up all day, and then run all night again.  Then take different
trains at different wayside stations, one by one, and avoid each other
like poison in Oran; and leave by different boats on different days.  I
shall stay here.  After trying for some hours to revive Legros, I shall
send for the picket.  You will be far from Sidi then.  I shall give the
Police all information as to the fight, and as to the murder of _that_,
by Malvin; and shall conceal nothing of Legros’ murderous attempt upon
the Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and of his death by _apoplessia_....
They will see he has no wound....  This will give weight and truth to my
evidence to the effect that it was a fair, clean fight and that no blame
attaches to le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau....  Where am I to blame?
... No, you can leave me without fear.  Also will I give evidence to
having heard you plotting to make the promenade in different directions
and to avoid the railway and Oran...."

The Bucking Bronco was overcome with admiration.

"Ain’t that horse-sense?" he ejaculated.

Laying her hands upon his shoulders, Carmelita looked him in the eyes.

"And when you write to me to join you also, dear Americano, I will
come," she said.  "I, Carmelita, have said it....  Now that _that_ is
dead, I shall be able to save some money.  Write to me when you are
safe, and I will join you wherever you are--whether it be Napoli or
Inghilterra or America."

"God bless ye, little gal," growled the American, folding her in his
arms, and for the first time of his life being on the verge of an
exhibition of weakness.  "We’ll make our gitaway all right, an’ we
couldn’t be no use ter yew in prison hyar....  I’ll earn or steal some
money ter send yer, Carmelita, honey."

"I can help you there," put in Legionary Rupert.

"You and your loose cash are the _deus ex machina_, Rupert, my boy,"
said John Bull....  "But for you, the Russians would hardly have got
away so easily, and now a few pounds will make all the difference
between life and death to Buck and Carmelita, not to mention yourself
and ’Erb."

"I am very fortunate," said Rupert, gracefully. "By the way, how much
have we left Carmelita?" he added.

"Exactly seven hundred francs, Monsieur," she replied.  "Monsieur drew
one thousand, he will remember, and the Russians after all, needed only
three hundred in addition to their own roubles."

"What are you going to do, ’Erb?" asked John Bull.  "You haven’t
committed yourself very deeply you know.  Legros can’t give evidence
against you and I doubt whether Tant-de-Soif or Djoolte will.... I don’t
suppose any of the others noticed you, but there’s a risk--and ten years
of Dartmoor would be preferable to six months in the Penal Battalions.
What shall you do?"

"Bung orf," replied ’Erb.  "I’m fair fed full wiv Hafrica.  Wot price
the Ol’ Kent Road on a Sat’day night!"

"Then seven hundred francs will be most ample for three of you, to get
mufti, railway tickets and tramp-steamer passages from Oran to Hamburg."

"Why three?" asked Rupert.

"You, Buck and ’Erb," replied John Bull.

"Oh, I see.  You have money for your own needs?" observed Rupert in some
surprise.

"I’m not going," announced John Bull.

"_What?_" exclaimed four voices simultaneously, three in English and one
in French.

"I’m not going," he reiterated, "for several reasons....  To begin with,
I’ve nowhere to go. Secondly, I don’t want to go.  Thirdly, I did not
kill Legros," and, as an inducement to the Bucking Bronco to agree with
his wishes, he added, "and fourthly, I may be able to be of some service
to Carmelita if only by supporting her testimony with my evidence at the
trial--supposing that I am arrested."

"Come off it, old chap," said Rupert.  "There are a hundred men whose
testimony will support Carmelita’s."

"Wot’s bitin’ yew naow, John?" asked the Bucking Bronco.  "Yew know it’s
a plum’ sure thing as haow it’ll come out thet yew slugged Legros in the
year-’ole when we man-handled him.  Won’t that be enuff ter give yew
five-spot in Biribi?"

