CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE CAFE OF THE CHASSEURS.
The red-hot light of the after-glow still burned on the waters of thebay, and shed its Egyptian-like luster on the city that lies in thecircle of the Sahel, with the Mediterranean so softly lashing with itsviolet waves the feet of the white, sloping town. The sun had sunk downin fire--the sun that once looked over those waters on the legions ofScipio and the iron brood of Hamilcar, and that now gave its luster onthe folds of the French flags as they floated above the shipping of theharbor, and on the glitter of the French arms, as a squadron of the armyof Algeria swept back over the hills to their barracks. Pell-mell in itsfantastic confusion, its incongruous blending, its forced mixture of tworaces--that will touch, but never mingle; that will be chained together,but will never assimilate--the Gallic-Moorish life of the city pouredout; all the coloring of Haroun al Raschid scattered broadcast amongParisian fashion and French routine. Away yonder, on the spurs and topsof the hills, the green sea-pines seemed to pierce the transparent air;in the Cabash old, dreamy Arabian legends, poetic as Hafiz, seem stillto linger here and there under the foliage of hanging gardens or thepicturesque curves of broken terraces; in the distance the brown, ruggedKabyl mountains lay like a couched camel, and far off against the goldenhaze a single palm rose, at a few rare intervals, with its drooped,curled leaves, as though to recall, amid the shame of foreigndomination, that this was once the home of Hannibal; the Africa that hadmade Rome tremble.
In the straight, white boulevards, as in the winding ancient streets;under the huge barn-like walls of barracks, as beneath the marvelousmosaics of mosques; the strange bizarre conflict of European andOriental life spread its panorama. Staff officers, all aglitter withcrosses, galloped past; mules, laden with green maize and driven bylean, brown Bedouins, swept past the plate-glass windows of bonbonshops; grave, white-bearded sheiks drank petits verres in theguinguettes; sapeurs, Chasseurs, Zouaves, cantinieres--all the varietiesof French military life--mingled with jet-black Soudans, desert kingswrathful and silent, Eastern women shrouded in haick and serroual,eagle-eyed Arabs flinging back snow-white burnous, and handlingominously the jeweled halts of their cangiars. Alcazar chansons rang outfrom the cafes, while in their midst stood the mosque, that had usedto resound with the Muezzin. Bijou-blondine and Bebee La-la and allthe sister-heroines of demi-monde dragged their voluminous Paris-madedresses side by side with Moorish beauties, who only dared show thegleam of their bright black eyes through the yashmak; the reverbereswere lit in the Place du Gouvernement, and a group fit for the daysof Solyman the Magnificent sat under the white marble beauty of theMohammedan church. "Rein n'est sacre pour un sapeur!" was being sungto a circle of sous-officiers, close in the ear of a patriarch serenelymajestic as Abraham; gaslights were flashing, cigar shops werefilling, newspapers were being read, the Rigolboche was being danced,commis-voyageurs were chattering with grisettes, drums were beating,trumpets were sounding, bands were playing, and, amid it all, gravemen were dropping on their square of carpet to pray, brass trays ofsweetmeats were passing, ostrich eggs were dangling, henna-tippedfingers were drawing the envious veil close, and noble Oriental shadowswere gliding to and fro through the open doors of the mosques, likea picture of the "Arabian Nights," like a poem of dead Islamism--in aword, it was Algiers at evening.
In one of the cafes there, a mingling of all the nations under thesun was drinking demi-tasses, absinthe, vermouth, or old wines, in thecomparative silence that had succeeded to a song, sung by a certainfavorite of the Spahis, known as Loo-Loo-j'n-m'en soucie guere, fromMlle. Loo-Loo's well-known habits of independence and bravado, whichlast had gone once so far as shooting a man through the chest in theRue Bab-al-Oued, and setting all the gendarmes and sergents-de-ville atdefiance afterward. Half a dozen of that famous regiment the Chasseursd'Afrique were gathered together, some with their feet resting on thelittle marble-topped tables, some reading the French papers, allsmoking their inseparable companions--the brules-gueles; fine, stalwart,sun-burned fellows, with faces and figures that the glowing colors oftheir uniform set off to the best advantage.
"Loo-Loo was in fine voice to-night," said one.
"Yes; she took plenty of cognac before she sang; that always clears hervoice," said a second.
