was very little short of the simple truth.
"Wait by that door, please," requested the Sergeant-Major, indicating one marked Commandant de Recrutement, and I felt that he had also said, "Wait, just wait, my friend, until you have enlisted."
I waited.
I should think I waited an hour.
Just as I was contemplating another visit to the buttery-hatch or ticket-office window, the door opened and my friend, or enemy, appeared.
"Be pleased to enter, Monsieur," said he suavely, and I, for some reason, or for no reason, bethought me of a poem of childhood's happy days, entitled, "The Spider and the Fly," as I entered a large, bare orderly-room.
But it was no spider that I encountered within, but a courtly and charming gentleman of the finest French type. I know nothing of his history, but I am very sure that he was of those who are "born," as the French say, and that if, in the Terror, his great-grandfather did not perish on the guillotine, it was not because he wasn't an aristocrat.
He was a white-haired, white-moustached, handsome man, dressed in a close-fitting black tunic and baggy red over-alls with a broad black stripe. His cuffs were adorned with bands of gold and of silver braid, and his sleeves with the five galons of a Colonel.
"A recruit for the Legion, mon Commandant," said the Sergeant-Major, and stood stiffly at attention.
The Colonel looked up from the desk at which he was writing, as, entering, I bared my head and bowed; he rose and extended his hand, with a friendly and charming smile.
Not thus, thought I, do British colonels welcome recruits to the ranks of their regiments.
"And you, too, wish to enlist in our Foreign Legion, do you?" he said as we shook hands. "Has England started an export trade in the best of her young men? I don't see many Englishmen here from year's end to year's end, but you, mon enfant, are the third this week!"
My heart gave a bound of hopeful joy. . . .
"Anything like me, sir?" I asked.
"Au bout des ongles," was the reply. "Were they your brothers by any chance? . . . But I will ask no indiscreet questions."
I felt happier than I had done since I had kissed Isobel.
"Yes, mon Commandant," I replied. "I wish to become a soldier of France if you will have me."
"And do you understand what you are doing, Monsieur?" asked the Colonel.
"I have read the placard outside," said I.
"It is not quite all set forth there," he smiled. "The life is a very hard one. I would urge no one to adopt it, unless he were a born soldier and actually desirous of a life of discipline, adventure, and genuine hardship."
No, this certainly was not a case of the spider and the fly--or it was an entirely new one, wherein the spider discouraged flies from entering the web.
"I wish to join, sir," I said. "I have heard something of the life in the Sahara from an officer of Spahis, whom I once knew."
The Colonel smiled again.
"Ah, mon enfant," said he, "but you won't be an officer of Spahis, you see. . . . Nor an officer of the Legion either, except after some very long and lean years in the ranks and as a non-commissioned officer."
"One realises that one must begin at the bottom, mon Commandant," I replied.
"Well--listen then," said the Colonel, and he recited what he evidently knew by heart from frequent repetition.
"The engagement volontaire for La Légion Étrangère is for five years, in Algiers, or any other French colony, and the pay is a sou a day. A légionnaire can re-enlist at the end of the five years, and again at the end of ten years. At the end of fifteen years he is eligible for a pension varying according to his rank. A foreigner, on completion of five years' service, can claim to be naturalised as a French subject. . . . You understand all that, mon enfant?"
"Yes, I thank you, mon Commandant," I replied.
"Mind," continued the Colonel, "I say nothing of what is understood by the term 'service' in the Legion. It is not all pure soldiering at times.
"Nor do I say anything as to the number of men who survive to claim the pension. . . ."
"I am not thinking of the pension, mon Commandant," I replied; "nor of the alleged 'pay,' so much as of a soldier's life, fighting, adventure, experience. . . ."
"Ah, there is plenty of that," said the Colonel. "Plenty of that. It is a real military school and offers the good soldier great and frequent chances of distinction, glory, decoration, and promotion. Some of our most famous generals have been in the Legion, and several of the highest and most distinguished officers of the Legion began their career in its ranks. . . . Also, if you can show that you have been an officer in the army of your own country, you can begin as a probationary-corporal, and avoid the ranks altogether."
"Please accept me as a recruit, mon Commandant," said I.
"Ah, we'll see first what the doctor has to say about you--though there is little doubt about that, I should think," smiled the Colonel, and pulled a form towards him.
"What is your name?"
"John Smith," said I.
"Age?"
"Twenty-one years" (to be on the safe side).
"Nationality English?"
"Yes, mon Commandant."
"Very well. If you pass the doctor I shall see you again. Au 'voir, Monsieur," and with a curt nod to the Sergeant Major, the Colonel resumed his writing.
The Sergeant-Major opened the door with a still suave "This way, if you please, Monsieur," and led me across the passage into a room already tenanted by half a dozen civilians, whom I rightly supposed to be fellow-recruits for the Foreign Legion.
I got a fleeting impression of seedy, poorer-class people, two being brush-haired, fair, fattish, and undoubtedly German, before the Sergeant-Major, opening another door in this waiting-room, motioned me to enter a small closet, from which another door led elsewhere.
"Remove all clothing, please," said the Sergeant-Major, and shut me in.
This was unpleasant but presumably unavoidable, and I obeyed. Before I had begun to shiver, the second door opened and I was invited to submit myself to the close and searching investigations of an undergrown but over-nourished gentleman, from beneath whose white surgical smock appeared the baggy red trousers of the French army.
This official, presumably an army-surgeon, was easily able to establish the belief in my mind that his ancestors had not perished on the guillotine. (Certainly not during the Terror, anyhow). More probably they danced round it, or possibly operated it.
When he had quite finished with my vile body, he bade me replace it in the closet, clothe it, and remove it with all speed. This, nothing loth, I did, and was re-conducted by the Sergeant-Major
