THE SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING
Legionnaire John Bull sat on the edge of his cot at the hour of
_astiquage_. Though his body was in the _chambree_ of the Seventh
Company, his mind, as usual, was in England, and his thoughts, as usual,
played around the woman whom he knew as Marguerite, and the world as
Lady Huntingten.
What _could_ he do next year when his third and last period of Legion
service expired? Where could he possibly hide in such inviolable
anonymity that there was no possible chance of any rumour arising that
the dead Sir Montague Merline was in the land of the living? ... How had
it happened that he had survived the wounds and disease that he had
suffered in Tonkin, Madagascar, Dahomey, and the Sahara--the stake-trap
pit into which he had fallen at Nha-Nam--the bullet in his neck from the
Malagasy rifle--the hack from the _coupe-coupe_ which had split his
collar-bone in that ghastly West African jungle--the lance-thrust that
had torn his arm from elbow to shoulder at Elsefra?
It was an absolute and undeniable fact that the man who desired to die
in battle could never do it; while he who had everything to live for,
was among the first to fall. If they went South again to-morrow and
were cut up in a sudden Arab _razzia_, he would be the sole survivor.
But if a letter arrived on the previous day, stating that Lord
Huntingten was dead leaving no children, and that Lady Huntingten had
just heard of his survival and longed for his return--would he survive
that fight? Most certainly not.
What to do at the end of the fifteenth year of his service? His face
had been far too well known among the class of people who passed through
Marseilles to India and elsewhere--who winter on the Riviera, who golf
at Biarritz, who recuperate at Vichy or Aix, who go to Paris in the
Spring; and who, in short, are to be found in various parts of France at
various times of the year--for him to dream of using the Legion's free
pass to any part of France. The risk might be infinitesimal, but it
existed, and he would run no risk of ruining Marguerite's life, after
more than twenty-five years.
She must be over forty-five now.... Had time dealt kindly with her?
Was she as beautiful as ever? Sure to be. Marguerite was of the type
that would ripen, mature, and improve until well on into middle life.
Who was the eminent man who said that a woman was not interesting until
she was forty?...
What would he not give for a sight of Marguerite? It would be easy
enough, next year. Only next year--and it was a thousand to one, a
million to one, against anyone recognising him if he were well disguised
and thoroughly careful. Just one sight of Marguerite--after more than
twenty-five years! Had he not made sacrifices enough? Might he not
take _that_ much reward for half a lifetime of life in death--a lifetime
which his body dragged wretchedly and wearily along among the dregs of
the earth, while his mind haunted the home of his wife, a home in which
another man was lord and master. Was it much to ask--one glimpse of his
wife after twenty-seven years of renunciation?
"Miserable, selfish cur!" he murmured aloud as he melted a piece of wax
in the flame of a match. "You would risk the happiness of your wife,
your old friend, and their children--all absolutely innocent of
wrong--for the sake of a minute's self-indulgence.... Be ashamed of
yourself, you whining weakling...."
It had become a habit of Legionnaire John Bull to talk to himself aloud,
when alone--a habit he endeavoured to check as he had recently, on more
than one occasion, found himself talking aloud in the company of others.
Having finished the polishing of his leather-work, he took his Lebel
rifle from the rack and commenced to clean it. As he threw open the
chamber, he paused, the bolt in his right hand, the rifle balanced in
his left. Someone was running with great speed along the corridor
toward the room. What was up? Was it a case of _Faites le sac_? Would
the head of an excited and delighted Legionary be thrust in at the door
with a yell of--"_Aux armes! Faites le sac_"?
The door burst open and in rushed Mikhail Kyrilovitch, bare-headed,
coatless, with staring eyes and blanched cheeks.
"Save me, save me, Monsieur," he shrieked, rushing towards the old
Legionary. "Save me--_I am a woman_...."
"Good God!" ejaculated Legionary John Bull, involuntarily glancing from
the face to the flat chest of the speaker.
"I am a girl," sobbed the _soi-disant_ Mikhail.... "I am a girl.... And
that loathsome beast Luigi Rivoli has found me out.... He's coming....
He chased me.... What shall I do? What _shall_ I do? Poor Feodor...."
As Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli entered the room, panting slightly with his
unwonted exertions, the girl crouched behind John Bull, her face in her
hands, her body shaken by deep sobs. It had all happened so quickly
that John Bull found himself standing with his gun balanced, still in
the attitude into which he had frozen on hearing the running feet
without.
So it had come, had it--and he was to try conclusions with Luigi Rivoli
at last? Well, it should be no inconclusive rough-and-tumble. Perhaps
this was the solution of his problem, and might settle, once and for
all, the question of his future?
"Ho-ho! Ho-ho!" roared the Neapolitan, "she's your girl, is she, you
_aristocratico Inglese_? Ho-ho! You are _faisant Suisse_ are you?
Ho-ho! Your own private girl in the very _chambree_! Corpo di Bacco!
You shall learn the penalty for breaking the Legion's first law of
share-and-share-alike. Get out of my way, _cane Inglese_."
John Bull closed the breech of his rifle, and pointed the weapon at
Rivoli's broad breast.
"Stand back," he said quietly. "Stand back, you foul-mouthed scum of
Naples, or I'll blow your dirty little soul out of your greasy carcase."
He raised his voice slightly. "Stand back, you dog, do you hear?" he
added, advancing slightly towards his opponent.
Luigi Rivoli gave ground. The rifle might be loaded. You never knew
with these cursed, quiet Northerners, with their cold, pale eyes....
The rifle might be loaded.... Rivoli was well aware that every
Legionary makes it his business to steal a cartridge sooner or later,
and keeps it by him for emergencies, be they of suicide, murder,
self-defence, or desertion.... The Englishman had been standing in the
attitude of one who loads a rifle at the moment of his entrance.
