THE CAFE AND THE CANTEEN
As the door closed behind the departing John Bull, the heavy _purdah_
between the sitting-room and the tiny side-chamber or alcove in which
was Carmelita's bed, was pushed aside, and Olga Kyrilovitch, barefooted
and dressed in night attire belonging to Carmelita, entered the room.
On the sofa lay Carmelita sobbing, her hands pressed over her eyes.
Looking more boy-like than ever, with her short hair, the Russian girl
advanced noiselessly and shook Carmelita sharply by the shoulder.
"You fool," she hissed between clenched teeth. "You stupid fool. You
blind, stubborn, hopeless _fool_!" Carmelita sat up. This was language
she could understand, and a situation with which she could deal.
"Yes?" she replied without resentment, "and why?"
"Those two men.... Compare them... I heard every word--I could not
help it. I could not come out--I should not have been safe, even with
you here, with that vile, filthy Italian in the room, nor could I come,
for shame, like this, while the Englishman was here.... _Why did you
let him say he does not love me?_" and the girl burst into tears.
Carmelita stared.
"Oho! you love him, do you?" quoth she.... "Then if you know what love
is, why do you abuse the man _I_ love?"
The girl raised her impassioned tear-stained face to Carmelita's.
"Will nothing persuade you, little fool?" she cried, "that that Italian
beast no more loves you than--than Jean Boule loves me--that he is
playing with you, that he is battening on you, and that, the moment the
fat Canteen woman accepts him, he will marry her and you will see him no
more? Why should Jean Boule lie to you? Why should the American? Why
should I?--Ask any Legionary in Sidi."
Carmelita clenched her little fist and appeared to be about to strike
the Russian girl.
"Stop!" continued Olga, and pointed to the uniform which lay folded on
the chair. "See! Prove your courage and prove us all liars if you can.
Put on that uniform, disguise yourself, and go to the Canteen any night
in the week. If your Rivoli is not there behind the bar, hand-in-glove
with Madame, turn me into the street--or leave me at the mercy of your
Rivoli. There now...."
"_I will_," said Carmelita, and then screamed and laughed, laughed and
screamed, as her overwrought nerves and brain gave way in a fit of
hysterics.
When she recovered, Olga Kyrilovitch discovered that the seed which she
had sown had taken root, and that it was Carmelita's unalterable
intention to pay a visit to the Canteen on the very next evening.
"For my Luigi's own sake I will spy upon him," she said, "and to prove
all his vile accusers wrong. When I have done it I will confess to him
with tears and throw myself at his feet. He shall do as he likes with
me.... But he will understand that it was only to disprove these lies
that I did it, and not because I for one moment doubted him."
But doubt him Carmelita did. As soon as her decision was taken and
announced, she allowed Olga to talk on as she pleased, and insensibly
came to realise that at the bottom of her heart she knew John Bull to be
incapable of deceiving her. Why should he? Why should all the
Legionaries, except Rivoli's own hirelings, take up the same attitude
towards him? Why should there be no man to speak well of him save such
men as Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, Malvin, and the others, all of whom
carried their vileness in their faces? As her doubts and fears
increased, so did her wrath and excitement, until she strode up and down
the little room like a caged pantheress, and Olga feared for her sanity
and her own safety. And then again, Love would triumph, and she would
beat her breast and wildly reproach herself for her lack of faith, and
overwhelm Olga with a deluge of vituperation and accusation.
At length came the relief of quiet weeping, and, having whispered to
Olga her Great Secret, or rather her hopes of having one to tell, she
sobbed herself to sleep on the girl's shoulder, to dream of the most
wonderful of _bambinos_.
Meanwhile, John Bull spent one of the wretchedest evenings of a wretched
life. Returning to his _chambree_ to find himself hailed and acclaimed
"hero," he commenced at once, with his usual uncompromising directness
and simplicity, to inform all and sundry, who mentioned the subject,
that there would be no duel. It hurt him most of all to see the face of
his friend Rupert fall and harden, as he informed him that he could not
fight Rivoli after all. On his explaining the position to him, Reginald
Rupert, decidedly shocked, remarked--
"_Your_ business, of course," and privately wondered whether _les beaux
yeux_ of Carmelita, or of Olga, had shed the light in which his friend
had come to see things so differently. Surely, Carmelita's best friend
would be the person who saved her from Rivoli; and, if it were really
Olga whom Bull were considering, there were more ways of killing a cat
than choking it with melted butter. Anyhow, he didn't envy John Bull,
nor yet the weaker vessels of the Seventh Company. What would John Bull
do, if, on hearing of his change of mind, Rivoli simply took him and put
him across his knee? Would his promise to Carmelita sustain him through
that or similar indignities? After all, a challenge is a challenge; and
some people would consider that the prior engagement to Rivoli could not
in honour be cancelled afterwards by an engagement with Carmelita or
anybody else.
