The Wages of Virtue Part 10

"I hope we get you past the Sergeant of the Guard," interrupted John Bull. "Sw.a.n.k it thick as we go by."

The cold eye of the Sergeant ran over the three Legionaries as they pa.s.sed through the little side wicket without blazing into wrath over any lack of smartness and _chic_ in their appearance.

"One to you," said John Bull, as they found themselves safe in the shadow of the Spahis' barracks outside. "If you had looked too like a recruit he'd have turned you back, on principle...."

To Reginald Rupert the walk was full of interest, in spite of the fact that the half-vulgar, half-picturesque Western-Eastern appearance of the town was no novelty. He had already seen all that Sidi-bel-Abbes could show, and much more, in Algiers, Tangiers, Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said, and Suez. But, with a curious sense of proprietorship, he enjoyed listening to the distant strains of the band--their "own" band. To see thousands of Legionaries, Spahis, Turcos, Cha.s.seurs d'Afrique, Sapeurs, Tirailleurs, Zouaves, and other French soldiery, from their own level, as one of themselves, was what interested him. Here was a new situation, here were new conditions, necessities, dangers, sufferings, relationships. Here, in short, were entirely new experiences....

"This is the Rue Prudon," observed John Bull. "It separates the Military goats on the west, from the Civil sheep on the east. Not that you'll find them at all 'civil' though.... Reminds me of a joke I heard our Captain telling the Colonel at dinner one night when I was a Mess Orderly. A new man had taken over the Grand Hotel, and he wrote to the Mess President to say he made a speciality of dinner-parties for Military and _Civilised_ officers! Bit rough on the Military, what?"

Having crossed the Rue Prudon rubicon, and invaded the Place de Quinconces with its Palais de Justice and prison, the Promenade Publique with its beautiful trees, and the Rue Montagnac with its shops and life and glitter, the three Legionaries quitted the quarter of electric arc-lights, brilliant cafes, shops, hotels, aperitif-drinking citizens, promenading French-women, newspaper kiosks, loitering soldiers, shrill hawkers of the _Echo d'Oran_, white-burnoused Arabs (who gazed coldly upon the hated Franswazi, and bowed to officials with stately dignity, arms folded on breast), quick-stepping Cha.s.seurs, scarlet-cloaked Spahis, and swaggering Turcos, crossed the Place Sadi Carnot, and made for the maze of alleys, slums, and courts (the quarter of the Spanish Jews, town Arabs, _hadris_, _odjar_-wearing women, Berbers, Negroes, half-castes, semi-Oriental sc.u.m, "white trash," and Legionaries), in one of which was situated Carmelita's Cafe de la Legion.

--2

La Belle Carmelita, black-haired, red-cheeked, black-eyed, red-lipped, lithe, swift, and graceful, sat at the receipt of custom. Carmelita's Cafe de la Legion was for the Legion, and had to make its profits out of men whose pay is one halfpenny a day. It is therefore matter for little surprise that it compared unfavourably with Voisin's, the Cafe de la Paix, the Pre Catalan, Maxim's, the Cafe Grossenwahn, the Das Prinzess Cafe, the restaurants of the Place Pigalle, Le Rat Mort, or even Les Noctambules, Le Cabaret de l'Enfer, the Chat Noir, the Elysee Montmartre, and the famous and infamous _caveaux_ of Le Quartier--in the eyes of those Legionaries who had tried some, or all, of these places.

