But yes, she had plenty of room. That _sale guerre_! There were hardly any commercial travelers nowadays. And then that _salaud_ of a chief American gendarme who spent nothing himself, and forbade her hotel to other brave Americans who would! Indeed, he had closed all the cafés and hotels in town to his countrymen, and opened a café of his own, importing two _petites femmes_ from Paris to run it for him. But there was another American officer—a man very distinguished—at her hotel who appeared lonesome. Perhaps this worthy monsieur would like to join him.
She led Tommy to a small office of some sort, wherein a man in American uniform was sitting gloomily alone before a bottle of wine. The little pilot recoiled at sight of the gold leaves on his shoulders, but it wasn’t Major Krause who sat there. On this major’s blouse were the _Legion of Honor_, the _Medaille Militaire_, and the _Croix de Guerre_ with many palms, instead of the jingling hardware Krause carried to show that he was a marksman or something; and this man’s face lit up with a welcoming smile, instead of the congested dignity habitual with the commanding officer of the flying field of Issy-la-Boue. Tommy gasped as he realized that he was in the presence of the great ace himself!
He sat down at the other’s invitation and had a glass of wine. They joined in lamenting the fact that they couldn’t hang all M.P.’s on the meat-hooks in front of butcher shops as the _poilus_ did the gendarmes at Verdun, and agreed that the French are a great people.
“Look at me,” said the ace gloomily. “When I took this commission I had no idea that they were going to order me away from the front, but now all the others are killing more Boches and getting ahead of me while I rot in this hole. They sent me back here to help train you fellows, but Major Krause wouldn’t pay any attention to what I said, so I left. I heard some guy who had never flown over the front give you a lecture on how to do it, and when he said that if you got lost over Germany the way to find out where you were was to fly down and read the name on some railway station, I couldn’t bear it any more. I don’t know what the devil to do—I’m not doing any good around here.”
His gloom was justified. A few months later he was shot down in flames in a machine condemned by the French.
They heard the voice of the madame raised in loud objurgations outside, but there was a knock at the door, and immediately a man entered. He wore the uniform of a first lieutenant, and on his arm the brassard of an M.P. But his truculence subsided into oiliness at the sight of the major’s leaves.
“Excuse me, Major,” he said, “but orders are very strict, you know. Major Krause is very particular that no flying officer should leave the post under any conditions. I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but have you got a pass?”
“He’s with me,” said the ace shortly.
“Oh,” said the M.P. uncertainly, and went out. He wasn’t sure exactly what the ace’s status was, but his rank was plain enough, and the M.P. was afraid of burning his fingers.
“Wait till that guy catches me alone,” said Tommy.