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-glass, 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 compass," 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 shivered inwardly at the
thought of the prospective chromo.

"Excellent, my good Pierre," I returned, not wishing 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
embarrassment, "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.

"Ah, monsieur!" he exclaimed helplessly. "_Malheureusement_, to-morrow