"Yus.  Wot cher givin’ us, Ole Cock?" expostulated ’Erb.  "Wot price
them blokes Malvin, an’ Bower, an’ Borjis, an’ ’Ersh?  Fink they’ll shut
their ’eads?  An’ wot price that bloomin’ psalm-smitin’, Bible-puncher
of a George Washington of a Joolt? Wot price ole Tarntderswoff?  Git ’im
in front of a court martial an’ ’e wouldn’t jabber, would ’e?  Not arf,
’e wouldn’t.  I _don’t_ fink."

"And don’t talk tosh, my dear chap, about having nowhere to go, please,"
said Rupert.  "You’re coming home with me of course.  My mother will
love to have you."

"Thanks awfully, but I’m afraid I can’t go to England," was the reply.
"I must..."

"_Garn_," interrupted ’Erb.  "I’m wanted meself, but I’m a-goin’ ter
chawnst it.  No need ter ’ang abaht Scotland Yard....  I knows lots o’
quiet juggers.  ’Sides, better go where it’s a risk o’ bein’ pinched
than stop where it’s a dead cert....  Nuvver fing.  You ain’t goin’ ter
be put away fer wot you done, Gawd-knows-’ow-many years ago.  That’s all
blowed over, long ago. Why you’ve bin ’ere pretty nigh fifteen year,
ain’t yer?  Talk sinse, Ole Cock--ain’t yer jest said yer’d raver do a
ten stretch in Portland than ’arf a one in Biribi?"

John Bull and Reginald Rupert smiled at each other.

"Thanks awfully, Rupert," said the former, "but I can’t go to England."
Turning to the Cockney he added, "You’re a good sort, Herbert, my
laddie--but I’m staying here."

"Shucks," observed the American with an air of finality, and turning to
Carmelita requested her to fetch the nuggets, the spondulicks, the
dope--in short, the wad.  Carmelita disappeared into her little room and
returned in a few moments with a roll of notes.

"Well, good-bye, my dear old chap," said John Bull, taking the
American’s hand.  "You understand all I can’t say, don’t you? ...
Good-bye."

"Nuthin’ doin’, John," was the answer.

"Hurry him off, Carmelita, we’ve wasted quite time enough," said John
Bull, turning to the girl.  "If he doesn’t go now and do his best for
himself, he doesn’t love you.  Do clear him out.  It’s death or penal
servitude if he’s caught.  He struck Legros before Legros even
threatened him--and Legros is dead."

"You hear what Signor Jean Boule says.  Are you going?" said Carmelita,
turning to the American.

"No, my gal.  I ain’t," was the prompt reply. "How can I, Carmelita? ...
I’m his pal....  Hev’ I got ter choose between yew an’ him?"

"Of course you have," put in John Bull.  "Stay here and you will never
see her again.  It won’t be a choice between me and her then; it’ll be
between death and penal servitude."

The Bucking Bronco took Carmelita’s face between his hands.

"Little gal," he said, "I didn’t reckon there was no such thing as
’love,’ outside books, ontil I saw yew.  Life wasn’t worth a red cent
ontil yew came hyar.  Then every time I gits inter my bunk, I thinks
over agin every word I’d said ter yew thet night, an’ every word yew’d
said ter me.  An’ every mornin’ when I gits up, I ses, ’I shall see
Carmelita ter-night,’ an’ nuthin’ didn’t jar me so long as that was all
right. An’ when I knowed yew wasn’t fer mine, because yew loved Loojey
Rivoli, then I ses, ’_Hell!_’  An’ I didn’t shoot ’im up because I see
how much yew loved him. An’ I put up with him when he uster git fresh,
because ef I’d beat ’im up yew’d hev druv me away from the Caffy, an’
life was jest Hell, ’cause I knowed ’e was a low-lifer reptile an’ yew’d
never believe it.... An’ now yew’ve found ’im out, an’ he’s gorn, an’
yure mine--an’ it’s too late....  Will yew think I don’t love yew,
little gal? ... Don’t tell me ter go or I might sneak off an’ leave John
in the lurch."

"You can’t help me, Buck," put in John Bull. "I shall be all right.
Who’ll you benefit by walking into gaol?"

The American looked appealingly at the girl, and his face was more
haggard and anxious than when he was fighting for his life.

