It is only in the Légion Etrangère, that fantastic, romantic regiment of dare-devil desperadoes capable of all iniquities and of all heroisms, that a foreigner can enlist straight away, no questions asked. To be incorporated in the regular army of France is another matter. Wires have to be pulled. They were pulled in Martin’s case. It was to his credit that he had served two years—gaining the stripes of a corporal—in the Rifle Corps of the University of Cambridge. At the psychological moment of pulling, England declared war on Germany. The resources of the British Empire, men and money and ships and blood were on the side of France. England and France were one. A second’s consideration of the request of the Préfet de la Dordogne and a hurriedly scrawled signature constituted Martin a potential member of the French Army.
It happened that, when the notice of authorisation came, the first person he ran across was Félise, by the door of the fabrique. He waved the paper.
“I am accepted.”
She turned pale and put her hand to her heart, but she met his eyes bravely.
“When do you go?”
“At once—straight to Périgueux to enlist.”
“And when will you come back?”
“God knows,” said he.
Then he became aware of her standing scared, with parted lips and heaving bosom.
“Of course I hope to come back; some time or other, when the War’s over. Naturally—but——”