I left the depot one morning with a large party of recruits for a
battalion in the inland parts of Algeria. We were about a hundred and
eighty strong, and as a lieutenant was the only officer I ranked as
second in command. We had two sergeants and eight or nine corporals
to help to maintain discipline, but the men acted in a very good way
on the march. I can recall no incident worth relating, but I remember
one circumstance that made the march very pleasant. As the lieutenant
had no brother officer to speak to and was naturally talkative, he
had to associate very much with me. It must not be supposed that this
diminished the respect in which I was bound to hold his rank; on the
contrary, since he made the time pass agreeably for me, I felt more
and more disposed to render him all outward signs of honour; and if
I did address him as "my lieutenant" as we marched 20 paces ahead of
the party, when others were within earshot I fell back on the more
respectful "sir." I am sure he noted this, but he said nothing about
it. This officer was a most entertaining talker; he was naturally
clever, had received a good education, and was full of stories of Paris
which were well worth hearing. He saw that I enjoyed his tales of life
there, and thus had the best of all incentives to story-telling--a good
listener. On the other hand, I told him more than he, as an officer,
could learn of the Legion and the men who were in it. I did not trouble
about the Alsatians and Lorrainers, who had enlisted solely to gain
the rights of French citizens, but I let him know the life-history of
more than one of the Russians, Austrians, Germans and Spaniards who
filled our ranks. I did more. I allowed him to see the trend of thought
in the corps; I told him of our traditions, our jealousies, our loves
and our hates; by the time that we arrived at our goal he understood
better than most officers the character of the men whom he would have
under his command. So the lieutenant and the sergeant-major were good
comrades.
When we came to the battalion at the borders of the Great Desert the
recruits were distributed amongst the companies, the sergeants and
corporals were appointed to sections and squads, the lieutenant took
the place of an officer who had died of fever, and so all were settled
in the new battalion except myself. The commandant did not know what
to do with me; he had enough sub-officers of my rank already, and
yet he did not like to put me to any duties except those of the rank
I held. This was on account of the military medal. If I had not had
that, I should very soon have found myself acting as simple sergeant
of a section. However, a way was found out of the difficulty--a way
which led me into many sorrows--though these I have never regretted,
counterbalanced as they were by so many joys.
There was a woman in the place who kept a canteen. She always
remained with this battalion, and where others might starve she waxed
wealthy--that is, wealthy for a _cantinière_. Her husband had been a
sergeant of the third company. He had fallen fighting bravely in an
obscure skirmish at some desert village, and when he fell he left a
wife and baby daughter to the care of his comrades. The story of the
pair was never fully known. They were Italians, and both of evidently
gentle birth. When I heard about them first I thought of a Romeo and
a Juliet giving up all for love, leaving behind family animosities
with family riches, and seeking security from all search in the safest
retreat in the world--the "legion of the lost ones." All the men saw
and admired the heroic self-sacrifice of the gently-nurtured lady who
left all to follow the chosen one in such a career, and I am proud
to be able to say that during her husband's life and after his death
no man ever said in her hearing anything that would bring a blush to
her cheeks; in her presence even the most hardened rascal put on the
semblance of a gentleman. People say that even the best man has some
fault or imperfection of nature. It may be so. At any rate even the
worst man has some good, some respect for virtue and honour, even
though he possesses them not himself.
After the death of her husband the widow opened a small shop, in which
she sold wine, tobacco, and other things that soldiers spend their
money on. The officers of the battalion stocked this for her, but in
a short time she was able to pay them back, and she insisted on their
accepting the money though they did not at all desire repayment. The
regimental convoys were allowed to bring her goods as she required
them, and the legionaries of her dead husband's battalion loyally spent
most of their scanty pay in her canteen.
Whenever anyone received money from friends or relations in Europe
her stock would be all cleared off at once, and so by the exercise of
a little frugality she was able gradually to put by some money for
the little daughter whom she idolised. At the time when I came to the
battalion this girl was about fifteen years of age, slight, graceful,
lively, bright-eyed, the pet of the battalion. Everyone jested freely
with her, she jested freely with everybody, but no one ever thought of
saying anything which her mother, a model of virtue, would not like to
hear.