However, it had four walls, a floor, and a roof; benches and a large number of tables and chairs, many of which were quite reliable. It had a bar, it had Algerian wine at one penny the bottle, it had _vert-vert_ and _tord-boyaud_ and _bapedi_ and _shum-shum_. It had really good coffee, and really bad cigarettes. It had meals also--but above all, and before all, it had a welcome. A welcome for the Legionary. The man to whose presence the good people of Sidi-bel-Abbes (French petty officials, half-castes, Spanish Jews, Arabs, clerks, workmen, shopkeepers, waiters, and lowest-cla.s.s bourgeoisie) took exception at the bandstand, in the Gardens, in the Cafes, in the very streets; the man from the contamination of whose touch the very cocottes, the demi-mondaines, the joyless _filles de joie_, even the daughters of the pavement; drew aside the skirts of their dingy finery (for though the Wages of Virtue are a halfpenny a day for the famous Legion, the Wages of Sin are more for the infamous legion); the man at whom even the Goums, the Arab _gens-d'armes_ shouted as at a pariah dog, this man, the Soldier of the Legion, had a welcome in Carmelita's Cafe. There were two women in all the world who would endure to breathe the same air as the sad Sons of the Legion--Madame la Cantiniere (official _fille du regiment_) and Carmelita. Is it matter for wonder that the Legion's sons loved them--particularly Carmelita, who, unlike Madame, was under no obligation to shed the light of her countenance upon them? Any man in the Legion might speak to Carmelita provided he spoke as a gentleman should speak to a lady--and did not want to be pinned to her bar by the ears, and the bayonets of his indignant brothers-in-arms--any man who might speak to no other woman in the world outside the Legion. (Madame la Cantiniere is inside the Legion, _bien entendu_, and always married to it in the person of one of its sons.) She would meet him as an equal for the sake of her beautiful, wonderful, adored Luigi Rivoli, his brother-in-arms. Perhaps one must be such an outcast that the sight of one causes even painted lips to curl in contemptuous disdain; such a _thing_ that one is deterred from entering decent Cafes, decent places of amus.e.m.e.nt and decent boulevards; so low that one is strictly doomed to the environment of one's prison, or the slums, and to the society of one's fellow dregs, before one can appreciate the att.i.tude of the Sons of the Legion to Carmelita. They revered her as they did not revere the Mother of G.o.d, and they, broken and crucified wretches, envied Luigi Rivoli as they did not envy the repentant thief absolved by Her Son.

_She_, Carmelita, welcomed _them_, Legionaries! It is perhaps comprehensible if not excusable, that the att.i.tude of Madame la Cantiniere was wholly different, that she hated Carmelita as a rival, and with single heart, double venom and treble voice, denounced her, her house, her wine, her coffee, and all those _chenapans_ and _sacripants_ her clients.

"_Merde!_" said Madame la Cantiniere. "That which makes the slums of Naples too hot for it, is warm indeed! Naples! Ma foi! Why Monsieur Le Bon Diable himself must be reluctant when his patrol runs in a _prisonnier_ from Naples to the nice clean guard-room and _cellules_ in his h.e.l.l ... Naples! ... La! La!..." which was unkind and unfair of Madame, since the very worst she knew of Carmelita was the fact that she kept a Cafe whereat the Legionaries spent their half-pence. It is not (rightly or wrongly) in itself an indictable offence to be a Neapolitan.

So the Legion loved Carmelita, Madame la Cantiniere hated her, the Bucking Bronco worshipped her, John Bull admired her, le bon M. Edouard Malvin desired her, and Luigi Rivoli owned her--body, soul and cash-box--what time he sought to do the same for Madame la Cantiniere whose body and cash-box were as much larger than those of Carmelita as her soul was smaller.

