are you going to become Monsieur Charcutier, 'Mr. Pork-butcher,' so to speak?" I enquired. There could be no harm in knowing all there was to know about this business.
"Aha! my friend," growled the German, "that remains to be seen. So many want a côtelette de porc or a savouret de porc. We shall have to cast lots."
He was silent for a minute and sat beside me, gnawing his knuckles. He was shaking from head to foot with fever, excitement, or diseased nerves.
"Do you want a chance to be charcutier?" he asked.
"I have had no experience of pig-killing," I answered.
"Look you," he growled, seizing my arm, "you will have the experience shortly, either as pig or as butcher, for all here will be cochon or charcutier--in a day or two. See? Choose whether you will be a pig or a butcher. . . . And tell your brother to choose. . . . Meantime, if any man comes to you and says 'porc,' you reply 'cochon.' Then he will know that I have spoken to you, and you will know that he is one of us. See? And you and your brother make up your minds quickly. We don't care either way. There are enough of us--oh, enough. . . ." And as somebody approached, he got up and slouched off.
That night I told Michael what I had heard.
The next day it was Guantaio. I was sitting in the same place and he crept towards me purposefully.
"Who's that?" he asked, and, hearing my name, came and sat down beside me, as Schwartz had done.
"It's hot," he said, removing his képi and puffing.
"It is," I agreed.
"Are you fond of hot . . . porc?" he enquired.
"Cochon!" said I playfully.
"Ah!" he replied at once. "What do you think of it all?"
"I never think," said I.
This silenced him for a minute.
"They are ten to one," he said suddenly. "Ten butchers to a pig. What chance has the big pig and one or two biggish pigs against a score of butchers?"
"Ah!" I said imitatively. "What do you think of it all?"
"I never think," said Guantaio, with a malevolent smile. I yawned and stretched and affected to settle myself to slumber.
"How would you and your brother like to be pigs if I could find two or three other pigs to join the big pig, and the one or two biggish pigs?" he enquired, nudging me.
I belied my statement that I never thought, and did some rapid thinking.
Had it been arranged that he should sound me as soon as Schwartz had hinted at the assassination of Lejaune? Was it his task to find out whether my name was to be put on the "butcher" list or on the "pig" list? Were all those who did not wholeheartedly join the "butchers" to be shot in their beds on the night of the mutiny?
Or, again, was the rogue trying to find out which was likely to be the stronger party, and did he intend to betray his friends to the non-commissioned officers, if he thought them likely to win?
"How should we like to become pigs, you say?" I temporised. . . . "I should hate to be butchered--shouldn't you?"
"Very much," he replied. . . . "But do you know," he went on, "I have heard of pigs attacking men. Taking them unawares and eating them up. . . ."
"I should hate to be eaten up by a pig--shouldn't you?" I observed.
"Very much," he agreed again. "One does not want to be slaughtered by butchers nor eaten by pigs."
"No," said I. "Need either happen?"
"Not if one is a wise pig--forewarned and forearmed--who attacks the butchers, taking them unawares," he replied.
"Has the big pig got his eye on the butchers?" I asked.
"No," replied Guantaio. "Nor have the biggish pigs."
"And are you going to open the eyes of the blind pigs?" I enquired.
"I don't know," answered Guantaio. And I had a very strong conviction that he was speaking the truth, for there was a ring of genuine doubt and puzzlement in his voice. At any rate, if he were lying when he said it, he was lying extraordinarily well.
No--he did not know what to do, I decided, and he was simply trying to find out where his private interests lay. Would it pay him better to stand in with his friends, and assist in the mutiny and the murder of Lejaune and the non-commissioned officers? Or would he do better for himself if he betrayed his friends, warned his superiors, and assisted them to defeat the mutineers?
That he was one of the ringleaders of the plot was obvious, since he was the bosom friend of Colonna, Gotto, Vogué, and the rest of Schwartz's band, and had always been one of the circle in their recent confabulations and mutterings together.
I followed the excellent, if difficult, plan of trying to put myself in Guantaio's place, and to think with his mind.
On the one hand, if I were Guantaio, I should see the great dangers attendant on the mutiny. It might fail, and if it succeeded, it could only be the prelude to a terrible march into the desert--a march of doomed men, hunted by the Arabs and by the French alike, and certain to die of thirst and starvation if not killed by enemies.
On the other hand, if I were the excellent Guantaio, I should see the advantages attendant upon playing the part of the saviour of the situation. Reward and promotion were certain for the man who saved the lives of his superiors and the honour of the flag, and who preserved the Fort of Zinderneuf for France. And, of course, it would be the simplest thing in the world for Lejaune, Dupré, Boldini, Guantaio, and a few loyal supporters to defeat the conspirators and secure the mutineers. It would only be a matter of entering the barrack-room at night, seizing the arms, and covering the suspects with the rifles of the loyalists, while the guard arrested them. Anyone resisting, could be shot as soon as he raised a hand.
Lejaune alone could do the business with his revolver, if he entered the room while all were asleep, and shoot any man who did not instantly obey any order that he gave.
In fact, I began to wonder why Guantaio should be hesitating like this. Surely it was to his interest to betray his friends?
Certainly he would not allow any ridiculous scruples to hinder him from committing any treacherous villainy, and certainly it was far less dangerous, in the long run, to be on the side of authority--for the mutineers' real danger only began with the mutiny, and it steadily increased from the moment when they set forth into the desert to escape.
More and more I wondered at his hesitation.
And then a light began to dawn upon my brain. This Guantaio was the henchman of his compatriot, Corporal Boldini. Boldini might be killed when the mutineers killed Lejaune; for hate and vengeance were the mainsprings of the plot, and Boldini was hated second only to Lejaune himself. He might not be given the option of joining the mutineers when Lejaune was murdered. Suppose the Italians, Boldini, Guantaio, Colonna, and Gotto, were a united party, led by Boldini, with some sinister end of their own in view? And might not Guantaio be doubtful as to whether the rôle allotted to him were not too much that of the cat's-paw?
