P. C. WREN - Tales Of The Foreign Legion - P. C. Wren

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the muddy causeways between the rice-fields, working in his office, inspecting, eating, and drinking—had been devoted to hatching "messages," conversations, communications and lies, till he had lost health, weight, sleep, and appetite....

      No.... He could not write a single word, for his mind was absolutely blank.

      Minutes passed.

      Sweating, cursing, and praying, the unfortunate man sat in an agony of misery, and could not write a single word.

      Would not le bon Dieu help him? Just this one last time? ...

      Minutes passed.

      Not to have saved his life, not to have saved the life of his wife, not to have brought back le petit Gingembre, could the poor tortured wretch have written a single word.... What would his wife do when she discovered the cheat—for if no words came during the next minute or two he knew he must spring to his feet, make full confession, and throw himself upon his wife's mercy.

      That or go mad.

      What would she do? .... Leave him for ever? ... Spit upon him and call him "Liar," "Cheat," and "Heartless, cruel villain"?

      Would the dreadful reaction and shock kill her?—deprive her of reason?

      Suddenly he perceived that, with hands which were acres in extent, he was endeavouring to move a "planchette" the size of Indo-China—a "planchette" that was red-hot and of which the fire burnt into his brain. Its smoke and fumes were choking him; its fierce white light was blinding him; the thing was killing him.

      By the time, several weeks later, that little Madame Gallais had nursed her husband back to sanity and consciousness, the first bitterness of grief was past and she herself could play the comforter.

      "Oh, my Edouard," she wept upon his shoulder when first the brain-fever left him and he knew her, "we have lost our little Gingembre—but you have me, and, oh, my brave hero-husband, I have you. I shall weep no more." ...

      "Planchette" stands on Madame's desk—but she does not use it.

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      Chubby, cherubic, and cheerful, with the pure, wholesome blood of his native Provence yet glowing in his cheeks, Extreme Youth was the only trouble really—and there are many worse diseases—of Lieutenant Archambaut Thibaut d'Amienville of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, of the glorious XIXth Army Corps of La République Française.

      As he sat back from the table, fingering his glass, he looked exceedingly handsome, dashing, and romantic in his beautiful pale blue uniform. But he had not found his level, and he was making some bad breaks. It does not always conduce to modesty and diffidence in a young man that his papa is a very prominent and powerful politician, and his mother a leader of Paris Society. As the deft native waiters, arrayed in spotless white, moved the table-cloth and set forth fresh glasses, ash-trays, shapely bottles and cigarette-boxes on the shining mahogany that reflected the electric lights like a mirror, he rushed in once again. There was no squashing him.

      One has heard of people being young enough to know better—young enough, that is, to have high ideals, generosity, and purity of motive—but Lieutenant Archambaut Thibaut d'Amienville was young enough to know best. He was so young, so wise, and so well informed that he was known as Général and not Lieutenant d'Amienville among his intimates. And he was at the moment giving generously and freely to his seniors of the stores of his wisdom and knowledge.

      Captain Gautier d'Armentières, of the First Battalion of La Légion Étrangère, scarred and war-worn hero of Tonquin, Dahomey, and Madagascar, beloved as few officers are beloved by the wild and desperate men he led, fine soldier and fine gentleman, remarked to the officer on his left—a gorgeous Major of Spahis, resplendent in scarlet cloak (huddled in which he shivered with fever), ceinturon, and full baggy trousers:

      "So you are going to have another try for a lion?" But the Major had no time to reply for "Général" d'Amienville had caught the ultimate word. (He had promised his mamma a select consignment of lion-skins of his own procuring when he left for the wilds of Algiers and the Soudan, and she had helped in the purchase of the battery of sporting weapons that he had bought at the gun-shop in the Rue de la Paix, guiding his taste to the choice of "pretty ones with nice water-marking on the barrels," and dainty ornament in the way of engraving, chasing, damascening and mounting.)

      "Lion?" said he quickly. "What you want for lion, d'Armentières, is impact, concussion, force—er—weight, a-ah-stunning blow.... It is absolutely useless, you know, for you to go and drill him through and through with neat little holes of which he is unaware, and which trouble him not at all.... None of your Mausers or Lebels, you know." ...

      Eight pairs of eyes regarded the young gentleman without enthusiasm or affection; nay, with positive coldness.

      The strong and clever face of one of the party, a Captain of Zouaves, looked somewhat Machiavellian, as, with a cold smile, he encouragingly murmured "Yes?"

      Colonel Leon Lebrun, famous chief of Tirailleurs and old enough to have been the young gentleman's grandfather, assumed a Paul-at-the-feet-of-Gamaliel air, and with humility also said "Yes?"

      "Yes," continued d'Amienville, "never take one of these small-bore toys, no matter what the muzzle-velocity. Get something with a good fat bore and a good fistful of cordite. Then you know where you are and what you are doing.... I'd as soon go with my automatic pistol as with a small-bore.... And never go on foot—especially in those reedy places. And never touch a tablier—what the English call a machan when they put them up for tiger in their Indian colonies.... No good.... Suicide in fact.... What you want to do is to have a platform—like a sentry's vue—strongly lashed in the branches of a convenient high tree, near the 'kill,' put a mattress on it, and make yourself comfortable."

      "And if, in effect, there be no tree?" respectfully inquired Médecin-Major Parme, twirling his huge moustache without revealing the expression on his thin lips.

      "Oh-er-well, then, of course, you might—er—well, perhaps dig a pit and fence yourself round. You might, in fact, have a sort of cage.... Just as good for keeping wild beasts out as for keeping them in."

      "Excellent!" murmured the Colonel.

      "Now I should never have thought of going lion-hunting in a cage. But original! Original! Of a cleverness! ... How many lions have you shot?"

      The flush of embarrassment deepened that of youth and juiciness in the plump cheek of the young officer.

      "Oh-er-well, I have never actually shot any, you know," he replied, in some confusion, but still with a suggestion of having done something very similar—of having ridden them down with a hog-spear, or caught them on a rod and line.

      "Haven't you?" asked Captain d'Armentières in apparent surprise. From the discomfort of his confession the youth quickly recovered with the attempted tu quoque—

      "Have you?"

      "Yes," admitted the Captain, hesitatingly.

      "Oh?—and when did you shoot one, pray?" inquired d'Amienville, with a sceptical note, sufficiently impertinent to be irritating.

      The Captain's uniform of dark blue and red was a very modest affair beside that of the young Chasseur—and, nom de Dieu! who was he to attempt a sneer at the son of Madame d'Amienville—not to mention of Monsieur d'Amienville, politician of international fame and importance?

      The young officer raised his absinthe to the light, crossed a leg, admired a neat boot, and glanced a trifle disdainfully at the grizzled, unfashionable old barbare of whom the elegant salons of Paris had never heard. (A mere St. Maizent man snubbing an alumnus of St. Cyr!)

      "My last, about this time last year," was the reply.

      "Your

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