CARMELITA ET CIE
"Those boots comfortable?" asked John Bull as they crossed the great
parade-ground.
"Wonderfully," replied Rupert. "I could do a march in them straight
away. Fine boots too."
"Yes," agreed the other. "That's one thing you can say for the Legion
kit, the boots are splendid--probably the best military boots in the
world. You'll see why, before long."
"Long marches?"
"Longest done by any unit of human beings. Our ordinary marches would
be records for any other infantry, and our forced marches are
incredible--absolute world's records. They call us the '_Cavalerie a
pied_' in the Service, you know. One of the many ways of killing us is
marching us to death, to keep up the impossible standard. Buck, here,
is our champion."
"Waal, yew see--I strolled crost Amurrica ten times," apologised the
Bronco, "ahittin' the main drag, so I oughter vamoose some. Yep! I can
throw me feet _con_siderable."
"I've never been a foot-slogger myself," admitted Rupert, "but I've
Mastered a beagle pack, and won a few running pots at school and during
my brief 'Varsity career. What are your distances?"
"Our minimum, when marching quietly out of barracks and back, without a
halt is forty kilometres under our present Colonel, who is known in the
Legion as The Marching Pig, and we do it three or four times a week. On
forced marches we do anything that is to be done, inasmuch as it is the
unalterable law of the Legion that all forced marches must be done in
one march. If the next post were forty miles away or even fifty, and
the matter urgent, we should go straight on without a halt, except the
usual 'cigarette space,' or five minutes in every hour, until we got
there. I assure you I have very often marched as much as six hundred
kilometres in fifteen days, and occasionally much more. And we carry
the heaviest kit in the world--over a hundred-weight, in full marching
order."
"What is a kilometre?" asked the interested Rupert.
"Call it five furlongs."
"Then an ordinary day's march is about thirty miles without a halt, and
you may have to do four hundred miles straight off, at the rate of
twenty-five consecutive miles a day? Good Lord above us!"
"Yes, my own personal record is five hundred and sixty miles in nineteen
days, without a rest day--under the African sun and across sand...."
"I say--what's _this_ game?" interrupted Rupert, as the three turned a
corner and entered a small square between the rear of the _caserne_ of
the Fourth Company and the great barrack-wall--a square of which all
exits were guarded by sentries with fixed bayonets. Round and round in
a ring at a very rapid quick-step ran a dismal procession of suffering
men, to the monotonously reiterated order of a Corporal--
"A droit, _droit_. A droit, _droit_. A droit, _droit_."
Their blanched, starved-looking faces, glazed eyes, protruding tongues
and doubled-up bodies made them a doleful spectacle. On each man's back
was a burden of a hundred pounds of stones. On each man's emaciated
face, a look of agony, and on the canvas-clad back of one man, a great
stain of wet blood from a raw wound caused by the cutting and rubbing of
the stone-laden knapsack. Each man wore a fatigue-uniform, filthy
beyond description.
"Why the hell can't they be set ter sutthin' useful--hoein' pertaties,
or splittin' rails, or chewin' gum--'stead o' that silly strain-me-heart
and break-me-sperrit game on empty stummicks twice a day?" observed the
Bucking Bronco.
Every panting, straining, gasping wretch in that pitiable _peloton des
hommes punis_ looked as though his next minute must be his last, his
next staggering step bring him crashing to the ground. What could the
dreadful alternative be, the fear of which kept these suffering,
starving wretches on their tottering, failing legs? Why would they
_not_ collapse, in spite of Nature? Fear of the Legion's prison? No,
they were all serving periods in the Legion's prison already, and twice
spending three hours of each prison-day in this agony. Fear of the
Legion's Hospital? Yes, and of the Penal Battalion afterwards.
"What sort of crimes have they committed?" asked Rupert, as they turned
with feelings of personal shame from the sickening sight.
"Oh, all sorts, but I'm afraid a good many of them have earned the
enmity of some Non-com. As a rule, a man who wants to, can keep out of
that sort of thing, but there's a lot of luck in it. One gets run in
for a lost strap, a dull button, a speck of rust on rifle or bayonet, or
perhaps for being slow at drill, slack in saluting, being out of bounds,
or something of that sort. A Sergeant gives him three days' confinement
to barracks, and enters it in the _livre de punitions_. Very likely, the
Captain, feeling liverish when he examines the book, makes it eight
days' imprisonment. That's not so bad, provided the Commander of the
Battalion does not think it might be good for discipline for him to
double it. And that again is bearable so long as the Colonel does not
think the scoundrel had better have a month--and imprisonment, though
only called 'Ordinary Arrest,' carries with it this beastly _peloton de
chasse_. Still, as I say, a good man and keen soldier can generally
keep fairly clear of _salle de police_ and _cellule_."
"So Non-coms. can punish off their own bat, in the Legion, can they?"
enquired Rupert as they strolled toward the main gate.
"Yes. The N.C.O. is an almighty important bird here, and you have to
salute him like an officer. They can give extra corvee, confinement to
barracks, and up to eight days' _salle de police_, and give you a pretty
bad time while you're doing it, too. In peace time, you know, the
N.C.O.s run the Legion absolutely. We hardly see our officers except on
marches, or at manoeuvres. Splendid soldiers, but they consider their
duty is to lead us in battle, not to be bothered with us in peace. The
N.C.O.s can do the bothering for them. Of course, we're pretty
frequently either demonstrating, or actually fighting on the Southern,
or the Moroccan border, and then an officer's job is no sinecure. They
are real soldiers--but the weak spot is that they avoid us like poison,
in barracks."
"We're mostly foreigners, of course," he continued, "half German, and
not very many French, and there's absolutely none of that mutual liking
and understanding which is the strength of the British Army.... And
naturally, in a corps like this, they've got to be severe and harsh to
the point of cruelty. After all, it's not a girls' school, is it? But
take my advice, my boy, and leave the Legion's punishment system of
starvation, over-work, and solitary confinement outside your
'experiences' as much as possible...."
"I say--what a ghastly, charnel-house stink," remarked the recipient of
this good advice, as the trio passed two iron-roofed buildings, one on
each side of the closed main-entrance of the barracks. "I noticed it
when I first came in here, but I was to windward of it I suppose. It's
the bally limit. Poo-o-oh!"
"Yes, you live in that charming odour all night, if you get _salle de
police_ for any offence, and all day as well, if you get 'arrest' in the
regimental lock-up--except for your two three-hour turns of _peloton des
hommes punis_. It's nothing at this distance, but wait until you're on
sentry-go in one of those barrack-prisons. There's a legend of a runaway
pig that took refuge in one, gave a gasp, and fell dead.... Make Dante
himself envious if he could go inside. The truth of that Inferno is
much stranger than the fiction of his."
