[#] 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 thekrenfellflower from her ear for Rupert, a blown kiss forBabboJean 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 thetricouleur, 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 fivechopesof 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 ofle cafardand 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 mademachi-bugiyo, governor of the city to-morrow, and I wish to remain a Japanese lady. I do not want to lay aside thesuma-gotoandsamisenfor thewakizashiand thekatana--the lute for the dagger and sword. I don't want to sit on atokonomain ayashikisurrounded bykaro....""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 akataki-uchiwith 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 behavemore Japonicofor 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 threebleuswho 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 concoctinglompopo, 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 onlyIcould blush like that. And he brings his blushes to Madame la République's Legion. Well, it is notporta 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,youwouldn'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 thecaféand 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.Ishe 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 fatdeboletto, asparutellowhom 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-seekingputtanaof 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--givenforhim!... But no, it was unthinkable.... This Malvin was an utter knave and liar, and would fool her for his own ends--the very manfare 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 hetooaccused 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 prettybudotchnik,[#] 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 achopeof 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 walka braccetto, as Carmelita observed, with his new-found friends....As the party filed out of thecafé, 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 IVTHE CANTEEN OF THE LEGIONFrom 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 (theDrapeauof 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 appointedfille 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 theirdécompté--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. FinallyEin feste burg ist unser Gottbeing succeeded byDie Wacht am RheinandDeutschland 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 boudinTiens, voilà du boudinTiens, voià du boudinPour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,Four les Belges il n'y en a plusCar ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,immediately succeeded by--"As-tu vu la casquetteLa casquetteDu 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 DanemarkQui a dit a sa moitiéDepuis quelqu' temps je remarqueQue tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc."C'est la reine PomaréQui a pour tout tenueAu 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, andsales cochonsthat 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 ofcafard, 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 theVillage Négrein 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,cafardis 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 allle cafardis 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 hiscafardonce and for all at Aïn Sefra. There was a big grasshopper or locust in hisgamelleof 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 signSkibooo, 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, thatcompatriot 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 aswarrysociable 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 yerhic-norance," he advised. "You're a foreiller. You're a neathen. You're a porehic-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 apas 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 theirzeforje,zamaisforjamais, andzourforjour) with one accord broke into their liquid Spanish andNombre de Diostook the place ofNom 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 hisamigo, 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 wickedschadenfreudehad sent good men to thisschweinereiof a Legion, and who was only fit for the military-train or to be decapitated with his ownpallasch) to label them Germans enjoying akommers. 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 aschoppenof 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 somewhatmacabre) 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 somecorvée, 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, orviathe 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 theCrédit 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 bycorvéeand 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."
[#] 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 thekrenfellflower from her ear for Rupert, a blown kiss forBabboJean 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 thetricouleur, 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 fivechopesof 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 ofle cafardand 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 mademachi-bugiyo, governor of the city to-morrow, and I wish to remain a Japanese lady. I do not want to lay aside thesuma-gotoandsamisenfor thewakizashiand thekatana--the lute for the dagger and sword. I don't want to sit on atokonomain ayashikisurrounded bykaro...."
"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 akataki-uchiwith 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 behavemore Japonicofor 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 threebleuswho 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 concoctinglompopo, 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 onlyIcould blush like that. And he brings his blushes to Madame la République's Legion. Well, it is notporta 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,youwouldn'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 thecaféand 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.Ishe 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 fatdeboletto, asparutellowhom 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-seekingputtanaof 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--givenforhim!... But no, it was unthinkable.... This Malvin was an utter knave and liar, and would fool her for his own ends--the very manfare 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 hetooaccused 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 prettybudotchnik,[#] 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."
"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."
"Come where the booze is cheaper,
Come where the pots 'old more,
Come where the pots 'old more,
Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
Ho! come to the pub next door."
Ho! come to the pub next door."
Evidently a sociable and expansive person, easily thawed by achopeof 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 walka braccetto, as Carmelita observed, with his new-found friends....
As the party filed out of thecafé, 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 (theDrapeauof 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 appointedfille 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 theirdécompté--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. FinallyEin feste burg ist unser Gottbeing succeeded byDie Wacht am RheinandDeutschland 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 boudinTiens, voilà du boudinTiens, voià du boudinPour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,Four les Belges il n'y en a plusCar ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,
"Tiens, voilà du boudinTiens, voilà du boudinTiens, voià du boudinPour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,Four les Belges il n'y en a plusCar ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,
"Tiens, voilà du boudin
Tiens, voilà du boudin
Tiens, voilà du boudin
Tiens, voià du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,
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.,
Car ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,
immediately succeeded by--
"As-tu vu la casquetteLa casquetteDu Père Bougeaud," etc.
"As-tu vu la casquetteLa casquetteDu Père Bougeaud," etc.
"As-tu vu la casquette
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 DanemarkQui a dit a sa moitiéDepuis quelqu' temps je remarqueQue tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc."C'est la reine PomaréQui a pour tout tenueAu milieu de l'été..."
"C'est l'empereur de DanemarkQui a dit a sa moitiéDepuis quelqu' temps je remarqueQue tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc."C'est la reine PomaréQui a pour tout tenueAu milieu de l'été..."
"C'est l'empereur de Danemark
Qui a dit a sa moitié
Qui a dit a sa moitié
Depuis quelqu' temps je remarque
Que tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc.
Que tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc.
"C'est la reine Pomaré
Qui a pour tout tenue
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, andsales cochonsthat 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 ofcafard, 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 theVillage Négrein 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,cafardis 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 allle cafardis 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 hiscafardonce and for all at Aïn Sefra. There was a big grasshopper or locust in hisgamelleof 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 signSkibooo, skibooo,Skibooo, skiana, skibooo."
"A German orficer crossin' the Rhine'E come to a pub, an' this was the signSkibooo, skibooo,Skibooo, skiana, skibooo."
"A German orficer crossin' the Rhine
'E come to a pub, an' this was the sign
'E come to a pub, an' this was the sign
Skibooo, skibooo,
Skibooo, skiana, 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, thatcompatriot 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 aswarrysociable 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 yerhic-norance," he advised. "You're a foreiller. You're a neathen. You're a porehic-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 apas 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 theirzeforje,zamaisforjamais, andzourforjour) with one accord broke into their liquid Spanish andNombre de Diostook the place ofNom 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 hisamigo, 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 wickedschadenfreudehad sent good men to thisschweinereiof a Legion, and who was only fit for the military-train or to be decapitated with his ownpallasch) to label them Germans enjoying akommers. 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 aschoppenof 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 somewhatmacabre) 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 somecorvée, 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, orviathe 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 theCrédit 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 bycorvéeand 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."