“Monsieur le Maire, there is not a living Englishman with red blood in his veins who has any doubt. I, the most obscure of Englishmen, speak for my country. Get me accepted as a volunteer, the humblest foot-soldier, and I will fight for France. Take up my pledge, Monsieur le Maire. It is the pledge of the only Englishman in Brantôme on behalf of the British Empire. There are millions better than I from all ends of the earth who will be inspired by the same sentiments of loyalty. Get me accepted!”
In English Martin could never have said it. Words would have come shyly. But he was among Frenchmen, attuned to French modes of expression. A murmur of approbation arose.
“Yes,” cried Martin. “I offer France my life as a pledge for my country. Get me accepted, Monsieur le Maire.”
The Mayor, a lean, grey-eyed, bald-headed man, with a straggly, iron-grey beard, looked at him intently for a few moments.
“C’est bien,” said he. “I take up your pledge. I have to go to-morrow to Périgueux to see Monsieur le Préfet, who has a certain friendliness for me. He has influence with the Ministère de la Guerre. Accompany me to Périgueux. I undertake to see that it is arranged.”
“I thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” said Martin.
Then everybody talked at once, and lifted their glasses to Martin, and Monsieur Viriot despatched Cazensac for the sweet champagne in which nearly a year ago they had drunk Lucien’s health; and Bigourdin embraced him; and when the wine was poured out, there were cries of “Vive l’Angleterre!” “Vive la France!” “Vive Martin!” And the square-headed old Monsieur Viriot set the climax of this ovation by lifting his glass at arm’s length and proclaiming “Vive notre bon Périgordin!”
Said Fortinbras, who sat next to him, “I would give the rest of my life to be as young as you, just for the next few months. My God, you must feel proud!”
Martin’s steady English blood asserted itself: “I don’t,” said he, “I feel a damned premature hero.”