The Wages of Virtue/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
THE SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING
LÉGIONNAIRE JOHN BULL at on the edge of his cot at the hour of astiquage. Though his body was in the chambrée 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 Légionnaire 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 Légionnaire 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 chambrée! 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 Légion Etrangère, 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 corvée 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 chambrée of a caserne of the French Foreign Legion in Sidi-bel-Abbès. 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 chambrée, 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[1] 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.
"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 Café 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 naïveté, "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,[2] John?"
"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 Cantinière, 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 Café de la Légion was swept and garnished, and Carmelita sat in her sedia pieghevole[3] behind her bar, awaiting her evening guests.
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 café. 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 Cantinière, 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-Abbès."
"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-Abbès."
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 corvée—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 Café.… I wish Madame la Cantinière 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 Cantinière'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 Café de la Légion and made their way back to their caserne.
"I'll look in the chambrée," 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. Légionnaire 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 café and, next day, two café-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 couturières, 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 chambrée.
"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 Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli of the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of La Légion Etrangère 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 Légionnaire 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 Cantinière 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 Cantinière 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, bécasse—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 chambrée, canteen, or staircase, was—
"Art thou the girl, petite?"
The wrinkled old grey-beard, Tant-de-Soif, was christened Bébé Fifinette, provided with a skirt improvised from a blanket, and subjected to indignities.