In the midst of these torments we one day received the visit of a deserter, whose life and position among the Arabs are too curious to be passed over.
I had seen this man before, but have delayed until now to mention him, in order to present this episode as a whole. While Abd-el-Kader was encamped on the borders of the Ouet Mina, a handsome man, dressed in the uniform of the Spahis, and without a bernouse, passed our tent, making his horse prance. The Arabs pointed him out to us, saying, “He is a Christian.”
Shortly afterwards a negro came and told us that Moussa, the Christian, desired to speak with us. As we did not wish to have any dealings with deserters we told the negro that if Moussa wished to speak with us he must come here, as we were not free to go where we liked.
Scarce had the negro left us, when a tall man with a long flowing beard and an insolent bearing came to us, saying, “I am amazed that dogs of Christians such as you refuse to come when one so great and powerful as Moulin sends for you. Has not my fame reached you; and know you not that your fate is in my hands?” On my assuring him that I did not know him, he replied, “I am Moulin: four years ago I quitted the French, and I now command the armies of the Sultan. It is I who lead them to victory and carry terror and destruction into the ranks of the Christian dogs. I am he who returns from every battle with the heads of four Frenchmen whom I have killed with my own hand hanging at my saddle-bow.”
“My dear Sir,” replied I, “you must imagine, to judge by your style of conversation, that you are talking to idiots.” “What do you say, you wretch?” “I say that our soldiers still believe in the existence of Moulin whose name even now inspires them with terror, for after an infamous desertion he was distinguished for courage. But he has been dead for years, and we do not believe in ghosts.”
“I tell you, dog of a Christian, that I am Moulin; I have taken the name of Moussa since I have become one of the faithful, and my power and authority know no bounds. I am now going to the tent of my friend Abd-el-Kader to determine your fate.”
While this conversation was going on my poor friend Meurice, who was then alive, told me that he had attentively observed the deserter’s features, and that they were familiar to him at Paris. He begged me next time he came to turn the conversation to Paris, in order that he might observe the impression this produced.
Next day Moussa presented himself with the same presumptuous assurance; and after a great deal of vapouring on his part I asked him if he still persisted in passing for Moulin. “Dog of a Christian, you are most obstinate. Have not the French soldiers after a battle related that the Arab battalions were commanded by the terrible Moulin?” We then began to talk about Paris, in praise of which Moussa was most eloquent. “Do I know Paris?” cried he; “it is the place where I was born: and the theatres! I went to them every night, more especially to the Odeon.”
“The Odeon!” said Meurice, with more heat than I had ever seen him exhibit. “The Odeon! You are an impostor; you are neither Moulin nor Moussa, but M——. I know you well. You used to come every evening to the director’s box at the Odeon: many’s the time you have sat on my knee as a child, and your sister was then a charming actress. My name, Sir, is Meurice.”
Moussa was struck dumb at this vehement apostrophe, and Meurice continued, “I have never seen you since, but I have heard of you; you grew up a good-for-nothing fellow, and entered first the cavalry and then the infantry: in each your restless temper drew upon you the reprimands of your superiors; till at length you engaged in the Bataillon d’Afrique, and then in the Spahis, whose uniform you still wear. I heard of your desertion in the prisons of Mascara. You may call yourself Moussa, but your name before your infamous apostacy was the one I pronounced: I do not repeat it out of regard to your family.”