An unpleasant occurrence : The last three coppers : The Roumanian Jew from Berlin : Monsieur Viaïsse : The Legion's atmosphere : The Cafard demoniacs : Bismarck's double : Krügerle's whim : The madness of Légionnaire Bauer : Brutal humour : A tragedy In the interval between the terrible exertions of the great manoeuvre march and a period of hard work in the sewers of the Arab prison of Sidi-bel-Abbès, something I had long been dreading occurred. Even by changing my few gold pieces into the smallest of coppers, I could not spin them out eternally. One fine day the sum of my riches consisted of three thick, round copper pieces. Although big and heavy, they were not worth more than a few cents. I lay stretched out on my bed, tired and vexed. Smith, who, being a bugler, was not obliged to waste his strength in cleaning Arab sewers, was chaffing me. He thought it a great joke to inquire with friendly solicitude about the unpleasant details of my work. I did not like his raillery. Wishing for revenge, I remembered with grim humour that the state of my finances would be of a certain interest to my friend Smith. "Hallo, bugler," said I. Smith, lounging on his bed, muttered something about privileged sons of the Prophet--and inquired if the Arab convicts had been satisfied with my work? "Bugler, I've no more money!" I said. He jumped up from his bed, looking at me aghast. "What d'you say?" "My money is finished." Smith's face grew long. He was evidently thinking of the countless casks of wine lying stored in Sidi-bel-Abbès.... All at once his face cleared. He had found a way out of the difficulty. "Send for some more!" he advised. I shook my head. "Nonsense," said the bugler, with the happy confidence of the Legion. "They'll send you some, a légionnaire always gets something sent him. Shall I help you to write a real, nice, touching letter, Dutchy?" Again I shook my head. But the bugler would not let me off so easily. Going through the different grades of relationship, he inquired as to my connections. When I declared with intentional spitefulness that they were all as poor as church mice, he swore a little in Arabic and thoughtfully repeated a chapter of the Koran, treating of the duties of friendship. A little inspired by this, he asked for a whole hour about my former friends. I told him that they were either dead or on the point of starvation. The bugler thought this ridiculous, but with much tact did not continue the subject, coming, no doubt, to the conclusion that I had either killed somebody or robbed a bank in good old Germany. Nothing but that could keep a légionnaire from writing begging letters! I let the philosopher keep his opinion. After thinking deeply for a time, he muttered nothing but a resigned, "C'est la Légion." After a while he asked: "And is there really nothing left?" Without saying a word, I pulled out my three copper pieces.