"And I think that did her spirits good, shooting that Kabyl," said athird. "By the way, did he die?"
"N'sais pas, Loo-Loo's a good aim."
"Sac a papier, yes! Rire-pour-tout taught her."
"Ah! There never was a shot like Rire-pour-tout. When he went out, healways asked his adversary, 'Where will you like it? your lungs, yourheart, your brain? It is quite a matter of choice;'--and whicheverthey chose, he shot there. Le pauvre Rire-pour-tout! He was alwaysgood-natured."
"And did he never meet his match?" asked a sous-officier of the line.
The speaker looked down on the piou-piou with superb contempt, andtwisted his mustaches. "Monsieur! how could he? He was a Chasseur."
"But if he never met his match, how did he die?" pursued the irreverentpiou-piou--a little wiry man, black as a berry, agile as a monkey, toughand short as a pipe-stopper.
The magnificent Chasseur laughed in his splendid disdain. "A piou-piounever killed him, that I promise you. He spitted half a dozen of youbefore breakfast, to give him a relish. How did Rire-pour-tout die? Iwill tell you."
He dipped his long mustaches into a beaker of still champagne. Claude,Viscomte de Chanrellon, though in the ranks, could afford thoseluxuries.
"He died this way, did Rire-pour-tout! Dieu de Dieu! a very good waytoo. Send us all the like when our time comes! We were out yonder" (andhe nodded his handsome head outward to where the brown, searedplateaux and the Kabyl mountains lay). "We were hunting Arabs, ofcourse--pot-shooting, rather, as we never got nigh enough to their mainbody to have a clear charge at them. Rire-pour-tout grew sick of it.'This won't do,' he said; 'here's two weeks gone by, and I haven'tshot anything but kites and jackals. I shall get my hand out.' ForRire-pour-tout, as the army knows, somehow or other, generally pottedhis man every day, and he missed it terribly. Well, what did he do? Herode off one morning and found out the Arab camp, and he waved a whiteflag for a parley. He didn't dismount, but he just faced the Arabs andspoke to their Sheik. 'Things are slow,' he said to them. 'I have comefor a little amusement. Set aside six of your best warriors, and I'llfight them one after another for the honor of France and a drink ofbrandy to the conqueror.' They demurred; they thought it unfair to himto have six to one. 'Ah!' he laughs, 'you have heard of Rire-pour-tout,and you are afraid!' That put their blood up: they said they would fighthim before all his Chasseurs. 'Come, and welcome,' said Rire-pour-tout;'and not a hair of your beards shall be touched except by me.' So thebargain was made for an hour before sunset that night. Mort de Dieu!that was a grand duel!"
He dipped his long mustaches again into another beaker of still. Talkingwas thirsty work; the story was well known in all the African army, butthe piou-piou, having served in China, was new to the soil.
"The General was ill-pleased when he heard it, and half for arrestingRire-pour-tout; but--sacre!--the thing was done; our honor was involved;he had engaged to fight these men, and engaged for us to let them go inpeace afterward; there was no more to be said, unless we had looked likecowards, or traitors, or both. There was a wide, level plateau in frontof our camp, and the hills were at our backs--a fine field for theduello; and, true to time, the Arabs filed on to the plain, and frontedus in a long line, with their standards, and their crescents, and theircymbals and reed-pipes, and kettle-drums, all glittering and sounding.Sac a papier! There was a show, and we could not fight one of them! Wewere drawn up in line--Horse, Foot, and Artillery--Rire-pour-tout allalone, some way in advance; mounted, of course. The General and theSheik had a conference; then the play began. There were six Arabspicked out--the flower of the army--all white and scarlet, and intheir handsomest bravery, as if they came to an aouda. They were finemen--diable!--they were fine men. Now the duel was to b
e withswords; these had been selected; and each Arab was to come againstRire-pour-tout singly, in succession. Our drums rolled the pas decharge, and their cymbals clashed; they shouted 'Fantasia!' and thefirst Arab rode at him. Rire-pour-tout sat like a rock, and lunge wenthis steel through the Bedouin's lung, before you could cry hola!--adeath-stroke, of course; Rire-pour-tout always killed: that was hisperfect science. Another and another and another came, just as fast asthe blood flowed. You know what the Arabs are--vous autres? How theywheel and swerve and fight flying, and pick up their saber from theground, while their horse is galloping ventre a terre, and pierce youhere and pierce you there, and circle round you like so many hawks? Youknow how they fought Rire-pour-tout then, one after another, more likedevils than men. Mort de Dieu! it was a magnificent sight! He was gashedhere and gashed there; but they could never unseat him, try how theywould; and one after another he caught them sooner or later, and sentthem reeling out of their saddles, till there was a great red lake ofblood all round him, and five of them lay dead or dying down inthe sand. He had mounted afresh twice, three horses had been killedunderneath him, and his jacket all hung in strips where the steel hadslashed it. It was grand to see, and did one's heart good; but--ventrebleu!--how one longed to go in too.
