you say, his feet in. But I do not like always his
little jokes. I will make a new introduce so. Bertrand Fauchet, capitaine
Chasseurs Alpins, very much at your service, ma'am'selle." The soldier
bowed with solemnity. It was evident he felt his dignity had been
trampled on and resented it.

The little man of the _Figaro_ wagged a forefinger at him. "Ah, tata,
garcon. Remember, I am your godfather in the battalion. It is I that give
you the name. Three years ago in the Cafe des Alcazar I call you Monsieur
Satan, and it stick. You cannot rub it off; you cannot make France forget
it; and when you come back so fierce--so terrific from the fighting at
Troyes where you get the Croix de Guerre it is not for Capitaine Fauchet
the men shout--non. It is for Monsieur Satan they shout, for the devil of
a Blue Devil. Eh, mon ami?" And he laid a loving arm across the other's
shoulder.

During the crossing the four met often; the journalist always kindly and
loquacious, Monsieur Satan always shy. Sometimes he joined Sheila alone
for an after-dinner promenade. It was always at that hour when the day was
fading into a luminous twilight that told of stars to come, and they
tramped the decks in a strange, companionable silence. It was plain that
Monsieur Satan did not wish to talk, and Sheila gave him freely the
silence he craved. Once he stopped and looked over the railing, hard at
the sea horizon.

"Did you ever think, ma'am'selle," he said, softly, "how the great ocean
shows nothing of the war? The underneath may be choked with sunken ships,
the murdered ships, but the ocean has no scars. It is not like our
sorrowful France--all scars. So--I find it good to look at this and
forget. Perhaps, some day, a peace like this will come to the heart of
Bertrand Fauchet. Qui savez?"

And another time, when he was wishing her good night, he added: "Dormez
bien--sans songes, ma'am'selle. The dreams, they are bad."

But generally he left her with just a pressure of the hand and an "_Au
'voir_." And yet there was always in his voice a suppressed gratitude as
for a gift.

When Peter was alone with him he tried to draw him out and got nothing for
his pains. The story he had scented on their day of embarkation had
undoubtedly left no trail. When he aired his disappointment good-naturedly
to Sheila she only laughed at him.

"If you want a story go to some of the other devils; we'll never know more
of Monsieur Satan till Fate turns interlocutor.