Part 23 (2/2)
Others followed, men in rags and out of shoe-leather, outcasts and fugitives; and behind them came one who was different. He was tall and well-knit, with a frank open face, not particularly intellectual, on the other hand not irretrievably stupid. He was dressed in a double-breasted, blue-serge suit, and as he walked he now and then gave a twist to his fair moustache, as though he were uneasy and embarra.s.sed. Captain Tavernay ran his eyes over him with the look of a connoisseur.
”Aha!” said he, with a chuckle of satisfaction. ”The true legionary!
Hard, finely trained, he has done work too. Yes! You see, Laurent, he is a little ashamed, a little self-conscious. He feels that he is looking a fool. I wonder what nationality he will claim.”
”He comes from the North,” said Lament. ”Possibly from Normandy.”
”Oh, I know what he is,” returned Tavernay. ”I am wondering only what he will claim to be. Let us go outside and see.”
Tavernay led the way to the platform. Outside, in front of the station, the _sous-officier_ marshalled his men in a line. They looked a strange body of men as they stood there, blinking in the strong sunlight. The man in the ruffled silk hat and the dress-suit toed the line beside a bundle of rags; the German deserters rubbed elbows with the ”true legionary” in the blue serge. Those thirty men represented types of almost all the social grades, and to a man they were seeking the shelter of anonymity in that monastery of action, the Foreign Legion.
”Answer to your names,” said the _sous-officier_, and from a paper in his hand he began to read. The answers came back, ludicrous in their untruth. A French name would be called.
”Montaubon.”
And a German voice replied--
”Present.”
”Ohlsen,” cried the _sous-officier_, and no answer was given.
”Ohlsen,” he repeated sharply. ”Is not Ohlsen here?”
And suddenly the face of the man in the serge suit flashed, and he answered hurriedly--
”Present.”
Even the _sous-officier_ burst into a laugh. The reason for the pause was too obvious; ”Ohlsen” had forgotten that Ohlsen was now his name.
”My lad, you must keep your ears open,” said the _sous-officier_.
”Now, attention. Fours right. March!”
And the detachment marched off towards the barracks.
”Ohlsen,” said Tavernay, and he shrugged his shoulders. ”Well, what does it matter? Come!”
”Ohlsen” was Tony Stretton, and all the way along the Rue Daya to the barracks he was longing for the moment when he would put on the uniform and cease to figure ridiculously in this grotesque procession.
None the less he had to wait with the others, drawn up in the barrack-square until Captain Tavernay returned. The Captain went to his office, and thither the recruits were marched. One by one they entered in at the door, answered his questions, and were sent off to the regimental tailor. Tony Stretton was the last.
”Name?” asked Tavernay.
”Hans Ohlsen.”
”Town of enlistment?”
”Ma.r.s.eilles.”
Tavernay compared the answers with some writing on a sheet of paper.
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