Perhaps his girl had told him of the discovery and assault, and he had
been loading the rifle to avenge her.
"Listen to me, Luigi Rivoli," said John Bull, still holding the rifle
within a foot of the Italian's breast. "Listen, and I'll tell you what
you are. Then I will tell the Section what you are, when they come
in.... Then I will tell the whole Company.... Then I will stand on a
table in the Canteen and shout it, night after night.... This is what
you are. You are a coward. A _coward_, d'you hear?--a miserable,
shrinking, frightened coward, who dare not fight...."
"Fight! _Iddio_! _Fight_! Put down that rifle and I'll tear you limb
from limb. Come down into the square and I will break your back. Come
down now--and fight for the girl."
"... A trembling, frightened coward who dare not fight, and who calls
punching, and hugging and kicking 'fighting.' I challenge you to fight,
Luigi Rivoli, with rifles--at one hundred yards and no cover; or with
revolvers, at ten paces; or with swords of any sort or kind--if it's
only sword-bayonets. Will you fight, or will you be known as _Rivoli the
Coward_ throughout both Battalions of the Legion?"
Rivoli half-crouched for a spring, and straightway the rifle sprang to
the Englishman's shoulder, as his eyes blazed and his fingers fell round
the trigger. Rivoli recoiled.
"I don't want to shoot you, unarmed, Coward," he said quietly. "I am
going to shoot you, or stab you, or slash you, in fair fight--or else
you shall kneel and be christened _Rivoli the Coward_ on the barrack
square.... I've had enough of you, and so has everybody--unless it's
your gang of pimps.... Now go. Go on--get out.... Go on--before I
lose patience. Clear out--and make up your mind whether you will fight
or be christened."
"Oh, I'll fight you--you mangy old cur. You are brave enough with a
loaded rifle, eh? Mother of Christ! I'll send you where the birds
won't trouble you.... Shoot me in the back as I go, Brave Man with a
Gun"--and Luigi Rivoli departed, in a state of horrid doubt and
perturbation.... This cursed Englishman meant what he said....
Legionary John Bull lowered his rifle with a laugh, and became aware of
the fact that the Russian girl was hugging his leg in a way which would
have effectually hampered him in the event of a struggle, and which made
him feel supremely ridiculous.
"Get up, _petite_," he said bending over her, as she lay moaning and
weeping. "It's all right--he's gone. He won't trouble you again, for I
am going to kill him. Come and lie on your bed and tell me all about
it.... We must make up our minds as to what will be the best thing to
do.... Rivoli will tell everybody."
He helped the girl to her feet, partly led and partly carried her to her
bed, and laid her on it.
Holding his lean brown hand between her little ones, in a voice broken
and choked with sobs, she told him something of her story--a sad little
story all too common.
The listener gathered that the two were children of a prominent
revolutionary who had disappeared into Siberia, after what they
considered a travesty of a trial. They had been students at the
University of Moscow, and had followed in their father's political
footsteps from the age of sixteen. Their youth and inexperience, their
fanatical enthusiasm, and their unselfish courage, had, in a few years,
brought them to a point at which they must choose between death or the
horrors of prison and Siberia on the one hand, and immediate flight, and
most complete and utter evanishment on the other. When his beloved twin
sister had been chosen by the Society as an "instrument," Feodor's heart
had failed him. He had disobeyed the orders of the Central Committee;
he had coerced the girl; he had made disclosures.
They had escaped to Paris. Before long it had been a question as to
whether they were in more imminent and terrible danger from the secret
agents of the Russian police or from those of the Nihilists. The sight
of the notice, "_Bureau de recruitment. Engagements volontaires_," over
the door of a dirty little house in the Rue St. Dominique had suggested
the Legion Etrangere, and a possible means of escape and five years'
safety.
But the Medical Examination? ...
Accompanied by a fellow-fugitive who was on his way to America, Feodor
had gone to the Bureau and they had enlisted, passed the doctor, and
received railway-passes to Marseilles, made out in the names of Feodor
and Mikhail Kyrilovitch; sustenance money; and orders to proceed by the
night train from the Gare de Lyons and report at Fort St. Jean in the
morning, if not met at the station by a Sergeant of the Legion. Their
compatriot had handed his travelling warrant to the girl (dressed in a
suit of Feodor's) ind had seen the twins off at the Gare de Lyons with
his blessing....
Monsieur Jean Boule knew the rest, and but for this hateful, bestial
Luigi Rivoli, all might have been well, for she was very strong, and had
meant to be very brave. Now, what should she do; what _should_ she do?
... And what would poor Feodor say when he came in from corvee and found
that she had let herself get caught like this at last? ... What could
they do?
And indeed, Sir Montague Merline did not know what a lady could do when
discovered in a _chambree_ of a _caserne_ of the French Foreign Legion
in Sidi-bel-Abbes. He did not know in the least. There was first the
attitude of the authorities to consider, and then that of the men.
Would a Court Martial hold that, having behaved as a man, she should be
treated as one, and kept to her bargain, or sent to join the Zephyrs?
Would they imprison her for fraud? Would they repatriate her? Would
they communicate with the Russian police? Or would they just fling her
out of the barrack-gate and let her go? There was probably no
precedent, whatever, to go upon.
And supposing the matter were hushed up in the _chambree_, and the
authorities never knew--would life be livable for the girl? Could he,
and Rupert, the Bucking Bronco, Herbert Higgins, Feodor, and perhaps one
or two of the more decent foreigners, such as Hans Djoolte, and old
Tant-de-Soif, ensure her a decent life, free from molestation and
annoyance? No, it couldn't be done. Life would be rendered utterly
impossible for her by gross animals of the type of Rivoli, Malvin, the
_Apache_, Hirsch, Bauer, Borges, and the rest of Rivoli's sycophants.