"This is my answer, Signor Bouckaing Bronceau," spake Carmelita.  "Had
you gone without Signor Jean Boule, I should not have followed you.  Now
I have heard you speak, I trust you for ever.  Had you deserted your
friend in trouble, you would have deserted me in trouble.  If Signor
Jean Boule will not go, then you must stay, for he struck Legros to save
your life, as you struck him to avenge me.  Would _I_ run away while you
paid for that blow?..."

Carmelita then turned with feminine wiles upon John Bull.

"Since Signor Jean Boule will not go on pump," she continued, "you must
stay and be shot, or sent to penal servitude, and I must be left to
starve in the gutter."

Sir Montague Merline came to the conclusion that after all the problem
of his immediate future was not settled.

"Very well," said he, "come on.  We’ll cut over to Mendoza’s and go to
earth.  As soon as he has rigged us out, we’ll get clear of Sidi."

(He could always give himself up when they had to separate and he could
help them no more.  Yes, that was it.  He would pretend that he had
changed his mind and when they had to separate he would pretend that he
was going to continue his journey. He would return and give himself up.
Having told the exact truth with regard to his share in the matter, he
would take his chance and face whatever followed.)

"_A rivederci_, Carmelita," said he and kissed her.

"_Mille grazie_, Signor," replied Carmelita.  "_Buon viaggio_," and wept
afresh.

"So-long, Miss," said ’Erb.  "Are we dahn’arted? _Naow!_"

Carmelita smiled through her tears at the quaint English _ribaldo_, and
brought confusion on Reginald Rupert by the warmth of her thanks for his
actual and promised financial help....

"We’d better go separately to Mendoza’s," said John Bull.  "Buck had
better come last.  I’ll go first and bargain with the old devil.  We
shan’t be missed until the morning, but we needn’t exactly obtrude
ourselves on people."

He went out, followed a few minutes later by Rupert and ’Erb.

Left alone with Carmelita, the Bucking Bronco picked her up in his arms
and held her like a baby, as with haggard face and hoarse voice he tried
to tell her of his love and of his misery in having to choose between
losing her and leaving her.  Having arranged with her that he should
write to her in the name of Jules Lebrun from an address which would not
be in France or any of her colonies, the Bucking Bronco allowed himself
to be driven from the back door of the Café.  Carmelita’s last words
were--

"Good-bye, _amato_.  When you send for me I shall come, and you need not
wait until you can send me money."


                                   §3

The good Monsieur Mendoza, discovered in a dirty unsavoury room, at the
top of a broken winding staircase of a modestly unobtrusive, windowless
house, in a dirty unsavoury slum of the Ghetto, was exceedingly
surprised to learn that le Légionnaire Jean Boule had come to _him_, of
all people in the world, for assistance in deserting.

The surprise of le bon Monsieur Mendoza was in itself surprising, in
view of the fact that the facilitation of desertion was his profession.
Still, there it was, manifest upon his expressive and filthy
countenance, not to mention his expressive and filthy hands, which
waggled, palms upward, beside his shrugged shoulders, as he gave vent to
his pained astonishment, not to say indignation, at the Legionary’s
suggestion....  He was not that sort of man....  Besides, how did he
know that Monsieur le Légionnaire had enough?...

John Bull explained patiently to le bon Monsieur Mendoza, of whose
little ways he knew a good deal, that he had come to him because he was
subterraneously famous in the Legion as the fairy god-papa who could,
with a wave of his wand, convert a uniformed Légionnaire into a most
convincing civilian.  Further, that he was known to be wholly reliable
and incorruptibly honest in his dealings with those who could afford to
be his god-sons.

All of which was perfectly true.

(Monsieur Mendoza did not display a gilt-lettered board upon the wall of
his house, bearing any such inscription as "_Haroun Mendoza, Desertion
Agent. Costumier to Poumpistes and All who make the Promenade.
Desertions arranged with promptitude and despatch.  Perfect Disguises a
Speciality.  Foreign Money Changed.  Healthy Itineraries mapped out.
Second-hand Uniforms disposed of.  H.M.’s Agents and Interpreters meet
All Trains at Oran; and Best Berths secured on all Steamers.  Convincing
Labelled Luggage Supplied.  Special Terms for Parties_...." nor
advertise in the _Echo d’Oran_, for it would have been as unnecessary as
unwise....)

All very well and all very interesting, parried Monsieur Mendoza, but
while compliments garlic no _caldo_, shekels undoubtedly make the mule
to go. Had le bon Légionnaire shekels?

No, he had not, but they would very shortly arrive.

"And how many shekels will arrive?" enquired the good Monsieur Mendoza.

"Sufficient unto the purpose," was the answer, and then the bargaining
began.  For the sum of fifty francs the Jew would provide one Legionary
with a satisfactory suit of clothes.  The hat, boots, linen and tie
consistent with each particular suit would cost from thirty to forty
francs extra....  Say, roughly, a hundred francs for food and complete
outfit, per individual.  The attention of the worthy Israelite was here
directed to the incontrovertible fact that he was dealing, not with the
Rothschild brothers, but with four Legionaries of modest ambition and
slender purse.  To which, M. Mendoza replied that he who supped with the
Devil required not only a long, but a golden spoon.  In the end, it was
agreed that, for the sum of three hundred francs, four complete outfits
should be provided.

The next thing was the production and exhibition of the promised
disguises.  Would M. Mendoza display them forthwith, that they might be
selected by the time that the other clients arrived?

"_Si, si_," said M. Mendoza.  "_Ciertamente.  Con placer_."  It was no
desire of M. Mendoza that any client should be expected _comprar a
ciegas_--to buy a pig in a poke.  No, _de ningun modo_....

Shuffling into an inner room, the old gentleman returned, a few minutes
later, laden with a huge bundle of second-hand clothing.

"Will you travel as a party--say two tourists and their servants?  Or as
a party of bourgeoisie interested in the wine trade?  Or--say worthy
artisans or working men returning to Marseilles? ... What do you say to
some walnut-juice and haiks--wild men from the _Tanezrafet_?  One of you
a Negro, perhaps (pebbles in the nostrils), carrying an _angareb_ and a
bundle.  I could let you have some _hashish_....  I could also arrange
for camels--it’s eighty miles to Oran, you know....  Say, three francs a
day, per camel, and _bakshish_ for the men....  Not _meharis_ of course,
but you’ll be relying more on disguise than speed, for your escape...."

"No," interrupted John Bull.  "It only means more trouble turning into
Europeans again at Oran. We want to be four obvious civilians, of the
sort who could, without exciting suspicion, take the train at a wayside
station."

"What nationalities are you?" enquired the Jew.

"English," was the reply.

"Then take my advice and don’t pretend to be French," said the other,
and added, "Are any of the others gentlemen?"

Sir Montague Merline smiled.

"One," he said.

"Then you and that other had better go as what you are--English
gentlemen.  If you are questioned, do not speak too good French, but get
red in the face and say, ’Goddam’ ... Yes, I think one of you might have
a green veil round his hat....  the others might be horsey or seamen....
Swiss waiters.... Music-hall artistes....  Or German touts, bagmen or
spies....  Father Abraham!  That’s an idea!  To get deported as a German
spy!  Ha, ha!"  There was a knock at the door....

"_Escuche!_" he whispered with an air of mystery, and added, "_Quien
esta ahi?_"

"It’s the Lord Mayor o’ Lunnon, Ole Cock," announced ’Erb as he entered.
"Come fer a new set of robes an’ a pearly ’at."

"That one can go either as a dismissed groom, making his way back to
England, or an out-of-work Swiss waiter," declared Mendoza, as his
artist eye and ear took in the details of ’Erb’s personality.

A great actor and actor manager had been lost in le bon M. Mendoza, and
he enjoyed the work of adapting disguises according to the possibilities
of his clients, almost as much as he enjoyed wrangling and bargaining,
for their last sous.  A greedy and grasping old scoundrel, no doubt, but
once you entrusted yourself to M. Mendoza you could rely upon his
performing his part of the bargain with zeal, honesty, and secrecy.

