a carefully brushed
uniform of dark blue with a double row of gold buttons 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-glass, 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
semaphore; 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