It was sufficiently ghastly, and almost unthinkable, to imagine a woman
in that sink when nobody dreamed she was anything but what she seemed.
How could one contemplate a woman, who was _known_ to be a woman, living
her life, waking and sleeping, in such a situation? The more devotedly
her bodyguard shielded and protected her, the more venomously determined
would the others be to annoy, insult and injure her in a thousand
different ways. It would be insupportable, impossible.... But of
course it could not be kept from the authorities for a week. What was
to be done?
As he did his utmost to soothe the weeping girl, clumsily patting her
back, stroking her hands, and murmuring words of comfort and promises of
protection, Merline longed for the arrival of Rupert. He wanted to take
counsel with another English gentleman as to the best thing to be done
for this unfortunate woman. He dared not leave her weeping there alone.
Anybody might enter at any moment. Rivoli might return with the choicest
scoundrels of his gang.... Why did not the Bucking Bronco turn up?
When he and Rupert arrived there would be an accession of brawn and of
brains that would be truly welcome.
Curiously enough, Sir Montague Merline's insular Englishness had
survived fourteen years of life in a cosmopolitan society, speaking a
foreign tongue in a foreign land, with such indestructible sturdiness
that it was upon the Anglo-Saxon party that he mentally relied in this
strait. He had absolutely forgotten that it was the girl's own brother
who was her natural protector, and upon whom lay the onus of discovering
the solution of this insoluble problem and extricating the girl from her
terrible position.
What could he do? It was all very well to say that the three Englishmen
and the American would protect her, that night, by forming a
sentry-group and watching in turn--but how long could that go on? It
would be all over the barracks to-morrow, and known to the authorities a
few hours later. Oh, if he could only do her up in a parcel and post
her to Marguerite with just a line, "_Please take care of this poor
girl.--Monty._" Marguerite would keep her safe enough.... But thinking
nonsense wasn't helping. He would load his rifle in earnest, and settle
scores with Luigi Rivoli, once and for all, if he returned with a gang
to back him. Incidentally, that would settle his own fate, for it would
mean a Court Martial at Oran followed by a firing-party, or penal
servitude in the Zephyrs, and, at his age, that would only be a slower
death.
All very well for him and Rivoli, but what of the girl? ... What ghastly
danger it must have been that drove them to such a dreadful expedient.
Truly the Legion was a net for queer fish. Poor, plucky little soul,
what could he do for her?
Never since he wore the two stars[#] of a British Captain had he longed,
as he did at that moment, for power and authority. If only he were a
Captain again, Captain of the Seventh Company, the girl should go
straight to his wife, or some other woman. Suddenly he rose to his
feet, his face illuminated by the brilliance of the idea which had
suddenly entered his mind.
[#] Since increased to three, of course.
"_Carmelita!_" he almost shouted to the empty room. He bent over the
crying girl again, and shook her gently by the shoulder.
"I have it, little one," he said. "Thank God! Yes--it's a chance. I
believe I have a plan. Carmelita! Let's get out of this at once,
straight to the Cafe de la Legion. Carmelita has a heart of gold...."
The girl half sat up. "She may be a kind girl--but she's Luigi Rivoli's
mistress," she said. "She would do anything he ordered."
"Carmelita considers herself Rivoli's wife," replied the Englishman,
"and so she would be, if he were not the biggest blackguard unhung.
Very well, he can hardly go to the woman who is practically his wife and
say, 'Hand over the woman you are hiding.'"
"When a woman loves a man she obeys him," said the girl, and added with
innocent naivete, "And I will obey you, Monsieur Jean Boule.... Anyhow,
it is a hope--in a position which is hopeless."
"Get into walking-out kit quickly," urged the old soldier, "and see the
Sergeant of the Guard has no excuse for turning you back. The sooner
we're away the better.... I wish Rupert and the Bronco would roll
up.... If you can get to Carmelita's unseen, and change back into a
girl, you could either hide with Carmelita for a time, or simply desert
in feminine apparel."
"And Feodor?" asked the Russian. "Will they shoot him? I can't
leave..."
"Bother Feodor," was the quick reply. "One soldier is not responsible
because another deserts. Let's get you safe to Carmelita's, and then
I'll find Feodor and tell him all about it."
Hiram Cyrus Milton, entering the room bare-footed and without noise, was
not a little surprised to behold a young soldier fling his arms about
the neck of the eminently staid and respectable Legionary John Bull,
with a cry of--
"Oh, may God reward you, kind good Monsieur."
"Strike me blue and balmy," ejaculated the Bucking Bronco. "Ain't these
gosh-dinged furriners a bunch o' boobs? Say, John, air yew his
long-lost che-ild? It's a cinch. Where's that dod-gasted boy 'Erb fer
slow music on the jewzarp? ... Or is the lalapaloozer only a-smellin'
the roses on yure damask cheek?"
"Change quickly, _petite_," said John Bull to the girl as he pushed her
from him, and turned to the American.
"Come here, Buck," said he, taking the big man's arm and leading him to
the window.
"Don't say as haow yure sins hev' come home to roost, John? Did yew
reckernise the puling infant by the di'mond coronite on the locket, or
by the strawberry-mark in the middle of its back? Or was his name wrote
on the tail of his little shirt? Put me next to it, John. Make me wise
to the secret mystery of this 'ere drarmer."
The Bucking Bronco was getting more than a little jealous.
"I will, if you will give me a chance," replied John Bull curtly.
"Buck, that boy's a girl. Rivoli has found her out and acted as you
might expect. I suppose he spotted her in the wash-house or somewhere.
She rushed to me for protection, and the game's up. I am going to take
her to Carmelita."
The big American stared at his friend with open mouth.
