"After all, what's the difference," I mused, "he or another! At school
he was charming, and we have had only the most pleasant relationships.
Besides, I haven't enough yearly income to afford the rank of
Captain."
And I left the office, whistling as I went.
* * * * *
We were now, Chatelain and I, our guns resting on the already cooling
earth, beside the pool that forms the center of the meager oasis,
hidden behind a kind of hedge of alfa. The setting sun was reddening
the stagnant ditches which irrigate the poor garden plots of the
sedentary blacks.
Not a word during the approach. Not a word during the shoot. Chatelain
was obviously sulking.
In silence we knocked down, one after the other, several of the
miserable doves which came on dragging wings, heavy with the heat of
the day, to quench their thirst at the thick green water. When a
half-dozen slaughtered little bodies were lined up at our feet I put
my hand on the Sergeant's shoulder.
"Chatelain!"
He trembled.
"Chatelain, I was rude to you a little while ago. Don't be angry. It
was the bad time before the siesta. The bad time of midday."
"The Lieutenant is master here," he answered in a tone that was meant
to be gruff, but which was only strained.
"Chatelain, don't be angry. You have something to say to me. You know
what I mean."
"I don't know really. No, I don't know."
"Chatelain, Chatelain, why not be sensible? Tell me something about
Captain de Saint-Avit."
"I know nothing." He spoke sharply.
"Nothing? Then what were you saying a little while ago?"
"Captain de Saint-Avit is a brave man." He muttered the words with his
head still obstinately bent. "He went alone to Bilma, to the Air,
quite alone to those places where no one had ever been. He is a brave
man."
"He is a brave man, undoubtedly," I answered with great restraint.
"But he murdered his companion, Captain Morhange, did he not?"
The old Sergeant trembled.
"He is a brave man," he persisted.
"Chatelain, you are a child. Are you afraid that I am going to repeat
what you say to your new Captain?"
I had touched him to the quick. He drew himself up.
"Sergeant Chatelain is afraid of no one, Lieutenant. He has been at
Abomey, against the Amazons, in a country where a black arm started
out from every bush to seize your leg, while another cut it off for
you with one blow of a cutlass."
"Then what they say, what you yourself--"
"That is talk."
"Talk which is repeated in France, Chatelain, everywhere."
He bent his head still lower without replying.