Part 1 (2/2)

For the second time in my life I felt the Great Fear. An indescribable feeling, as if one had a great lump in one's throat, barring the air from the lungs; as if one never could draw breath again. I had once experienced this fear in the valley of Santiago de Cuba, when one of the first Spanish sh.e.l.ls from the blockhouse on San Juan Hill burst a few feet from me. This time it was much worse.

Ah well, one must try to forget!

I dressed with ridiculous care, paid my bill in the ”bureau,” and earned a lovely smile from madame for my gold piece. Ah, madame, you would hardly flash your pretty eyes if you knew! The head waiter stood expectant at the door, bending himself almost double in French fas.h.i.+on.

He reminded me of a cat in bad humour.

I gave him a rather large silver piece.

”Well, my son, you're the last man in this world who gets a tip from me. Too bad, isn't it?”

”Je ne parle pas....”

”That's all right,” said I.

I walked slowly through the quaint narrow streets and alleys of Belfort. Shop after shop, store after store, and before each and every one of them stood flat tables packed with things for sale, taking up most of the pavement. Here was a good chance for a thief, I thought, and laughed, marvelling that in my despair the affairs of the Belfort storekeepers could interest me. Mechanically I looked about and saw a house of wonderful blue; the city fathers of Belfort had built their new market-hall almost wholly of sapphire-blue gla.s.s, which scintillated in the rays of the sun, giving an effect such as no painter has as yet been able to reproduce. I felt sorry that a building of such beauty should be condemned to hold prosaic potatoes and greenstuff. Vivacious Frenchmen and Frenchwomen hurried by hustling and jostling each other in the crowded streets.... Don't hurry about so.

Life is certainly not worth the trouble!

Ironical thoughts could not alter matters, nor could even the most wonderful blue help me to forget. I must get it over.

A very young-looking lieutenant came up the street. I spoke to him in my rusty college French:

”Would you please to direct me to the recruiting office of the Foreign Legion?”

The officer touched his ”kepi” politely and seemed rather astonished.

”You can come with me, monsieur. I am on the way to the offices of the fortress.”

We went together.

”You seem to be German?” he said. ”I may be able to a.s.sist you. I am adjutant to the general commanding the fortress.”

”Yes, I am German, and intend to enlist in the Foreign Legion,” I said, very, very softly. How terribly hard this first step was! I thought the few words must choke me.

”Oh, la la....” said the officer, quite confounded.

He took a good look at me. I seemed to puzzle him. Then he chatted (the boy was a splendid specimen of French courtesy) amiably about this and that. Awfully interesting corps, this Foreign Legion. He hoped to be transferred himself to the ”etrangers” for a year or two. Ah, that would be magnificent.

”The Cross of the Legion of Honour can be earned very easily in Southern Algeria. Brilliant careers down there! Oh, la la! Eh bien, monsieur--you shall wear the French uniform very soon. Have you anything particular to tell me?”

Again that curious glance.

I answered in the negative.

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