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But Bouchard had wasted two words. "Your name and regiment?" he asked. "Hugo Mallin, of the 128th," replied Hugo. "Uh-h!" Bouchard's pigeonhole memory had retained the name. "Charge mutiny under fire; anarchism!" he went on, chopping out the words as if they were chips from a piece of granite. "Well, you have not escaped trial by hiding."
"If moving pictures of the horrors of Port Arthur were to be shown in our barracks before a war, it would hardly encourage martial enthusiasm. I shall look this over and then have it issued. It will not be necessary to wait on action of the staff in council." Turcas and Bouchard exchanged another glance. They had fresh evidence of Westerling's tendency to concentrate authority in himself.
He was one of the wheels of the great army machine and loved the work for its own sake too well to be embittered at being overshadowed by a younger man. As a master of detail Westerling regarded him as an invaluable assistant, with certain limitations, which were those of the pigeonhole and the treadmill. As for Bouchard, nature had meant him to be a wheel-horse.
Vaguely, in his distress, he heard Westerling asking a question, while he saw all those eyes staring at him. "What information have we about Engadir?" "I believe it to be strongly fortified!" stammered Bouchard. "You believe! You have no information?" pursued Westerling. "No, sir," replied Bouchard. "Nothing nothing new!"
"A ghost must be hard put to it when he shrieks," observed Bouchard, glaring from one to the other. "It's all very well for you to make fun of me because you have the advantage of an education," said Minna to Marta, "but you yourself you " "Yes, I did hear what sounded like moaning voices," admitted Marta rather sheepishly. "But of course it was imagination.
Westerling and his aide and valet, inquiring their way as strangers, found the new staff headquarters of the Grays established in an army building, where Bouchard had been assigned to trivial duties, back of the Gray range.
Gawtrey, raising his voice so as to be heard by the party, "that a coiner so dexterous as Monsieur Giraumont should not be known to any of us except our friend Birnie." "Not at all," replied Giraumont; "I worked only with Bouchard and two others since sent to the galleys. We were but a small fraternity everything has its commencement." "C'est juste: buvez, donc, cher ami!" The wine circulated.
"Noble as a Montmorency" says a well-known adage. The founder of that illustrious line, Bouchard, Lord of Montmorency, figures as early as 950 A.D. among the great vassals of the kingdom of France.
It took more courage than any act of his life for the loyal Bouchard to dare such candor to a superior. Seeing the patchy, yellow, bloodless face drawn in stiff lines and the abysmal stare of the deep-set eyes in their bony recesses, Bellini was swept with a wave of sympathy. "Thank you, Bouchard. You've been very fine!" said Bellini as he grasped Bouchard's hand, which was icy cold.
"I believe it is weak that it will fall, and to-night!" "You have information, then, information that I have not?" asked Bouchard. "No more than you," replied Westerling. "Not as much if you have anything new." "Nothing!" admitted Bouchard wryly. He lowered his head under Westerling's penetrating look in the consciousness of failure. "I am going on a conviction on putting two and two together!"
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