“Now, bourgeois,” he said, shaking his unkempt head, “this won’t do, you know. Orders are to keep off. And,” he added, in a bantering tone, “I’m here to enforce them. Allons! En route, mes amis!”
“Are you the soldier Rolland?” I asked.
He admitted that he was with prompt profanity, adding that if we didn’t like his name we had only to tell him so and he would arrange the matter.
I told him that we approved not only his name but his personal appearance; indeed, so great was our admiration for him that we had come clear across the Saint-Yssel moor expressly to pay our compliments to him in the shape of a hundred-franc note. I drew it from the soiled roll the Lizard had intrusted to me, and displayed it for the sentinel’s inspection.
“Is that for me?” he demanded, unconvinced, plainly suspicious of being ridiculed.
“Under certain conditions,” I said, “these five louis are for you.”
The soldier winked. “I know what you want; you want to go in yonder and use the telegraph. What the devil,” he burst out, “do all you bourgeois want with that telegraph in there?”
“Has anybody else asked to use it?” I inquired, disturbed.
“Anybody else?” he mimicked. “Well, I think so; there’s somebody in there now—here, give your hundred francs or I tell you nothing, you understand!”
I handed him the soiled note. He scanned it with the inborn distrust of the true malefactor, turned it over and over, and finally, pronouncing it “en règle,” shoved it cheerfully into the lining of his red forage cap. 341