"There was only one left now--a young Arab, the Sheik's son, and down hecame like the wind. He thought with the shock to unhorse Rire-pour-tout,and finish him then at his leisure. You could hear the crash as theymet, like two huge cymbals smashing together. Their chargers hit andtore at each other's manes; they were twined in together there as ifthey were but one man and one beast; they shook and they swayed and theyrocked; the sabers played about their heads so quick that it was likelightning, as they flashed and twirled in the sun; the hoofs trampled upthe sand till a yellow cloud hid their struggle, and out of it all youcould see was the head of a horse tossing up and spouting with foam,or a sword-blade lifted to strike. Then the tawny cloud settled downa little, the sand mist cleared away, the Arab's saddle was empty--butRire-pour-tout sat like a rock. The old Chief bowed his head. 'It isover! Allah is great!' And he knew his son lay there dead. Then we brokefrom the ranks, and we rushed to the place where the chargers and menwere piled like so many slaughtered sheep. Rire-pour-tout laughed sucha gay, ringing laugh as the desert never had heard. 'Vive la France!' hecried. 'And now bring me my toss of brandy.' Then down headlong out ofhis stirrups he reeled and fell under his horse; and when we lifted himup there were two broken sword-blades buried in him, and the bloodwas pouring fast as water out of thirty wounds and more. That was howRire-pour-tout died, piou-piou; laughing to the last. Sacre bleu! It wasa splendid end; I wish I were sure of the like."
And Claude de Chanrellon drank down his third beaker, for overmuchspeech made him thirsty.
The men around him emptied their glasses in honor of the dead hero.
"Rire-pour-tout was a croc-mitaine," they said solemnly, with almost asigh; so tendering by their words the highest funeral oration.
"You have much of such sharp service here, I suppose?" asked a voice invery pure French. The speaker was leaning against the open door of thecafe; a tall, lightly built man, dressed in a velvet shooting tunic,much the worse for wind and weather, a loose shirt, and jack-bootssplashed and worn out.
"When we are at it, monsieur," returned the Chasseur. "I only wish wehad more."
"Of course. Are you in need of recruits?"
"They all want to come to us and to the Zouaves," smiled Chanrellon,surveying the figure of the one who addressed him, with a keen sense ofits symmetry and its sinew. "Still, a good sword brings its welcome. Doyou ask seriously, monsieur?"
The bearded Arabs smoking their long pipes, the little piou-pioudrowning his mortification in some curacoa, the idlers reading the"Akbah" or the "Presse," the Chasseurs lounging over their drink, theecarte players lost in their game, all looked up at the newcomer. Theythought he looked a likely wearer of the dead honors of Rire-pour-tout.
He did not answer the question literally, but came over from the doorwayand seated himself at the little marble table opposite Claude, leaninghis elbows on it.
"I have a doubt," he said. "I am more inclined to your foes."
"Dieu de Dieu!" exclaimed Chanrellon, pulling at his tawny mustaches. "Abold thing to say before five Chasseurs."
He smiled, a little contemptuously, a little amusedly.
"I am not a croc-mitaine, perhaps; but I say what I think, with littleheed of my auditors, usually."
Chanrellon bent his bright brown eyes curiously on him. "He is acroc-mitaine," he thought. "He is not to be lost."
"I prefer your foes," went on the other, quite quietly, quitelistlessly, as though the glittering, gas-lit cafe were not full ofFrench soldiers. "In the first place, they are on the losing side; inthe second, they are the lords of the soil; in the third, they live asfree as air; and in the fourth, they have undoubtedly the right of thequarrel!"
"Monsieur!" cried the Chasseurs, laying their hands on their swords,fiery as lions. He looked indolently and wearily up from under the longlashes of his lids, and went on, as though they had not spoken.
"I will fight you all, if you like, as that worthy of yours,Rire-pour-tout, did, but I don't think it's worth while," he saidcarelessly, where he leaned over the marble table. "Brawling's badstyle; we don't do it. I was saying, I like your foes best; mere matterof taste; no need to quarrel over it--that I see. I shall go intotheir service or into yours, monsieur--will you play a game of dice todecide?"
"Decide?--but how?"
"Why--this way," said the other, with the weary listlessness of one whocares not two straws how things turn. "If I win, I go to the Arabs; ifyou win, I come to your ranks."
"Mort de Dieu! it is a droll gambling," murmured Chanrellon. "But--ifyou win, do you think we shall let you go off to our enemies? Pas sibete, monsieur!"
"Yes, you will," said the other quietly. "Men who knew what honor meantenough to redeem Rire-pour-tout's pledge of safety to the Bedouins, willnot take advantage of an openly confessed and unarmed adversary."
A murmur of ratification ran through his listeners.
Chanrellon swore a mighty oath.
"Pardieu, no. You are right. If you want to go, you shall go. Holathere! bring the dice. Champagne, monsieur? Vermouth? Cognac?"
"Nothing, I thank you."
He leaned back with an apathetic indolence and indifference oddly atcontrast with the injudicious daring of his war-provoking words andthe rough campaigning that he sought. The assembled Chasseurs eyed himcuriously; they liked his manner and they resented his first speeches;they noted every particular about him--his delicate white hands, hisweather-worn and travel-stained dress, his fair, aristocratic features,his sweeping, abundant beard, his careless, cool, tired, reckless way;and they were uncertain what to make of him.
The dice were brought.
"What stakes, monsieur?" asked Chanrellon.
"Ten napoleons a side--and--the Arabs."
He set ten napoleons down on the table; they were the only coins he hadin the world; it was very characteristic that he risked them.
They threw the main--two sixes.
"You see," he murmured, with a half smile, "the dice know it is a drawnduel between you and the Arabs."
"C'est un drole, c'est un brave!" muttered Chanrellon; and they threwagain.
The Chasseur cast a five; his was a five again.
"The dice cannot make up their minds," said the other listlessly, "theyknow you are Might and the Arabs are Right."
The Frenchmen laughed; they could take a jest good-humoredly, and aloneamid so many of them, he was made sacred at once by the very length ofodds against him.
They rattled the boxes and threw again--Chanrellon's was three; his two.
"Ah!" he murmured. "Right kicks the beam and loses; it always does, poordevil!"
The Chasseur leaned across the table, with his brown, fearless sunnyeyes full of pleasure.
"Monsieur! never lament such good
fortune for France. You belong to usnow; let me claim you!"
He bowed more gravely than he had borne himself hitherto.
"You do me much honor; fortune has willed it so. One word only instipulation."
"Chanrellon assented courteously.
"As many as you choose."
"I have a companion who must be brigaded with me, and I must go onactive service at once."
"With infinite pleasure. That doubtless can be arranged. You shallpresent yourself to-morrow morning; and for to-night, this is not theseason here yet; and we are triste a faire fremir; still I can show youa little fun, though it is not Paris!"
But he rose and bowed again.
"I thank you, not to-night. You shall see me at your barracks with themorning."
"Ah, ah! monsieur!" cried the Chasseur eagerly, and a little annoyed."What warrant have we that you will not dispute the decree of the dice,and go off to your favorites, the Arabs?"
He turned back and looked full in Chanrellon's face his own eyes alittle surprised, and infinitely weary.
"What warrant? My promise."
Then, without another syllable, he lounged slowly out through thesoldiers and the idlers, and disappeared in the confused din andchiar-oscuro of the gas-lit street without, through the pressof troopers, grisettes, merchants, beggars, sweetmeat-sellers,lemonade-sellers, curacoa sellers, gaunt Bedouins, negro boys, shriekingmuleteers, laughing lorettes, and glittering staff officers.
"That is done!" he murmured to his own thoughts. "Now for life underanother flag!"
Claude de Chanrellon sat mute and amazed a while, gazing at the opendoor; then he drank a fourth beaker of champagne and flung the emptiedglass down with a mighty crash.
"Ventre bleu! Whoever he is, that man will eat fire, bons garcons!"