I had been but two or three days in my new quarters when an alarm of
fire was raised one night, and we all turned out promptly as the cry
went around. There was no danger for us, as the huts were one-storeyed
and did not contain more than a squad each, but there might be some for
the officers, whose quarters were more elaborate, and who, of course,
were more isolated. A dozen or a score of men in a hut will all get
clear, because some at least will be aroused, and these can pull out
their suffocating comrades; a single officer may be smothered in his
bed before even the watchful sentry realises the outbreak. When I
came out of my quarters, in shirt and drawers, I glanced around, and
saw at once that all the cantonment was safe. Then I heard a cry from
the direction of the main guard-house that the village was on fire,
but this was afterwards proved to be false. I flung on my clothes
hurriedly and ran to the guard-house, for I had no assigned place on
the parade that was now rapidly forming on the parade-ground, not being
sergeant-major of any company, and asked the sergeant of the guard
where the fire was.
"Madame's canteen," he replied; "twenty or thirty men have already gone
to put it out."
"May I go to help?" (Of course, though I was of higher rank, he was the
man in charge of the guard, and could prevent me, if he wished, from
going out.)
"Certainly, my sergeant-major."
"Thanks, comrade, thanks." And I ran out and went to the widow's
canteen. There I found the whole a mass of flames, and I saw at a
glance that there was no hope of saving even the smallest portion of
the house or its contents, especially as there was a sad lack of water.
I asked a man if the woman and the girl had been saved. He told me that
the girl had discovered the fire and awakened her mother, that both had
made good their escape, and that then the widow had run back to recover
her little store of money, the hiding-place of which no one else knew.
"Then," he went on, "the daughter tried to go into the blazing house to
bring back her mother, but she was forcibly prevented by some soldiers,
and one or two of the legionaries who tried to enter were driven
back, severely burned, by the fire and smoke." The flames, indeed,
were terrible, all the wine barrels and spirit casks were blazing
fiercely; there was no hope of life for anyone in such a hell. The
poor widow fell a victim to her desire to regain for her daughter the
money she had hoarded with so much anxious care, and nothing remained
of her except a few charred bones, which were reverently gathered up
and decently interred on the morrow. As for the money, it must have
been chiefly in paper, for very little metal could be found in the
ashes, and so the poor daughter was left completely alone in the world,
without relations, at least as far as she knew, without means, and with
only the friendship and the pity of the battalion to look to for aid.
The Italian girl was taken charge of by a sergeant's wife--one of
those few noble women, few, I mean, comparatively speaking, who will
go anywhere with their husbands, and who furnish in the most abandoned
communities examples of unselfish heroism and exalted virtue, which
make even men whose knowledge of the sex is confined to its most
vicious members have some respect for purity and some doubts as to
their favourite axiom: A man may be good, but a woman cannot be. The
officers proposed that she should continue as _cantinière_ in place of
her mother, and generously offered to put her in a position to do so.
As for us sub-officers and simple soldiers, our duty was plain: as soon
as she was in a new home and shop, to go there, and there only, with
the constant copper, the occasional silver, the God-sent gold. She knew
this, the officers knew it; we made no resolutions; and said scarcely
anything about the matter amongst ourselves, but all understood that it
would be bad for the legionary who bought his wine or brandy elsewhere.
The commandant sent for the four sergeant-majors of the companies and
for me, the supernumerary. He asked us how much it would cost to erect
a new house. We said that it would cost nothing; the soldiers would
build one in their spare time.
"Very well, my friends, very well. How much will it cost to put in a
new supply."
We did not answer this at once, but after some time we all agreed that
2000 francs would put in a fairly good stock--that is, if carriage cost
nothing.
"Oh, the carriage will be settled; I will see to that," said the
commandant. "Now, sergeant-major," he went on, turning to me, "you have
no company whose accounts you must make up, will you undertake to look
after this business for Mademoiselle Julie?"
