"Speaks well for the Legion," I remarked cheerfully.
"Or ill for the chance of an ex-légionnaire to get a crust of bread," he observed, less cheerfully.
"Been up against it, son?" asked Hank.
"Starved. Tramped my feet off. Slept in the mud. Begged myself hoarse--for work. . . . Driven at last to choose between gaol and the Legion. . . . I chose the Legion, for some reason. . . . Better the devils that you know than flee to the devils that you know not of. . . ."
"Guy seems depressed," said Hank.
"May I finish your wine?" went on the man. "It would be a sin to waste it."
"Pray do," said I, surprised; and reminded myself that I was no longer at Oxford.
"You speak wonderful English," I remarked.
"I do," was the reply; "but better Italian, Hindustani, and French. Legion French, that is."
"An' how's that, ole hoss?" enquired Buddy.
"Father an Italian pastry-cook in Bombay. Went to an English school there, run by the Jesuit Fathers. Talked Hindustani to my ayah. Mother really talked it better than anything else, being what they call a country-bred. Daughter of an English soldier and an Eurasian girl. Got my French in the Legion, of course," explained the stranger.
And then I was unfortunate, in that I partly blundered and partly was misunderstood. What I meant to say, for the sake of being conversational, was:
"And how did you come to find yourself in Africa, so very far from home?" or something chatty like that. What I actually did say was:
"Why did you join the Legion?" which sounded very bald.
"For the same reason that you did. For my health," was the sharp reply, accompanied by a cold stare.
I had done that which is not done.
"And did you find it--healthy?" enquired Buddy.
"Not exactly so much healthy as hellish," replied the Italian in brief and uncompromising style, as he drained his glass (or perhaps mine).
We all three plied him with questions, and learned much that was useful and more that was disturbing. We also gathered that the gentleman was known as Francesco Boldini to his friends, though he did not say by what name the police knew him.
I came to the conclusion that I did not like him extraordinarily much; but that in view of his previous experience he would be an exceedingly useful guide, philosopher, and friend, whose knowledge of the ropes would be well worth purchasing.
I wished I could send him on ahead for the benefit of my brothers, who had, I felt certain, come this way two or three days before me. Indeed, I refused to believe otherwise or to face the fact of my crushing disappointment and horrible position if they had not done so. I was aroused from thoughts of what might, and might not, be before me by a tremendous uproar as the artillerymen present united in roaring their regimental song:
"Si vous voulez jouir des plaisirs de la vie, Engagez vous ici, et dans l'artillerie. Quand l'artilleur de Metz change de garnison, Toutes les femmes de Metz se mettent au balcon. Artilleur, mon vieux frère, À ta santé vidons nos verres; Et répétons ce gai refrain: Vivent les Artilleurs; à bas les fantassins . . ."
and much more.
When they had finished and cheered themselves hoarse, a little scoundrelly-looking fellow sprang on a barrel and sang a remarkably seditious and disloyal ditty, of which the chorus, apparently known to all, was:
"Et quand il faut servir ce bon Dieu de République, Où tout le monde est soldat malgré son consentement, On nous envoi grossir les Bataillons d'Afrique, À cause que les Joyeux s'aiment pas le gouvernement, C'est nous les Joyeux, Les petits Joyeux, Les petits marlous Joyeux qui n'out pas froid aux yeux. . . ."
At the conclusion of this song of the battalion of convicted criminals (known as the Bataillon d'Infanterie Légère d'Afrique, or, more familiarly, as the "Bat d'Af"), the men of the Colonial Infantry, known as Marsouins, lifted up their voices in their regimental song. These were followed by others, until I think I heard all the famous marching-songs of the French army--including that of the Legion, sung by Boldini. It was all very interesting indeed, but in time I had had enough of it. . . .
When we returned to the barrack-room, on the advice of Boldini, to be in time for the evening meal, I formally retained that experienced and acquisitive gentleman as guide, courier, and mentor, with the gift of ten francs and the promise of such future financial assistance as I could give and he should deserve.
"I am sorry I cannot spare more just at present," said I, in unnecessary apology for the smallness of the retaining fee; and his reply was illuminating.
"Ten francs, my dear sir," he said, "is precisely two hundred days' pay to a légionnaire. . . . Seven months' income. Think of it!" . . .
And I thought of it.
Decidedly I should need considerable promotion before being in a position to marry and live in comfort on my pay. . . .
§5.
"Dinner," that evening, at about five o'clock, consisted of similar "soupe," good greyish bread, and unsweetened, milkless coffee. The first came, as before, in tin basins, called "gamelles"; the second was thrown to us from a basket; and the coffee was dipped from a pail, in tin mugs.
The soupe was a kind of stew, quite good and nourishing, but a little difficult to manipulate without spoon or fork. I found that my education was, in this respect, inferior to that of my comrades. After this meal--during which the German eyed our party malevolently, and Vogué, the gentleman who had objected to my opening the window, alluded to me as a "sacred nicodème," whatever that may be--there was nothing to do but to adjourn once more to the canteen.
Here it was my privilege to entertain the whole band from the barrack-room, and I was interested to discover that both the German, whose name proved to be Glock, and the unpleasing Vogué, were both charmed to accept my hospitality, and to drown resentment, with everything else, in wine.
It is quite easy to be lavishly hospitable with wine at about a penny a pint.
Fun grew fast and furious, and I soon found that I was entertaining a considerable section of the French army, as well as the Legion's recruits.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evening, and was smitten upon the back, poked in the ribs, wrung by the hand, embraced about the neck, and, alas, kissed upon both cheeks by Turco, Zouave, Tirailleur, Artilleur, Marsouin, and Spahi, even before the battalion of bottles had been routed by the company of men.
I noticed that Boldini waxed more foreign, more voluble, and more unlovable, the more he drank.
If he could do anything else like a gentleman, he certainly could not carry his wine like one.
"Sah!" he hiccupped to me, with a strident laugh, "farmerly arlso there were a gross of bahtles and few men, and now arlso there are only gross men and a few bahtles!" and he smote me on the back to assist me to understand the jest. The more he went to pieces under the influence of liquor, the more inclined was I to think he had a larger proportion of Oriental strain than he pretended.
I liked him less and less as the evening wore on, and I liked him least when he climbed on the zinc-covered counter and sang an absolutely vile song, wholly devoid of humour or of anything else but offence. I am bound to admit, however, that it was very well received by the audience.
"What you t'ink of thatt, sah?" he enquired, when he had finished.
I replied that I preferred not to think of it, and proposed to address him in future as Cloaca Maxima.
Meanwhile,