"Yep," chimed in the American. "But what gits my goat every time is
_cellules_. Yew squats on end in a dark cell fer the whole of yure
sentence, an' yew don't go outside it from start to finish, an' thet may
be thirty days. Yew gits a quarter-ration o' dry bread an' a double
ration of almighty odour. 'Nuff ter raise the roof, but it don't do it.
No exercise, no readin', no baccy, no nuthin'. There yew sits and there
yew starves, an' lucky ef yew don't go balmy...."
"I hope we get you past the Sergeant of the Guard," interrupted John
Bull. "Swank it thick as we go by."
The cold eye of the Sergeant ran over the three Legionaries as they
passed through the little side wicket without blazing into wrath over
any lack of smartness and _chic_ in their appearance.
"One to you," said John Bull, as they found themselves safe in the
shadow of the Spahis' barracks outside. "If you had looked too like a
recruit he'd have turned you back, on principle...."
To Reginald Rupert the walk was full of interest, in spite of the fact
that the half-vulgar, half-picturesque Western-Eastern appearance of the
town was no novelty. He had already seen all that Sidi-bel-Abbes could
show, and much more, in Algiers, Tangiers, Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said,
and Suez. But, with a curious sense of proprietorship, he enjoyed
listening to the distant strains of the band--their "own" band. To see
thousands of Legionaries, Spahis, Turcos, Chasseurs d'Afrique, Sapeurs,
Tirailleurs, Zouaves, and other French soldiery, from their own level,
as one of themselves, was what interested him. Here was a new
situation, here were new conditions, necessities, dangers, sufferings,
relationships. Here, in short, were entirely new experiences....
"This is the Rue Prudon," observed John Bull. "It separates the Military
goats on the west, from the Civil sheep on the east. Not that you'll
find them at all 'civil' though.... Reminds me of a joke I heard our
Captain telling the Colonel at dinner one night when I was a Mess
Orderly. A new man had taken over the Grand Hotel, and he wrote to the
Mess President to say he made a speciality of dinner-parties for
Military and _Civilised_ officers! Bit rough on the Military, what?"
Having crossed the Rue Prudon rubicon, and invaded the Place de
Quinconces with its Palais de Justice and prison, the Promenade Publique
with its beautiful trees, and the Rue Montagnac with its shops and life
and glitter, the three Legionaries quitted the quarter of electric
arc-lights, brilliant cafes, shops, hotels, aperitif-drinking citizens,
promenading French-women, newspaper kiosks, loitering soldiers, shrill
hawkers of the _Echo d'Oran_, white-burnoused Arabs (who gazed coldly
upon the hated Franswazi, and bowed to officials with stately dignity,
arms folded on breast), quick-stepping Chasseurs, scarlet-cloaked
Spahis, and swaggering Turcos, crossed the Place Sadi Carnot, and made
for the maze of alleys, slums, and courts (the quarter of the Spanish
Jews, town Arabs, _hadris_, _odjar_-wearing women, Berbers, Negroes,
half-castes, semi-Oriental scum, "white trash," and Legionaries), in one
of which was situated Carmelita's Cafe de la Legion.
Sec.2
La Belle Carmelita, black-haired, red-cheeked, black-eyed, red-lipped,
lithe, swift, and graceful, sat at the receipt of custom. Carmelita's
Cafe de la Legion was for the Legion, and had to make its profits out of
men whose pay is one halfpenny a day. It is therefore matter for little
surprise that it compared unfavourably with Voisin's, the Cafe de la
Paix, the Pre Catalan, Maxim's, the Cafe Grossenwahn, the Das Prinzess
Cafe, the restaurants of the Place Pigalle, Le Rat Mort, or even Les
Noctambules, Le Cabaret de l'Enfer, the Chat Noir, the Elysee
Montmartre, and the famous and infamous _caveaux_ of Le Quartier--in the
eyes of those Legionaries who had tried some, or all, of these places.
However, it had four walls, a floor, and a roof; benches and a large
number of tables and chairs, many of which were quite reliable. It had
a bar, it had Algerian wine at one penny the bottle, it had _vert-vert_
and _tord-boyaud_ and _bapedi_ and _shum-shum_. It had really good
coffee, and really bad cigarettes. It had meals also--but above all, and
before all, it had a welcome. A welcome for the Legionary. The man to
whose presence the good people of Sidi-bel-Abbes (French petty
officials, half-castes, Spanish Jews, Arabs, clerks, workmen,
shopkeepers, waiters, and lowest-class bourgeoisie) took exception at
the bandstand, in the Gardens, in the Cafes, in the very streets; the
man from the contamination of whose touch the very cocottes, the
demi-mondaines, the joyless _filles de joie_, even the daughters of the
pavement; drew aside the skirts of their dingy finery (for though the
Wages of Virtue are a halfpenny a day for the famous Legion, the Wages
of Sin are more for the infamous legion); the man at whom even the
Goums, the Arab _gens-d'armes_ shouted as at a pariah dog, this man, the
Soldier of the Legion, had a welcome in Carmelita's Cafe. There were
two women in all the world who would endure to breathe the same air as
the sad Sons of the Legion--Madame la Cantiniere (official _fille du
regiment_) and Carmelita. Is it matter for wonder that the Legion's
sons loved them--particularly Carmelita, who, unlike Madame, was under
no obligation to shed the light of her countenance upon them? Any man
in the Legion might speak to Carmelita provided he spoke as a gentleman
should speak to a lady--and did not want to be pinned to her bar by the
ears, and the bayonets of his indignant brothers-in-arms--any man who
might speak to no other woman in the world outside the Legion. (Madame
la Cantiniere is inside the Legion, _bien entendu_, and always married
to it in the person of one of its sons.) She would meet him as an equal
for the sake of her beautiful, wonderful, adored Luigi Rivoli, his
brother-in-arms. Perhaps one must be such an outcast that the sight of
one causes even painted lips to curl in contemptuous disdain; such a
_thing_ that one is deterred from entering decent Cafes, decent places
of amusement and decent boulevards; so low that one is strictly doomed
to the environment of one's prison, or the slums, and to the society of
one's fellow dregs, before one can appreciate the attitude of the Sons
of the Legion to Carmelita. They revered her as they did not revere the
Mother of God, and they, broken and crucified wretches, envied Luigi
Rivoli as they did not envy the repentant thief absolved by Her Son.
_She_, Carmelita, welcomed _them_, Legionaries! It is perhaps
comprehensible if not excusable, that the attitude of Madame la
Cantiniere was wholly different, that she hated Carmelita as a rival,
and with single heart, double venom and treble voice, denounced her, her
house, her wine, her coffee, and all those _chenapans_ and _sacripants_
her clients.
"_Merde!_" said Madame la Cantiniere. "That which makes the slums of
Naples too hot for it, is warm indeed! Naples! Ma foi! Why Monsieur
Le Bon Diable himself must be reluctant when his patrol runs in a
_prisonnier_ from Naples to the nice clean guard-room and _cellules_ in
his Hell ... Naples! ... La! La!..." which was unkind and unfair of
Madame, since the very worst she knew of Carmelita was the fact that she
kept a Cafe whereat the Legionaries spent their half-pence. It is not
(rightly or wrongly) in itself an indictable offence to be a Neapolitan.
So the Legion loved Carmelita, Madame la Cantiniere hated her, the
Bucking Bronco worshipped her, John Bull admired her, le bon M. Edouard
Malvin desired her, and Luigi Rivoli owned her--body, soul and
cash-box--what time he sought to do the same for Madame la Cantiniere
whose body and cash-box were as much larger than those of Carmelita as
her soul was smaller.
Between two fools one comes to the ground--sometimes--but Luigi intended
to come to a bed of roses, and to have a cash-box beneath it. One of
the fools should marry and support him, preferably the richer fool, and
meantime, oh the subtlety, the cleverness, the piquancy--of being loved
and supported by both while marrying neither! Many a time as he lay on
his cot while a henchman polished the great cartridge-pouches (that
earned the Legion the sobriquet of "the Leather-Bellies" from the
Russians in the Crimea), the belts, the buttons, the boots, and the
rifle and bayonet of the noble Luigi, while another washed his fatigue
uniforms and underclothing, that honourable man would chuckle aloud as
he saw himself frequently cashing a ten-franc piece of Carmelita's at
Madame's Canteen, and receiving change for a twenty-franc piece from the
fond, yielding Madame. Ten francs too much, a sigh too many, and a kiss
too few--for Madame did not kiss, being, contrary to popular belief with
regard to vivandieres in general, and the Legion's vivandiere in
particular, of rigid virtue, oh, but yes, of a respectability profound
and colossal--during "vacation." Her present vacation had lasted for
three months, and Madame felt it was time to replace le pauvre Etienne
Baptiste--cut in small pieces by certain Arab ladies. Madame was a
business woman, Madame needed a husband in her business, and Madame had
an eye for a fine man. None finer than Luigi Rivoli, and Madame had
never tried an Italian. Husbands do not last long in the Legion, and
Madame had had three French, one Belgian, and one Swiss (seriatim, _bien
entendu_). No, none finer in the whole Legion than Rivoli. None, nom
de Dieu! But a foreign husband may be a terrible trial, look you, and an
Italian is a foreigner in a sense that a French-speaking Belgian or
Swiss is not. No, an Italian is not a Frenchman even though he be a
Legionnaire. And there were tales of him and this vile shameless
creature from Naples, who decoyed les braves Legionnaires from their
true and lawful Canteen to her noisome den in the foul slums, there to
spend their hard-earned sous on her poisonous red-ink wine, her
muddy-water coffee, and her--worse things. Yes, that cunning little fox
le Legionnaire Edouard Malvin had thrown out hints to Madame about this
Neapolitan _ragazza_--but then, ce bon M. Malvin was himself a suitor
for Madame's hand--as well as a most remarkable liar and rogue. Perhaps
'twould be as well to accept ce beau Luigi at once, marry him
immediately, and see that he spent his evenings helping in the Canteen
bar, instead of gallivanting after Neapolitan hussies of the bazaar.
Men are but men--and sirens are sirens. What would you? And Luigi so
gay and popular. Small blame that he should stray when Madame was
unkind or coy.... Yes, she would do it, if only to spite this
Neapolitan cat.... But--he was a foreigner and something of a
rogue--and incredibly strong. Still, Madame had tamed more than one
recalcitrant husband by knocking the bottom off an empty bottle and
stabbing him in the face with it. And however strong one's husband
might be, he must, like Sisera, sleep sometimes.
The beautiful Luigi would hate to be awakened with a bottomless bottle,
and would not need it more than once.... And the business soul of
scheming, but amorous Madame, much troubled, still halted between two
opinions--while the romantic and simple soul of loving little Carmelita
remained steadfast, and troubled but little. Just a little, because the
fine _gentilhomme_, Legionnaire Jean Boule, and the great, kind
Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau, and certain others, seemed somehow _to
warn her_ against her Luigi; seemed to despise him, and hint at
treachery. She did not count the sly Belgian (or Austrian) Edouard
Malvin. The big stupid Americano was jealous, of course, but Il Signor
Inglese was not and he was--oh, like a Reverend Father--so gentle and
honest and good. But no, her Luigi could not be false, and the next
Legionnaire who said a word against him should be forbidden Le Cafe de
la Legion, ill as it could afford to lose even halfpenny custom--what
with the rent, taxes, _bakshish_ to gens-d'armes, service, cooking,
lighting, wine, spirits, coffee, and Luigi's daily dinner, Chianti and
franc pocket-money.... If only that franc could be increased--but one
must eat, or get so thin--and the great Luigi liked not skinny women.
What was a franc a day to such a man as Luigi, her Luigi, strongest,
finest, handsomest of men?--and but for her he would never have been in
this accursed Legion. Save for her aggravating wickedness, he would
never have stabbed poor Guiseppe Longigotto and punished her by
enlisting. How great and fine a hero of splendid vengeance! A true
Neapolitan, yet how magnanimous when punishment was meted! He had
forgiven--and forgotten--the dead Guiseppe, and he had forgiven her, and
he accepted her miserable franc, dinner and Chianti wine daily. Also he
had allowed her--miserable ingrate that she had been to annoy him and
make him jealous--to find the money that had mysteriously but materially
assisted in procuring the perpetual late-pass that allowed him to remain
with her till two in the morning, long after all the other poor
Legionnaires had returned to their dreadful barracks. Noble Luigi! Yet
there were people who coupled his name with that of wealthy Madame la
Cantiniere in the barrack yonder.
She had overheard Legionnaires doing it, here in her own Cafe, though
they had instantly and stoutly denied it when accused, and had looked
furtive and ashamed. Absurd, jealous wretches, whose heads Luigi could
knock together as easily as she could click her castanets....
Almost time that the Legionnaires began to drop in for their litre and
their _tasse_--and Carmelita rose and went to the door of the Cafe de la
Legion and looked down the street toward the Place Sadi Carnot. One of
three passing Chasseurs d'Afrique made a remark, the import of which was
not lost on the Italian girl though the man spoke in Paris slum argot.