No. To the young mind of Rupert this was not "the clean potato," and he
was disappointed in his friend. As they undressed, in silence, an idea
struck him, and he turned to that gentleman.
"I say, look here, Bull, old chap," quoth he. "You'll of course do as
you think best in the matter, and so shall I. I'm going to challenge
Rivoli myself. I shall follow your admirable example and challenge him
publicly, and I shall add point to it by wasting a litre of wine on his
face, which I shall also smack with what violence I may. I am not
Company Marksman like you, but, as Rivoli knows, I am a First Class
shot. I shall say I have been brooding over his breaking my back, and
now want to fight him on even terms."
A look of pain crossed the face of the old soldier.
"Rupert," he said, rising and laying his hand on his friend's shoulder,
"you'll do nothing of the kind.... Not, that is, if you value my
friendship in the least, or have the slightest regard for me. Do you
not understand that I have given Carmelita my word that I will neither
fight Rivoli with a weapon in my hand, nor attack him with one? Would
she not instantly and naturally suppose that I had got you to do it
_for_ me? ... Would anything persuade her to the contrary?"
"Is he to go unpunished then? Is he to ride roughshod over us all?
He'll be ten times worse than before. You know he'll ascribe your
withdrawal to cowardice--and so will everybody else," was the reply.
"They will," agreed John Bull.
"What's to be done then?"
"I don't know, but I'll tell you what is not to be done. No friend of
mine is to challenge Rivoli to a duel."
The Bucking Bronco entered.
"Say, John," he drawled, "I jest bin and beat up Mister Mounseer Malvin,
I hev'. 'Yure flappin' yure mouth tew much,' I ses. '_Vous frappez
votre bouche trop_,' I ses. 'Yew come off it, me lad,' I ses. 'Yew
jes' wipe off yure chin some. _Effacez votre menton_,' I ses. Then I
slugs him a little one."
"What was it all about, Buck?" enquired Rupert.
"Do yew know what the little greasy tin-horn of a hobo was waggin' his
chin about? Sed as haow yew was _a-climbin' down and a-takin' back the
challenge to our Loojey_! I told him ef he didn't wipe off his chin and
put some putty on his gas-escape I'd do five-spot in Biribi fer him.
'Yes, Mounseer Malvin,' I ses when I'd slugged him, 'I'll git the _as de
pique_[#] on my collar for yew!' ... '_It's true_,' he snivelled. '_It's
true_,' and lays on the groun' so as I shan't slug him agin. So I comes
away--not seein' why I should do the two-step on nuthin' at the end of a
rope for a dod-gasted little bed-bug like Mounseer Malvin."
[#] Mark of the Zephyrs.
"It _is_ true, Buck," replied John Bull.
"Well then, I wisht I'd stayed and plugged him some more," was the
remarkable reply.
"Rivoli told Carmelita about the duel, and I've promised her I'd let him
go," continued John Bull.
"Then yure a gosh-dinged fool, John," said the Bucking Bronco. "Yew
ain't to be trusted where wimmin's about. It would hev' bin the best
day's work yew ever done fer Carmelita ef you'd let daylight through
thet plug-ugly old bluff. He'll lie ter her from Revelley to Taps[#]
until old Mother Canteen takes him into her shebang fer good--and then
as like as not, he'll put Carmelita up at auction.... There'll be no
holding our Loojey now, John. I should smile. Anybody as thinks our
Loojey'll make it easy fer yew has got another think comin'. It's a
cinch. He'll give yew a dandy time, John. What's a-bitin' yew anyway?"
[#] Last Post. So called (in the American Army) because it is the
signal to leave the Canteen and turn off the beer-taps.
"Carmelita," was the reply.
"I allow the right stunt fer eny pal o' Carmelita's is ter fill our
Loojey up with lead as you perposed ter do.... Look at here, John.
