CHAPTER XVI
THE BEETLE
When Max had served four months in the Foreign Legion he felt older byfour years. He looked older, too. There were faintly sketched linesround his mouth and eyes, and that indefinable expression which liesdeep down in eyes which have seen life and death at grip: a Legion look.
In some ways he had been a boy when he took his sudden resolve in theSalle d'Honneur to prove what the Legion could do for a nature hehimself doubted. Now he was no longer a boy. He realized that, though hehad never found time to study the success of his experiment, and had noidea that it was being studied day after day by his colonel. Had heguessed, some dark hours might have been brightened by gleams of hope,for in spite of his luck in the Legion there were times when Max felthimself abandoned, a creature of as small consequence to any heart onearth as a half-drowned fly. A more conceited man would have beenhappier, but Max had not joined the Legion with the object of findinghappiness, and one who was watching believed that it would be good forhim to wait.
Max and Manoeel Valdez (alias Garcia) had looked forward to the greatmarch, already vaguely talked of when they joined. But it had not beena march for marching's sake: its real purpose was more grave. A band ofArab thieves and murderers on the border of the M'zab country had to becaught and punished. No recruits were taken: disappointment for Max anddespair for Valdez. He had hoped everything from that chance, and, inhis rage at losing it, made a dash for liberty from Sidi-bel-Abbes. Hegot no farther than the outskirts, the forbidden _Village Negre_, wherehe risked a night visit in search of the man bribed to hide a certainprecious bundle. Fortunately he was arrested before securing it, for hadhe been trapped with civilian clothes not even his marvellous voice (thetalk of the garrison since it had been heard in the soldier's theatre)could have saved him from the fate of caught deserters: the penalbattalion for months, if not a year; death, perhaps, from fever orhardship. As it was, he escaped with the penalty for a night visit tothe Arab quarter: eight days _cellule_. But the clothes were safe. Hewould try again. Nothing on earth, he said, should keep him from tryingagain; because he might as well be a "Zephir" in the dreaded "Battd'Aff," if he could not answer the cry for help he seemed always to hearfrom across the desert.
Since his first failure and imprisonment nearly four months had passed,and he had tried again and failed in the same way. The second time hissentence was twice as long; but before it was over the _medecin major_sent him into hospital. He came out emaciated, sullen, dangerous, caringfor nothing, not even to sing. Max yearned over him, but could donothing except say, "It isn't too late yet. Maybe, if we brace up, we'llbe taken on the big march that they talk of for the first of September.Even then there'll be time."
He said "we," because it was more comforting to Valdez that their namesshould be bracketed together as friends; but as Legionnaires they werealready far apart. Max had never been censured, had never seen theinside of the prison building (that low-roofed, sinister building thatruns along the walls of the barrack-yard). He was in the school ofcorporals. Soon he would wear on his blue sleeve the coveted red woollenstripe. Garcia, on the contrary, was constantly falling into trouble. Hehad even drunk too much, once or twice, in the hope of drowning trouble,as Legionnaires do. The September march to the south was ostensibly forroad-laying; but there was again a rumour of other important work to bedone. The great secret society of the Senussi threatened trouble througha new leader who had arisen, a young man of the far south called the"Deliverer." And when there was prospect of fighting in the desert orelsewhere for the Legion, recruits--even those who had served for sixmonths--were seldom taken if a long list of black marks stood againsttheir names. Max feared that there was little hope for Valdez, though hemeant to do what he could to help. And he found it strange that he, aborn soldier as he knew himself to be, should think of tacitly aidinganother to desert, no matter on what pretext. At home in the sameposition it could not have been so; but in the Foreign Legion recruitstalked freely, even before old Legionnaires to whom the Legion wasmother and father and country. There was no fear of betrayal. The wholepoint of view seemed different. If a man felt that he had borne all hecould, and was desperate enough to risk death by starvation or worse,why let him go with his comrades' blessing--and his blood on his ownhead! If he had money he might get through. If not, he was lost; butthat, too, was his own business.
March was bitterly cold in wind-swept Sidi-bel-Abbes. April was mild;May warm; June hot; July and August a furnace, but Legionnaires drank noless of the heavy, red Algerian wine than before the summer heatengulfed them. Max had heard men say jokingly or solemnly of each other,"He has the _cafard_." Vaguely he knew that _cafard_ was French forbeetle, or cockroach; that soldiers who habitually mixed absinthe andother strong drinks with their cheap but beloved _litre_ were oftenaffected with a strange madness which betrayed itself in weird ways, andthat this special madness was familiarly named _le cafard_. When the hotwave arrived he saw for himself what the terrible insect could do in aman's brain.