"Yew git me jingled, John," he said slowly. "Thet little looker a
_gal_? Is this a story made out of whole cloth,[#] John?"
[#] Untrue.
"Get hold of it, Buck, quickly," was the reply. "The two Russians are
political refugees. Their number was up, in Russia, and they bolted to
Paris. Same in Paris--and they made a dash for here. Out of the
frying-pan into the fire. This one's a girl. Luigi Rivoli knows, and it
will be all over the barracks before to-night. She rushed straight to
me, and I am going to see her through. If you can think of anything
better than taking her to Carmelita, say so."
"I'll swipe the head off'n Mister Lousy Loojey Rivoli," growled the
American. "God smite me ef I don't. Thet's torn it, thet has.... The
damned yaller-dog Dago.... Thet puts the lid on Mister Loojey Rivoli,
thet does."
"_I'm_ going to deal with Rivoli, Buck," said John Bull.
"He'd crush yew with a b'ar's hug, sonny; he'd bust in yure ribs, an'
break yure back, an' then chuck yew down and dance on yew."
"He won't get the chance, Buck; it's not going to be a gutter-scrap.
When he chased the girl in here I challenged him to fight with bullet or
steel, and told him I'd brand him all over the shop till he was known as
'Rivoli the Coward,' or fought a fair and square duel.... Let's get the
girl out of this, and then we'll put Master Luigi Rivoli in his place
once and for all."
"Shake!" said the Bucking Bronco, extending a huge hand.
"Seen Rupert lately?" asked the Englishman.
"Yep," replied the other. "He's a-settin' on end a-rubberin' at his
pants in the lavabo."
"Good! Go and fetch him quick, Buck."
The American sped from the room without glancing at the girl, returning
a minute or two later with Rupert. The two men hurried to their
respective cots and swiftly changed from fatigue-dress into blue and
red.
"If Carmelita turns us down, let's all three desert and take the girl
with us," said Rupert to John Bull. "I have plenty of money to buy
mufti, disguises, and railway tickets. She would go as a woman of
course. We could be a party of tourists. Yes, that's it, English
tourists. Old Mendoza would fit us out--at a price."
"Thanks," was the reply. "We'll get her out somehow.... She'd stand a
far better chance alone though, probably. If suspicion fell on one of
us they'd arrest the lot."
"Say," put in the American. "Ef she can do the boy stunt, I reckon as
haow her brother oughter be able ter do the gal stunt ekally well. Ef
Carmelita takes her in, and fits her out with two of everything, her
brother could skedaddle and jine her, and put on the remainder of the
two-of-everything; then they ups and goes on pump as the Twin Sisters
Golightly, a-tourin' of the Crowned Heads of Yurrup, otherwise, as The
Twin Roosian Bally-Gals Skiporfski...."
"Smart idea," agreed Rupert. "I hope Carmelita takes her in. What the
devil shall we do with her if she won't? She can't very well spend the
night here after Luigi has put it about.... And what's her position
with regard to the authorities? Is it a case of Court Martial or toss
for her in the Officers' Mess, or what?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. Haven't the faintest idea," replied John Bull.
"If only Carmelita turns up trumps...."
"Seenyoreena Carmelita is the whitest little woman as ever lived,"
growled the American. "She's a blowed-in-the-glass heart-o'-gold. Yew
can put yure shirt on Carmelita.... Yew know what I mean--yure bottom
dollar.... Ef it wasn't fer that filthy Eye-talian sarpint, she'd jump
at the chance of giving this Roosian gal her last crust.... I don't
care John whether you shoot him up or nit. I'm gwine ter slug him till
Hell pops. Let him fight his dirtiest an' damnedest--I'll see him and
raise him every time, the double-dealin' gorilla...."
"I am ready, Monsieur," said the girl Olga to John Bull. "But I do not
want you, Monsieur, nor these other gentlemen, to make trouble for
yourselves on my account.... I have brought this on myself, and there
is no reason why you..."
"Oh, shucks! Come on, little gal," broke in the Bucking Bronco. "We'll
see yew through. We ain't Loojeys...."
"Of course, we will. We shall be only too delighted," agreed Rupert.
"Don't you worry."
"Pull yourself together and swagger all you can," advised John Bull.
"It might ruin everything if the Sergeant of the Guard took it into his
head to turn you back. I wonder if we had better go through in a gang,
or let you go first? If we are all together there is less likelihood of
excessive scrutiny of any one of us, but on the other hand it may be
remembered that you were last seen with us three, and that might hamper
our future usefulness.... Just as well Feodor isn't here.... Tell you
what, you and I will go out together, and I'll use my wits to divert
attention from you if we are stopped. The others can come a few minutes
later, or as soon as someone else has passed."
"That's it," agreed Rupert; "come on."
With beating hearts, the old soldier and the young girl approached the
little side door by the huge barrack-gates. Close by it stood the
Sergeant of the Guard. Their anxiety increased as they realised that it
was none other than Sergeant Legros, one of the most officious,
domineering and brutal of the Legion's N.C.O.'s. Luck was against them.
He would take a positive delight in standing by that door the whole
evening and in turning back every single man whose appearance gave him
the slightest opportunity for fault-finding, as well as a good many
whose appearance did not.
As they drew near and saluted smartly, the little piggish eyes of
Sergeant Legros took in every detail of their uniform. The girl felt
the blood draining from her cheeks. What if they had made a mistake?
