Suppose the Boldini party intended to fish in troubled waters--for a pearl of great price? In other words, suppose they hoped to do what they had certainly tried, and failed, to do in Sidi-bel-Abbès, when they had induced Bolidar to attempt to rob my brother?
Most undoubtedly these rogues believed Boldini's story that we were a gang of jewel-thieves and that Michael carried about with him a priceless gem--to which they had at least as much right as he had. No--I decided--Guantaio spoke the truth when he said he did not know what to do. He was a knave all through. He would betray anybody and everybody. He was afraid that his share in the mutiny would be death, whether it failed or not, and what he really wanted to do was to follow the course most likely to lead him to the possession of two things--a whole skin and a share in the jewel--unless indeed he could get the jewel itself.
"It's a difficult problem, my friend," mused I sententiously. "One does not know which side to take. . . . One would like to be a pig, if the pigs are going to catch the butchers napping. . . . On the other hand, one would like to be a charcutier, if the butchers are going to act first. . . ."
We sat silent awhile, the excellent Guantaio making a perfect meal of his nails.
"And--that is a point!" I went on. "When are the butchers going to kill?"
"Monsieur le Grand Charcutier" (by whom, I supposed, he meant Schwartz) "talks of waiting till full moon," was the reply. "If a new Commandant has not come by then, or if Monsieur le Grand Cochon has been promoted and given command before then, it would be a good date. . . . Do it at night and have full moon for a long march. . . . Rest in the heat of the day, and then another big moonlight march, and so on. . . ."
"So one has three or four days in which to make up one's mind?" I observed.
"Yes," replied Guantaio. "But I don't advise your waiting three or four days before doing it. . . . Schwartz will want to know in good time. . . . So as to arrange some butchers for each pig, you see. . . ."
"And what about Lejaune?" I asked, since we were to use names and not fantastic titles. "Suppose somebody warned him? What then?"
"Who would?" asked Guantaio. "Who loves that mad dog enough to be crucified, and have his throat cut, on his behalf? Why should anyone warn him? Wouldn't his death be a benefaction and a blessing to all?"
"Not if things went wrong," I replied. "Nor if it ended in our all dying in the desert."
"No," agreed Guantaio, gnawing away at his nails. "No . . . I hate the desert . . . I fear it . . . I fear it. . . ."
Yes--that was the truth of the matter. He feared being involved in a successful mutiny almost as much as in an unsuccessful one.
"Suppose, par exemple, I went and warned Lejaune?" I asked.
"Huh! He'd give you sixty days' cellule, and take damned good care you never came out alive," replied Guantaio, "and he would know what he knows already--that everybody hates him and would be delighted to kill him, given a good opportunity. . . . And what would your comrades do to you?"
He laughed most unpleasantly.
No--I decided--friend Guantaio would not like me to warn Lejaune. If Lejaune were to be warned, Guantaio would prefer to do the warning himself.
"How would they know that I was the informer?" I asked.
"Because I should tell them," was the reply. "If Lejaune gets to know--then you and nobody else will have told him."
So that was it? Guantaio could turn informer, having sworn that I was going to do so! Not only would he save his own skin, but Michael would soon have a friend and brother the less, when Schwartz and his merry men heard who had betrayed them.
"Of course, you and your brother would be held to have acted together, as you always do," said Guantaio.
So that was it again? Michael and I being denounced to the mutineers as traitors, Guantaio might well be moved to murder and rob Michael--secure in his honourable rôle of executioner of justice upon a cowardly traitor.
The Legion knew no punishment too severe for infliction upon any man who acted contrary to the interests of his comrades. Guantaio need not fear the fate of Bolidar in such circumstances.
"What would you do if you were me?" I asked.
"Join the butchers," was the prompt reply. "You and your brother must follow Schwartz. Better the enmity of Lejaune than of half the barrack-room led by Schwartz. Lejaune couldn't come straight to your bed and murder you, anyhow. Schwartz could, and would. And he will, unless you join him. . . ."
Yes, undoubtedly the filthy creature was in grave doubt about the best course to pursue, and spoke from minute to minute as new ideas and fresh views occurred to him, and as his fears and hopes swayed him.
At present he saw the desirability of me and Michael being mutineers. Just now, he had seen some advantage in our not being of their party. . . .
Probably the most puzzling and baffling thing to a tortuous mind is simple truth. It is often the subtlest diplomacy, when dealing with such people as this. So I decided to speak the plain truth, and leave him to make what he could of it.
"I shall talk the matter over with my brother," I said, "and we will decide to-night. Probably we shall warn Lejaune. You can tell Schwartz that. And I can give him a definite answer to-morrow. Then he can do as he pleases."
"You won't warn Lejaune until you have told Schwartz you are going to do so, of course?" asked Guantaio, and I had seen his eyes light up as I announced the probability of our defying Schwartz. That seemed to suit him finely.
"No, I won't," I assured him. "Neither will my brother. . . . Provided, of course, that nothing will be done to-night? No mutinying, I mean. . . ."
"Oh, no," said Guantaio, "They're not ready yet. A few haven't joined. Schwartz would like to get everybody, of course; but failing that, he wants to know exactly who is to be killed before they start. It will prevent unfortunate accidents. . . . Also they want the full moon. . . ."
"Well--I shall decide to-night," I said. "And now please go away. I want to think--and also I'm not extraordinarily fond of you, Guantaio, really. . . ."
§4.
The first thing to do now was to find Michael and decide as to what line we were going to take.
He was on sentry-go, and I must wait.
Meantime, I might find St. André, Maris, Glock, and one or two others who were fundamentally decent honest men of brains and character, and less likely than some of the rest to be driven by blind hatred of Lejaune, or the dominance of Schwartz, into murderous folly that was also suicidal.
St. André was lying on his cot in the barrack-room. He looked at me as I entered. Taking my belt and a polishing-rag, I strolled in the direction of his bed, and came to a halt near him, rubbing industriously.
"Are you fond of pork, mon ami?" I enquired softly, without looking away from my work.
"I am something of a cochon about it," he replied in a low voice, and added, "Anyhow, I would rather be that than a butcher."
So