The two Legionaries divested themselves of their uniforms and put on the
clothes handed to them.

Another knock, and Rupert came in.

"Hallo, Willie Clarkson," said he to Mendoza, who courteously replied
with a "_Buenas tardes, señor_."

"That one will be an English caballero," he observed.

"Thought I should never get here," said Rupert. "Got into the wrong
rabbit-warren," and took off his tunic.

The Jew did not "place" the Bucking Bronco immediately upon his
entrance, but studied him carefully, for some minutes, before announcing
that he had better shave off his moustache and be a Spanish fisherman,
muleteer, or sailor.  If questioned, he might tell some tale, in
execrable French, of a wife or daughter kidnapped at Barcelona and
traced to a Tlemcen brothel.  He should rave and be violent and more
than a little drunk....

And could the worthy M. Mendoza supply a couple of good revolvers with
ammunition?

"_Si, si,_" said M. Mendoza.  "_Ciertamente.  Con placer_.  A most
excellent one of very large calibre and with twenty-eight rounds of
ammunition for forty francs, and another of smaller calibre and longer
barrel, but with, unfortunately, only eleven rounds for thirty-five
francs...."

"Keep your right hand in your pocket, each of you," said M. Mendoza as
they parted, "or you’ll respectfully salute the first Sergeant you
meet...."


                                   §4

The two Englishmen, in light summer suits, one wearing white buckskin
boots, the other light brown ones, both carrying gloves and light canes,
attracted no second glance of attention as they strolled along the
boulevard, nor would anyone have suspected the vehement beating of their
hearts as they passed the Guard at the gate in the fortification walls.

Similarly innocent of appearance, was an ordinary-looking and humble
little person who shuffled along, round-shouldered, shrilly whistling
"Viens Poupoule, viens Poupoule, viens."

Nor more calculated to arouse suspicion in the breast of the most
observant Guard, was the big, slouching, blue-jowled Spaniard, who
rolled along with his _béret_ over one eye, and his cigarrillo pendent
from the corner of his mouth.  The distance separating these from the
two English gentlemen lessened as the latter, leaving the main
promenades, passed through a suburb and, turning to the right, followed
a quiet country road, which led to a railway station.

Making a wide détour and avoiding the station, the four, marching
parallel with the railway line, headed north for Oran.

So far, so good.  They were clear of Sidi-bel-Abbès and they were free.
Free, but in the greatest danger. The next thing was to get clear of
Africa and from beneath the shadow of the tri-couleur.

"_Free!_" said Rupert, as the other two joined him and John Bull, and
drew a long, deep breath, as of relief.

"Not a bit of it, Rupert," said John Bull.  "It’s merely a case of a
good beginning and a sporting chance."

"Anyhow, well begun’s half done, Old Thing.  I feel like a boy let out
of school," and he began to sing--

    "Si tu veux
      Faire mon bonheur,
    Marguerite, Marguerite,
    Si tu veux
      Faire mon bonheur,
    Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,

You’ll have to sing that, Buck, and put ’Carmelita’ for ’Marguerite,’"
he added.

"Business first," interrupted John Bull.  "This is the programme.  We’ll
go steady all night at the ’quick’ and the ’double’ alternately, and
five minutes’ rest to the hour.  If we can’t do thirty miles by
daylight, we’re no Legionaries.  Sleep all day to-morrow, in the shadow
of a boulder, or trees....  By the way, we mustn’t fetch up too near Les
Imberts or we might be seen by somebody while we’re asleep. Les Imberts
is about thirty miles from Sidi, I believe. To-morrow night, we’ll do
another thirty miles and that’ll bring us to Wady-el-hotoma.  From there
I vote we go independently by different trains...."

"That’s it," agreed Rupert.  "United for defence--separated for
concealment.  We’d better hang together as far as Wady-what-is-it, in
case a Goum patrol overtakes us."