Between two fools one comes to the ground--sometimes--but Luigi intended to come to a bed of roses, and to have a cash-box beneath it. One of the fools should marry and support him, preferably the richer fool, and meantime, oh the subtlety, the cleverness, the piquancy--of being loved and supported by both while marrying neither! Many a time as he lay on his cot while a henchman polished the great cartridge-pouches (that earned the Legion the sobriquet of "the Leather-Bellies" from the Russians in the Crimea), the belts, the b.u.t.tons, the boots, and the rifle and bayonet of the n.o.ble Luigi, while another washed his fatigue uniforms and underclothing, that honourable man would chuckle aloud as he saw himself frequently cashing a ten-franc piece of Carmelita's at Madame's Canteen, and receiving change for a twenty-franc piece from the fond, yielding Madame. Ten francs too much, a sigh too many, and a kiss too few--for Madame did not kiss, being, contrary to popular belief with regard to vivandieres in general, and the Legion's vivandiere in particular, of rigid virtue, oh, but yes, of a respectability profound and colossal--during "vacation." Her present vacation had lasted for three months, and Madame felt it was time to replace le pauvre Etienne Baptiste--cut in small pieces by certain Arab ladies. Madame was a business woman, Madame needed a husband in her business, and Madame had an eye for a fine man. None finer than Luigi Rivoli, and Madame had never tried an Italian. Husbands do not last long in the Legion, and Madame had had three French, one Belgian, and one Swiss (seriatim, _bien entendu_). No, none finer in the whole Legion than Rivoli. None, nom de Dieu! But a foreign husband may be a terrible trial, look you, and an Italian is a foreigner in a sense that a French-speaking Belgian or Swiss is not. No, an Italian is not a Frenchman even though he be a Legionnaire. And there were tales of him and this vile shameless creature from Naples, who decoyed les braves Legionnaires from their true and lawful Canteen to her noisome den in the foul slums, there to spend their hard-earned sous on her poisonous red-ink wine, her muddy-water coffee, and her--worse things. Yes, that cunning little fox le Legionnaire Edouard Malvin had thrown out hints to Madame about this Neapolitan _ragazza_--but then, ce bon M. Malvin was himself a suitor for Madame's hand--as well as a most remarkable liar and rogue. Perhaps 'twould be as well to accept ce beau Luigi at once, marry him immediately, and see that he spent his evenings helping in the Canteen bar, instead of gallivanting after Neapolitan hussies of the bazaar.

Men are but men--and sirens are sirens. What would you? And Luigi so gay and popular. Small blame that he should stray when Madame was unkind or coy.... Yes, she would do it, if only to spite this Neapolitan cat.... But--he was a foreigner and something of a rogue--and incredibly strong. Still, Madame had tamed more than one recalcitrant husband by knocking the bottom off an empty bottle and stabbing him in the face with it. And however strong one's husband might be, he must, like Sisera, sleep sometimes.

The beautiful Luigi would hate to be awakened with a bottomless bottle, and would not need it more than once.... And the business soul of scheming, but amorous Madame, much troubled, still halted between two opinions--while the romantic and simple soul of loving little Carmelita remained steadfast, and troubled but little. Just a little, because the fine _gentilhomme_, Legionnaire Jean Boule, and the great, kind Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau, and certain others, seemed somehow _to warn her_ against her Luigi; seemed to despise him, and hint at treachery. She did not count the sly Belgian (or Austrian) Edouard Malvin. The big stupid Americano was jealous, of course, but Il Signor Inglese was not and he was--oh, like a Reverend Father--so gentle and honest and good. But no, her Luigi could not be false, and the next Legionnaire who said a word against him should be forbidden Le Cafe de la Legion, ill as it could afford to lose even halfpenny custom--what with the rent, taxes, _bakshish_ to gens-d'armes, service, cooking, lighting, wine, spirits, coffee, and Luigi's daily dinner, Chianti and franc pocket-money.... If only that franc could be increased--but one must eat, or get so thin--and the great Luigi liked not skinny women.

What was a franc a day to such a man as Luigi, her Luigi, strongest, finest, handsomest of men?--and but for her he would never have been in this accursed Legion. Save for her aggravating wickedness, he would never have stabbed poor Guiseppe Longigotto and punished her by enlisting. How great and fine a hero of splendid vengeance! A true Neapolitan, yet how magnanimous when punishment was meted! He had forgiven--and forgotten--the dead Guiseppe, and he had forgiven her, and he accepted her miserable franc, dinner and Chianti wine daily. Also he had allowed her--miserable ingrate that she had been to annoy him and make him jealous--to find the money that had mysteriously but materially a.s.sisted in procuring the perpetual late-pa.s.s that allowed him to remain with her till two in the morning, long after all the other poor Legionnaires had returned to their dreadful barracks. n.o.ble Luigi! Yet there were people who coupled his name with that of wealthy Madame la Cantiniere in the barrack yonder.