"I will do my best, sir, in this matter if you wish it."
"That will do," he replied; "you shall be sergeant-major of the canteen
company. Is it not so?"
Every other sergeant-major laughed at me. They were glad that I had
been sent to some duty, for a sergeant-major with the military medal
is not long employed as simple sergeant, and each man, so long as I
was unemployed in my proper rank, would fear for himself and his own
position. Thus I became sergeant-major responsible for a canteen and
the curious crowd assembled there. Some time afterwards, when the new
quarters had been built by the legionaries and the little stock of
_eau-de-vie_, wine, tobacco, and cigars had arrived, there was a grand
opening. All the men had been saving up for awhile, and more than half
the stock was sold at a good profit on the first evening. The girl was
asked to do nothing except to take the money; four men willingly acted
as assistants, pouring out the wine and the _eau-de-vie_, and, indeed,
now and then tasting them too, for "you must not muzzle the ox treading
out the corn," nor ask a man to help others to good things without
occasionally helping himself as well.
One of them took so much brandy that I had to turn him out, a couple
of comrades brought him away to his hut, and nothing was said about
it, as the poor little _cantinière_ begged him off with tears in her
eyes. Just as things were becoming almost too lively the commandant and
the other officers came down and entered the little shop. The first
intimation we inside had of their arrival was the silence of the men
who were laughing, singing, and carousing outside. The commandant put
down a couple of gold pieces and asked for two bottles of wine. He and
the others took each a sip of this and wished mademoiselle a prosperous
business. Then the commandant gave me a strong hint that enough of
business had been done for that day, and I promptly shut up shop after
his departure. When all had left Giulia and I counted the money. We
had a little gold, a good deal of silver, and a great quantity of
copper--altogether over fourteen hundred francs. I congratulated her
upon the successful evening's trading, and then we went to reckon up
the supply still left. We found that at the same rate of sale the
two thousand francs would be changed into at least two thousand six
hundred, and that surely was excellent profit in an out-of-the-way camp
of legionaries where money was rather scarce.
Then Giulia asked me to take a glass of wine and a cigar. I did not
refuse. What legionary, what man, indeed, would, when pressed by so
lovely a girl? Of late I had seen her constantly, as my management
of her affairs and my continual reports about the progress of her
new house brought me daily into her society. We always got on well
together--fifteen and seventeen don't usually fall out--and my rank and
medal brought me favour in her eyes. Moreover, I was very respectful in
my words and demeanour. I pitied her misfortune, and my pity was not
lessened by the sight of her beauty, and, before I had been three days
attending to her affairs, I took more interest in them than I could by
any chance take in the accounts of a company. We were very good friends
and companions, but there was not a hint, not a suspicion, of love
on either side. She was pretty and in trouble, and, therefore, had my
sympathy. I was kind and attentive to her, and she was grateful. _Voilà
tout!_
Before I drank the wine I made her put her lips to the glass, which she
did, prettily and with a blush.
"You must never ask me to do that again," she said.
"Why, it is the custom of the Legion, ma camarade," I replied. "You are
now a legionary; surely you will do as your good comrades do?"
"Well, at least not in the presence of others."
"Very well," I answered; "but always when we are alone?"
"Yes," she whispered; "when we are alone. I trust you." And she put her
little hand out to me. I took it, and by a sudden impulse kissed it.
"You may always trust me," I said--"always."
A question now arose as to the disposal of the money. There was no
danger from natives, as the new house was inside the lines; there was
not much, indeed, from soldiers, as there were sentries near. At the
same time I told Giulia that it would be safer to transfer it to some
other place. "Can you not," I suggested, "take it to the woman in whose
quarters you live?"
"No, no," she replied; "I will take some to give to her--she has been
very good to me--but you are in charge, you must keep the greater part."
"I?" I said in astonishment.
"Yes; if you do not, I will leave it here."
"But, Mademoiselle Julie, there are very bad men in every battalion,
and someone may break in and steal all."
"Let the sentinels keep watch."
"Ah! a sentinel may be glad to get half."
