Hippology and Gymnastics) for Volontaires, I became a Corporal myself.
Life, after that promotion, became a little less complex, and improved still further when I headed the list of Volontaires at the October examination, and became a Sergeant.
§ 6
After hanging between life and death for several weeks, Becque began to mend, and Surgeon-Major Patti-Reville pronounced him to be out of danger.
That same day I received an order through Sergeant de Poncey to visit the junior officer of our squadron, Sous-Lieutenant Raoul d'Auray de Redon, in his quarters, after stables.
"And what the devil does that mean, Sergeant?" I asked.
"I know no more than you," was the reply, "but I do know that Sub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon is one of the very finest gentlemen God ever made. . . . He has often saved me from suicide--simply by a kind word and his splendid smile. . . . If only our officers were all like him!"
I, too, had noticed the young gentleman, and had been struck by his beauty. I do not mean prettiness nor handsomeness, but beauty. It shone from within him, and illuminated a perfectly formed face. A light of truth, strength, courage and gentleness burned like a flame within the glorious lamp of his body. He radiated friendliness, kindness, helpfulness, and was yet the best disciplinarian in the Regiment--because he had no need to "keep" discipline. It kept itself, where he was concerned. And with all his gentle goodness of heart he was a strong man. Nay, he was a lion of strength and courage. He had the noble élan of the French and the cool forceful determination and bull-dog tenacity of the Anglo-Saxon.
After a wash and some valeting by Dufour, I made my way to Sub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon's quarters. . . .
He was seated at a table, and looked up with a long appraising stare, as I saluted and stood at attention.
"You sent for me, mon Lieutenant," I murmured.
"I did," replied de Redon, and the brilliant brown eyes smiled, although the strong handsome face did not.
"Why did you want to fight this Becque?" he suddenly shot at me.
I was somewhat taken aback.
"Er--he--ah--he has dirty finger-nails, mon Lieutenant," I replied.
"Quite probably," observed de Redon. "Quite. . . . And are you going to start a Clean Finger-nail Crusade in the Blue Hussars, and fight all those who do not join it and live up to its excellent tenets?"
"No, mon Lieutenant," I admitted.
"Then why Becque in particular, out of a few hundreds?" continued de Redon.
"Oh!--he eats garlic--and sometimes has a cast in his eye--and he jerks at his horse's mouth--and had a German mother--and wipes his nose with the back of his hand--and grins sideways exposing a long yellow dog-tooth, mon Lieutenant," I replied.
"Ah--you supply one with interesting information," observed my officer dryly. "Now I will supply you with some, though it won't be so interesting--because you already know it. . . . In addition to his garlic, cast, jerks, German mother, nose-wiping and dog-tooth, he is a seditious scoundrel and a hireling spy and agitator, and is trying to seduce and corrupt foolish troopers. . . . You have attended his meetings, taken the oath of secrecy and fidelity to his Society, and you have been closeted with him in private at your hotel."
I stared at de Redon in astonishment, and said what is frequently an excellent thing to say--nothing.
"Now," continued my interlocutor, "perhaps you will answer my questions a little more fully. . . . Why did you challenge Becque, after you had joined his little Society for engineering a mutiny in the Regiment, for achieving the destruction of the State, and for encompassing the ruin of France!"
"Because of the things I have already mentioned, mon officier, and because I thought he would be the better for a rest," I replied. "I considered it a good way to end his little activities. My idea was to threaten him with a duel for every meeting that he held . . ."
"Ah--you did, eh?" smiled de Redon. "And now I want you to tell me just what happened at these meetings, just what was said, and the names of the troopers who were present."
"I cannot do that, sir," I replied. . . . "As you seem to be aware, I took a solemn oath to reveal nothing whatsoever."
Sub-Lieutenant Raoul d'Auray de Redon rose from his chair, and came round to where I was standing. Was he--a gentleman--going to demand with threats and menaces that I break my word--even to such a rat as Becque?
"Stand at ease, Trooper Henri de Beaujolais," he said, "and shake hands with a brother of the Service! . . . Oh, yes, I know all about you, old chap. . . . From de Lannec--though I don't know whether your uncle is aware of the fact. . . ."
I took the proffered hand and stammered my thanks at this honour from my superior officer.
"Oh, nonsense, my dear boy. You'll be my 'superior officer' some day, I have no doubt. . . . I must say I admire your pluck in coming to Us by way of the ranks. . . . How soon will you come to Africa? . . . I am off next month . . . Spahis . . . until I am perfect in languages and disguises. . . . Isn't it a glorious honour to be one of your uncle's picked men? . . . And now about this Becque. You needn't pursue him any more. I have been giving myself a little Secret Service practice and experiment. Much easier here in France than it will be in Africa, by Jove! . . . Well, we know all about Becque, and when he leaves hospital he will go where there will be nothing to distract his great mind from his great thoughts for two or three years. . . . He may be a mad dog, as you say, but I fancy that the mad dog has some pretty sane owners and employers."
"Some one has denounced him, then?" I said.
"No, my dear de Beaujolais, not yet. But some one is going to do so. Some one who attended his last meeting--and who was too drunk to take any oaths. . . . So drunk that he could only giggle helplessly when invited to swear!"
"You?" I asked.
"Me," replied Sub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon. "'And no Work'! You may remember my valuable contribution to the great ideas of the evening. . . ."
Such was my first encounter with this brilliant and splendid man, whom I came to love as a brother is rarely loved. I will tell in due course of my last encounter with him.
§ 7
A letter from de Lannec apprised me of the fact that my uncle had heard of the duel, and seemed amused and far from displeased with me. . . .
Poor old de Lannec! He wrote that his very soul was dead within him, and his life "but dust and ashes, a vale of woe and mourning, a desert of grief and despair in which was no oasis of joy or hope." . . .
For he had lost his adored Véronique Vaux. . . . She had transferred her affections to a colonel of Chasseurs d'Afrique, and departed with him to Fez! . . .
Chapter VI.
Africa
At