_I'll_ do it. I could hit all Loojey's buttons with my little gun, one
after the other, at thirty yards--and I'd done it long ago, but I know'd
it meant the frozen mit fer mine from Carmelita, and I wasn't man enuff
ter kill him fer Carmelita's good and make my name mud to her fer
keeps."
"Same thing now, Buck," was the answer. "Challenge Luigi, and you can
never set foot in the Cafe de la Legion again. If you killed him--it
would be Carmelita's duty in life to find you and stab you."
"Sure thing, John--an' what about yew? Ef our Looj was to be 'Rivoli
the Coward' ef he wouldn't fight, who's to be 'coward' now? ... Yew've
bitten off more'n yew can chew."
"Anyhow, Buck, if you're any friend of mine--you'll let Rivoli alone.
_Qui facit per alium facit per se_, and that's Dutch for 'I might as
well kill Rivoli with my own hand as kill him through yours.'"
The Bucking Bronco broke into song--
"But serpose an' serpose,
Yure Hightaliand lad shouldn't die?
Nor the bagpipes shouldn't play o'er him
Ef I punched him in the eye!"
chanted he, as he placed his beloved "gun"--an automatic pistol--under
his pillow. "I'll beat him up, Johnnie. Fer Carmelita's sake I ain't
shot him up, an' fer her sake and yourn I won't shoot him up now, but
the very first time as he flaps his mouth about this yer dool, I'll beat
him up--and there'll be _some_ fight," and the Bucking Bronco dived into
his "flea-bag."
The next day the news spread throughout the _caserne_ of the First
Battalion of the Legion that the promised treat was off, the duel
between the famous Luigi Rivoli and the Englishman, John Bull, would not
take place, the latter, in spite of the publicity and virulence of his
challenge, having apologised.
The news was ill received. In the first place the promise of a
brilliant break in the monotony of Depot life was broken. In the second
place, the undisputed reign of a despotic and brutal tyrant would
continue and grow yet heavier and more insupportable; while, in the
third place, it was not in accordance with the traditions of the Legion
that a man should fiercely challenge another in public, and afterwards
apologise and withdraw. Italian shares boomed and shot sky-high, while
John Bulls became a drug in the market.
That evening the Bucking Bronco, for the first time in his life,
received a message from Carmelita, a message which raised him to the
seventh heaven of expectation and hope, while the sanguine blood coursed
merrily through his veins.
Carmelita wanted him. At five o'clock without fail, Carmelita would
expect him at the Cafe. She needed his help and relied upon him for
it.... _Gee_-whillikins! She should have it.
At half-past five that evening, the Bucking Bronco entered le Cafe de la
Legion and stared in amazement at seeing a strange Legionary behind
Carmelita's bar. He was a small, slight man in correct walking-out
dress--a blue tunic, red breeches and white spats. His kepi was pulled
well down over a small, intelligent face, the most marked features of
which were very broad black eyebrows, and a biggish dark moustache. The
broad chin-strap of the kepi was down, and pressed the man's chin up
under the large moustache beneath which the strap passed. The soldier
had a squint and the Bucking Bronco had always experienced a dislike and
distrust of people so afflicted.
"An' what'n Hell are _yew_ a-doin' thar, yew swivel-eyed tough?" he
enquired, and repeated his enquiry in Legion French.
The Legionary laughed--a ringing peal which was distinctly familiar.
"Don't yew git fresh with me, Bo, or I'll come roun' thar an' improve
yure squint till you can see in each ear-'ole," said the American,
trying to "place" the man.
Again the incongruous tinkling peal rang out and the Bucking Bronco
received the shock of his life as Carmelita's voice issued through the
big moustache. Words failed him as he devoured the girl with his eyes.
"Dear Monsieur Bouckaing Bronceau," said she. "Will you walk out
to-night with the youngest recruit in the Legion?"
The Bronco still stared agape.
"I am in trouble," continued Carmelita, "and I turn to you for help."
The light of hope shone in the American's eyes.
"Holy Poker!" said he. "God bless yure sweet eyes, fer sayin' so,
Carmelita. But why _me_? Have yew found yure Loojey out, at last? Why
me?"
"I turn to you for help, Monsieur Bronco," said the girl, "because you
have told me a hundred times that you love me. Love gives. It is not
always asking, asking, asking. Now give me your help. I want to get at
the truth. I want to clear a good and honest man from a web of lies.
