MONSIEUR TANRADE, Theatre des Folies Parisiennes, Paris.

Tranchard's child very ill. Come at once.

A. de Breville.

This she handed to the priest in silence. Monsieur le Cure tucked it safely in the breast of his ca.s.sock. "G.o.d be with you!" he repeated and turned out into the lane. He ran, for the cracked bell for ma.s.s had ceased ringing.

The woman stood still by the table as if in a dream, then she staggered to the door, closed it, and throwing herself on her knees by the bedside of the sleeping boy, buried her face in her hands.

The child stirred, awakened by her sobbing.

"Tanne," he cried feebly.

"He will come," she said.

Outside in the mist-soaked lane three toothless fisherwomen gossiped in whispers.

Almost any day that you pa.s.s through the village you will see a chubby little rascal who greets you with a cheery "_Bonjour_" and runs away, dragging a tin horse with a broken tail. Should you chance to glance over my wall you will discover the tattered remnants of two j.a.panese lanterns hanging among the fruit-trees. They are all that remain of a fete save the memory of two friends to whom the whole world now seems _couleur de rose_.

"Hi, there! wake up! Where's Suzette? Where's the coffee! Daylight and not a soul up! _Mon Dieu_, what a house! Hurry up, _Mon vieux!_ Alice is waiting!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: three toothless fisherwomen]

[Ill.u.s.tration: smuggler s.h.i.+p]

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SMUGGLERS

Some centuries ago the windows of my house abandoned on the marsh looked out upon a bay gay with the s.h.i.+ps of Spanish pirates, for in those days Pont du Sable served them as a secret refuge for repairs. Hauled up to the tawny marsh were strange craft with sails of apple-green, rose, vermilion and sinister black; there were high sterns pierced by carved cabin-windows--some of them iron-barred, to imprison ladies of high or low degree and unfortunate gentlemen who fought bravely to defend them.

From oaken gunwales glistened slim cannon, their throats swabbed clean after some wholesale murder on the open seas. Yes, it must have been a lively enough bay some centuries ago!

To-day Pont du Sable goes to bed without even turning the key in the lock. This is because of a vast army of simple men whose word, in France, is law.

To begin with, there are the President of the Republique and the Ministers of War and Agriculture, and Monsieur the Chief of Police--a kind little man in Paris whom it is better to agree with--and the prefet and the sous-prefet--all the way down the line of authority to the red-faced, bl.u.s.tering _chef de gare_ at Pont du Sable--and Pierre.

On off-duty days Pierre is my gardener at eleven sous an hour. On these occasions he wears voluminous working trousers of faded green corduroy gathered at the ankles; a gray flannel s.h.i.+rt and a scarlet cravat. On other days his short, wiry body is encased in a carefully brushed uniform of dark blue with a double row of gold b.u.t.tons gleaming down his solid chest. When on active duty in the Customs Coast Patrol of the Republique Francaise at Pont du Sable, he carries a neatly folded cape with a hood, a bayonet, a heavy calibred six-shooter and a trusty field-gla.s.s, useful in locating suspicious-looking objects on marsh or sea.

On this particular morning Pierre was late! I had been leaning over the lichen-stained wall of my wild garden waiting to catch sight of him as he left the ragged end of the straggling village. Had I mistaken the day? Impossible! It was Thursday and I knew he was free. Finally I caught sight of him hurrying toward me down the road--not in his working clothes of faded green corduroy, but in the full majesty of his law-enforcing uniform. What had happened? I wondered. Had his stern brigadier refused to give him leave?

"_Bonjour_, Pierre!" I called to him as he came within hailing distance.

He touched the vizor of his cap in military salute, and a moment later entered my garden.

"A thousand pardons, monsieur," he apologized excitedly, labouring to catch his breath.

"My artichokes have been waiting for you," I laughed; "they are nearly strangled with weeds. I expected you yesterday." He followed me through a lane of yellow roses leading to the artichoke bed. "What has kept you, Pierre?"

He stopped, looked me squarely in the eyes, placed his finger in the middle of his spiked moustache, and raised his eyebrows mysteriously.

"Monsieur must not ask me," he replied. "I have been on duty for forty-eight hours; there was not even time to change my uniform."

"A little matter for headquarters?" I ventured indiscreetly, with a nod in the direction of Paris.

Pierre shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Monsieur must ask the semaph.o.r.e; my lips are sealed."

Had he been the chief of the Secret Service just in possession of the whereabouts of an international criminal, he could not have been more uncommunicative.

"And monsieur's artichokes?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Further inquiry I knew was useless--even dangerous. Indeed I swallowed my curiosity whole, for I was aware that this simple gardener of mine, in his official capacity, could put me in irons, drag me before my friend the ruddy little mayor, and cast me in jail at Bar la Rose, had I given him cause. Then indeed, as Pompanet said, I would be "A _sacre_ vagabond from Pont du Sable."

Was it not only the other day a well-dressed stranger hanging about my lost village had been called for by two gendarmes, owing to Pierre's watchful eye? And did not the farmer Milon pay dearly enough for the applejack he distilled one dark night? I recalled, too, a certain morning when, a stranger on the marsh, I had lighted Pierre's cigarette with an honest wax-match from England. He recognized the brand instantly.

"They are the best in the world," I had remarked bravely.

"Yes," he had replied, "but dear, monsieur. The fine is a franc apiece in France."

We had reached the artichokes.

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Pierre, glancing at the riot of weeds as he stripped off his coat and, unbuckling his belt with the bayonet, the six-shooter and the field-gla.s.s, hung them in the shade upon a convenient limb of a pear tree. He measured the area of the unruly patch with a military stride, stood thinking for a moment, and then, as if a happy thought had struck him, returned to me with a gesture of enthusiasm.

"If monsieur will permit me to offer a suggestion--that is, if monsieur approves--I should like to make a fresh planting. Ah! I will explain what I mean to monsieur, so monsieur may see clearly my ideas. _Voila!_"

he exclaimed. "It is to have the new artichokes planted in three circles--in three circles, monsieur," he went on excitedly, "crossed with the star of the compa.s.s," he continued, as the idea rapidly developed in his peasant brain. "Then in the centre of the star to plant monsieur's initials in blue and red flowers. _Voila!_ It will be something for monsieur's friends to admire, eh?"

He stood waiting tensely for my reply, for I s.h.i.+vered inwardly at the thought of the prospective chromo.

"Excellent, my good Pierre," I returned, not wis.h.i.+ng to hurt his feelings. "Excellent for the gardens of the Tuileries, but my garden is such a simple one."

"Pardon, monsieur," he said, with a touch of mingled disappointment and embarra.s.sment, "they shall be replanted, of course, just as monsieur wishes." And Pierre went to digging weeds with a will while I went back to my own work.

At noon Pierre knocked gently at my study door.

"I must breakfast, monsieur," he apologized, "and get a little sleep. I have promised my brigadier to get back at three."

"And to-morrow?" I asked.

Again the shoulders shrugged under the uniform.