quietly and privately in a comfortable chair at the back of the empty reception-tent of the Spahis.
Colonel Merlonorot drove her home in his uncomfortable high dogcart—(quite à l'Anglaise).
Just time to change and rest before Guillaume arrived....
He burst into her room, looking fagged, white, and weary—and his greeting, after five weeks' absence, was—
"What on earth have you been doing with my horse? It's as lame as a tree, and the valet has got its near fore in a bucket of hot water.... It's a shame, I say.... The only horse I have got, and you can't take a little care of it! What am I to do to-morrow? I suppose it doesn't trouble you that I must cycle to barracks in the sun? ... Peste! ... Nom d'un Nom! ..." and much more.
Poor Guillaume! He was so overworked and ill—but she wept bitterly, and, lying awake all night, wished she were dead. But a note was handed in at breakfast, next morning, from Colonel de Longueville, which ran:
"DEAR MADAME,
"I should like to offer my very hearty congratulations on your, and your pony's performance yesterday, and to ask whether your husband would take 4,000 fcs. for him.
"I gave that for the pony that Belzébuth left standing yesterday—so it's not a very brilliant offer. I should train him for bigger things.
"With my most distinguished regards and compliments,
"HENRI DE LONGUEVILLE,
"Colonel."
Madame Paës, being very weak and tired, wept again.
XI. The Quest
Ex-No. 32867, Soldat première classe, shuffled out of the main gate of the barracks of the First Battalion of La Légion Étrangère at Sidi-bel-Abbès for the last time, and without a farewell glance at that hideous yellow building. He had once been Geoffry Brabazon-Howard, Esquire, of St. James's Street and the United Service Club, but no one would have thought it of the stooping, decrepit creature in the ill-fitting blue suit of ready-made (and very badly made) mufti, the tam-o'-shanter cap and blue scarf, from the fourrier-sergent's store. He looked more like a Basque bear-leader whose bear has been impounded, or an Italian organ-grinder who has had to pawn his organ—save that the rather vacant eye in the leathern face was grey and the hair, beneath the beret, of a Northern fairness. A careful observer (such as a mother or wife, had he had one to observe him) would have noticed that his hands shook like those of an old man, that his eyes were heavy and blood-shot, as though from sleeplessness, and that his legs did not appear to be completely under control. A casual passer-by might have supposed him to be slightly drunk, or recovering from a drunken bout.
He had that day received his discharge from the Legion, his bonus as holder of the médaille and croix, his papers and travelling-warrant to any place in France, the blessing of his Captain, and the cheery assurance of Médecin-Major Parme that he was suffering from cerebro-spinal sclerosis, and would gradually but surely develop into a paralysed lunatic.
Certainly he felt very ill. He was in no great pain, and he regretted the fact. He would far rather have felt the acutest pain than the strange sensation that there was a semi-opaque veil between himself and his fellow-men, that he lived quite alone and unapproachable in a curious cloud, and that, although he slept but little, he lived in a dream. He was also much distressed by the feeling that his hands were as large and thick as boxing-gloves, that his feet had soles of thick felt, and that he had fourmis (pins-and-needles) in his legs. He would gladly have exchanged the terrible feeling of weakness (and imminent collapse) in the small of his back for any kind of pain. And, above all things, he wanted rest. Not sleep! Heaven forbid. Sleep was the portal of a Hell unnameable and unimaginable, and the worst of it was that insomnia led to the very same place, and one lived on the horns of a dilemma. If one did things to keep oneself awake, they either lost their efficacy and one slept (and fell into Hell) or one got insomnia (and crawled there with racking, bursting head and eyes that burnt the brain).
Rest! That was it. Well—he had done his five years in the Legion and got his discharge. Why shouldn't he rest? He would rest forthwith, before he set out upon his Quest, the last undertaking of his life.
He sat down on the pavé in the shade of the Spahis' barracks and leant against the wall. In five seconds he was asleep.
Later, two gens d'armes passed. One turned back and kicked him. "Get out of this," said he tersely.
Ex-No. 32867 of the Première Légion Étrangère staggered to his feet with what speed he might.
"I beg your pardon," said he in English. "I am afraid...." and then he realized who and what and where he was.
Mechanically he walked back to barracks and made to enter the great main gate. The sentry stopped him, and the Sergeant of the Guard came up.
"By no means, verminous pekin,"13 quoth Sergeant Legros. "Is this a doss-house for every dirty tramp of a broken-down pèkin that chooses to enter and defile it?" and he ordered the sentry to fling the thing out. "But that a French bayonet must not be used as a stable-fork, I would..." he began again, but Ex-No. 32867 perceived that this was not the place of Rest, and shuffled away again.
Sergeant Legros spat after him. If there was one thing he hated more than a Legionary, it was a time-expired man, a vile dog who had survived his treatment and escaped his clutches....
Ex-No. 32867 passed along the barrack wall, his eyes staring vaguely ahead. If he might not sit on the ground and could not get back to his chambrèe and cot, where could he go for rest? He could not set forth upon his Quest until he had rested. His back was too near the breaking-point, his knees too weak, his feet too uncertain. There were seats in the gardens by the Porte de Tlemçen, if he could get so far. But in the Place Sadi Carnot he suddenly found that he had sat down. Well—he would.... He fell asleep at once....
The gendarme seemed very suspicious, but that is only natural in a gendarme. Yes—the papers were apparently in order, but he would do well to remember that the gendarme had his eye upon him. He could go, this time—so, Marche!—and sit down no more for a siesta in the middle of the road....
Where was it he had been going for a rest? ... A bright idea—Carmelita's! She would let him rest, and, if not too busy, would see that he did not fall asleep and go to Hell....
"Bon jour, mon ami!" cried Carmelita, as he entered the little Café de la Legion. "Che cosa posse offrirve? Seet daown. What you drink?"
Ex-No. 32867 raised his beret, bowed, smiled, and fell asleep across a table. Carmelita raised puzzled brows. Drunk at this time of day? She pulled him backward on to the wooden bench, untied his scarf, and, going to her room behind the bar, returned with an old cushion which she thrust beneath his head. He at once sat up, thanked her politely, and walked out of the café.
"Eh! Madonna! These English," shrugged Carmelita, and resumed her work. If one stopped to notice the eccentricities of every half-witted Légionnaire, one might spend one's life at it....
Ex-No. 32867 strolled slowly along to the railway-station, showed his papers to the Sergeant of the Guard on duty there, sat him