Take me to the Canteen with you to-night. They say my Luigi goes there
to see Madame la Cantiniere. They say he flirts and drinks with her,
that he helps her there, and serves behind her bar. They even dare to
say that he asks her to marry him...."
"It's true," interrupted the Bucking Bronco.
"Very well--then take me there now. My Luigi has sworn to me a hundred
times that he never sets foot in Madame's Canteen, that he would not
touch her filthy Algerian wine--my Luigi who drinks only the best
Chianti from Home. Take me there and prove your lies. Take me now, and
either you and your friends, or else Luigi Rivoli, shall never cross my
threshold again." Carmelita's voice was rising, tears were starting to
her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell as no man's ever did.
"Easy, honey," said the big American. "Ef yure gwine ter carry on right
here, what'll you do in the Canteen when yew see yure Loojey right thar
doin' bar-tender fer the woman he's a-doin' his damnedest to marry?"
"_Do?_" answered Carmelita in a low tense voice. "Do? I would be cold
as ice. I would be still and hard as one of the statues in my own
Naples. All Hell would be in my breast, but a Hell of frozen fire do
you understand, and I would creep away. Like a silent spirit I would
creep away--but I would be a spirit of vengeance. To Monsieur Jean
Boule would I go and I would say, 'Kill him! Kill him! For the love of
God and the Holy Virgin and the Blessed Bambino, _kill_ him--and let me
come and stamp upon his face.' That is what I would say, Monsieur
Bronco."
The American covered the girl's small brown hand with his huge paw.
"Carmelita, honey," he whispered. "Don't go, little gel--don't go. May
I be struck blind and balmy right hyar, right naow, ef I tell you a word
of a lie. Every night of his life he's thar, afore he comes down hyar
with lies on his lips to yew. Don't go. Take my word fer it, an' John
Bull's word, and young Rupert's word. They're White Men, honey, they
wouldn't lie ter yew. Believe what we tell yew, and give ole John Bull
back his promise, an' let him shoot-up this low-lifer rattlesnake...."
"I will see with my own eyes," said Carmelita--adding with sound
feminine logic, "and if he's not there to-night, I'll know that you have
all lied to me, and that he never was there--and never, never, never
again shall one of you enter my house, or my Legionaries shall nail you
by the ears to the wall with their bayonets.... Shame on me, to doubt
my Luigi for a moment."
The American gave way.
"Come on then, little gel," he said. "P'raps it's fer the best."
Sec.2
Entering the Canteen that evening for his modest litre, 'Erb caught
sight of his good friend, the Bucking Bronco, seated beside a Legionary
whom 'Erb did not know. The American beckoned and 'Erb emitted a joyous
sound to be heard more often in the Ratcliffe Highway than in the wilds
of Algeria. Apparently his pal's companion was, or had been, in funds,
for his head reposed upon his folded arms.
"Wotto, Bucko!" exclaimed the genial 'Erb. "We a-goin' to ketch this
pore bloke's complaint? Luvvus! Wish I got enuff to git as ill as wot
'e is."
"Sit down t'other side of him, 'Erb," responded the American. "We may
hev' to help the gay-cat to bed. He's got a jag. Tight as a tick--an'
lef me in the lurch with two-francs' worth to drink up."
"Bless 'is 'eart," exclaimed 'Erb. "I dunno wevver 'e's a-drinkin' to
drahn sorrer or wevver he's a-drinkin' to keep up 'is 'igh sperrits--but
he shan't say as 'ow 'Erb 'Iggins didn't stand by 'im to the larst--the
larst boll' I mean," and 'Erb filled the large glass which the American
reached from the bar.
"'Ere's 'ow, Cocky," he shouted in the ear of the apparently drunken
man, giving him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his elbow.
The drunken man gasped at the blow, gave a realistic hiccough and
murmured: "A votre sante, Monsieur."
"Carn't the pore feller swaller a little more, Buck?" enquired 'Erb with
great concern. "Fency two francs--an' he's 'ad ter giv' up! ... Never
mind, Ole Cock," he roared again in the ear of the drunkard, "p'raps
you'll be able ter go ahtside in a minnit an' git it orf yer chest. Then
yer kin start afresh. See? ... 'Ope hon, 'ope hever.... 'Sides," he
added, as a cheering afterthought, "It'll tiste as good a-comin' up as
wot it did a-goin' dahn." He then blew vinously into his mouth-organ
and settled down for a really happy evening.
