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Updated: June 16, 2025
"A private of Chateauroy's?" asked the Tirailleur, lifting his eye-glass to watch the Chasseur as he went. "Pardieu yes more's the pity," said Chanrellon, who spoke his thoughts as hastily as a hand-grenade scatters its powder. "The Black Hawk hates him God knows why and he is kept down in consequence, as if he were the idlest lout or the most incorrigible rebel in the service.
That was how Rire-pour-tout died, piou-piou; laughing to the last. Sacre bleu! It was a splendid end; I wish I were sure of the like." And Claude de Chanrellon drank down his third beaker, for overmuch speech made him thirsty. The men around him emptied their glasses in honor of the dead hero.
"Oh, ha!" cried Chanrellon, wiping the Rhenish off his tawny mustaches, "he should have been a captain by this if I had. Morbleu! He is a splendid sabreur kills as many men to his own sword as I could myself, when it comes to a hand-to-hand fight; breaks horses in like magic; rides them like the wind; has a hawk's eye over open country; obeys like clockwork; what more can you want?" "Obeys!
"Mort de Dieu! it is a droll gambling," murmured Chanrellon. "But if you win, do you think we shall let you go off to our enemies? Pas si bete, monsieur!" "Yes, you will," said the other quietly. "Men who knew what honor meant enough to redeem Rire-pour-tout's pledge of safety to the Bedouins, will not take advantage of an openly confessed and unarmed adversary."
"C'est un drole, c'est un brave!" muttered Chanrellon; and they threw again. The Chasseur cast a five; his was a five again. "The dice cannot make up their minds," said the other listlessly, "they know you are Might and the Arabs are Right."
"That is done!" he murmured to his own thoughts. "Now for life under another flag!" Claude de Chanrellon sat mute and amazed a while, gazing at the open door; then he drank a fourth beaker of champagne and flung the emptied glass down with a mighty crash. "Ventre bleu! Whoever he is, that man will eat fire, bons garcons!"
"You haven't a finer soldier in your Chasseurs, mon cher; don't wish him shot, for the good of the service," said the Viscount de Chanrellon, who had now a command of his own in the Light Cavalry of Algiers. "Pardieu! If I had to choose whether I'd be backed by 'Bel-a-faire-peur, or by six other men in a skirmish, I'd choose him, and risk the odds."
He did not answer the question literally, but came over from the doorway and seated himself at the little marble table opposite Claude, leaning his elbows on it. "I have a doubt," he said. "I am more inclined to your foes." "Dieu de Dieu!" exclaimed Chanrellon, pulling at his tawny mustaches. "A bold thing to say before five Chasseurs." He smiled, a little contemptuously, a little amusedly.
A murmur of ratification ran through his listeners. Chanrellon swore a mighty oath. "Pardieu, no. You are right. If you want to go, you shall go. Hola there! bring the dice. Champagne, monsieur? Vermouth? Cognac?" "Nothing, I thank you."
The Chasseur leaned across the table, with his brown, fearless sunny eyes full of pleasure. "Monsieur! never lament such good fortune for France. You belong to us now; let me claim you!" He bowed more gravely than he had borne himself hitherto. "You do me much honor; fortune has willed it so. One word only in stipulation." "Chanrellon assented courteously. "As many as you choose."
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