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Updated: October 17, 2026
"Rire-pour-tout was a croc-mitaine," they said solemnly, with almost a sigh; so tendering by their words the highest funeral oration. "You have much of such sharp service here, I suppose?" asked a voice in very pure French.
That a man could be so brief in words, while yet so soft in manner, seemed a thing out of all nature to the vivacious Frenchmen; that unchanging stillness and serenity in one who was such a reckless, resistless croc-mitaine, swift as fire in the field, was an enigma that the Cavalry and the Demi-cavalry of Algeria never solved.
"A fine fellow," continued the Chef d'Escadron to whom he had appealed. "He behaved magnificently the other day at Zaraila; he must be distinguished for it. He is just sent on a perilous errand, but though so quiet he is a croc-mitaine, and woe to the Arabs who slay him! Are you acquainted with him?" "Not in the least. But I wished to hear all I could of him.
"I am not a croc-mitaine, perhaps; but I say what I think, with little heed of my auditors, usually." Chanrellon bent his bright brown eyes curiously on him. "He is a croc-mitaine," he thought. "He is not to be lost." "I prefer your foes," went on the other, quite quietly, quite listlessly, as though the glittering, gas-lit cafe were not full of French soldiers.
"He made me bow this morning like a chamberlain; and his beard is like carded silk, and he has such woman's hands, mon Dieu! But he is a croc-mitaine, too." "Rather!" laughed Claude de Chanrellon, as magnificent a soldier himself as ever crossed swords. "I said he would eat fire the very minute he played that queer game of dice with me years ago.