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."
"Well, he's certainly the most slumbering devil I ever saw. If that's the worst French soil can propagate, it's hard to believe the Germans they tackle get much of an inferno."
In spite of his skepticism, however, Peter had an unexpected glimpse into that inferno the day before they landed. For thirty-six hours they had been running through the danger zone with life-boats loose on their davits, life-belts ready for adjustment, and nerves tense. Then the tension had suddenly relaxed, everybody talked with everybody else, displaying a lack of restraint that bordered on intimacy. Peter and Sheila were strolling an almost deserted deck toward a group amidships. As they neared it they saw it was dominated by two principal figures--one a professional philanthropist with more sentiment than judgment, and the other Monsieur Satan. The philanthropist was talking in what Peter termed an "open-throttle voice."
"But you don't mean you would ever harm a defenseless prisoner, Captain Fauchet? Of course you would never allow your men to kill a fallen enemy or one supplicating mercy."
"Supplicating mercy--bah!" The mouth that could smile so boyishly had a diabolical twist, the eyes blazed like hell-fires, as Peter said afterward. "There is only the one Boche that is safe, madame--the dead Boche. When we find them wriggling I teach my men to make them safe--quickly!" The lips smiled sardonically. Monsieur Satan was a boy no longer; in some inexplicable fashion he had come into full possession of that Mephistophelian middle-age.
But the lady philanthropist had neither the eyes to see nor the intelligence to understand. Instead she clumsily parried with invisible forces. "Of course you don't mean that, Captain Fauchet. You are just making believe you are a wicked man. I believe you are trying to stuff me, as our American slang puts it. Now if a wounded German came running toward you crying Kamerad--"