"If Monsieur would but give himself the trouble to step inside and sit
down for a moment," said Carmelita in Legion-French, "Monsieur's
question shall be answered by Luigi Rivoli of La Legion. Also he will
remove Monsieur's pretty uniform and scarlet _ceinturon_ and will do for
Monsieur what Monsieur's mamma evidently neglected to do for Monsieur
when Monsieur was a dirty little boy in the gutter.... Monsieur will
not come in as he suggested? Monsieur will not wait a minute? No?
Monsieur is a very wise young gentleman...."
An Arab Spahi swaggered past and leered.
"_Sabeshad zareefeh chattaha_," said he, "_saada atinee_."
"_Roh! Imshi!_" hissed Carmelita and Carmelita's hand went to her
pocket in a significant manner, and Carmelita spat.
A Greek ice-cream seller lingered and ogled.
"_Bros!_" snapped Carmelita with a jerk of her thumb in the direction in
which the young person should be going.
A huge Turco, with a vast beard, brought his rolling swagger to a halt
at her door and made to enter.
"_Destour!_" said the tiny Carmelita to the giant, pointed to the street
and stared him unwaveringly in the eye until, grinning sheepishly, he
turned and went.
Carmelita did not like Turcos in general, and detested this one in
particular. He was too fond of coming when he knew the Cafe to be empty
of Legionnaires.
An old Spanish Jew paused in his shuffle to ask for a cigarette.
"_Varda!_" replied Carmelita calmly, with the curious thumb-jerking
gesture of negation, distinctive of the uneducated Italian.
A most cosmopolitan young woman, and able to give a little of his own
tongue to any dweller in Europe and to most of those in Northern Africa.
Not in the least a refined young woman, however, and her many
accomplishments not of the drawing-room. Staunch, courageous,
infinitely loving, utterly honest, loyal, reliable, and very
self-reliant, she was, upon occasion, it is to be feared, more emphatic
than delicate in speech, and more uncompromising than ladylike in
conduct. She was not _une maitresse vierge_, and her standards and
ideals were not those of the Best Suburbs. You see, Carmelita had begun
to earn her own living at the unusually early age of three, and earned
it in coppers on a dirty rug, on a dirtier Naples quay, for a decade or
so, until at the age of fourteen, or fifteen, she, together with her
Mamma, her reputed Papa, her sister and her brother, performed painful
acrobatic feats on the edge of the said quay for the delectation of the
passengers of the big North German Lloyd and other steamers that tied up
thereat for purposes of embarkation and debarkation, and for the
reception of coal and the discharge of cargo.
At the age of fifteen, Carmelita, most beautiful of form and coarsely
beautiful of face, of perfect health, grace, poise, and carriage, fell
desperately in love with the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi
Rivoli, a star of her own firmament but of far greater magnitude.
Luigi Rivoli, one of a troupe of acrobats who performed at the Naples
Scala, Vesuvie, and Varietes, meditating setting up on his own account
as Strong Man, Acrobat, Juggler, Wrestler, Dancer, and Professor of
Physical Culture, was, to the humble "tumbler" of the quay, as the
be-Knighted Actor-Manager of a West End Theatre to the last joined
chorus girl, or walking-lady on his boards. And yet the great Signor
Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli, meditating desertion from his troupe
and needing an "assistant," deigned to accept the services and
whole-souled adoration of the girl who was as much more skilful as she
was less powerful than he.
When, in her perfect, ardent, and beautiful love, her reckless and
uncounting adoration, she gave herself, mind, body and soul, to her hero
and her god, he accepted the little gift "without prejudice"--as the
lawyers say. "Without prejudice" to Luigi's future, that is.
During their short engagement at the Scala--terminated by the Troupe's
earnest endeavour to assassinate the defaulting and defalcating Luigi,
and her family's endeavour to maim Carmelita for setting up on her own
account, and deserting her loving "parents"--it was rather the girl whom
the public applauded for her wonderful back-somersaults, contortions,
hand-walking, Catherine-wheels, trapeze-work, and dancing, than the man
for his feats with dumb-bells of doubtful solidity, his stereotyped
ball-juggling, his chain-breaking, and weight-lifting, his
muscle-slapping and _Ha!_ shouting, his posturing and grimacing, and his
issuing of challenges to wrestle any man in the world for any sum he
liked to name, and in any style known to science. And, when engagements
at the lower-class halls and cafes of Barcelona, Marseilles, Toulon,
Genoa, Rome, Brindisi, Venice, Trieste, Corinth, Athens, Constantinople,
Port Said, Alexandria, Messina, Valetta, Algiers, Oran, Tangiers, or
Casa Blanca were obtained, it was always, and obviously, the girl,
rather than the man, who decided the proprietor or manager to engage
them, and who won the applause of his patrons.
When times were bad, as after Luigi's occasional wrestling defeats and
during the bad weeks of Luigi's typhoid, convalescence, and long
weakness at Marseilles, it was Carmelita, the humbler and lesser light,
who (the Halls being worked out) tried desperately to keep the wolf from
the door by returning to the quay-side business, and, for dirty coppers,
exhibiting to passengers, coal-trimmers, cargo-workers, porters and
loafers, the performances that had been subject of signed contracts and
given on fine stages in beautiful music-halls and _cafes_, to refined
and appreciative audiences. Incidentally the girl learned much French
(little knowing how useful it was to prove), as well as smatterings of
Spanish, Greek, Turkish, English and Arabic.
So Carmelita had "assisted" the great Luigi in the times of his
prosperity and had striven to maintain him in eclipse, by quay-side,
public-house, workmen's dinner-hour, low _cafe_, back-yard,
gambling-den, and wine-shop exhibitions of her youthful skill, grace,
agility, and beauty--and had failed to make enough by that means. To
the end of her life poor Carmelita could never, never forget that
terrible time at Marseilles, try as she might to thrust it into the
background of her thoughts. For there, ever there, in the background it
remained, save when called to cruel prominence by some mischance, or at
rare intervals by the noble Luigi himself, when displeased by some
failure on the part of Carmelita. A terrible, terrible memory, for
Carmelita's nature was essentially virginal, delicate, and of crystal
purity. Where she loved she gave all--and Luigi was to Carmelita as
much her husband as if they had been married in every church they had
passed, in every cathedral they had seen, and by every _padre_ they had
met....