"I do not care; you are my sergeant-major"--as she said this a rosy
flush came up over neck and face and ears--"and it is your duty to keep
my money for me. Besides, did I not say that I trust you?"
In the end I had to take twelve hundred francs, though with many
misgivings. Giulia told me that she would give two hundred to the
sergeant's wife, the rest she would keep herself. Then we locked up
the place and departed to our separate quarters, after having made an
appointment to meet in the morning, to inspect the stores and see if
anything had been touched during the night. Giulia wanted me to take
the keys as well as the money, but this I refused to do.
I could scarcely sleep that night on account of the money. I occupied
a small room in a long, low-roofed building, given up to the
accommodation of sergeants whose domestic arrangements did not include
a woman. I barricaded the door, put a glass on the window, so that
anyone trying to enter that way might knock it down on a tin basin
placed just below, and put a naked bayonet and the box containing the
money under my pillow. For all these precautions I spent a wakeful
night, and rose in the morning, restless, anxious, and unrefreshed.
After the morning coffee I felt better, and laughed to myself at my
fears of the night. Who would take the money? surely not one of the
sergeants. I did not, I could not, suspect them, but I certainly should
not like to trust every man in the battalion; the Legion contains more
than a due percentage of desperate ruffians, and our battalion had its
fair share of the bad ones.
As I went across the parade-ground to keep my appointment with Giulia
at the door of the canteen I met the captain of my company, or at least
of the company to which I was attached, though I seldom paraded with
it. He noticed the box and asked me what it contained. When I told him
he laughed, and said that many a man would be pleased to be so trusted,
especially by so beautiful a girl as Mademoiselle la Cantinière. I
answered that the trust was pleasant but the responsibility too great;
I did not wish to have the safe keeping of twelve hundred francs.
"You cannot help it now, my sergeant-major of the canteen, you must
undertake all the duties of your position." Then he told me to present
his compliments to Mademoiselle Julie, and went away.
I met Giulia at the door. She looked annoyed at having to wait, but
when I made her acquainted with the delay caused by meeting the captain
her face cleared.
"I thought, mon ami," she said, "that you had forgotten your duty."
"That might be possible; but, Mademoiselle Julie, how could I forget
you?"
She curtsied at the compliment, and I noticed the grace of her figure,
the beauty of its curves, the wonderful arch of the instep; and I
must have looked my admiration, for when she lifted her eyes to meet
mine, again the rosy flush came up over her neck and cheeks. "Let us
see that all is right within," she said, and opened the door. When we
were inside we saw at a glance that everything was as we had left it
on the previous evening. "Now let us count the money," I said. In a
second Giulia flew into a rage, she stamped her foot upon the ground,
she cried out that I wished to insult her, that I thought her mean
and suspicious, and finally burst into tears. I laid my hand upon her
arm and wished to know what had vexed her; she flung it off with an
indignant gesture and bade me go away. I was thunderstruck. I could
not tell how I had offended, and was beginning to feel aggrieved. Why
should I be told that I had insulted her whom I would not pain for
all the world? The more I thought of my conduct towards her, the less
reason I could see for her anger and tears. I was wise enough, however,
to let her have her cry out: when she had done with weeping she would
be reasonable. I was not mistaken.
When she had dried her tears, I asked how I had offended her. She
looked, calmly enough now, at me, and said: "Did I not tell you
yesterday that I trusted you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"And yet to-day you ask that I should count the money. How can I do so
and trust?"
I took off my kepi, bowed, and said: "Pardon me, I was wrong."
"You will never offend me again?"
"Never. And you, you will forgive?"
"Yes; once, but not a second time."
Again she gave me her hand, again I kissed it, then she put her hands
upon my shoulders, and said: "My dear friend, if I did not trust you
more than you think, I would not be alone with you here."
She asked me to take a glass of wine, voluntarily put the glass to her
lips, and then handed it to me. I deliberately turned it round, so
that my lips should touch where hers had touched, and drained it to
the bottom, looking the while over it at Giulia. She smiled and looked
pleased, and then turned away to get some cigars. I had more sense than
to offer money. I took the cigars, and said:
"You are a good comrade, Giulia."