She had overheard Legionnaires doing it, here in her own Cafe, though they had instantly and stoutly denied it when accused, and had looked furtive and ashamed. Absurd, jealous wretches, whose heads Luigi could knock together as easily as she could click her castanets....

Almost time that the Legionnaires began to drop in for their litre and their _ta.s.se_--and Carmelita rose and went to the door of the Cafe de la Legion and looked down the street toward the Place Sadi Carnot. One of three pa.s.sing Cha.s.seurs d'Afrique made a remark, the import of which was not lost on the Italian girl though the man spoke in Paris slum argot.

"If Monsieur would but give himself the trouble to step inside and sit down for a moment," said Carmelita in Legion-French, "Monsieur's question shall be answered by Luigi Rivoli of La Legion. Also he will remove Monsieur's pretty uniform and scarlet _ceinturon_ and will do for Monsieur what Monsieur's mamma evidently neglected to do for Monsieur when Monsieur was a dirty little boy in the gutter.... Monsieur will not come in as he suggested? Monsieur will not wait a minute? No?

Monsieur is a very wise young gentleman...."

An Arab Spahi swaggered past and leered.

"_Sabeshad zareefeh chattaha_," said he, "_saada atinee_."

"_Roh! Imshi!_" hissed Carmelita and Carmelita's hand went to her pocket in a significant manner, and Carmelita spat.

A Greek ice-cream seller lingered and ogled.

"_Bros!_" snapped Carmelita with a jerk of her thumb in the direction in which the young person should be going.

A huge Turco, with a vast beard, brought his rolling swagger to a halt at her door and made to enter.

"_Destour!_" said the tiny Carmelita to the giant, pointed to the street and stared him unwaveringly in the eye until, grinning sheepishly, he turned and went.

Carmelita did not like Turcos in general, and detested this one in particular. He was too fond of coming when he knew the Cafe to be empty of Legionnaires.

An old Spanish Jew paused in his shuffle to ask for a cigarette.

"_Varda!_" replied Carmelita calmly, with the curious thumb-jerking gesture of negation, distinctive of the uneducated Italian.

A most cosmopolitan young woman, and able to give a little of his own tongue to any dweller in Europe and to most of those in Northern Africa.

Not in the least a refined young woman, however, and her many accomplishments not of the drawing-room. Staunch, courageous, infinitely loving, utterly honest, loyal, reliable, and very self-reliant, she was, upon occasion, it is to be feared, more emphatic than delicate in speech, and more uncompromising than ladylike in conduct. She was not _une maitresse vierge_, and her standards and ideals were not those of the Best Suburbs. You see, Carmelita had begun to earn her own living at the unusually early age of three, and earned it in coppers on a dirty rug, on a dirtier Naples quay, for a decade or so, until at the age of fourteen, or fifteen, she, together with her Mamma, her reputed Papa, her sister and her brother, performed painful acrobatic feats on the edge of the said quay for the delectation of the pa.s.sengers of the big North German Lloyd and other steamers that tied up thereat for purposes of embarkation and debarkation, and for the reception of coal and the discharge of cargo.

At the age of fifteen, Carmelita, most beautiful of form and coa.r.s.ely beautiful of face, of perfect health, grace, poise, and carriage, fell desperately in love with the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli, a star of her own firmament but of far greater magnitude.

Luigi Rivoli, one of a troupe of acrobats who performed at the Naples Scala, Vesuvie, and Varietes, meditating setting up on his own account as Strong Man, Acrobat, Juggler, Wrestler, Dancer, and Professor of Physical Culture, was, to the humble "tumbler" of the quay, as the be-Knighted Actor-Manager of a West End Theatre to the last joined chorus girl, or walking-lady on his boards. And yet the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli, meditating desertion from his troupe and needing an "a.s.sistant," deigned to accept the services and whole-souled adoration of the girl who was as much more skilful as she was less powerful than he.

When, in her perfect, ardent, and beautiful love, her reckless and uncounting adoration, she gave herself, mind, body and soul, to her hero and her G.o.d, he accepted the little gift "without prejudice"--as the lawyers say. "Without prejudice" to Luigi's future, that is.