A terrible, terrible memory.... But Luigi's life was at stake and what
true woman, asked Carmelita, would not have taken the last step of all
(when every other failed) to raise the money necessary for doctors,
medicine, delicacies, food, fuel, and lodging? If, by thrusting her
right hand into the fire, Carmelita could have burnt away those haunting
and corroding Marseilles memories, then into the fire her right hand
would have been thrust. Yet, side by side with the self-horror and
self-disgust was no remorse nor repentance. If, to-morrow, Luigi's life
could only thus again be saved, thus saved should it be, as when at
Marseilles he lay convalescent but dying for lack of the money wherewith
to buy the delicacies that would save him.... Luigi's life always, and
at any time, before Carmelita's scruples and shrinkings.
In return, Luigi had been kind to her and had often spoken of
matrimony--some day--in spite of what she had done at Marseilles when he
was too ill to look after her, and provide her with all she needed.
Once even, when they were on the crest of a great wave of prosperity,
Luigi had gone so far as to mention her seventeenth birthday as a
possibly suitable date for their wedding. That had been a great and
glorious time, though all too short, alas! and the sequel to a brilliant
scheme devised by that poor dear Guiseppe Longigotto in the interests of
his beloved and adored friend Carmelita. Poor Guiseppe! He had
deserved as Carmelita was the first to admit, something better, than a
stab in the back from Luigi Rivoli, for the idea had been wholly and
solely his, until the great Roman sporting Impresario had taken it up
and developed it. First there was a tremendous syndicate-engineered
campaign of advertisement, which let all Europe know that _Il Famoso e
Piu Grande Professors Carlo Scopinaro_, Champion Wrestler of Europe,
America and Australia, would shortly meet the Egregious Egyptian, or
Conquering Copt, Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia, in Rome, and
wrestle him in the Graeco-Roman style, for the World's Championship and
ten thousand pounds a side. (Yes actually and authoritatively
_diecimila lire sterline_.) From every hoarding in Rome, Venice, Milan,
Turin, Genoa, Florence, Naples, Brindisi, and every other town in Italy,
huge posters called your attention to the beauties and marvels of the
smiling face and mighty form of the great Carlo Scopinaro; to the
horrors and terrors of the scowling face and enormous carcase of the
dreadful Conquering Copt. (To positively none but Luigi, Guiseppe, and
the renowned Roman Impresario was it known that the Conquering Copt was
none other than Luigi's old pal, Abdul Hamid, chucker-out at a Port Said
music-hall, and most modest and retiring of gentlemen--until this
greatness of Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia was suddenly thrust
upon him, and he was summoned from Port Said to Rome to be coached by
Luigi in the arts and graces of realistic stage-wrestling, and
particularly in those of life-like and convincing defeat after a long
and obviously terrible struggle.) ... Excitement was splendidly
engineered, the newspapers of every civilised country and of Germany
advertised the epoch-making event, speculated upon its result, and
produced interesting articles on such questions as, "_Should a
Colour-Line be drawn in Wrestling?_" and, "_Is Scopinaro the White
Hope?_" A self-advertising reverend Nonconformist announced his
intention in the English press of proceeding to Rome to create a
disturbance at the Match. He got himself frequently interviewed by
specimens of the genus, "Our representative," and the important fact
that he was a Conscientious Objector to all forms of sport was brought
to the notice of the Great British Public.
The struggle was magnificently staged and magnificently acted. Every
spectator in the vast theatre, no matter whether he had paid one hundred
lire or a paltry fifty centesimi for his seat, felt that he had had his
money's worth. In incredibly realistic manner the White Hope of Europe
and the Champion of Africa and Asia struck attitudes, cried "_Ha!_",
snatched at each other, stamped, straddled, pushed, pulled, embraced,
slapped, jerked, hugged, tugged, lugged, and lifted each other with
every appearance of fearful exertion, dauntless courage, fierce
determination and unparalleled skill for one crowded hour of glorious
life, during which the house went mad, rose at them to a man, and, with
tears and imprecations, called upon the Italian to be worthy of his
country and upon the Conquering Copt to be damned.
Few scenes in all the troubled history of Rome can have equalled, for
excitement, that which ensued when the White Hope finally triumphed, the
honour of Europe in general was saved, and that of Italy in particular
illuminated with a blaze of glory.
Anyhow, what was solid fact, with no humbug about it, was that Luigi
received the renowned Roman Impresario's fervid blessing and five
hundred pounds, while the complacent Abdul received blessings equally
fervid, though a less enthusiastic cheque. Both gentlemen were then
provided by the kind Impresario with single tickets to the most distant
spot he could induce them to name.
For Carmelita, the days following that on which her Luigi won the great
World's Championship match, were a glorious time of expensive dinners,
fine apartments, and beautiful clothes; a time of being _cafe_ and
music-hall patrons instead of performers; of being entertained instead
of entertaining. The joy of Carmelita's life while the five hundred
pounds lasted was to sit in a stage-box, proud and happy, beside her
noble Luigi, and criticise the various "turns" upon the stage. Never an
evening performance, nor a matinee did they miss, and Luigi drank a
quart of champagne at lunch, and another at dinner. Luigi must keep his
strength up, of course, and the soothing influence of innumerable Havana
cigars was not denied to his nerves.
And then, just as the five hundred pounds was finished, a wretched
Russian (quickly followed by an American, two Russians, a Turk, a
Frenchman, and an Englishman) publicly challenged Luigi in the press of
Europe, to wrestle for the Championship of the World in any style he
liked, for any amount he liked, when and where he liked--and that branch
of his profession was closed to Luigi--for these men were giants and
terrors, arranging no "crosses," stern fighters, and out for fame,
money, genuine sport, and the real Championship.
Then had come a time of poverty, straits, mean shifts and misery,
followed by Luigi's job as a "tamer" of tame lions. This post of
lion-tamer to a cageful of mangy, weary lions, captive-born,
pessimistic, timid and depressed, had been secured by Guiseppe
Longigotto, and handed over to Luigi (on its proving safe and
satisfactory), in the interests of Giuseppe's adored and hungry
Carmelita. Arrayed in the costume worn by all the Best Lion-tamers,
Luigi looked a truly noble figure, as, with flashing eyes and gleaming
teeth, he cracked the whip and fired the revolver that induced the bored
and disgusted lions to amble round the cage, crouching and cringing in
humility and fear. That insignificant little rat, Guiseppe, was far more
in the picture, of course, as fiddler to the show, than he was in his
original role of tamer of the lions. Followed a bad time along the
African coast, culminating, at Algiers, in poor Guiseppe's impassioned
pleadings that Carmelita would marry him (and, leaving this dreadful
life of the road, live with him and his beautiful violin on the banked
proceeds of his great Wrestling Championship scheme), Luigi's jealousy,
his overbearing airs of proprietorship, his drunken cruelty, his
presuming on her love and obedience to him until she sought to give him
a fright and teach him a lesson, his killing of the poor, pretty
musician, and his flight to Sidi-bel-Abbes....