A knot of Legionaries, friends of Rivoli, stood at the bar talking with
Madame.
"Here he comes," said one of them, leaning with his back against the
bar. "Ask him."
Luigi Rivoli strode up, casting to right and left the proud glances of
the consciously Great.
"Bonsoir, ma belle," quoth he to Madame. "And how is the Soul of the
Soul of Luigi Rivoli?"
The drunken man, sitting between the Bucking Bronco and le Legionnaire
'Erbiggin, moved his head. He lay with the right side of it upon his
folded arms and his flushed face toward the bar. His eyes were
apparently closed in sottish slumber.
Madame la Cantiniere fixed Rivoli with a cold and beady eye. (She
"wagged her beard" too much, did she? Oho!)
"And since when have I been the Soul of the Soul of Luigi Rivoli?" she
enquired.
"Can you ask it, My Own?" was the reply. "Did not the virgin fortress
of my heart capitulate to the trumpet of your voice when first its
musical call rang o'er its unsealed walls?"
"Pouf!" replied Madame, bridling.... (What a way he had with him, and
what a fine figure of a man he was, but "_beards_" quotha!) Raising the
flap of the zinc-covered bar, Luigi, as usual, passed within and poured
himself a bumper of wine. Raising the glass--
"To the brightest eyes and sweetest face that I ever looked upon," he
toasted, and drank.
Madame simpered. Her wrath had, to some extent, evaporated.... Not
that she would ever _dream_ of marrying him. No! that "beard" would be
ever between them. No! No! He had dished himself finally. He had, as
it were, hanged himself in that beard as did Absalom in the branches of
a tree. The price he should pay for that insult was the value of her
Canteen and income. There was balm and satisfaction in the thought.
Still--until his successor were chosen, or rather, the successor of the
late-lamented, so cruelly, if skilfully, carved by those _sacrepans_ and
_galopins_ of Arabs--the assistance of the big man as waiter and
chucker-out should certainly not be refused. By no means.
"And what is this tale I hear of you and le Legionnaire Jean Boule?"
enquired Madame. "They say that the Neapolitan trollop of Le Cafe de la
Legion (_sous ce nom-la!_) has begged your life of him."
The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and Rivoli put down his glass
with a fierce frown.
"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he asked, and laughed
scornfully. Madame pointed a fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who
leant, head on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.
"Sure thing, Loojey. I'm spreadin' the glad joyous tidin's, as haow
yure precious life has been saved, all over the whole caboodle," and
proceeded to translate.
"Oh, is _that_ the plot?" replied the Italian. "Is _that_ the best lie
the gang of you could hatch? Corpo di Bacco! It's a poor one.
Couldn't the lot of you think of a likelier tale than that?"
The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was nuthin' like the trewth.
"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the assembled loungers.
"This grey English cur--pot-valiant--comes yapping at me, being in his
cups, and challenges me, _me_, Luigi Rivoli, to fight. I say: 'Go dig
your grave, dog,' and he goes. I have not seen him since, but on all
hands I hear that he has arranged with this strumpet of the Cafe to say
that she has begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with
laughter at the idea. "Now listen you, and spread this truth abroad....
Madame will excuse me," and he turned with his stage bow to Madame....
"I am no plaster saint, I am a Legionnaire. Sometimes I go to this
Cafe--I admit it," and again turning to Madame, he laid his hand upon
his heart. "Madame," he appealed, "I have no home, no wife, no fireside
to which to be faithful.... And as I honestly admit I visit this Cafe.
The girl is glad of my custom and possibly a little honoured--of that I
would say nothing.... Accidents will happen to the bravest and most
skilful of men in duels. The girl begged me not to fight. 'You are my
best customer,' said she, 'and the handsomest of all my patrons,' and
carried on as such wenches do, when trade is threatened. 'Peace,
woman,' said I, 'trouble me not, or I go to Zuleika across the way.' ...
She then took another line. 'Look you, Signor,' said she, 'this old
fool, Boule, comes to me when he has money; and he drinks here every
night. Spare his miserable carcase for what I make out of it,' and with
a laugh I gave the girl my franc and half-promise.... Still, what is
one's word to a wanton? I may shoot the dog yet, if he and his friends
be not careful how they lie."
The drunken man had turned his face on to his arms. No one but the
American and 'Erb noticed that his body was shaken convulsively.