"Why not bung orf from this ’ere Lace Imbear?" enquired ’Erb.  "Better’n
doin’ a kip in the desert, and paddin’ the ’oof another bloomin’ night.
I’m a bloomin’ gennelman naow, Ole Cock.  I ain’t a lousy Legendary."

"Far too risky," replied John Bull.  "We should look silly if Corporal
Martel and a guard of men from our own _chambrée_ were on the next
train, shouldn’t we?  Whichever of us went into the station would be
pinched.  The later we hit the line the better, though on the other hand
we can’t hang about too long.  We’re between the Devil and the Deep
Sea--station-guards and mounted patrols."

It occurred to the Bucking Bronco that his own best "lay" would be an
application of the art of "holding her down."  In other words, waiting
outside Sidi-bel-Abbès railway station until the night train pulled out,
and jumping on to her in the darkness and "decking her"--in other words,
climbing on to the roof and lying flat.  As a past-master in "beating an
overland," he could do this without the slightest difficulty, leaving
the train as it slowed down into stations and making a détour to pick it
up again as it left.  Before daylight he could leave the train
altogether and book as a passenger from the next station (since John
strongly advised against walking into Oran by road, as that was the way
a penniless Legionary might be expected to arrive).  By that means he
would arrive at Oran before they were missed at roll-call in the
morning.  Should he, by any chance, be seen and "ditched" by what he
called the "brakemen" and "train-crew," he would merely have "to hit the
grit," and wait for the next train. Yes, that’s what he would do if he
were alone--but the four of them couldn’t do it, even if they possessed
the necessary nerve, skill and endurance--and he wasn’t going to leave
them.

"Come on, boys, _en avant, marche_," said John Bull, and they started on
their thirty-mile run, keeping a sharp look-out for patrols, and halting
for a second to listen for the sound of hoofs each time they changed
from the _pas gymnastique_ to the quick march.  Galloping hoofs would
mean a patrol of Arab gens-d’armes, the natural enemies of the
_poumpiste_, the villains who make a handsome bonus on their pay by
hunting white men down like mad dogs and shooting them, as such, if they
resist.  (It is not for nothing that the twenty-five francs reward is
paid for the return of a deserter "_dead_ or alive.")

On through the night struggled the little band, keeping as far from the
railway as was possible without losing its guidance.  When a train
rolled by in the distance, the dry mouth of the Bucking Bronco almost
watered, as he imagined himself "holding her down," "decking her,"
"riding the blind," or perhaps doing the journey safely and comfortably
in a "side-door Pullman" (or goods-waggon).

Before daylight, the utterly weary and footsore travellers threw
themselves down to sleep in the middle of a collection of huge boulders
that looked as though they had been emptied out upon the plain from a
giant sack.  During the night they had passed near many villages and had
made many détours to avoid others which lay near the line, as well as
farms and country houses, surrounded by their fig, orange and citron
trees, their groves of date-palms, and their gardens.  For miles they
had travelled over sandy desert, and for miles through patches of
cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields.  They had met no one and
had heard nothing more alarming than the barking of dogs.  Now they had
reached an utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of the
party to be as safe a place as they would find in which to sleep away
the day.  It was not too near road, path, building, or cultivation, so
far as he could tell, and about a mile from the railway.  The cluster of
great rocks would hide them from view of any possible wayfarer on foot,
horseback, or camel, and would also shelter them from the rays of the
sun.  He judged that they were some two or three miles from Les Imberts
station, and four or five from the village of that name.

The next trouble would be water.  They’d probably want water pretty
badly before they got it.  Perhaps it would rain.  That would give them
water, but would hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert as
convincing tourists.  Thank Heaven they had a spare clean collar each,
anyhow.  Good old Mendoza. What an artist he was!...

John Bull fell asleep.


                                   §5

"Look, my brothers!  Behold!" cried "Goum" Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour
later, as he reined in his horse and pointed to where the footprints of
four men left a track and turned off into the desert. "Franzwazi--they
wear boots.  It is they.  Allah be praised.  A hundred francs for us,
and death for four Roumis.  Let us kill the dogs."

