The sight of Gerard always made Baumann think of the Bois de Bologne and brought to his nostrils a smell of Paris. “Stylish” was Baumann’s epithet for this slim razor-like being.
“You can tell me for a second time how it goes with my grand serieux, and where he is to be found.”
Baumann was enchanted by the familiar allusion. It made him out as an intimate of Captain de Montignac. But he was baffled too.
“The name would help,” he said, hesitating.
“Oh, Paul Ravenel, of course,” replied Gerard impatiently, and Baumann’s face lengthened. He fidgeted uncomfortably on his feet. Yes, Paul Ravenel, to be sure! Captain de Montignac had been uneasy about Paul Ravenel in Casablanca, when there was really no occasion for uneasiness. This time, however, the case was very different.
“Alas, my Captain, I can give you no news of your friend at all. Many officers were caught at a disadvantage. We are afraid—yes, we are all very much afraid.”
Gerard, with his legs apart and his hands thrust into the pockets of his riding-breeches, looked at his twittering companion for a moment. Then he said abruptly:
“Let me hear!”
Baumann had an uncomfortable little story to tell. Late on the night of the sixteenth, the night before the massacres openly began, Captain Ravenel had ridden up to the door of the hospital with a native servant carrying a lantern in front of him. He was labouring under a great anxiety and distress. Baumann himself received Captain Ravenel and heard his story. Captain Ravenel had assured him that the Askris would revolt immediately, and that there would be a massacre of the white people throughout the city.
“And you didn’t believe Paul Ravenel?” thundered Gerard de Montignac. Baumann was in a haste to exculpate himself.