Perhaps with drunken laughter?
"Tole yer so, Cocky," bawled 'Erb in his ear. "You'll be sick as David's
sow in a minnit, 'an' we'll all git blue-blind, paralytic drunk,'" and
rising to his feet 'Erb lifted up his voice in song to the effect that--
"White wings they never grow whiskers,
They kerry me cheerily over the sea
To ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon
Where we drew 'is club money this mornin'.
Witin' to 'ear the verdick on the boy in the prisoner's dock
When Levi may I menshun drew my perlite attenshun
To the tick of 'is grandfarver's clock.
Ninety years wivaht stumblin', Tick, Tick, Tick,--
Ninety years wivaht grumblin', gently does the trick,
When it stopped short, never to go agine
Till the ole man died.
An' ef yer wants ter know the time, git yer 'air cut."
For the moment 'Erb was the centre of interest, though not half a dozen
men in the room understood the words of what the vast majority supposed
to be a wild lament or dirge.
John Bull entered the Canteen, and 'Erb was forgotten. All near the
counter, save the drunken man, watched his approach. He strode straight
up to the oar, his eyes fixed on Rivoli.
"I wish to withdraw my challenge to you," he said in a clear voice. "I
am not going to fight you after all."
"_But, Mother of God, you are!_" whispered the drunken man.
"Oho!" roared Rivoli. "Oho!" and exploded with laughter. "Sober
to-night are you, English boaster? And how do you know that I will not
fight you, _flaneur_?"
"That rests with you, of course," was the reply.
"Oho, it does, does it, Monsieur Coup Manque? And suppose I decide _not_
to fight you, but to punish you as little barking dogs should be
punished? By the Wounds of God you shall learn a lesson, little
vur...."
The drunken man moved, as though to spring to his feet, but the big
American's arm flung round him pressed him down, as he lurched his huge
body drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.
"'Ere," expostulated 'Erb. "'E wants ter be sick, I tell yer. Free
country ain't it, if 'e _is_ a bloomin' Legendary.... Might as well be
a bleed'n drummerdary if 'e carn't be sick w'en 'e wants to.... 'Ope 'e
ain't got seven stummicks, eny'ow," he added as an afterthought, and
again applied himself to the business of the evening.
John Bull turned, without a word, and left the Canteen. The knot about
the bar broke up and Luigi was alone with Madame save for two drunken
men and one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.
"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?" asked Rivoli of Madame, as
she mopped the zinc surface of the bar.
"No," snapped Madame. "I have not."
"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored. "Forgive me, and then do one
other thing."
"What is that?" enquired Madame.
"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame's pudgy fist.
The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the American watching,
thought of the eyes of the snake that lies with broken back watching its
slayer. There was death and the hate of Hell in them, and while he
shuddered, his heart sang with hope.
"Marry me, Veronique," he repeated. "Have pity on me and end this
suspense. See you, I grow thin," and he raised his mighty arms in a
pathetic gesture.
Madame glanced at the poor man's stomach. There was no noticeable
_maigreur_.
"And what of the Neapolitan hussy and your goings on in the Cafe de la
Legion?" she asked.
"To Hell with the _putain_," he almost shouted. "I am like other
men--and I have been to her dive like the rest. Marry me and save me
from this loose irregular soldier's life. Do you think I would stray
from _thee_, Beloved, if thou wert mine?"
"Not twice," said Madame.
"Then away with this jealousy," replied the ardent Luigi. "Let me
announce our nuptials here and now, and call upon my comrades-in-arms to
drink long life and happiness to my beauteous bride--whom they all so
chastely love and revere. Come, little Star of my Soul! Come,
carissima, and I will most solemnly swear upon the Holy Cross that
never, never, never again will I darken the doors of the _casse-croute_
of that girl of the Bazaar. I swear it, Veronique--so help me God and
all the Holy Saints--your husband will die before he will set foot in
Carmelita's brothel."
"Come," said the drunken man, with a little piteous moan. "Could you
carry me out, Signor? I am going to faint."
The Bucking Bronco gathered Carmelita up in his arms and strode toward
the door.
"'Ere 'old on," ejaculated 'Erb. "'Arf a mo'! I'll tike 'is 'oofs...."
"Stay whar yew are, 'Erb," said the American sternly, over his shoulder.
"Right-o, ole bloke," agreed 'Erb, always willing to oblige. "Right-o!