During their short engagement at the Scala--terminated by the Troupe's earnest endeavour to a.s.sa.s.sinate the defaulting and defalcating Luigi, and her family's endeavour to maim Carmelita for setting up on her own account, and deserting her loving "parents"--it was rather the girl whom the public applauded for her wonderful back-somersaults, contortions, hand-walking, Catherine-wheels, trapeze-work, and dancing, than the man for his feats with dumb-bells of doubtful solidity, his stereotyped ball-juggling, his chain-breaking, and weight-lifting, his muscle-slapping and _Ha!_ shouting, his posturing and grimacing, and his issuing of challenges to wrestle any man in the world for any sum he liked to name, and in any style known to science. And, when engagements at the lower-cla.s.s halls and cafes of Barcelona, Ma.r.s.eilles, Toulon, Genoa, Rome, Brindisi, Venice, Trieste, Corinth, Athens, Constantinople, Port Said, Alexandria, Messina, Valetta, Algiers, Oran, Tangiers, or Casa Blanca were obtained, it was always, and obviously, the girl, rather than the man, who decided the proprietor or manager to engage them, and who won the applause of his patrons.

When times were bad, as after Luigi's occasional wrestling defeats and during the bad weeks of Luigi's typhoid, convalescence, and long weakness at Ma.r.s.eilles, it was Carmelita, the humbler and lesser light, who (the Halls being worked out) tried desperately to keep the wolf from the door by returning to the quay-side business, and, for dirty coppers, exhibiting to pa.s.sengers, coal-trimmers, cargo-workers, porters and loafers, the performances that had been subject of signed contracts and given on fine stages in beautiful music-halls and _cafes_, to refined and appreciative audiences. Incidentally the girl learned much French (little knowing how useful it was to prove), as well as smatterings of Spanish, Greek, Turkish, English and Arabic.

So Carmelita had "a.s.sisted" the great Luigi in the times of his prosperity and had striven to maintain him in eclipse, by quay-side, public-house, workmen's dinner-hour, low _cafe_, back-yard, gambling-den, and wine-shop exhibitions of her youthful skill, grace, agility, and beauty--and had failed to make enough by that means. To the end of her life poor Carmelita could never, never forget that terrible time at Ma.r.s.eilles, try as she might to thrust it into the background of her thoughts. For there, ever there, in the background it remained, save when called to cruel prominence by some mischance, or at rare intervals by the n.o.ble Luigi himself, when displeased by some failure on the part of Carmelita. A terrible, terrible memory, for Carmelita's nature was essentially virginal, delicate, and of crystal purity. Where she loved she gave all--and Luigi was to Carmelita as much her husband as if they had been married in every church they had pa.s.sed, in every cathedral they had seen, and by every _padre_ they had met....

A terrible, terrible memory.... But Luigi's life was at stake and what true woman, asked Carmelita, would not have taken the last step of all (when every other failed) to raise the money necessary for doctors, medicine, delicacies, food, fuel, and lodging? If, by thrusting her right hand into the fire, Carmelita could have burnt away those haunting and corroding Ma.r.s.eilles memories, then into the fire her right hand would have been thrust. Yet, side by side with the self-horror and self-disgust was no remorse nor repentance. If, to-morrow, Luigi's life could only thus again be saved, thus saved should it be, as when at Ma.r.s.eilles he lay convalescent but dying for lack of the money wherewith to buy the delicacies that would save him.... Luigi's life always, and at any time, before Carmelita's scruples and shrinkings.

In return, Luigi had been kind to her and had often spoken of matrimony--some day--in spite of what she had done at Ma.r.s.eilles when he was too ill to look after her, and provide her with all she needed.