To Sidi-bel-Abbes also fled Carmelita, and, with the proceeds of
Guiseppe's dying gift to her, eked out by promises of many things to
many people, such as Jew and Arab lessors and landlords, French dealers,
Spanish-Jew jobbers and contractors, and Negro labourers, contrived to
open La Cafe de la Legion, to run it with herself as proprietress,
manageress, barmaid, musician, singer, actress, and _danseuse_, and to
make it pay to the extent of a daily franc, bottle of Chianti, and a
macaroni, polenta, or spaghetti meal for Luigi, and a very meagre living
for herself. When in need of something more, Carmelita performed at
matinees at the music-hall and at private stances in Arab and other
houses, in the intervals of business. When professional dress would have
rendered her automatic pistol conspicuous and uncomfortable, Carmelita
carried a most serviceable little dagger in her hair. Also she let it
be known among her patrons of the Legion that she was going to a certain
house, garden, or _cafe_ at a certain time, and might be there enquired
for if unduly delayed. Carmelita knew the seamy side of life in
Mediterranean ports, and African littoral and hinterland towns, and took
no chances....
And by-and-by her splendid and noble Luigi would marry her, and they
would go to America--where that little matter of manslaughter would
never crop up and cause trouble--and live happily ever after.
So, faithful, loyal, devoted, Carmelita might be; generous, chaste, and
brave, Carmelita might be--but alas! not refined, not genteel, not above
telling a Chasseur d'Afrique what she thought of him and his insults;
not above spitting at a leering, gesture-making Spahi. No lady....
"_Ben venuti, Signori!_" cried Carmelita on catching sight of Il Signor
Jean Boule and the Bucking Bronco. "_Soyez le bien venu, Monsieur Jean
Boule et Monsieur Bronco. Che cosa posso offrirvi?_" and, as they
seated themselves at a small round table near the bar, hastened to bring
the wine favoured by these favoured customers--the so gentle English
Signor, _gentilhomme_, (doubtless once a _milord_, a _nobile_), and the
so gentle, foolish Americano, so slow and strong, who looked at her with
eyes of love, kind eyes, with a good true love. No _milordino_ he, no
_piccol Signor_ (but nevertheless a good man, a _uomo dabbene_, most
certainly...)
Reginald Rupert was duly presented as Legionnaire Rupert, with all
formality and ceremony, to the Madamigella Carmelita, who ran her
bright, black eye over him, summed him up as another _gentiluomo_, an
obvious _gentilhomme_, pitied him, and wondered what he had "done."
Carmelita loved a "gentleman" in the abstract, although she loved Luigi
Rivoli in the concrete; adored aristocrats in general, in spite of the
fact that she adored Luigi Rivoli in particular. To her experienced and
observant young eye, Legionnaire Jean Boule and this young _bleu_ were
of the same class, the _aristocratico_ class of _Inghilterra_; birds of
a feather, if not of a nest. They might be father and son, so alike
were they in their difference from the rest. So different even from the
English-speaking Americano, so different from her Luigi. But then, her
Luigi was no mere broken aristocrat; he was the World's Champion
Wrestler and Strong Man, a great and famous Wild Beast Tamer, and--her
Luigi.
"_Buona sera, Signor_," said Carmelita to Rupert. "_Siete venuto per la
via di Francie?_" and then, in Legion-French and Italian, proceeded to
comment upon the new recruit's appearance, his _capetti riccioluti_ and
to enquire whether he used the _calamistro_ and _ferro da ricci_ to
obtain the fine crisp wave in his hair.
Not at all a refined and ladylike maiden, and very, very far from the
standards of Surbiton, not to mention Balham.
Reginald Rupert (to whom love and war were the two things worth living
for), on understanding the drift of the lady's remarks, proposed
forthwith "to cross the bar" and "put out to see" whether he could not
give her a personal demonstration of the art of hair-curling, but--
"_Non vi pigliate fastidio_," said Carmelita. "Don't trouble yourself
Signor Azzurro--Monsieur Bleu. And if Signor Luigi Rivoli should enter
and see the young Signor on my side of the bar--Luigi's side of the
bar--why, one look of his eye would so make the young Signor's hair curl
that, for the rest of his life, the _calamistro_, the curling-tongs,
would be superfluous."
"Yep," chimed in the Bucking Bronco. "I guess as haow it's about time
yure Loojey's bright eyes got closed, my dear, an' I'm goin' ter bung
'em both up one o' these fine days, when I got the cafard. Yure
Loojey's a great lady-killer an' recruit-killer, we know, an' he can
talk a tin ear on a donkey. I say _Il parlerait une oreille d'etain sur
un ane_. Yure Loojey'd make a hen-rabbit git mad an' bark. I say
_Votre Loojey causer ait une lapine devenir fou et ecorcer_. I got it
in fer yure Loojey. I say _Je l'ai dans pour votre Loojey_....
Comprenny? _Intendete quel che dico?_" and the Bucking Bronco drank off
a pint of wine, drew his tiny, well-thumbed French dictionary from one
pocket and his "Travellers' Italian Phrase-book" from another, cursed
the Tower of Babel, and all foreign tongues, and sought words wherewith
to say that it was high time for Luigi Rivoli "to quit beefin' aroun'
Madam lar Canteenair, to wipe off his chin considerable, to cease being
a sticker, a sucker, and a skinamalink girl-sponging meal-and-money
cadger; and to quit tellin' stories made out o' whole cloth,[#] that cut
no ice with nobody except Carmelita."
[#] Untrue.
This young lady gathered that, as usual, the poor, silly jealous
Americano was belittling and insulting her Luigi, if not actually
threatening him. _Him_, who could break any Americano across his knee.
With a toss of her head and a contemptuous "Invidioso! Scioccone!" for
the Bronco, a flick on the nose with the _krenfell_ flower from her ear
for Rupert, a blown kiss for _Babbo_ Jean Boule, Carmelita flitted away,
going from table to table to minister to the mental, moral, and physical
needs of her other devoted Legionnaires as they arrived--men of strange
and dreadful lives who loved her then and there, who remembered her
thereafter and elsewhere, and who sent her letters, curios, pressed
flowers and strange presents from the ends of the earth where flies the
_tricouleur_, and the Flag of the Legion--in Tonkin, Madagascar,
Senegal, Morocco, the Sahara--in every Southern Algerian station
wherever the men of the Legion tramped to their death to the strains of
the regimental march of "_Tiens, voila du boudin_."
