For their sakes, he spent many of his free hours in the Chambree. Many a
man, seeing him there, came and worked at some ingenious design, instead
of going off to burn his brains out with brandy, if he had sous enough
to buy any, or to do some dexterous bit of thieving on a native, if he
had not. Many a time knowing him to be there sufficed to restrain the
talk around from lewdness and from ribaldry, and turn it into channels
at once less loathsome and more mirthful, because they felt that
obscenity and vulgarity were alike jarring on his ear, although he had
never more than tacitly shown that they were so. A precisian would have
been covered with their contumely and ridicule; a saint would have been
driven out from their midst with every missile merciless tongues and
merciless hands could pelt with; a martinet would have been cursed
aloud, and cheated, flouted, rebelled against, on every possible
occasion. But the man who was "one of them" entirely, while yet
simply and thoroughly a gentleman, had great influence--an influence
exclusively for good.
The Chambree was empty when he returned; the men were scattered over the
town in one of their scant pauses of liberty; there was only the dog of
the regiment, Flick-Flack, a snow-white poodle, asleep in the heat, on a
sack, who, without waking, moved his tail in a sign of gratification as
Cecil stroked him and sat down near; betaking himself to the work he had
in hand.
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