In the canteen it was bad enough on pay nights--so called "the Legion'sholidays"--but there reigned Madame la Cantiniere, young, good looking,a respected queen, who would go on march with the Legion in her cart,and who must at all times to a certain extent be obeyed. But in dimside-streets of the town, far from the lights of the smart, out-of-doorscafes, were _casse croutes_ kept by Spaniards who cared nothing for thefate of Legionnaires when they had spent their last sou. The _cafard_grew and prospered there. He tickled men's gray matter and kneaded it inhis microscopic claws. There his victims fought each other, for noreason which they could explain afterward, or mutilated themselves,tearing off an ear, or tattooing a face with some design to rival FourEyes; or they sold parts of their uniforms to buy a little more drink,or tried to blow out their brains, or the brains of some one else.Afterward, if they survived, they went to prison; but if it could beproved that they were indeed suffering from _cafard_, they got off withlight sentences.
Officers of the Legion old enough to have won a few medals seemed torespect the _cafard_ and make allowances for his deadly work. If the mendid not survive, they--what was left of them--went to the cemetery torest under small black crosses marked with name and number, their onlymourners the great cypresses which sighed with every breath of wind fromthe mountains.
One August night of blazing heat and moonlight Max could not sleep.There had been a scene in the dormitory which had got every man out ofbed, but an hour after the tired soldiers were dead to the worldagain--all save Max, who felt as if a white fire like the moonlight wasraging in his brain.
He lay still, as though he were gagged and bound, lest a sigh, or arustle in turning over--as he longed to turn--might waken a neighbour.The hours set apart for the Legion's repose were sacred, so profoundlysacred that any man who made the least noise at night or during theafternoon siesta was given good cause to regret his awkwardness. Themost inveterate snorers were cured, or half killed; and to-night, inthis great room with its double row of beds, the trained silence of thesleepers seemed unnatural, almost terrible, especially after the horrorthat had broken it. Max had never before felt the oppression of thisdeathlike stillness. Usually he slept as the rest slept; but now, wearyas he was, he resigned himself to lie staring through the slow hours,till the orderly's call, "_Au jus!_" should rouse the men to swallowtheir coffee before reveille.
The dormitory, white with moonlight streaming through curtainless openwindows, seemed to Max like a mausoleum. He could see the still, flatforms, uncovered and prone on their narrow beds, like carven figures ofsoldiers on tombs. He alone was alive among a company of statues. Themen could not be human to sleep so soon and so soundly after the thingthat had happened!
In his hot brain the scene repeated itself constantly in bright, movingpictures. He had been rather miserable before going to bed, and hadlonged for forgetfulness. Sleep had brought its balm, but suddenly hehad started awake to see a man bending over him, a dark shape withlifted arms that fumbled along the s
helf above the bed. On that shelfwas the famous _paquetage_ of the Legionnaire; all his belongings,underclothes, and uniforms, built into the wonderful, artistic structurewhich Four Eyes had shown his pet how to make. A thief was searchingamong the neat layers of the _paquetage_ for money: every one knew thatSt. George had money, for he was continually lending or giving it away.This one meant to save him the trouble by taking it. Max felt suddenlysick. He had thought all his comrades true to him. It was a blow to findthat some one wished to steal the little he had left, though he hadgrudged no gift.
Just as Max waked the thief satisfied himself that the well-known walletwas not hidden in the _paquetage_, and stooped lower to peer at thesleeper's face before feeling under the pillow. His eyes and Max'swide-open eyes met. In a flash Max recognized the man. He was of anothercompany, and had risked much to steal into the dormitory of the Tenth.The fellow must be desperate! A wave of mingled pity and loathing rushedover Max. Fearing consequences for the wretch, should any one wake, hewould mercifully have motioned him off in silence; but the warninggesture was misunderstood. The thief started back, expecting a blow,stumbled against the nearest bed, roused Four Eyes, and in a second thewhole room was in an uproar.
The full moon lit the intruder's face as if with a white ray from apolice lantern. Pelle and a dozen others recognized the man from theEleventh, who could have but one midnight errand in the sleeping-room ofthe Tenth: the errand of a thief. Like wolves they leaped on him,snapping and growling, swearing the strange oaths of the Legion.Bayonets flashed in the moonlight; blood spouted red, for a soldier ofthe Legion may "decorate" himself with a comrade's belt, or bit ofequipment, if another has annexed his: that is legitimate, even _chic_;but money or food he must not steal if he would live. It is the Legion'slaw.
All was over inside two minutes. The guard, hearing shouts, rushed inand stoically bore away a limp, bloodstained bundle to the hospital.Nobody blamed the men. Nobody pitied the bundle--except Max, whose firstexperience it was of the Legion's swift justice. But nothing, not evenexciting prospects of a march, can be allowed to spoil the Legion'srest; and so it was that in half an hour the raging avengers had becomeonce more stone figures carved on narrow tombs in a moonlit mausoleum.