Once even, when they were on the crest of a great wave of prosperity, Luigi had gone so far as to mention her seventeenth birthday as a possibly suitable date for their wedding. That had been a great and glorious time, though all too short, alas! and the sequel to a brilliant scheme devised by that poor dear Guiseppe Longigotto in the interests of his beloved and adored friend Carmelita. Poor Guiseppe! He had deserved as Carmelita was the first to admit, something better, than a stab in the back from Luigi Rivoli, for the idea had been wholly and solely his, until the great Roman sporting Impresario had taken it up and developed it. First there was a tremendous syndicate-engineered campaign of advertis.e.m.e.nt, which let all Europe know that _Il Famoso e Piu Grande Professors Carlo Scopinaro_, Champion Wrestler of Europe, America and Australia, would shortly meet the Egregious Egyptian, or Conquering Copt, Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia, in Rome, and wrestle him in the Graeco-Roman style, for the World's Championship and ten thousand pounds a side. (Yes actually and authoritatively _diecimila lire sterline_.) From every h.o.a.rding in Rome, Venice, Milan, Turin, Genoa, Florence, Naples, Brindisi, and every other town in Italy, huge posters called your attention to the beauties and marvels of the smiling face and mighty form of the great Carlo Scopinaro; to the horrors and terrors of the scowling face and enormous carcase of the dreadful Conquering Copt. (To positively none but Luigi, Guiseppe, and the renowned Roman Impresario was it known that the Conquering Copt was none other than Luigi's old pal, Abdul Hamid, chucker-out at a Port Said music-hall, and most modest and retiring of gentlemen--until this greatness of Champion Wrestler of Africa and Asia was suddenly thrust upon him, and he was summoned from Port Said to Rome to be coached by Luigi in the arts and graces of realistic stage-wrestling, and particularly in those of life-like and convincing defeat after a long and obviously terrible struggle.) ... Excitement was splendidly engineered, the newspapers of every civilised country and of Germany advertised the epoch-making event, speculated upon its result, and produced interesting articles on such questions as, "_Should a Colour-Line be drawn in Wrestling?_" and, "_Is Scopinaro the White Hope?_" A self-advertising reverend Nonconformist announced his intention in the English press of proceeding to Rome to create a disturbance at the Match. He got himself frequently interviewed by specimens of the genus, "Our representative," and the important fact that he was a Conscientious Objector to all forms of sport was brought to the notice of the Great British Public.

The struggle was magnificently staged and magnificently acted. Every spectator in the vast theatre, no matter whether he had paid one hundred lire or a paltry fifty centesimi for his seat, felt that he had had his money's worth. In incredibly realistic manner the White Hope of Europe and the Champion of Africa and Asia struck att.i.tudes, cried "_Ha!_", s.n.a.t.c.hed at each other, stamped, straddled, pushed, pulled, embraced, slapped, jerked, hugged, tugged, lugged, and lifted each other with every appearance of fearful exertion, dauntless courage, fierce determination and unparalleled skill for one crowded hour of glorious life, during which the house went mad, rose at them to a man, and, with tears and imprecations, called upon the Italian to be worthy of his country and upon the Conquering Copt to be d.a.m.ned.

Few scenes in all the troubled history of Rome can have equalled, for excitement, that which ensued when the White Hope finally triumphed, the honour of Europe in general was saved, and that of Italy in particular illuminated with a blaze of glory.

Anyhow, what was solid fact, with no humbug about it, was that Luigi received the renowned Roman Impresario's fervid blessing and five hundred pounds, while the complacent Abdul received blessings equally fervid, though a less enthusiastic cheque. Both gentlemen were then provided by the kind Impresario with single tickets to the most distant spot he could induce them to name.

For Carmelita, the days following that on which her Luigi won the great World's Championship match, were a glorious time of expensive dinners, fine apartments, and beautiful clothes; a time of being _cafe_ and music-hall patrons instead of performers; of being entertained instead of entertaining. The joy of Carmelita's life while the five hundred pounds lasted was to sit in a stage-box, proud and happy, beside her n.o.ble Luigi, and criticise the various "turns" upon the stage. Never an evening performance, nor a matinee did they miss, and Luigi drank a quart of champagne at lunch, and another at dinner. Luigi must keep his strength up, of course, and the soothing influence of innumerable Havana cigars was not denied to his nerves.