What if red trousers and blue tunic should be wrong, and the _ordre du
jour_ should be white trousers and blue tunic or capote? What if she
had a button undone or her bayonet on the wrong side? What if Sergeant
Legros should see, or imagine a speck upon her tunic? ... Had she been
under his evil gaze for hours? Was the side of the Guard House miles in
length? ... Thank God, they were through the gate and free. Free for
the moment, and if the good God were merciful she was free for ever from
the horrors and fears of that terrible place. Could anything worse
befall her? Yes, there were worse places for a girl than a barrack-room
of the French Foreign Legion. There was a Russian prison--there was the
dark prison-van and warder--there was the journey to Siberia--there was
Siberia itself. Yes, there were worse places than that she had just
left--until her secret was discovered. A thousand times worse. And she
thought of her friend, that poor girl who had been less fortunate than
she. Poor, poor Marie! Would she herself be sent back to Russia to
share Marie's fate, if these brave Englishmen and Carmelita failed to
save her? What would become of Feodor? ... Did this noble Englishman,
with the gentle face, love this girl Carmelita? ... Might not
Carmelita's house be a very trap if the loathsome Italian brute owned
its owner?...
"Let's stroll slowly now, my dear," said John Bull, "and let the others
overtake us. The more the merrier, if we should run into Rivoli and his
gang, or if he is already at Carmelita's. I don't think he will be. I
fancy he puts in the first part of his evening with Madame la
Cantiniere, and goes down to Carmelita's later for his dinner.... If he
should be there I don't quite see what line he can take in front of
Carmelita. He could hardly molest you in front of the woman whom he
pretends he is going to marry, and I don't see on what grounds he could
raise any objection to her befriending you.... It's a deuced awkward
position--for the fact that I intend to kill Rivoli, if I can, hardly
gives me a claim on Carmelita. She loves the very ground the brute
treads on, you know, and it would take me, or anybody else, a precious
long time to persuade her that the man who rid the world of Luigi Rivoli
would be her very best friend.... He's the most noxious and poisonous
reptile I have ever come across, and I believe she is one of the best of
good little women.... It is a hole we're in. We've got to see
Carmelita swindled and then jilted and broken-hearted; or we've got to
bring the blackest grief upon her by saving her from Rivoli."
"Do _you_ love her too, Monsieur?" asked Olga.
"Good Heavens, no!" laughed the Englishman. "But I have a very great
liking and regard for her, and so has my friend Rupert. It is poor old
Buck who loves her, and I am really sorry for him. It's bad enough to
love a woman and be unable to win her, but it must be awful to see her
in the power of a man whom you know to be an utter blackguard.... Queer
thing, Life.... I suppose there is some purpose in it.... Here they
come," he added, looking round.
"Who's gwine ter intervoo Carmelita, and put her wise to the
sitooation?" asked the Bucking Bronco as he and Rupert joined the
others. "Guess yew'd better, John. Yew know more Eye-talian and French
than we do, an', what's more, Carmelita wouldn't think there was any
'_harry-air ponsey_'--or is it '_double-intender_'--ef the young woman
is interdooced, as sich, by yew."
"All right," replied John Bull. "I'll do my best--and we must all weigh
in with our entreaties if I fail."
"Yew'll do it, John. I puts my shirt on Carmelita every time...."
Le Cafe de la Legion was swept and garnished, and Carmelita sat in her
_sedia pieghevole_[#] behind her bar, awaiting her evening guests.
[#] Deck-chair.
It was a sadder-looking, thinner, somewhat older-looking Carmelita than
she who had welcomed Rupert and his fellow _bleus_ on the occasion of
their first visit to her _cafe_. Carmelita's little doubt had grown,
and worry was bordering upon anxiety--for Luigi Rivoli was Carmelita's
life, and Carmelita was not only a woman, but an Italian woman, and a
Neapolitan at that. Far better than life she loved Luigi Rivoli, and
only next to him did she love her own self-respect and virtue. As has
been said before, Carmelita considered herself a married woman. Partly
owing to her equivocal position, partly to an innate purity of mind,
Carmelita had a present passion for "respectability" such as had never
troubled her before.
And Luigi was causing her grief and anxiety, doubt and care, and fear.
For long she had fought it off, and had stoutly refused to confess it
even to herself, but day by day and night by night, the persistent
attack had worn down her defences of Hope and Faith until at length she
stood face to face with the relentless and insidious assailant and
recognised it for what it was--Fear. It had come to that, and Carmelita
now frankly admitted to herself that she had fears for the faith,
honesty and love of the man whom she regarded as her husband and knew to
be the father of the so hoped-for _bambino_....
Could it be possible that the man for whom she had lived, and for whom
she would at any time have died, her own Luigi, who, but for her, would
be in a Marseilles graveyard, her own husband--was laying siege to fat
and ugly Madame la Cantiniere, because her business was a more
profitable one than Carmelita's? It could not be. Men were not devils.
Men did not repay women like that. Not even ordinary men, far less her
Luigi. Of course not--and besides, there was the Great Secret.
For the thousandth time Carmelita found reassurance, comfort and cheer
in the thought of the Great Secret, and its inevitable effect upon Luigi
when he knew it. What would he say when he realised that there might be
another Luigi Rivoli, for, of course, it would be a boy--a boy who would
grow up another giant among men, another Samson, another Hercules,
another winner of a World's Championship.
What would he do in the transports of his joy? How his face would shine!
How heartily he would agree with her when she pointed out that it would
be as well for them to marry now before the _bambino_ came. No more
procrastination now. What a wedding it should be, and what a feast they
would give the brave _soldati_! Il Signor Jean Boule should have the
seat of honour, and the Signor Americano should come, and Signor Rupert,
and Signor 'Erbiggin, and the poor Grasshopper, and the two Russi (ah!
what of that Russian girl, what would be her fate? It was wonderful how
she kept up the deception. Poor, poor little soul, what a life--the
constant fear, the watchfulness and anxiety. Fancy eating and drinking,
walking, talking and working, dressing and undressing, waking and
sleeping among those men--some of them such dreadful men). Yes, it
should be a wedding to remember, without stint of food or drink--_un
pranzo di tre portate_ with _i maccheroni_ and _la frittate d'uova_ and
the best of _couscous_, and there should be _vino Italiano_--they would
welcome a change from the eternal _vino Algerino_....