For the first and only time since he had joined Max thoroughly hated theLegion and wished wildly that he had never come near Sidi-bel-Abbes. Yetdid he wish that? If he had not come he would not have met ColonelDeLisle, his beau ideal of a man and a soldier. He would be a boy again,it seemed, with his eyes shut in the face of life. And he would miss hissweetest memory of Sanda: that hour in the Salle d'Honneur of theLegion, when she had christened him St. George and called him "hersoldier." But after all, of what use to him could be his acquaintancewith the Legion's colonel? There was a gulf between them now. And wouldit not be as well or better to forget that little episode of friendshipwith the colonel's daughter? She had probably forgotten it by this time.And a Legionnaire has no business with women, even as friends. Besides,Max was in a mood to doubt all friendship. He had had a letter thatday--his first letter from any one in four months--telling him thatGrant Reeves had married Josephine Doran.
Of course, Grant had a right to marry Josephine; but not to write untilthe wedding day was safely over--as if he had been afraid Max would tryto stop it--and then to confess how he had come with his mother to meetJosephine at Algiers! That was secret and unfriendly, even treacherous.Max remembered very well how Grant had proposed accompanying Mrs.Reeves, and he--Max--had rather impetuously vetoed the arrangement,saying it was unnecessary, and guessing instinctively the budding ideain Grant's mind. It was clear now that Grant had never abandoned it,that he had from the first planned a campaign to win the heiress beforeany other man had a chance with her, and that he had carried out thescheme with never a hitch. The letter, written on the eve of thewedding, had been three weeks on the way. Grant (the only person exceptEdwin Reeves to whom Max had revealed himself as Maxime St. George,Number 1033, in the Tenth Company, First Regiment of the Foreign Legion)wrote that he was telling nobody where his friend was, or what he haddone. "The day will surely come, dear boy," Grant said--and Max couldalmost hear his voice speaking--"when you will wish to blot out thesepages from your book of life. I want to make it easy for you to do so;and I advise you to keep your present resolve: confide in none of yourpals. They might not be as discreet as the governor and I."
"He's glad I'm out of the way," thought Max. "He wants me to beforgotten by every one, and he wants to forget me himself. If I were onthe spot, poor, and hustling to get on somehow or other in business, itmight worry him a little to be seen spending money that used to bemine."
Perhaps it was morbid to attribute these motives to Grant Reeves, whohad once been his friend, but he did attribute them; and conscious thathe was actually encouraging morbid thoughts, Max wondered if he, too,were getting the _cafard_, the madness of the Legion? Lying there, theonly waking one among the sleepers, fear of unseen, mysterious things,the fear that sometimes attacks a brave man in the night, leaped at himout of the shadows. He could almost feel the sharp little claws of thedreaded beetle scratching in his brain. Yes, he'd been a fool to jointhe Legion, and to hand over Jack Doran's house and fortune to GrantReeves! It was impossible that Grant had married Josephine for love. Hehad simply taken her with the money, and he meant to have the spendingof it.
In the letter, Grant said that they planned to alter the old Doran houseand "bring it up to date." It was he, Grant, who had all the ideas,apparently. Josephine was letting him do as he pleased. What should sheknow about such matters? If she could have all the dresses and jewelsand fur she wanted, Grant would be allowed to go his own way with otherthings. He was clever enough to understand that, and to manageJosephine.
With the letter Grant had posted a bundle of Sunday newspapers andillustrated magazines, such a bundle of old news as one sends to aninvalid in hospital. Max had glanced through some of the papers beforegoing to bed, looking with a sad, far-off sort of interest at portraitsof people whose names he knew. There had been a page of "America's mostbeautiful actresses" in one Sunday supplement, and among them, ofcourse, was Billie Brookton. No such page would be complete without her!It was a new photograph that Max had never seen. The smiling face, headdrooped slightly in order to give Billie's celebrated upward look fromunder level brows, had the place of honour in the middle of the page.And a paragraph beneath announced that Billie would leave the stage onher marriage with "Millionaire Jeff Houston, of Chicago."
No doubt Houston was the man she had mentioned in her last letter. Roundher neck, in the picture, Max thought he recognized his pearls, and onthe pretty hand, raised to play with a rope of bigger pearls--"MillionaireHouston's" perhaps--was the ring Max had given her the night when thetelegram came. The photograph, which was large and clearly reproduced,showed the curiously shaped stone on the middle finger of Billie's lefthand. A large round pearl adorned the finger on which Max had once hopedshe might wear the blue diamond, a pearl so conspicuous that the originalof the picture appeared to display it purposely. "Millionaire Houston"would be flattered; and that was what Billie Brookton wanted. As for whatMax Doran might think if he saw the portrait, why should she care? Forher, he was numbered with the dead.
