Part 11 (1/2)

”_Sacre mille tonnerres!_” roared the brigadier, sinking down on the bundle. Then he turned and glared at me savagely. ”Idiot!” he cried, labouring for his breath. ”_Espece d'imbecile. Ah! Nom d'un pet.i.t bonhomme._ You were on the end. Why did you not head off those devils with the lantern?”

I shrugged my shoulders helplessly in reply. He was in no condition to argue with.

”And the rest of you----” He choked in his rage, unable to frame his words. They stood helplessly about, gesticulating their apologies.

He sprang to his feet, gave the bundle a sound kick, and snarled out an order. Pierre and another jumped forward, and together they shouldered it between them. Then the remainder of the valiant guard fell into single file and started back to the fort, the brigadier and myself bringing up the rear. As we trudged on through the sand together he kept muttering to himself. It only occurred to me then that n.o.body had been hit. By this time even the accomplices were safe.

”Monsieur,” I ventured, as we regained the trail leading to the fort, ”it is with the sincerest regret of my heart that I offer you my apologies. True, I might have done better, but I did my best in my inexperience. We have the contraband--at least that is something, eh?”

He grew calmer as the thought struck him.

”Yes,” he grumbled, ”there are in that bundle at least ten thousand cigars. It is, after all, not so bad.”

”Might I ask,” I returned, ”when your excellency intends to honour me with my liberty?”

He stopped, and to my delight held out his hand to me.

”You are free, monsieur,” he said roughly, with a touch of his good nature. ”The affair is over--but not a word of the manoeuvre you have witnessed in the village. Our work here is for the ears of the Government alone.”

As we reached the gate of the fort I saluted him, handed my carbine to Pierre in exchange for my shotgun, and struck home in the mist of early dawn.

The morning after, I was leaning over the lichen-stained wall of my garden caressing the white throat of the Essence of Selfishness, the events of my night of service still in my mind, when I saw the coast patrol coming across the marsh in double file. As they drew nearer I recognized Pierre and his companion, who had shouldered the contraband.

The roped bundle was swung on a stout pole between them.

Presently they left the marsh and gained the road. As the double file of uniformed men came past my wall they returned my salute. Pierre s.h.i.+fted his end of the pole to the man behind him and stood at attention until the rest had pa.s.sed. Then the procession went on to inform Monsieur the Mayor, who lived near the little square where nothing ever happened.

Pierre turned when they had left and entered my garden. What was he going to tell me now? I wondered, with sudden apprehension. Was I to serve another night?

”I'll be hanged if I will,” I muttered.

He approached solemnly and slowly, his bayonet gleaming at his side, the warm sunlight glinting on the b.u.t.tons of his uniform. When he got near enough for me to look into his eyes he stopped, raised his hand to his cap in salute, and said with a smile:

”Now, monsieur, the artichokes.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: bundle of contraband]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Marianne]

CHAPTER FIVE

MARIANNE

Monsieur le Cure slid the long chair up to my fire, bent his straight, black body forward, and rubbing his chilled hands briskly before the blazing logs, announced with a smile of content: