"But hush, maman," he cried, "I know all. Also I know a man when I see one. You love our little A——, eh, sergeant? Well, what of it? And you are poor—well, what of that? When we old ones are gone, she will have everything—she is all we have, since Louis was killed at the Marne. You are a type that I love, my boy—out there at the front, helping to push the Boche out of France; do you suppose I would not rather have you for a son-in-law than some sacré espèce of a rich embusqué, riding by in his limousine?"
Rather superb, I think.
So, as an engaged man, he is making a poor attempt to be cautious. Also, he has a frightful case of cafard, that mysterious malady of the trenches, which is nothing but concentrated homesickness and longing for the sight of one's women folk, sweethearts, sisters, mothers. A couple of days ago, he came to me with a brilliant idea.
"See, Charlot," he said, "I have a scheme. You know Lieutenant P——, chief of the corps franc—tell him of me, that I can speak German and can take prisoners, and tell him to ask my captain to detach me for the next coup de main."
To understand this, you must know that a coup de main is a raid, made after a brief artillery preparation, on the enemy trenches, not with the idea of gaining ground, but simply to get a few prisoners for information regarding regiments, and so forth. In the French army such raids are made by special selected companies of each regiment, who have no routine duty and get eight days' special leave after each raid that results in prisoners. These men are termed "corps franc." As you can see, Jean thought this a quick way to get back to his fiancée.
While we talked, by a freak of luck, who should knock at my door but Lieutenant P——, chief of our local corps franc, a very good friend and one I am proud to have. He is the perfect quintessence of a French subaltern,—twenty-six years old, slight, wiry, and handsome; an Anglophile in everything relating to sport, as exquisite in dress and person as Beau Brummell, and as recklessly brave as Morgan's buccaneers. He has risen from the ranks, wears a gold bracelet, and has every decoration that a French soldier or officer can get, including the red ribbon. His Croix de Guerre has seven citations, and he has been five times wounded. He took to Jean at once, saying that he needed an interpreter for a raid which was coming in two or three days, and promised to see the captain about it at once.
"Better come with us," he said to me, whimsically. "I want to run down to Paris next week, and if the sergeant here and I don't get a prisoner or two, it will be because there are none left in the first line. Come on—you'll see some fun!"
"But," I said, "what is there in it for me? I'm ruined if I'm caught in any such escapade, and in any case I get no permission."
"Oh, we'll fix that. Maybe you'd get a nice little wound like my last one; and if not, I'm an expert with grenades; I think I could toss one so you would just get an éclat or two in the legs—good for a week in Paris."
I thanked him without enthusiasm and declined.