I left the soldiers, and went to rest myself under the shade of a palm-tree, on a rising ground, whence I could command the whole plain. I had been there but a few minutes, when I saw an officer detach himself from a group, and come slowly toward me, looking carelessly about him, and humming a tune, as if to avoid notice. He was a short, stout man of about forty, wearing a sort of Zouave dress, with a fez, and without arms.
When I saw him near, I had a sensation of disgust. Never have I seen outside of the assize court a more perfidious countenance. I would have sworn to his having at least ten murders on his conscience, accompanied by assaults on the person.
He stopped at a couple of paces from me, fixed two glassy eyes upon me, and said, coldly, “Bon jour, monsieur.”
I asked him if he were a Frenchman. “Yes,” he replied. “I am from Algiers. I have been here seven years. I am a captain in the army of Morocco.”
Not being able to compliment him on his position, I kept silence.
“C´est comme ça,” he continued, speaking quickly. “I came away from Algiers because I could not bear the sight of it any more. J´étais obligé de vivre dans un cercle trop étroit” (he meant, perhaps, the halter). “European life did not suit my tastes. I felt the need of change.”
“And are you more contented now?” I inquired.
“Most content,” he answered, with affectation. “The country is lovely, Muley-el-Hassan is the best of sultans, the people are kind, I am a captain, I have a little shop, I exercise a small trade, I hunt, I fish, I make excursions into the mountains, I enjoy complete liberty. I would not go back to Europe, you see, for all the gold in the world.”
“Do you not wish to see your own country again? Have you forgotten even France?”
“What is France to me!” he replied. “For me France has no existence. Morocco is my country.” And he shrugged his shoulders.