“And she is at old Delagrange’s Bar in Casablanca!” cried an officer, laughing.
Here at all events was a statement which could be received with incredulity.
“But I am not the only one to say so,” exclaimed Praslin.
“Then we must admit that the case is serious,” said Commandant Marnier very gravely. “Come, let us consider the case of the young lady. Who is this other who agrees with you, my friend?”
Praslin began to stammer. Commandant Marnier of the Zouaves was the heavy gun of the mess, a disillusioned man of forty-five with a satirical and at times a bitter tongue.
“Who is this other?” he asked, leaning forward.
“Little Boutreau of the Legion,” Praslin answered miserably.
“Name of a name, here is an authority!” cried the Commandant. “And how old is the little Boutreau?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Yes? And where has the little Boutreau been stationed?”