It was the first time I had called her by her name. She hesitated a
little, and then answered:
"And you too, you will be a good comrade, will you not, Jean?"
"Oui, ma belle." And I bit off the end of a cigar, while she struck a
match to light it for me.
Just as I began to smoke there came a knock at the door. I shouted out
"Entrez," and the commandant came in. I put down the cigar and stood to
attention.
"Everything goes well, is it not?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur le commandant," Giulia replied; "I can soon repay some
of the money advanced by you and the other officers."
"No, my child," the commandant said; "you are the daughter of the
regiment now. The battalion must be father and mother to you; we cannot
accept repayment."
"But my mother paid back the money given to her by the officers."
"Yes, my dear child; but your mother was not born in the regiment,
and though we lent to her we give to you. We gave it, indeed, and did
not expect to be repaid. I was a sub-lieutenant then, and I remember
all. She insisted, and we were compelled to accept. With you it is
different; we will insist, and you must not refuse. How do you like the
sergeant-major of the canteen?" he went on. We all laughed at the queer
title; no one had ever heard of such a rank.
"Very well, monsieur le commandant."
"Yes, yes; I think he will be good; if he is not, tell me." With that
he went away.
"I must be good, Giulia?" I said, as I lit the cigar again.
"Yes; very good, my comrade; you must never offend me again."
"Ah! you do not forget--perhaps you will never forget--and then, what
is the good of being forgiven?"
"I will forget; yes, I will never remember, unless you force me to."
I promised that I should never offend her again, and she smiled and
said that she believed me.
"Nobody will enter here during the day," I told her, "and I will leave
the box here; if I do not I must carry it everywhere with me, and that
will be inconvenient."
Giulia asked me why I should carry it about with me, and I told her
that I should have no peace or ease of mind while it was out of my
sight unless it was in the canteen, which was near so many sentinels.
I also mentioned my fears for its safety the previous night and the
precautions that I had taken. She was very sorry that I had been so
restless, and advised me to leave it in future in the canteen. To this
I demurred. I told her that if the box were there, I should be getting
up at all hours of the night to come and look at the place, and perhaps
I might be shot by a sentry. "But can we not find a hiding-place--some
place that nobody could find even in broad daylight?" The idea struck
me as a good one. We searched in all directions, and finally decided on
an empty box half-full of straw that had contained bottles. By leaving
this, of course, without the money, in full view of everybody during
the day, no man who might enter at night would dream of searching it.
Then I proposed that we should put only the money there every evening
and that I should take away the empty box.
"No, my friend, you shall not. Something might happen if the bad ones
thought that the box was full; better lose the money than a good
friend's life."
"As it pleases you, my comrade; I will obey orders, then I cannot
offend."
That evening the canteen did a good trade, so good, indeed, that
we--that is, Giulia and I--determined on sending for more wine and
_eau-de-vie_. I went to the commandant in the morning and told him how
affairs stood. He was glad to hear my report, and ordered me to make
out the order and give it to him to be forwarded. I brought him the
written order to a merchant in Oran and handed over eighteen hundred
francs in cash. He had the money counted by a clerk, and then told me
that he would see that Mademoiselle Julie's order and money were safely
transmitted. I saluted and went away.
As day after day passed Giulia and I became all the better friends. We
openly showed our liking for each other. We were constantly meeting,
sometimes by accident it is true, but oftener by unexpressed design,
and, whenever we met, we always stopped to speak. I, being unattached
to any company for battalion duties, had plenty of time on my hands;
Giulia, of course, had nothing to do until evening, as I took good care
that her place was swept and cleaned every morning by legionaries,
who were only too glad to do this work for a glass of brandy and an
ounce of tobacco apiece; thus we, as it were, could not help meeting
so frequently. The others noticed and said nothing; it was tacitly
understood at the time through the battalion that we were lovers, and
yet we had never even spoken of love, and I had kissed her hand only
twice. We were happy together, and that, for the moment, was enough for
both.