The little man rubbed his hands together in keen enjoyment. “Ah, there is a man; but they are all men. The Boches have named them well. They fight like demons, then they rest and play like children until their turn comes to fight again. And Fauchet—he is a devil of a devil, possessed of a thousand lives. Mad’moiselle would adore him.”
Sheila’s demure chin tilted mutinously, “But I don’t like devils, even blue ones.”
“Ah, you do not understand. C’est la guerre. We must lock away in our hearts all the pity, all the tenderness, as we hide our jewels and our treasures and mask our cathedrals. If we did not they would all be destroyed and we would go quite mad.” He smiled whimsically at Sheila, as one smiles at a child who fails to comprehend. “Wait—wait till mad’moiselle sees France. Then—” He finished with a shrug and left them.
They were in midstream when they saw the little man again. He came hurrying toward them with both hands outstretched to Peter. “It is Mr. Brooks. I did not know when I was speaking with you and mad’moiselle before. They told me at the office of your paper that you would be sailing to-day. May I present Jacques Marchand of the Figaro, a fellow-journalist?” and he made a profound bow which included Sheila.
Peter introduced the girl beside him and the little man looked at her with whetted interest and a twinkle of suppressed humor. “You women of America, you come like battalions of good angels to nurse our devils. Eh bien, before the sun goes down you shall meet your first one. Au ’voir till then.”
They were in the stern, watching the last of the sun in their wake as it turned myriads of whirring wings to iridescent gold, when the little man found them again. This time he was not alone. Close upon his heels came the captain of the Blue Devils; and again the black eyes met Sheila’s when they were still a man’s length apart.
“Mad’moiselle,” said Jacques Marchand, “I have brought, as I promised—Monsieur Satan—Mad’moiselle O’Leary. Look him well over; you will see he has not the horns or cloven feet, nevertheless—mais, voilà.”
The captain was blushing like a very bashful little boy; he was smiling as naïvely as an infant. Sheila guessed at his age and placed it not far from twenty. Who had ever conceived of a boy-Mephistopheles? It was absurd. A genuine diabolical personage had no right to a pre-middle age; for him all years prior to forty should not exist. And here was undeniably a boy, whose very bashfulness and naïveté bore witness that he had not entirely grown up. So Sheila smiled back upon him with the frankness and abandon one feels so safe in bestowing upon youth.
“This paper-man, he likes to be what you call funny. It pays him well, and he must keep, what you say, his feet in. But I do not like always his little jokes. I will make a new introduce so. Bertrand Fauchet, capitaine Chasseurs Alpins, very much at your service, ma’am’selle.” The soldier bowed with solemnity. It was evident he felt his dignity had been trampled on and resented it.
The little man of the Figaro wagged a forefinger at him. “Ah, tata, garçon. Remember, I am your godfather in the battalion. It is I that give you the name. Three years ago in the Café des Alcazar I call you Monsieur Satan, and it stick. You cannot rub it off; you cannot make France forget it; and when you come back so fierce—so terrific from the fighting at Troyes where you get the Croix de Guerre it is not for Capitaine Fauchet the men shout—non. It is for Monsieur Satan they shout, for the devil of a Blue Devil. Eh, mon ami?” And he laid a loving arm across the other’s shoulder.