And then, just as the five hundred pounds was finished, a wretched Russian (quickly followed by an American, two Russians, a Turk, a Frenchman, and an Englishman) publicly challenged Luigi in the press of Europe, to wrestle for the Championship of the World in any style he liked, for any amount he liked, when and where he liked--and that branch of his profession was closed to Luigi--for these men were giants and terrors, arranging no "crosses," stern fighters, and out for fame, money, genuine sport, and the real Championship.

Then had come a time of poverty, straits, mean shifts and misery, followed by Luigi's job as a "tamer" of tame lions. This post of lion-tamer to a cageful of mangy, weary lions, captive-born, pessimistic, timid and depressed, had been secured by Guiseppe Longigotto, and handed over to Luigi (on its proving safe and satisfactory), in the interests of Giuseppe's adored and hungry Carmelita. Arrayed in the costume worn by all the Best Lion-tamers, Luigi looked a truly n.o.ble figure, as, with flashing eyes and gleaming teeth, he cracked the whip and fired the revolver that induced the bored and disgusted lions to amble round the cage, crouching and cringing in humility and fear. That insignificant little rat, Guiseppe, was far more in the picture, of course, as fiddler to the show, than he was in his original role of tamer of the lions. Followed a bad time along the African coast, culminating, at Algiers, in poor Guiseppe's impa.s.sioned pleadings that Carmelita would marry him (and, leaving this dreadful life of the road, live with him and his beautiful violin on the banked proceeds of his great Wrestling Championship scheme), Luigi's jealousy, his overbearing airs of proprietorship, his drunken cruelty, his presuming on her love and obedience to him until she sought to give him a fright and teach him a lesson, his killing of the poor, pretty musician, and his flight to Sidi-bel-Abbes....

To Sidi-bel-Abbes also fled Carmelita, and, with the proceeds of Guiseppe's dying gift to her, eked out by promises of many things to many people, such as Jew and Arab lessors and landlords, French dealers, Spanish-Jew jobbers and contractors, and Negro labourers, contrived to open La Cafe de la Legion, to run it with herself as proprietress, manageress, barmaid, musician, singer, actress, and _danseuse_, and to make it pay to the extent of a daily franc, bottle of Chianti, and a macaroni, polenta, or spaghetti meal for Luigi, and a very meagre living for herself. When in need of something more, Carmelita performed at matinees at the music-hall and at private stances in Arab and other houses, in the intervals of business. When professional dress would have rendered her automatic pistol conspicuous and uncomfortable, Carmelita carried a most serviceable little dagger in her hair. Also she let it be known among her patrons of the Legion that she was going to a certain house, garden, or _cafe_ at a certain time, and might be there enquired for if unduly delayed. Carmelita knew the seamy side of life in Mediterranean ports, and African littoral and hinterland towns, and took no chances....

And by-and-by her splendid and n.o.ble Luigi would marry her, and they would go to America--where that little matter of manslaughter would never crop up and cause trouble--and live happily ever after.

So, faithful, loyal, devoted, Carmelita might be; generous, chaste, and brave, Carmelita might be--but alas! not refined, not genteel, not above telling a Cha.s.seur d'Afrique what she thought of him and his insults; not above spitting at a leering, gesture-making Spahi. No lady....

"_Ben venuti, Signori!_" cried Carmelita on catching sight of Il Signor Jean Boule and the Bucking Bronco. "_Soyez le bien venu, Monsieur Jean Boule et Monsieur Bronco. Che cosa posso offrirvi?_" and, as they seated themselves at a small round table near the bar, hastened to bring the wine favoured by these favoured customers--the so gentle English Signor, _gentilhomme_, (doubtless once a _milord_, a _n.o.bile_), and the so gentle, foolish Americano, so slow and strong, who looked at her with eyes of love, kind eyes, with a good true love. No _milordino_ he, no _piccol Signor_ (but nevertheless a good man, a _uomo dabbene_, most certainly...)

Reginald Rupert was duly presented as Legionnaire Rupert, with all formality and ceremony, to the Madamigella Carmelita, who ran her bright, black eye over him, summed him up as another _gentiluomo_, an obvious _gentilhomme_, pitied him, and wondered what he had "done."