Turning his horse from the road, he cantered along the trail of the
footsteps, followed by his two companions.

"Allah be praised!" he cried again.  "But our Kismet is good.  Had it
been but five minutes earlier it would have been too dark to notice
them."

"The footprints lead into that el Ahagger," he added later, pointing to
the group of great boulders.

The three men drew their revolvers and rode in among the rocks.  The
leading Arab gave a cry of joy and covered Rupert, who was nearest to
him. As the Arab shouted, John Bull awoke and, even as he opened his
eyes, yelled "_Aux armes!_" at the top of his voice.  (He had shouted
those words and heard them shouted, off and on, for fifteen years.)  As
he cried out, Hassan ibn Marbuk changed his aim from Rupert to John Bull
and fired.  The report of the revolver was instantly followed by three
others in the quickest succession.  John Bull’s cry had awakened the
Bucking Bronco and that wary man had slept with his "gun" in his hand.
A second after Hassan ibn Marbuk fired, the Bucking Bronco shot him
through the head, and then with lightning rapidity and apparently
without aim, fired at the other two "Goums" who were behind their
leader.  Not for nothing had the Bucking Bronco been, for a time, trick
pistol-shot in a Wild West show.  Hassan ibn Marbuk fell from his
saddle, the second Arab hung over his horse’s neck, and the third, after
a convulsive start, drooped and slowly bent backward, until he lay over
the high crupper of his saddle.

"Arabs ain’t no derned good with guns," remarked the Bucking Bronco, as
he rose to his feet, though it must, in justice, be admitted that the
leading Arab had decidedly screened the view, and hampered the activity
of the other two as he emerged from the little gully between two mighty
rocks.

"Gawd luvvus," said ’Erb, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.  "Done in
three coppers in a bloomin’ lump!"

The Bucking Bronco secured the horses.

"I say," said Rupert, who was bending over Sir Montague Merline, "Bull’s
badly hit."

"Ketch holt, quick," cried the Bucking Bronco, holding out to ’Erb the
three reins which he had drawn over the horses’ heads.  He threw himself
down beside his friend and swore softly, as his experienced eye
recognised the unmistakable signs.

"Is he dying?" whispered Rupert.

"His number’s up," groaned the American.

"Done in by a copper!" marvelled ’Erb, and, putting his arm across his
face, he leaned against the nearest horse and sobbed....  He was a
child-like person, and, without knowing it, had come to centre all his
powers of affection on John Bull.

The dying man opened his eyes.  "Got it where the chicken got the axe,"
he whispered.  "Good-bye, Buck....  See you in the ... Happy Hunting
Grounds ... I hope."

The Bucking Bronco looked at Rupert.

"Carmelita put thisyer brandy in my pocket, Rupert," he said producing a
medicine bottle.  "Shall I dope him?"

He coughed and swallowed, his mouth and chin twitched and worked, and
tears trickled down his face.

"Can’t do much harm," said Rupert, and took the bottle from the
American’s shaking hand.

The brandy revived the mortally wounded man.

"Good-bye, Rupert," he said.  "I advise you to go straight down to Les
Imberts station ... and take the next train....  There will be a patrol
... after this patrol ... before long.  You can’t lie up here for long
now....  Buck might take a horse and gallop for it....  Lie up somewhere
else....  And ride to Oran to-night....  ’Erb should go as Rupert’s
servant ... or by a different train....  Remember Mendoza’s tips."

The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully interrupted by a paroxysm
of coughing.

"Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced Rupert, as he wiped the
blood from his friend’s lips.

"No," whispered Sir Montague Merline.  "I am dead ... up to ... the
heart....  Expanding bullet....  Lungs ... and spine ... I ... ex- ...
pect.  Shan’t be ... long."

"Anything I can do--any message or anything?" asked Rupert.

The dying man closed his eyes.

The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering. Turning to the dead "Goum"
who had shot his friend, he swore horribly, and deplored that the man
was dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance. He fell
instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke again.

"If you ... get ... to Eng ... land, Rupert ... will ... you go ... to
... my wife?  She’s Lady..." he whispered.

