On off-duty days Pierre is my gardener at eleven sous an hour. On these occasions he wears voluminous working trousers of faded green corduroy gathered at the ankles; a gray flannel shirt and a scarlet cravat. On other days his short, wiry body is encased in a carefully brushed uniform of dark blue with a double row of gold buttons gleaming down his solid chest. When on active duty in the Customs Coast Patrol of the République Française at Pont du Sable, he carries a neatly folded cape with a hood, a bayonet, a heavy calibred six-shooter and a trusty field-glass, useful in locating suspicious-looking objects on marsh or sea.
On this particular morning Pierre was late! I had been leaning over the lichen-stained wall of my wild garden waiting to catch sight of him as he left the ragged end of the straggling village. Had I mistaken the day? Impossible! It was Thursday and I knew he was free. Finally I caught sight of him hurrying toward me down the road—not in his working clothes of faded green corduroy, but in the full majesty of his law-enforcing uniform. What had happened? I wondered. Had his stern brigadier refused to give him leave?
"Bonjour, Pierre!" I called to him as he came within hailing distance.
He touched the vizor of his cap in military salute, and a moment later entered my garden.
"A thousand pardons, monsieur," he apologized excitedly, labouring to catch his breath.
"My artichokes have been waiting for you," I laughed; "they are nearly strangled with weeds. I expected you yesterday." He followed me through a lane of yellow roses leading to the artichoke bed. "What has kept you, Pierre?"
He stopped, looked me squarely in the eyes, placed his finger in the middle of his spiked moustache, and raised his eyebrows mysteriously.
"Monsieur must not ask me," he replied. "I have been on duty for forty-eight hours; there was not even time to change my uniform."
"A little matter for headquarters?" I ventured indiscreetly, with a nod in the direction of Paris.
Pierre shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Monsieur must ask the semaphore; my lips are sealed."