Shove 'im in 'is kip[#] while I 'soop 'is bare.'"[#]
[#] Bed.
[#] Drink his beer.
Outside, the Bucking Bronco set Carmelita down upon a bench in a dark
corner and chafed her hands as he peered anxiously into her face.
"Pull yureself together, honey," he urged. "Don't yew give way yit.
Yew've gotter walk past the Guard ef I carries yew all the rest of the
way."
The broken-hearted girl could only moan. The American racked his brains
for a solution of the difficulty and wished John Bull and Rupert were
with him. It would be utterly hopeless to approach the gate with the
girl in his arms. What would happen if he could not get her out that
night? Suddenly the girl rose to her feet. Pride had come to her
rescue.
"Come, Monsieur Bronco," she said in a dead, emotionless voice. "Let me
get home," and began to walk like an automaton. Slipping his arm
through hers, the American guided and supported her, and in time,
Carmelita awoke from a terrible dream to find herself at home. The
Russian girl, in some clothing and a wrap of Carmelita's, admitted them
at the back door.
"Get her some brandy," said the Bucking Bronco. "Shall I open the Caffy
and serve fer yew, Carmelita, ma gel?" he asked.
Before he could translate his question into Legion French, Carmelita had
understood, partly from his gestures. She shook her head.
Olga Kyrilovitch looked a mute question at the American. He nodded
slightly. Carmelita caught the unspoken communication between the two.
"Yes," she said, turning to Olga, "you were right.... They were all
right. And I was wrong.... He is the basest, meanest scoundrel who
ever betrayed a woman. I do not realise it yet--I am stunned.... And I
am punished too. I shall die or go mad when I understand.... And I
want to be alone. Go now, dear Signor Orso Americano, and take my love
and this message to Signor Jean Boule. _I kiss his boots in humility
and apology, and if he will kill this Rivoli for me I will be his slave
for life._"
"Let me kill him fer yew, Carmelita," begged the American as he turned
to go, and then paused as his face lit up with the brightness of an
idea. "No," he said. "Almighty God! I got another think come. I'll
come an' see yew to-morrow, Carmelita--and make yew a _pro_posal about
Mounseer Loojey as'll do yew good." At the door he beckoned to the
Russian girl.
"Look at hyar, Miss Mikhail," he whispered. "Stand by her like a man
to-night. Nuss her, and coddle her and soothe her. You see she don't
do herself no harm. Yew hev' her safe and in her right mind in the
mornin'--an' we'll git yew and yure brother outer Sidi or my name ain't
Hyram Cyrus Milton."
Sec.3
That night was one of the most unforgettable of all the memorable nights
through which Olga Kyrilovitch ever lived in the course of her
adventurous career. For it was the only night during which she was shut
up with a violent and dangerous homicidal maniac. In addition to
fighting for her own life, the girl had, at times, to fight for that of
her assailant, and she deserved well of the Bucking Bronco. Nature at
length asserted herself and Carmelita collapsed. She slept, and awoke in
the middle of the next day as sane as a person can be, every fibre of
whose being yearns and tingles with one fierce obsession. Even to the
experienced Russian girl, the wildness of the Neapolitan revenge-passion
was an alarming revelation.
"Though I starve or go mad, I cannot eat nor sleep till I have spat on
his dead face," were the only words she answered to Olga's entreaty that
she would take food. But she busied herself about her daily tasks with
pinched white face, pinched white lips, and cavernous black brooding
eyes.
"Rivoli's next meal here will be his last," thought Olga Kyrilovitch,
and shuddered.
Terrible and unfathomable as was Carmelita's agony of mind, she insisted
on carrying out the programme for the escape of the two Russians fixed
for that day, and Olga salved a feeling of selfishness by assuring
herself that anything which took the girl's thoughts from her own
tragedy was for her good.