"Advise me, Mam'zelle," said a young Frenchman of the Midi, rising to
his feet with a flourish of his kepi and a sweeping bow, as Carmelita
approached the table at which he and three companions sat, "Advise me as
to the investment of this wealth, fifty centimes, all at once. Shall it
be five glorious green absinthes or five _chopes_ of the wine of
Algiers?--or shall I warm my soul with burning bapedi...?"
"Four bottles of wine is what you want for Andre, Raoul, Leon, and
yourself," was the reply. "Absinthe is the mamma and the papa and all
the ancestors of _le cafard_ and you are far too young and tender for
bapedi. It mingles not well with mother's milk, that...."
In the extreme corner of the big, badly-lit room, a Legionary sat alone,
his back to the company, his head upon his folded arms. Passing near,
on her tour of ministration, Carmelita's quick eye and ear perceived
that the man was sobbing and weeping bitterly. It might be the poor
Grasshopper passing through one of his terrible dark hours, and
Carmelita's kind heart melted with pity for the poor soul, smartest of
soldiers, and maddest of madmen.
Going over to where he sat apart, Carmelita bent over him, placed her
arm around his neck, and stroked his glossy dark hair.
"_Pourquoi faites-vous Suisse, mon pauvre?_" she murmured with a
motherly caress. "What is it? Tell Carmelita." The man raised his face
from his arms, smiled through his tears and kissed the hand that rested
on his shoulder. The handsome and delicate face, the small, well-kept
hands, the voice, were those of a man of culture and refinement.
"_I ja nai ka!_--How delightful!" he said. "You will make things right.
I am to be made _machi-bugiyo_, governor of the city to-morrow, and I
wish to remain a Japanese lady. I do not want to lay aside the
_suma-goto_ and _samisen_ for the _wakizashi_ and the _katana_--the lute
for the dagger and sword. I don't want to sit on a _tokonoma_ in a
_yashiki_ surrounded by _karo_...."
"No, no, no, mon cher, you shall not indeed. See le bon Dieu and le bon
Jean Boule will look after you," said Carmelita, gently stroking his hot
forehead and soothing him with little crooning sounds and caresses as
though he had really been the child that, in mind and understanding, he
was.
John Bull, followed by Rupert, unobtrusively joined Carmelita. Seating
himself beside the unhappy man, he took his hands and gazed steadily
into his suffused eyes.
"Tell me all about it, Cigale," said he. "You know we can put it right.
When has Jean Boule failed to explain and arrange things for you?"
The madman repeated that he dreaded to have to sit on the raised dais of
the Palace of a Governor of a City surrounded by officials and advisers.
"I know I should soon be involved in a _kataki-uchi_ with a neighbouring
clan, and have to commit hara-kiri if I failed to keep the Mikado's
peace. It is terrible. You don't know how I long to remain a lady. I
want silk and music and cherry-blossom instead of steel and blood," and
again he laid his head upon his arms and continued his low, hopeless
sobbing.
Reginald Rupert's face expressed blank astonishment at the sight of the
weeping soldier.
"What's up?" he said.
Legionnaire John Bull tapped his forehead.
"Poor chap will behave _more Japonico_ for the rest of the day now. I
fancy he's been an attache 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 chere,
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 Attache 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 Cafe de la
Legion, outstaying the latest visitors. And that time was also the time
when Madame la Cantiniere 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 Legionnaires who had no
axe to grind and who were not jealous of Luigi's fortune, had
undoubtedly coupled his name with that of Madame....
"An' haow did yew find yure little way to our dope-joint hyar?" the
Bucking Bronco enquired of Mikhail Kyrilovitch, as he did the honours of
Carmelita's "joint" to the three _bleus_ who had entered while John Bull
was talking to the Grasshopper.
"Well, since you arx, we jest ups an' follers you, old bloke, when yer
goes aht wiv these two uvver Henglish coves," replied the Cockney.
The American regarded him with the eye of large and patient tolerance.
He preferred the Russians, particularly Mikhail, and rejoiced that they
spoke English. It would have been too much to have attempted to add a
working knowledge of Russian to his other linguistic stores.
Nevertheless, he would, out of compliment to their nationality, produce
such words of their strange tongue as he could command. It might serve
to make them feel more at home like.
"I'm afraid I can't ask yew moojiks ter hev a little caviare an' wodky,
becos' Carmelita is out of it.... But there's cawfy in the sammy-var I
hev no doubt," he said graciously.
The Russians thanked him, and Feodor pledging him in a glass of
absinthe, promised to teach him the art of concocting _lompopo_, while
Mikhail quietly sipped his glass of sticky, sweet Algerian wine.
Restless Carmelita joined the group, and her friend Jean Boule
introduced the three new patrons.
"Prahd an' honoured, Miss, I'm shore," said the Cockney. "'Ave a
port-an'-lemon or thereabahts?"
But Carmelita was too interested in the startling similarity of the
twins to pay attention to the civilities and blandishments of the
Cockney, albeit he surreptitiously wetted his fingers with wine and
smoothed his smooth and shining "cowlick" or "quiff" (the highly
ornamental fringe which, having descended to his eyebrows, turned
aspiringly upward).
"_Gemello_," she murmured, turning from Feodor and his cheery greeting
to Mikhail, who responded with a graceful little bow, suddenly
terminated and changed to a curt nod, like that given by Feodor. As
Carmelita continued her direct gaze, a dull flush grew and mantled over
his face.
"_Cielo_! But how the boy blushes! Now is it for his own sins, or
mine, I wonder?" laughed Carmelita, pointing accusingly at poor
Mikhail's suffused face.
"Gawdstreuth! Can't 'e blush," remarked Mr. Higgins.
The dull flush became a vivid, burning blush under Carmelita's pointing
finger, and the regard of the amused Legionaries.
"Corpo di Bacco!" laughed the teasing girl. "A blushing Legionary! The
dear, sweet, good boy. If only _I_ could blush like that. And he
brings his blushes to Madame la Republique's Legion. Well, it is not
_porta vasi a Samo!_"[#]
[#] Lit., "to carry coals to Newcastle."
"Never mind, Sonny," said the American soothingly, "there's many a worse
stunt than blushin'. I uster use blushes considerable meself--when I
was a looker 'bout yure age." He translated.
Carmelita's laughter pealed out again at the idea of the blushing
American. Feodor's laughter mingled with Carmelita's, but sounded
forced.
"Isn't it funny?" he remarked. "My brother has always been like that,
but believe me, Padrona, I could not blush to save my life."
"Si, si," laughed Carmelita. "You have sinned and he has blushed--all
your lives, is it not so--le pauvre petit?" and saucily rubbed the side
of Mikhail's crimson face with the backs of her fingers--and looked
unwontedly thoughtful as he jerked his head away with a look of
annoyance.
