"Oh, I know what he is," returned Tavernay. "I am wondering only what he will claim to be. Let us go outside and see."
Tavernay led the way to the platform. Outside, in front of the station, the sous-officier marshalled his men in a line. They looked a strange body of men as they stood there, blinking in the strong sunlight. The man in the ruffled silk hat and the dress-suit toed the line beside a bundle of rags; the German deserters rubbed elbows with the "true legionary" in the blue serge. Those thirty men represented types of almost all the social grades, and to a man they were seeking the shelter of anonymity in that monastery of action, the Foreign Legion.
"Answer to your names," said the sous-officier, and from a paper in his hand he began to read. The answers came back, ludicrous in their untruth. A French name would be called.
"Montaubon."
And a German voice replied--
"Present."
"Ohlsen," cried the sous-officier, and no answer was given. "Ohlsen," he repeated sharply. "Is not Ohlsen here?"
And suddenly the face of the man in the serge suit flashed, and he answered hurriedly--
"Present."
Even the sous-officier burst into a laugh. The reason for the pause was too obvious; "Ohlsen" had forgotten that Ohlsen was now his name.