"Yes--Lady ... _who_?" asked Rupert eagerly.

"NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger voice, as he opened his
eyes.  "I never ... had ... a ... wife."

Silence again.

"Why _Marguerite_ ... My ... darling ... girl. _Darling_ ... at ...
last.  _Marguerite_."

Sir Montague Merline’s problem was solved, and the last of his wages
paid....


                                   §6


The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never forgot the hour that
followed.  The three broken-hearted men buried their friend in a
shallow, sandy grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the
spot.  It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise that every
minute devoted to this labour of love, lessened their chance of escape.

Their task accomplished, they shook hands and parted--the Bucking Bronco
incapable of speech. Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of
paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled: "_R. R. Huntingten,
Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent,_" and said, "Wire me there.  Or--better
still, come--and we’ll arrange about Carmelita."

The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the morning.

Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he or ’Erb should attempt
the next train, he gave that grief-stricken warrior the same address and
invitation.

With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and Huntingten, with a light and
jaunty step, and a sore and heavy heart, set forth for the station of
Les Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.




                                EPILOGUE


"Well, good night, my own darling Boy," said the beautiful Lady
Huntingten, as she lit her candle from that of her son, by the table in
the hall.  "Don’t keep Father up all night, if he and General Strong
come to your bedroom."

"Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her fondly.

Setting down her candlestick, she took him by the lapels of his coat as
though loth to let him out of her sight and part with him, even for the
night.

"Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling," she murmured, gazing
long at his bronzed and weather-beaten face.  "You won’t go off again
for a long, long time, will you?  And we must keep your promise to that
wholly delightful ’Erb, if it’s humanly possible. But I really cannot
picture him as a discreet and silent-footed valet....  I simply loved
him and the Bucking Bronco.  I don’t know which is the more precious and
priceless....  I do so wonder whether he’ll be happy with his
Carmelita....  I shall love seeing her."

"Yes, ’Erb and Buck are great birds," replied her son, "but poor old
John Bull was the chap."

"Poor man, how awful--with freedom in sight.... You knew nothing of his
story?" she asked.

"Absolutely nothing, dearest.  All I know about him is that he was one
of the very best.  Funny thing, y’ know, Mother--I simply lived with
that chap, night and day, for a year, and know no more about him than
just that.  That, and his marks--and by Jove, he’d got some....  Simply
a mass of scars, beginning with the crown of his head, where was a hole
you could have laid your thumb in.  Been about a bit, too; fought in
China, Madagascar, West Africa, the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion.
Certainly been in the British Army--in Africa, too.  I fancy he’d been a
sailor as well--anyhow he’d been in Japan and got the loveliest bit of
tattooing I ever set eyes on.  Wonderful colours--snake winding round
his wrist and up his forearm.  Thing looked alive though it had been
done for over thirty years.  Nagasaki, I think he said...."  He yawned
hugely.  "But here I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and
keeping you up," he added.  He bent to kiss his mother again.

"Mother!--_darling_!  Don’t you feel well?  Here, I’ll get you a little
brandy."

Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the table, and staring at
her son, white-lipped.  Her face looked drawn and suddenly old.

"No, no," she said.  "Come back.  I--sometimes--a little..." and she sat
down on the oak settle beside the table.

"The heat ..." she continued incoherently. "There, I’m all right now.
Tell me some more about this--John Bull....  He _is_ dead? ... You
buried him yourself, you said."

"Yes, poor old chap, it was awful."

"And he gave you no messages for his people? He did not tell you his
real name?"

"No.  Nothing.  He’s taken his story with him. The last words he said
were ’Will you go and tell my wife, Lady...’ and there he pulled himself
up, and said he never had a wife.  But he had, I’m sure--and he called
to her by her Christian name.  As he died, he cried out, ’_At last--my
darling--_’"

"_Marguerite_," whispered Lady Huntingten.




  Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and
                                 London




                     *      *      *      *      *




                           ALSO BY P. C. WREN


                               BEAU GESTE

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               JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W.1