Max was no longer in love with Billie. The shock of Rose Doran'sterrible accident, the story she had to tell, and her death, had chilledthe fire of what he thought was love. The letter of farewell had put itout. But the scar of the burn sometimes hurts. To-night was one of thosetimes; and Max believed that his disappointment in Billie had had itsinfluence in driving him to the Legion. She stood now as a type of whatwas mercenary, calculating, and false in womankind, just as (almostunknown to himself) Sanda DeLisle stood for what was gentle, yet braveand true. He felt that Billie Brookton had made him hard, with ahardness that was not good; and that not only she, but all those he hadcared for most in his old life, had deceived and tricked or at bestforgotten him. Lying in his narrow bunk, Max lifted his head and lethis eyes wander over t
he faces of his comrades, turned to gray stone bythe moonlight. Not one which was not sad, except that of the Alsatianwho had joined on the day of his own recruitment. The boy was smiling insome dream and looked like a child, but a sickly child, for the heat andthe severe marching drill for _les bleus_ were telling upon him. Facesof twenty different types, faces which by day masked their secrets withsullenness, defiance, or stolidity, could hide nothing in sleep, butfell into lines of sadness that gave a strange family resemblance to thestone soldiers on the tombs. Saddest of all, after Manoeel Valdez,perhaps, was the wrecked visage of Pelle, whose own particular _cafard_had been leading him a merry dance the last few days.
To Sidi-bel-Abbes, with a letter of introduction to the colonel, hadcome an old officer of the British army, a man of distinction. Pelle, asan Englishman and an ex-soldier, had been honoured by being appointedhis guide. The two had recognized one another. Pelle had served underthe officer years ago. The encounter had been too much for Quatro Oyos:that, and the money the general gave him at parting. Remembrance of pastdays was the enemy in the Legion. Four Eyes had been half drunk eversince, and had escaped prison only by a miracle. That, however, wasnothing new for him. He had been corporal twice and sergeant once; eachtime he had been "broke" because of drink. In spite of all, he had stuckto the Legion. There was no other place for him on earth. The Legion washis country now--his only country and his only home. His medals he hadasked Max to keep till he "settled down again." They mustn't go to theplaces where the _cafard_ would take him. They mustn't risk disgracethrough things which the _cafard_ might make him do. He looked like theruin of a man in the revealing moonshine. But to-morrow he would be asoldier again till night came, and sooner or later he would pull himselftogether--more or less. The medals he had won and his love of sport werehis incentives. Yet there were other men who had no medals and nospecial incentives, and to-night Max felt himself down on a level withthose.
"What incentive have I?" he asked, in a flash of furious rebellionagainst fate, conscious yet not caring that such thoughts spawned thebeetle in the brain. Five years of this life to look forward to!--thelife he had pledged himself to live. The officers did their best. It was_vieux style_ nowadays for an officer of the Legion to be cruel. But tryas they might to break the sameness of barrack life by changing theorder of drill and exercise--fencing one day, boxing the next, thengymnastics, target-practice, marching, skirmishing, learning first aidto the wounded, giving all the variety possible, the monotony washeart-breaking, as Colonel DeLisle had warned him it would be. And agreat march, when a march meant the chance of a fight, didn't alwayscome in the way of a young soldier, even one whose conduct wasunsmirched by any stain. Max did not know yet whether he would be takenon the march that all the garrison was talking of. To-night the beetlein his brain tried to make him think he would not be taken. There was noluck any more for him! And as for his corporal's stripe, if he got itsoon, what a pathetic prize for a man who had been a lieutenant in the--th Cavalry, the crack cavalry regiment of the United States Army!
Oh, better not to think of future or past! Better not to think at all,perhaps, but do as some of the other men did when they wanted to forgeteven as they had been forgotten: take the few pleasures in their reach,do the very things he had been prig enough to warn Valdez not to do! Letthe beetle burrow, as a counter-irritant!
"Soldier St. George--my soldier!" a girl's voice seemed to encouragehim.
Max heard it through the scratching of the beetle in his brain.
Sanda! Yes, Sanda might care a little, a very little, when she had timeto think of him--Sanda, who loved another man, but had promised to behis friend. He thought of her eyes as they had looked at him that day inthe Salle d'Honneur. He thought of her hair, her long, soft hair....
"She'd be sorry if I let go," he said to himself. "Jove! I _won't_! I'llfight this down. And if I'm taken on the march----"
He fell suddenly asleep, thinking of Sanda's hair, her long, soft hair.
And the moonlight turned him also into a stone soldier on a tomb.
A Soldier of the Legion Page 17
