Part 32

An instant later the man appeared at the threshold of the dining room.

He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky Norman farmer-soldier, with his helmet pulled down low over his eyes, so that the upper part of his face was completely hidden from view.

Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, and casting a sweeping glance over the assembled diners, he called forth in stentorian tones that made every one turn around:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"

The cashier behind the counter, who evidently foresaw trouble, called out to him in shrill tones:

"You've made a mistake, go back to the buvette. You've nothing to do out here!"

Removing his helmet, the gallant knight made the lady a sweeping bow.

"Your servant, Madame. Your humble servant," he continued. "Cyprien Fremont, called Cyp for short."

"Did you hear what I said? Now then, take yourself off," cried the ungracious adored one.

But the poilu was not to be so silenced.

Putting his hand to his heart and addressing the assembly:

"Ungrateful country!" he cried, "is it thus that you receive your sons who shed their blood for you?"

"That's all right, but go and tell it elsewhere. Go on, I say!"

"I've only got one more word to say and then it will be over."

But before he could utter that word his companions seized him and dragged him back from whence he came. As he disappeared from view, we heard him announce his intention of "doing some stunts"--which offer was apparently joyously accepted, followed by more laughter and several "dares."

Suddenly the most terrific noise of falling and breaking glass and china brought every one to his feet. Excited voices could be heard from the direction in which Cyprien had vanished. The army police dashed in, followed by the station master and all the employes. A lengthy discussion was begun, and having finished our dinner we left matters to adjust themselves and sauntered forth onto the platform.

Here we found our Cyprien surrounded by his companions, who were busy disinfecting and binding up the wounds that he had received when the china cabinet had collapsed upon him. One of the men poured the tincture of iodine onto a hand held fast by a friend. Two others were rolling a bandage about his head, while the patient, far from subdued, waved the only free but much enveloped hand that he possessed, beating time to the air that he was literally shouting and in whose rather bald verse the station master's wife was accused of the grossest infidelity.

"Shh! Cyprien," his friends enjoined; "shut up a bit, can't you?"

But it was no easy thing to impose silence upon Cyprien when he had made up his mind to manifest a thought or an opinion.

"You'll get us all into trouble, old man, see if you don't. Cut it out, won't you? See, here comes an officer."

The officer approached them.

"It's not his fault, sir," began one of the fellows, before his superior had time to ask a question. "I assure you, it's not his fault. He's just back from Saloniki--his first furlough in a year, sir. It must have gone to his head. I swear he hasn't had anything but cider to drink, sir."

"But that's no excuse for making all this noise. Show me his military book!"

The officer took it, ran through the pages, and then approached Cyprien.

At the sight of the gold braid Cyprien stood up and saluted.

"Before you went to Saloniki, I see you fought at Verdun."

"Yes, sir."

"And at Beausejour?"