That afternoon, Feodor Kyrilovitch made his unobtrusive exit from the
Legion and was admitted by his sister at the back door of the Cafe. In
his pocket was a letter enclosed in a blank envelope. On an inner
envelope was the following name and address: "_Lady Huntingten, Elham
Old Hall, Elham, Kent, England._"
By the five-thirty train two flighty females--one blonde, the other
brunette--were seen off from the little Sidi-bel-Abbes station of the
Western Algerian Railway, which runs from Tlemcen to Oran, by
Mademoiselle Carmelita of the Cafe de la Legion. Their conversation and
playful badinage with the guard of Legionnaires, which is always on duty
at the platform gate, were frivolous and unedifying. Sergeant Boulanger,
as gallant to women as he was ferocious to men, vowed to his admired
Carmelita that it broke his heart to announce that he feared he could
not allow her two friends to proceed on their journey until--Carmelita's
white face seemed to go a little whiter--they had both given him a
chaste salute. On hearing this, one of the girls fled squealing to the
train, while the other, with very real blushes and unfeigned reluctance,
submitted her face to partial burial beneath the vast moustache of the
amorous Sergeant.... As the ramshackle little train crawled out of the
station, this girl said to the one who had fled: "You _were_ a sneak to
bolt like that, Feodor," and received the somewhat cryptic reply--
"My dear Olga, and where should we both be now if his lips had felt the
bristles around mine? ... You don't suppose that a double shave, twice
over, makes a man's face like a girl's, do you?..."
These two young females found Lady Huntingten all, and more than all,
her son had prophesied. When Feodor and Olga Kyrilovitch left the
hospitable roof of Elham Old Hall, she parried their protestations of
gratitude with the statement that she was fully repaid and over-paid,
for anything she had been able to do for them, by the pleasure of
talking with friends of her son, friends who had actually been with him
but a few days before, and who so fully bore out the statements
contained in his letter to the effect that he was in splendid health and
having a splendid time.
On returning to her Cafe, Carmelita found the Bucking Bronco, John Bull,
Reginald Rupert, 'Erbiggins, and several other Legionnaires awaiting
admittance. Having opened her bar and mechanically ministered to her
customers' needs, the unsmiling, broken-looking Carmelita, all of whose
vitality and energy seemed concentrated in her burning eyes beckoned to
the American and led him into her room Gripping his wrist with her cold
hand, and almost shaking him in her too-long suppressed frenzy:
"Have you told Jean Boule?" she asked. "When will he kill him? Where?
Quick, tell me! I must be there. I must see him do it.... Oh! He
will die too quickly.... It is too good a death for such a reptile....
It is no punishment.... Why should he not suffer some thousandth part
of what _I_ suffer?"
"Look at hyar, Carmelita, honey," interrupted the American, putting his
arm round the little heaving shoulders as he mentally translated what he
must first say in his own tongue. "Thet's jest whar the swine would git
the bulge on yew. Why shouldn't he git a glimpse o' sufferin', sech as
I had ter sit an' see yew git, las' night? ... An' I gits it in the
think-box las' night, right hyar. Listen, ma honey. _I'm gwine ter
beat him up_, right naow, right hyar, in yure Caffy--an' before yure
very eyes. In front of all his bullies an' all the guys he's beat up,
I'll hev' him on his knees a-blubberin' an' a-prayin' fer mercy.... Then
he shall lick yure boots, little gel, same as he makes recruits lick
his. Then he shall grovel on the ground an' beg an' pray yew to marry
him, and at that insult yew shall ask me to put him across my knee and
irritate his pants with my belt--an' then throw him neck and crop, tail
over tip, in the gutter! Termorrer John Bull smacks his face on the
barrack-square an' tells him he was only playin' with him about lettin'
him off that dool."
When Carmelita clearly understood the purport of this remarkable speech
she put her arms around the Bucking Bronco's neck.
"Dear Signor Orso Americano," she whispered. "Humiliate him to the dust
before his comrades, bring him grovelling to my feet, begging me to
marry him--and I will be your wife.... Blind, blind, unnameable _fool_
that I have been--to think this dog a god and you a rough barbarian....
Forgive me, Signor.... I could kill myself."
The Bucking Bronco folded the woman in his arms. Suddenly she struggled
free, thrust him from her, and, falling into a chair, buried her face in
her arms and burst into tears. Standing over her the Bucking Bronco
awkwardly patted her back with his huge hand.
"Do yew good, ma gel," he murmured over and over again. "Nuth'n like a
good cry for a woman.... Git it over naow, and by'n-by show a smilin'
face an' a proud one fer Loojey Rivoli to see fer the las' time."
"The _bambino_," wailed the girl. "The _bambino_."
"_What?_" exclaimed the Bucking Bronco.
Rising, the girl looked the man in the face and painfully but bravely
stammered out what had been her so-wonderful Secret, and the hope of her
life.
The Bucking Bronco again folded Carmelita in his arms.