"La, la, la!" said Carmelita. "Musn't he be teased then?..."
"Come, Signora," broke in Feodor again, "you're making him blush worse
than ever. Such kindness is absolutely wasted. Now I..."
"No, _you_ wouldn't blush with shame and fright, no, nor yet with
innocence, would you, Signor Feodor? _E un peccato!_" replied the girl,
and lightly brushed his cheek as she spoke.
The good Feodor did not blush, but the look of thoughtfulness deepened
on Carmelita's face.
To the finer perceptions of John Bull there seemed to be something
strained and discomfortable in the atmosphere. Carmelita had fallen
silent, Feodor seemed annoyed and anxious, Mikhail frightened and
anxious, and Mr. 'Erb 'Iggins of too gibing a humour.
"You are making me positively jealous, Signora Carmelita, and leaving me
thirsty," he said, and with a small repentant squeal Carmelita flitted
to the bar.
"Would you like a biscuit too, Signor Jean Boule?" she called, and
tossed one across to him as she spoke. John Bull neatly caught the
biscuit as it flew somewhat wide. Carmelita, like most women, could not
throw straight.
"_Tiro maestro,_" she applauded, and launched another at the unprepared
Mikhail with a cry of "Catch, _goffo_." Instinctively, he "made a lap"
and spread out his hands.
"_Esattamente!_" commented Carmelita beneath her breath and apparently
lost interest in the little group....
A quartet of Legionaries swaggered into the _cafe_ and approached the
bar--Messieurs Malvin, Borges, Bauer and Hirsch, henchmen and satellites
of Luigi Rivoli--and saluted to Carmelita's greeting of "Buona sera,
Signori...."
"Bonsoir, M. Malvin," added she to the dapper, low-bowing Austrian,
whose evil face, with its close-set ugly eyes, sharp crooked nose, waxed
moustache, and heavy jowl, were familiar to her as those of one of
Luigi's more intimate followers. "Where is Signor Luigi Rivoli
to-night? He has no guard duty?"
"No, mia signora--er--that is--yes," replied Malvin in affected
discomfort. "He is--ah--on duty."
"On duty in the Canteen?" asked Carmelita, flushing.
"What do I know of the comings and goings of the great Luigi Rivoli?"
answered Malvin. "Doubtless he will fortify himself with a litre of
wine at Madame's bar in the Canteen before walking down here."
"Luigi Rivoli drinks no sticky Algerian wine," said Carmelita angrily
and her eyes and teeth flashed dangerously. "He drinks Chianti from
Home. He never enters her Canteen."
"Ah! So?" murmured Malvin in a non-committal manner. And then
Carmelita's anxiety grew a little greater--greater even than her dislike
and distrust of M. Edouard Malvin, and she did what she had never done
before. She voiced it to him.
"Look you, Monsieur Malvin, tell me the truth. I will not tell my Luigi
that you have accused him to me, or say that you have spoken ill of him
behind his back. Tell me the truth. _Is_ he in the Canteen? Tell me,
cher Monsieur Malvin."
"Have I the double sight, bella Carmelita? How should I know where le
Legionnaire 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 Cantiniere and the Legion's Canteen, what better than
Carmelita and the Cafe de la Legion for a poor hungry and thirsty
soldier? If the great Luigi must win the greater prize let the little
Malvin win the lesser. To which end let him curry favour with La Belle
Carmelita--just as far as such a course of action did not become
premature, and lead to a painful interview with an incensed Luigi
Rivoli.
"Tell me the truth, cher Monsieur Malvin. Where is my Luigi?" again
asked Carmelita pleadingly.
"_Donna e Madonna_," replied the good M. Malvin, with piteous eyes,
broken voice, and protecting hand placed gently over that of Carmelita
which lay clenched upon the zinc-covered bar. "What shall I say? Luigi
Rivoli is a giant among men--I, a little fat _deboletto_, a _sparutello_
whom the great Luigi could kill with one hand. Though I love Carmelita,
I fear Luigi. How shall I tell of his doings with that husband-seeking
_puttana_ of the Canteen; of his serving behind the bar, helping her,
taking her money, drinking her wine (wine of Algiers); of his passionate
and burning prayers that she will marry him? How can I, his friend,
tell of those things? But oh! Carmelita, my poor honest heart is
wrung..." and le bon Monsieur Malvin paused to hope that his neck also
would not be wrung as the result of this moving eloquence.
For a moment Carmelita's eyes blazed and her hands and her little white
teeth clenched. Mother of God! if Luigi played her false after all she
had done for him, after all she had given him--given _for_ him!... But
no, it was unthinkable.... This Malvin was an utter knave and liar, and
would fool her for his own ends--the very man _fare un pesce d'Aprile a
qualcuno_. He should see how far his tricks succeeded with Carmelita of
the Legion, the chosen of Carlo Scopinaro! And yet ... and yet... She
would ask Il Signor Jean Boule again. He would never lie. He would
neither backbite Luigi Rivoli, nor stand by and see Carmelita deceived.
Yes, she would ask Jean Boule, and then if he _too_ accused Luigi she
would find some means to see and hear for herself.... Trust her woman's
wit for that. And meantime this serpent of a Malvin...
"_Se ne vada!_" she hissed, whirling upon him suddenly, and pointed to
the door. Malvin slunk away, by no means anxious to be present at the
scene which would certainly follow should Luigi enter before Carmelita's
mood had changed. He would endeavour to meet and delay him....
"What do yew say to acontinuin' o' this hyar gin-crawl?" asked the
Bucking Bronco of Rupert. "Come and see our other pisen-joint and Madame
lar Cantenair."
"Anything you like," replied Rupert.
"Let's go out when they do," said Mikhail quickly, in Russian, to
Feodor.
"All right, silly Olka," was the whispered reply.
"Silly Fedka, to call me Olka," was the whispered retort. "You're a
pretty _budotchnik_,[#] aren't you?"
[#] Guardian, watchman.
"Yus," agreed Mr. 'Erb Higgins, nodding cordially to Rupert, and
bursting into appropriate and tuneful song--
"Come where the booze is cheaper,
Come where the pots 'old more,
Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
Ho! come to the pub next door."
Evidently a sociable and expansive person, easily thawed by a _chope_ of
cheap wine withal; neither standoffish nor haughty, for he thrust one
friendly arm through that of Jean Boule, and another round the waist of
Reginald Rupert. Let it not be supposed that it was under the influence
of liquor rather than of sheer, expansive geniality that 'Erb proposed
to walk _a braccetto_, as Carmelita observed, with his new-found
friends....
As the party filed out of the _cafe_, 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.