“Yes, like enough. Besides, the other one is English. One of the Chasseurs d'Afrique tells me that the other one waits on him like a slave when he can—cleans his harness, litters his horse, saves him all the hard work, when he can do it without being found out. Where did they come from?”
“They will never tell.”
Cigarette tossed her nonchalant head, with a pout of her cherry lips, and a slang oath.
“Paf!—they will tell it to me!”
“Thou mayest make a lion tame, a vulture leave blood, a drum beat its own rataplan, a dead man fire a musket; but thou wilt never make an Englishman speak when he is bent to be silent.”
Cigarette launched a choice missile of barrack slang and an array of metaphors, which their propounder thought stupendous in their brilliancy.
“When you stole your geese, you did but take your brethren home! Englishmen are but men. Put the wine in their head, make them whirl in a waltz, promise them a kiss, and one turns such brains as they have inside out, as a piou-piou turns a dead soldier's wallet. When a woman is handsome, she is never denied. He shall tell me where he comes from. I doubt that it is from England! See here—why not! first, he never says God-damn; second, he don't eat his meat raw; third, he speaks very soft; fourth, he waltzes so light, so light! fifth, he never grumbles in his throat like an angry bear; sixth, there is no fog in him. How can he be English with all that?”
“There are English, and English,” said the philosophic Tata, who piqued himself on being serenely cosmopolitan.
Cigarette blew a contemptuous puff of smoke.
“There was never one yet that did not growl! Pauvres diables! If they don't use their tusks, they sit and sulk!—an Englishman is always boxing or grumbling—the two make up his life.”