Four Legionaries entered, and Carmelita rose with a smile to greet them.
There was no one she would sooner see than Il Signor Jean Boule and his
friends--since it was not Luigi who entered.
"_Che cosa posso offrirve?_" she asked. (Although Carmelita spoke
Legion French fluently one noticed that she always welcomed one in
Italian, and always counted in that language.)
"I want a quiet talk with you, carissima Carmelita," said John Bull.
"We are in great trouble, and we want your help."
"I am glad," replied Carmelita. "Not glad that you are in trouble, but
glad you have come to me."
"It is about Mikhail Kyrilovitch," said the Englishman.
"I thought it was," said Carmelita.
"Don't think me mad, Carmelita," continued John Bull, "but listen.
Mikhail Kyrilovitch is a _girl_."
"Don't think me mad, Signor Jean Boule," mimicked Carmelita, "but
listen. I have known Mikhail Kyrilovitch was a girl from the first
evening that she came here."
The Englishman's blue eyes opened widely in surprise, as he stared at
the girl. "How?" he asked.
"Oh, in a dozen ways," laughed Carmelita. "Hands, voice, manner. I
stroked her cheek, it was as soft as my own, while her twin brother's
was like sand-paper. When she went to catch a biscuit she made a 'lap,'
as one does who wears a skirt, instead of bringing her knees together as
a man does.... And what can I do for Mademoiselle Mikhail?"
"You can save her, Carmelita, from I don't know what dangers and
horrors. She has been found out, and what her fate would be at the
tender mercies of the authorities on the one hand, and of the men on the
other, one does not like to think. The very least that could happen to
her is to be turned into the streets of Sidi-bel-Abbes."
"Do the officers know yet?" asked Carmelita. "Who does know? Who found
her out?"
"Luigi Rivoli found her out," replied John Bull.
"And sent her to me?" asked Carmelita. "I am glad he..."
"He did not send her to you," interrupted the Englishman gravely.
"What did he do?" asked Carmelita quickly.
"I will tell you what he did, Carmelita, as kindly as I can.... He
forgot he was a soldier, Carmelita; he forgot he was an honest man; he
forgot he was your--er--_fidanzato_, your _sposo_, Carmelita...."
Carmelita went very white.
"Tell me, Signor," she said quickly. "Did you have to protect this
Russian wretch from Luigi?"
"I did," was the reply. "Why do you speak contemptuously of the girl?
She is as innocent as--as innocent as you are, Carmelita."
"I hate her," hissed Carmelita.... "Did Luigi kiss her? What happened?
Did he...?"
The Englishman put his hand over Carmelita's little clenched fist as it
lay on the bar.
"Listen, little one," he said. "You are one of the best, kindest and
bravest women I have known. I am certain you are going to be worthy of
yourself now. So is Rupert, so is Monsieur Bronco. He has been blaming
us bitterly when we have even for a moment wondered whether you would
save this girl. He is worth a thousand Rivolis, and loves you a thousand
times better than Rivoli ever could. Don't disappoint him and us,
Carmelita. Don't disappoint us _in yourself_, I mean.... What has the
girl done that you should hate her?"
"Did Luigi kiss her?" again asked Carmelita.
"He did not," was the reply. "He behaved..."
"And he could not, of course, while she was with me, could he?" said
Carmelita.
"Exactly," smiled the Englishman. "Take her in now, little woman, and
lend her some clothes until we can get some things bought or made for
her."
"Clothes cost francs, Signor Jean," was the practical reply of the girl,
who had grown up in a hard school. "I can give her food and shelter, and
I can lend her my things, but I have no francs for clothes."
"Rupert will find whatever is necessary for her clothes and board and
lodging, and for her ticket too. She shan't be with you long, cara
Carmelita, nor in Sidi-bel-Abbes."
Carmelita passed from behind the bar and went over to the table at which
sat Rupert, the American, and the girl Olga. Putting her arm around the
neck of the last, Carmelita kissed her on the cheek.
"Come, little one," she said. "Come to my bed and sleep. You shall be
as safe as if in the Chapel of the Mother of God," and, as the girl
burst into tears, led her away.
John Bull joined his friends as the two women disappeared through the
door leading to Carmelita's room.
"Well, thank God for that," he said as he sat down, and wiped his
forehead. "What's the next step?"
"Find the other little Roosian guy, an' put him wise to what's happened
to sissy, I guess," replied the American.
"Yes," agreed Rupert. "It's up to him to carry on now, with any sort or
kind of help that we can give him.... Where did he go after parade, I
wonder?"
"The gal got copped for a wheel-barrer corvee--they was goin' scavengin'
round the officers' houses and gardens I think--an' he took her
place.... He'd be back by dark an' start washin' hisself," opined the
American.
"Better get back at once then," said John Bull.
"I feel a most awful cad," he added.
"What on earth for?" asked Rupert.
"About Carmelita," was the reply. "I've got her help under false
pretences. If I had told her that I was going to fight a serious duel
with her precious Luigi, she'd never have taken that girl in. If I
don't fight him now, he'll make my life utterly unlivable.... I wish to
God Carmelita could be brought to see him as he is and to understand
that the moment the Canteen will have him, he is done with the Cafe....
I wish Madame la Cantiniere would take him and settle the matter. Since
it has got to come, the sooner the better. I should really enjoy my
fight with him if he had turned Carmelita down, and she regarded me as
her avenger instead of as the destroyer of her happiness."
"One wouldn't worry about Madame la Cantiniere's feelings if one
destroyed her young man or her latest husband, I suppose?" queried
Rupert with a smile.
"Nope," replied the American. "Nit. Not a damn. Nary a worry. You
could beat him up, or you could shoot him up, and lay your last red cent
that Madam lar Canteenair would jest say, '_Mong Jew! C'est la Legion_'
and look aroun' fer his doo and lorful successor.... Let's vamoose,
b'ys, an' rubber aroun' fer the other Roosian chechaquo."
The three Legionaries quitted le Cafe de la Legion and made their way
back to their _caserne_.
"I'll look in the _chambree_," said John Bull as they entered the
barrack-square. "You go to the lavabo, Rupert, and you see if he is in
the Canteen, Buck. Whoever finds him had better advise him to let Luigi
Rivoli alone, and make his plans for going on pump. Tell him I think his
best line would be to see Carmelita and arrange for him and his sister
to get dresses alike, and clear out boldly by train to Oran, as girls.
After that, they know their own business best, but I should recommend
England as about the safest place for them."
"By Jove! I could give him a letter to my mother," put in Rupert.
"Good idea. My people would love to help them--especially as they could
tell them all about me."
"Gee-whiz! Thet's a brainy notion," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "Let
'em skin out and make tracks for yure Old-Folk-at-Home. It's a cinch."
Legionary John Bull found Legionary Feodor Kyrilovitch sitting on his
cot polishing "Rosalie," as the soldier of France terms his bayonet.
Several other Legionaries were engaged in _astiquage_ and accoutrement
cleaning. For the thousandth time, the English gentleman realised that
one of the most irksome and maddening of the hardships and disabilities
of the common soldier's life is its utter lack of privacy.
"Bonsoir, cher Boule," remarked Feodor Kyrilovitch, looking up as the
English approached. "Have you seen my brother? He appears to have come
in and changed and gone out without me."
Evidently the boy was anxious.
"Your brother is at Carmelita's," replied John Bull, and added: "Come
over to my bed and sit beside me with your back to the room. I want to
speak to you."
"Don't be alarmed," he continued as they seated themselves. "Your
brother is absolutely all right."
The Russian gazed anxiously at the kindly face of the man whom he had
instinctively liked and trusted from the first.
"Your brother is quite all right," continued the Englishman, "but I am
afraid you will have to change your plans."
"Change our plans, Monsieur Boule?"
"Yes," replied the older man, as he laid his hand on Feodor's knee with
a reassuring smile. "You will have to change your plans, for Mikhail
can be Mikhail no longer."
The Russian bowed his head upon his hands with a groan.
"My poor little Olusha," he whispered.
"Courage, mon brave," said John Bull, patting him on the back. "We have
a plan for you. As soon as your sister was discovered, we took her to
Carmelita, with whom she will be quite safe for a while. Our idea is
that she and Carmelita make and buy women's clothes for both of you, and
that you escape as sisters. Since she made such a splendid boy, you
ought to be able to become a fairly convincing girl. Legionnaire
Mikhail Kyrilovitch will be looked for as a man--probably in uniform.
By the time the hue and cry is over, and he is forgotten, everything
will be ready for both of you, then one night you slip into Carmelita's
cafe and, next day, two cafe-chantant girls who have been visiting
Carmelita, walk coolly to the station and take train for Oran....
Rivoli can't tell on them and still keep in with Carmelita. He'll have
to help--or pretend to."
Feodor Kyrilovitch was himself again--a cool and level-headed
conspirator, accustomed to weighing chances, taking risks and facing
dangers.
"Thanks, mon ami," he said. "I believe I owe you my sister's
salvation.... There will be difficulties, and there are risks--but it
is a plan."
"Seems fairly hopeful," replied the other. "Anyhow, we could think of
nothing better."
"We might get to Oran," mused Feodor; "but where we can go from there,
God knows. We daren't go to Paris again, and I doubt if we have a
hundred and fifty roubles between us.... And we dare not write to
friends in Russia."
"We've thought of that too, my boy," interrupted the Englishman. "My
friend Rupert has money in the Credit Lyonnais, here in the town. He
says he will be only too delighted to lend you enough to get you to
England, and write a letter for you to take to his people. He says his
mother will welcome you with open arms as coming from him.... From what
he has said to me about her at different times, I imagine her to be one
of the best--and the best of Englishwomen are the best of women, let me
tell you."
"And the best of Englishmen are the best of men," replied Feodor,
seizing the old Legionary's hand and kissing it fervently--to the latter
gentleman's consternation and utter discomfort.
"Don't be an ass," he replied in English.... "Clear out now, and go and
have a talk with Carmelita. You can trust her absolutely. Give her what
money you've got, and she'll poke around in the ghetto for clothes.
She'll know lots of the Spanish Jew dealers and cheap _couturieres_, if
old Mendoza hasn't what she wants. Meanwhile, Rupert will draw some
money from the _banque_."
The Russian rose to his feet.
"But how can I thank you, Monsieur? How can I repay Monsieur Rupert for
his kindness?"
"Don't thank me, and repay Rupert by visiting his mother and waxing
eloquent over his marvellous condition of health, happiness and
prosperity. Tell her he is having a lovely time in a lovely place with
lovely people."
"You joke, Monsieur, how _can_ I repay you all?"
"Well, I'll tell you, my son--by getting your sister clear of this hell
and safe into England."
The Russian struck himself violently on the forehead and turned away.
A minute later Rupert entered the _chambree_.
"He's not in the lavabo," he announced.
"No, it's all right. I found him here. He has just gone down to
Carmelita's.... Let's go over to the Canteen, I want to meet the gentle
Luigi Rivoli there."
On the stairs they encountered the Bucking Bronco, who was told that
Feodor had been found and informed.
"Our Loojey's in the road-house," he announced, "layin' off ter
Madam.... I wish she'd deliver the goods ef she's gwine ter. Then we
could git next our Loojey without raisin' hell with Carmelita."
"Is the Canteen fairly full?" asked John Bull.
"Some!" replied the Bucking Bronco.
"Then I'm going over to seek sorrow," said the other.
"Yure not goin' ter git fresh, an' slug the piker any, air yew, John?"
enquired the American anxiously.
"No, Buck," was the reply. "I'm only going to make an interestin'
announcement," and, turning to Rupert, he advised him not to identify
himself with any proceedings which might ensue.
"You are hardly complimentary, Bull," commented Rupert resentfully....
As the three entered the Canteen, which was rapidly filling up, they
caught sight of Rivoli lolling against the bar in his accustomed corner,
and whispering confidentially to Madame, during her intervals of
leisure. Pushing his way through the throng John Bull, closely followed
by his two friends, approached the Neapolitan. His back was towards
them. The American, whose face wore an ugly look, touched Rivoli with
his foot.
"Makin' yure sweet self agreeable as usual, Loojey, my dear?" he
enquired, and proceeded with the difficult task of making himself both
sarcastic and intelligible in the French language. The Italian wheeled
round with a scowl at the sound of the voice he hated.
John Bull stepped forward.
"I have come for your answer, Rivoli," he said quietly. "I wish to know
when and with what weapons you would prefer to fight me. Personally, I
don't care in the least what they are, so long as they're fatal."
A ring of interested listeners gathered round. The Neapolitan laughed
contemptuously.
"Weapons!" he growled. "A _fico_ for weapons. I'll twist your neck and
break your back, if you trouble me again."
"Very good," replied the Englishman. "Now listen, bully. We have had a
little more than enough of you. You take advantage of your strength to
terrorise men who are not street acrobats, and professional
weight-lifters. Now _I_ am going to take advantage of this, to
terrorise _you_," and he produced a small revolver from his pocket.
"Now choose. Try your blackguard-rush games and get a bullet through
your skull, or fight me like a man with any weapon you prefer."
An approving cheer broke from the quickly increasing audience. The
Italian moistened his lips and glared round.
"Mais oui," observed Madame with cool impartiality, "but that is a fair
offer."
As though stung by her remark, the Italian threw himself into wrestling
attitude and extended his arms. John Bull moved only to extend his
pistol-arm, and Luigi Rivoli recoiled. Strangling men who could not
wrestle was one thing, being shot was quite another. The
thrice-accursed English dog had got him nicely cornered. To raise a
hand to him was to die--better to face his enemy, himself armed than
unarmed. Better still to catch him unarmed and stamp the life out of
him. He must temporise.
"Ho-ho, Brave Little Man with a Pistol," he sneered. "Behold the
English hero who fears the bare hands of no man--while he has a revolver
in his own."
"You miss the point, Rivoli," was the reply. "I want nothing to do with
you bare-handed. I want you to choose any weapon you like to name," and
turning to the deeply interested crowd he raised his voice a little:
"Gentlemen of the Legion," he said, "I challenge le Legionnaire Luigi
Rivoli of the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of La Legion
Etrangere to fight me with whatever weapon he prefers. We can use our
rifles; he can have the choice of the revolvers belonging to me and my
friend le Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau; we can use our sword-bayonets;
we can get sabres from the Spahis; or it can be a rifle-and-bayonet
fight. He can choose time, place, and weapon--and, if he will not
fight, let him be known as _Rivoli the Coward_ as long as he pollutes
our glorious Regiment."
Ringing and repeated cheers greeted the longest public speech that Sir
Montague Merline had ever made.
A bitter sneer was frozen on Rivoli's white face.
"_Galamatias!_" he laughed contemptuously, but the laugh rang a little
uncertain.
Madame la Cantiniere was charmed. She felt she was falling in love with
ce brave Jean Boule _au grand galop_. This was a far finer man, and a
far more suitable husband for a hard-working Cantiniere than that lump
of a Rivoli, with his pockets always _pleine de vide_ and his mouth
always full of _langue vert_. A trifle on the elderly side perhaps, but
aristocrat _au bout des ongles_. Yes, decidedly grey as to the hair,
but then, how nice to be an old man's darling!--and Madame simpered,
bridled and tried to blush.
"Speak up thou, Rivoli," she cried sharply. "Do not stand there like a
_blanc bec_ before a Sergeant-Major. Speak, _becasse_--or speak not
again to me."
The Neapolitan darted a glance of hatred at her.
"Peace, fat sow," he hissed, and added unwisely--"You wag your beard too
much."
In that moment vanished for ever all possibility of Madame's trying an
Italian husband. "Sow" may be a term of endearment, but no gentleman
alludes to beards in the presence of a lady whose chin does not betray
her sex.
Turning to his enemy, Rivoli struck an attitude and pointed to the door.
"Go, dig your grave _ci-devant_," he said portentously, "and I will kill
you beside it, within the week."
"Thanks," replied the Englishman, and invited his friends to join him in
a litre....
The barracks of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion hummed and
buzzed that night, from end to end, in a ferment of excitement over the
two tremendous items of most thrilling and exciting news, to wit, that
there was among them a sheep in wolf's clothing--a girl in uniform--and,
secondly, that there was a duel toward, a duel in which no less a person
than the great Luigi Rivoli was involved.
_Cherchez la femme_ was the game of the evening; and the catch-word of
the wits on encountering any bearded and grisled _ancien_ in corridor
_chambree_, canteen, or staircase, was--
"Art _thou_ the girl, petite?"
The wrinkled old grey-beard, Tant-de-Soif, was christened Bebe
Fifinette, provided with a skirt improvised from a blanket, and
subjected to indignities.