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  CHAPTER I

  A GENERAL DEMOTED

  The general of division, De Launay, late of the French army operatingin the Balkans and, before that, of considerable distinction on thewestern front, leaned forward in his chair as he sat in theFranco-American banking house of Doolittle, Rambaud & Cie. in Paris.His booted and spurred heels were hooked over the rung of the chair,and his elbows, propped on his knees, supported his drooping back. Hisclean-cut, youthful features were morose and heavy with depression andlistlessness, and his eyes were somewhat red and glassy. Under hisruddy tan his skin was no longer fresh, but dull and sallow.

  Opposite him, the precise and dapper Mr. Doolittle, expatriatedAmerican, waved a carefully manicured hand in acquired Gallic gesturesas he expatiated on the circumstances which had summoned the soldierto his office. As he discoursed of these extraordinary matters hissharp eyes took in his client and noted the signs upon him, while hespeculated on their occasion.

  The steel-blue uniform, which should have been immaculate and dashing,as became a famous cavalry leader, showed signs of wear without theameliorating attention of a valet. The leather accouterments werescratched and dull. The boots had not been polished for more than aday or two and Paris mud had left stains upon them. The gold-bandedk?pi was tarnished, and it sat on the warrior's hair at an angle morebecoming to a recruit of the class of '19 than to the man who hadburst his way through the Bulgarian army in that wild ride to Nishwhich marked the beginning of the end of Armageddon.

  The banker, though he knew something of the man's history, foundhimself wondering at his youthfulness. Most generals, even afternearly five years of warfare, were elderly men, but this fellow lookedas much like a petulant boy as anything. It was only when one notedthat the hair just above the ears was graying and that there werelines about the eyes that one recalled that he must be close to fortyyears of age. His features failed to betray it and his small mustachewas brown and soft.

  Yet the man had served nearly twenty years and had risen from thatunbelievable depth, a private in the Foreign Legion, to the rank ofgeneral of division. That meant that he had served five years in hell,and, in spite of that, had survived to be _sous-lieutenant_,_lieutenant_, _capitaine_, and _commandant_ during the gruelingexperience of nine more years of study and fighting in Africa,Madagascar, and Cochin China.

  A man who has won his commission from the ranks of the Foreign Legionis a rarity almost unheard of, yet this one had done it. And he hadbeen no garrison soldier in the years that had followed. To keep thespurs he had won, to force recognition of his right to command, evenin the democratic army of France, the erstwhile outcast had had toshow extraordinary metal and to waste no time in idleness. He was, ina peculiar sense, the professional soldier par excellence, the man wholived in and for warfare.

  He had had his fill of that in the last four years, yet he did notseem satisfied. Of course, Mr. Doolittle had heard rumors, as had manyothers, but they seemed hardly enough to account for De Launay'sdepression and general seediness. The man had been reduced in rank,following the armistice, but so had many others; and he reverted nolower than lieutenant colonel, whereas he might well have gone backanother stage to his rank when the war broke out. To be sure, hisrecord for courage and ability was almost as extraordinary as hiscareer, culminating in the wild and decisive cavalry dash that haddestroyed the Bulgarian army and, in any war less anonymous than this,would have caused his name to ring in every ear on the boulevards.Still, there were too many generals in the army to find place in apeace establishment, and many a distinguished soldier had been demotedwhen the emergency was over.

  Moreover, not one that Mr. Doolittle had ever heard of had beenpresented with such compensation as had this adventurer. High rank, inthe French army, means a struggle to keep up appearances, unless oneis wealthy, for the pay is low. A lower rank, when one has beenunexpectedly raised to unlimited riches, would be far frominsupportable, what with the social advantages attendant upon it.

  This was what Doolittle, with a kindly impulse of sympathy, wasendeavoring tactfully to convey to the military gentleman. But hefound him unresponsive.

  "There's one thing you overlook, Doolittle," De Launay retorted to hiswell-meant suggestions. The banker, more used to French than English,felt vaguely startled to find him talking in accents as unmistakablyAmerican as had been his own many years ago, though there wassomething unfamiliar about it, too--a drawl that was Southern and yetdifferent. "Money's no use to me, none whatever! I might have enjoyedit--or enjoyed the getting of it--if I could have made itmyself--taken it away from some one else. But to have it left to melike this after getting along without it for twenty years and more; toget it through a streak of tinhorn luck; to turn over night from aland-poor Louisiana nester to a reeking oil millionaire--well, itleaves me plumb cold. Anyway, I don't need it. What'll I do with it? Ican't hope to spend it all on liquor--that's about all that's left forme to spend it on."

  "But, my dear general!" Doolittle found his native tongue rusty in hismouth, although the twenty-year expatriate, who had originally been ofFrench descent, had used it with the ease of one who had never droppedit. "My dear general! Even as a lieutenant colonel, the socialadvantages open to a man of such wealth are boundless--absolutelyboundless, sir! And if you are ambitious, think where a man as youngas you, endowed with these millions, can rise in the army! You haveability; you have shown that in abundance, and, with ability coupledto wealth, a marshal's baton is none too much to hope for."

  De Launay chuckled mirthlessly. "Tell it to the ministry of war!" hesneered. "I'll say that much for them: in France, to-day, moneydoesn't buy commands. Besides, I wouldn't give a lead two-bit piecefor all the rank I could come by that way. I fought for my goldbraid--and if they've taken it away from me, I'll not buy it back."

  "There will be other opportunities for distinction," said Mr.Doolittle, rather feebly.

  "For diplomats and such cattle. Not for soldiers. There was a timewhen I had ambition--there are those who say I had too much--but I'veseen the light. War, to-day, isn't what it used to be. It's too bigfor any Napoleon. It's too big for any individual. It's too big forany ambition. It's too damn big to be worth while--for a man likeme."

