When he was on his last leave he spent six unrestrained days in innumerable drinking bouts in all the bars at La Cannebière, where he narrated his boasted deeds of prowess, which were probably much inferior to the real ones. Then, instead of going back, he waited for them to come and get him. He was arrested on the eighth day and brought back to the Corps by the provost. Marseille was not the least upset when the officer demanded the reasons for his delay, and replied:
“I don’t like to travel alone. I like society, I do. So I have had a whole car to myself and my escort. And besides, I knew very well that the gendarmes wouldn’t come from Marseilles here without buying a drink, and they wouldn’t have the nerve to lap it all up without offering me some. I like the gendarmes. That may seem strange to you, but I do.”
Marseille is a good singer and his number appears in all the company concerts. His throat is as clear as the sunny lights of La Corniche and L’Esterel, and he can render the final trills of the Neapolitan songs with the best.
When he had finished his rapid observation he came back to our anxious group and spoke to the mess corporal:
“You’ll be all right, mon vieux. You’ll get there.”
And we all looked at him in open-mouthed surprise at such assurance.
“Have you any news or an idea? Explain. Tell us something about it. Let us see.”
“You’ll get there, as I told you. Don’t bother about those fellows over there. That’s my job. Watch me.”
And to the lieutenant who was getting ready to question him: