ORDERED AWAY
He had received his letter from the minister of war. Like many
things we wish for, set our hopes upon, when they come we find that
we do not want them at any price. The order was unwelcome. Sabron
was to go to Algiers.
Winter is never very ugly around Tarascon. Like a lovely bunch of
fruit in the brightest corner of a happy vineyard, the Midi is
sheltered from the rude experiences that the seasons know farther
north. Nevertheless, rains and winds, sea-born and vigorous, had
swept in and upon the little town. The mistral came whistling and
Sabron, from his window, looked down on his little garden from which
summer had entirely flown. Pitchouné, by his side, looked down as
well, but his expression, different from his master's, was ecstatic,
for he saw, sliding along the brick wall, a cat with which he was on
the most excited terms. His body tense, his ears forward, he gave a
sharp series of barks and little soft growls, while his master tapped
the window-pane to the tune of Miss Redmond's song.
Although Sabron had heard it several times, he did not know the words
or that they were of a semi-religious, extremely sentimental
character which would have been difficult to translate into French.
He did not know that they ran something like this:
"God keep you safe, my love,
All through the night;
Rest close in His encircling arms
Until the light."
And there was more of it. He only knew that there was a pathos in
the tune which spoke to his warm heart; which caressed and captivated
him and which made him long deeply for a happiness he thought it most
unlikely he would ever know.
There had been many pictures added to his collection: Miss Redmond at
dinner, Miss Julia Redmond--he knew her first name now--before the
piano; Miss Redmond in a smart coat, walking with him down the alley,
while Pitchouné chased flying leaves and apparitions of rabbits
hither and thither.
The Count de Sabron had always dreaded just what happened to him. He
had fallen in love with a woman beyond his reach, for he had no
fortune whatsoever, nothing but his captain's pay and his hard
soldier's life, a wanderer's life and one which he hesitated to ask a
woman to share. In spite of the fact that Madame d'Esclignac was
agreeable to him, she was not cordial, and he understood that she did
not consider him a _parti_ for her niece. Other guests, as well as
he, had shared her hospitality. He had been jealous of them, though
he could not help seeing Miss Redmond's preference for himself. Not
that he wanted to help it. He recalled that she had really sung to
him, decidedly walked by his side when there had been more than the
quartette, and he felt, in short, her sympathy.
"Pitchouné," he said to his companion, "we are better off in Algiers,
_mon vieux_. The desert is the place for us. We shall get rid of
fancies there and do some hard fighting one way or another."
Pitchouné, whose eyes had followed the cat out of sight, sprang upon
his master and seemed quite ready for the new departure.
"I shall at least have you," Sabron said. "It will be your first
campaign. We shall have some famous runs and I shall introduce you
to a camel and make you acquainted with several donkeys, not to speak
of the historic Arab steeds. You will see, my friend, that there are
other animals besides yourself in creation."
"A telegram for _mon capitaine_." Brunet came in with the blue
envelope which Sabron tore open.
"_You will take with you neither horses nor dogs._"
It was an order from the minister of war, just such a one as was sent
to some half-dozen other young officers, all of whom, no doubt, felt
more or less discomfited.
Sabron twisted the telegram, put it in the fireplace and lighted his
cigarette with it, watching Pitchouné who, finding himself a
comfortable corner in the armchair, had settled down for a nap.
"So," nodded the young man aloud, "I shall not even have Pitchouné."
He smoked, musing. In the rigid discipline of his soldier's life he
was used to obedience. His softened eyes, however, and his nervous
fingers as they pulled at his mustache, showed that the command had
touched him.
"What shall I do with you, old fellow?"
[Illustration: Sabron and Pitchouné]
Although Sabron's voice was low, the dog, whose head was down upon
his paws, turned his bright brown eyes on his master with so much
confidence and affection that it completed the work. Sabron walked
across the floor, smoking, the spurs on his heels clanking, the light
shining on his brilliant boots and on his form. He was a
splendid-looking man with race and breeding, and he combined with his
masculine force the gentleness of a woman.
"They want me to be lonely," he thought. "All that the chiefs
consider is the soldier--not the man--even the companionship of my
dog is denied me. What do they think I am going to do out there in
the long eastern evenings?" He reflected. "What does the world
expect an uncompanioned wanderer to do?" There are many things and
the less thought about them, the better.
"A letter for Monsieur le Capitaine." Brunet returned with a note
which he presented stiffly, and Pitchouné, who chose in his little
brain to imagine Brunet an intruder, sprang from the chair like
lightning, rushed at the servant, seized the leg of his pantaloons
and began to worry them, growling, Brunet regarding him with
adoration. Sabron had not thought aloud the last words of the
telegram, which he had used to light his cigarette.
"... Nor will it be necessary to take a personal servant. The
indigenes are capable _ordonnances_."
As he took the letter from Brunet's salver he said curtly:
"I am ordered to Algiers and I shall not take horses nor Pitchouné."
The dog, at the mention of his name, set Brunet's leg free and stood
quiet, his head lifted.
"Nor you either, _mon_ brave Brunet." Sabron put his hand on his
servant's shoulder, the first familiarity he had ever shown a man who
served him with devotion, and who would have given his life to save
his master's. "Those," said the officer curtly, "are the orders from
headquarters, and the least said about them the better."
The ruddy cheek of the servant turned pale. He mechanically touched
his forehead.
"_Bien, mon Capitaine_," he murmured, with a little catch in his
voice. He stood at attention, then wheeled and without being
dismissed, stalked out of the room.
Pitchouné did not follow. He remained immovable like a little dog
cut from bronze; he understood--who shall say--how much of the
conversation? Sabron threw away his cigarette, then read his letter
by the mantelpiece, leaning his arm upon it. He read slowly. He had
broken the seal slowly. It was the first letter he had ever seen in
this handwriting. It was written in French and ran thus:
"Monsieur:--My aunt wishes me to ask you if you will come to us for a
little musicale to-morrow afternoon. We hope you will be free, and
_I_ hope," she added, "that you will bring Pitchouné. Not that I
think he will care for the music, but afterward perhaps he will run
with us as we walk to the gate. My aunt wishes me to say that she
has learned from the colonel that you have been ordered to Algiers.
In this way she says that we shall have an opportunity of wishing you
bon voyage, and I say I hope Pitchouné will be a comfort to you."
The letter ended in the usual formal French fashion. Sabron, turning
the letter and rereading it, found that it completed the work that
had been going on in his lonely heart. He stood long, musing.
Pitchouné laid himself down on the rug, his bright little head
between his paws, his affectionate eyes on his master. The firelight
shone on them both, the musing young officer and the almost
human-hearted little beast. So Brunet found them when he came in
with the lamp shortly, and as he set it down on the table and its
light shone on him, Sabron, glancing at the _ordonnance_, saw that
his eyes were red, and liked him none the less for it.