  Mr. Doolittle was puzzled and said so.

  "Well, I'll try to make it clear to you. When I started soldiering, itwas with the idea that I'd make it a life work. I had my dreams, evenwhen I was a degraded outcast in the Legion. I pursued 'em. They werehigh dreams, too. They are right in suspecting me of that.

  "For a good many years it looked as though they might be dreams that Icould realize. I'm a good soldier, if I do say it myself. I was comingalong nicely, in spite of the handicap of having come from the dregsof Sidi-bel-Abbes up among the gold stripes. And I came along fasterwhen the war gave me an opportunity to show what I could do. But,unfortunately for me, it also presented to me certain things neither Inor any other man could do.

  "You can't wield armies like a personal weapon when the armies arenations and counted in millions. You can't build empires out of thelevy en masse. You can't, above all, seize the imagination of armiesand nations by victories, sway the opinions of a race, rise toNapoleonic heights, unless you can get advertising--and nowadays a kidaviator who downs his fifth enemy plane gets columns of it whilenobody knows who commands an army corps outside the generalstaff--and nobody cares!

  "Where do you get off under those circumstances? I'll tell you. Youget a decoration or two, temporary rank, mention in the _Gazette_--andregretful demotion to your previous rank when the war is over.

  "War, Mr. Doolittle, isn't half the hell that peace is--to a fellowlike me. Peace means the chance to eat my heart out in idleness; togrow fat and gray and stupid; to--oh! what's the use! It means I'm_through_--through at forty, when I ought to be rounding into the dashfor the final heights of success.

  "That's what's the trouble with me. I'm through, Mr. Doolittle; and Iknow it. That's why I look like this. That's why money means nothingto me. I don't need it
. Once I was a cow-puncher, and then I became asoldier and finally a general. Those are the things I know, and thethings I am fit for, and money is not necessary to any of them.

  "So I'm through as a soldier, and I have nothing to turn backto--except punching cows. It's a comedown, Mr. Doolittle, thatyou'd find it hard to realize. But _I_ realize it, you bet--and that'swhy I prefer to feel sort of low-down, and reckless anddon't-give-a-damnish--like any other cow hand that's approachingmiddle age with no future in front of him. That's why I'm taking todrink after twenty years of French temperance. The Yankees say a manmay be down but he's never out. They're wrong. I'm down--and I'm out!Out of humor, out of employment, out of ambition, out of everything."

  "That, if you will pardon me, general, is ridiculous in your case,"remonstrated the banker. "What if you have decided to leave thearmy--which is your intention, I take it? There is much that a man ofwealth may accomplish; much that you may interest yourself in."

  De Launay shook a weary head.

  "You don't get me," he asserted. "I'm burned out. I've given the bestof me to this business--and I've realized that I gave it for nothing.I've spent myself--put my very soul into it--lived for it--and now Ifind that I couldn't ever have accomplished my ambition, even if I'dbeen generalissimo itself, because such ambitions aren't realizedto-day. I was born fifty years too late."

  Mr. Doolittle clung to his theme. "Still, you owe something tosociety," he said. "You might marry."

  De Launay laughed loudly. "Owe!" he cried. "Such men as I am don't oweanything to any one. We're buccaneers; plunderers. We _levy_ onsociety; we don't _owe_ it anything.

  "As for marrying!" he laughed again. "I'd look pretty tying myself toa petticoat! Any woman would have a fit if she could look into mynature. And I hate women, anyway. I've not looked sideways at one fortwenty years. Too much water has run under the bridge for that,old-timer. If I was a youngster, back again under the Esmeraldas----"

  He smiled reminiscently, and his rather hard features softened.

  "There was one then that I threatened to marry," he chuckled. "If theymade 'em like her----"

  "Why don't you go back and find her?"

  De Launay stared at him. "After twenty years? Lord, man! D'you thinkshe'd wait and remember me that long? Especially as she was about sixyears old when I left there! She's grown up and married now, I reckon,and she'd sick the dogs on me if I came back with any suchintentions."

  He chuckled again, but his mirth was curiously soft and gentle.Doolittle had little trouble in guessing that this memory was a tenderone.

  But De Launay rose, picked up a bundle of notes that lay on the tablein front of him, stuffed them carelessly into the side pocket of histunic and pushed the k?pi still more recklessly back and sideways.

  "No, old son!" he grinned. "I'm not the housebroke kind. The onlyreason I'd ever marry would be to win a bet or something like that.Make it a sporting proposition and I might consider it. Meantime, I'llstick to drink and gambling for the remaining days of my existence."

  Doolittle shook his head as he rose. "At any rate," he said,regretfully, "you may draw to whatever extent you wish and wheneveryou wish. And, if America should call you again, our house in NewYork, Doolittle, Morton & Co., will be happy to afford you everybanking facility, general."

  De Launay waved his hand. "I'll make a will and leave it in trust forcharity," he said, "with your firm as trustee. And forget the titles.I'm nobody, now, but ex-cow hand, ex-gunman, once known as Louisiana,and soon to be known no more except as a drunken souse. So long!"

  He strode out of the door, swaggering a little. His k?pi was cockeddefiantly. His legs, in the cavalry boots, showed a faint bend. Heunconsciously fell into a sort of indefinable, flat, stumping gait,barely noticeable to one who had never seen it before, butrecognizable, instantly, to any one who had ridden the Western rangein high-heeled boots.

  In some indefinable manner, with the putting off of his soldierlycharacter, the man had instantly reverted twenty years to his youth ina roping saddle.