“Bougainville!  Bougainville!  It sounds noble and also historical.  I’ve read of it, but I don’t recall where.”

The little Frenchman drew himself up, and his black eyes glittered.

“There is a legend among us that it was noble once,” he said, “but we don’t know when.  I feel within me the spirit to make it great again.  There was a time when the mighty Napoleon said that every soldier carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack.  Perhaps that time has come again.  And the great emperor was a little man like me.”

John began to laugh and then he stopped suddenly.  Pierre Louis Bougainville, so small and so insignificant, was not looking at him.  He was looking over and beyond him, dreaming perhaps of a glittering future.  The funny little red cap with the tassel might shelter a great brain.  Respect took the place of the wish to laugh.

“Monsieur Bougainville,” he said in his excellent French, “my name is John Scott.  I am from America, but I am serving in the allied Franco-British army.  My heart like yours beats for France.”

“Then, Monsieur Jean, you and I are brothers,” said the little man, his eyes still gleaming.  “It may be that we shall fight side by side in the hour of victory.  But you will take me into the lantern will you not?  Father Pelletier does not know, as you do, that I’m going to be a great man, and he will not admit me.”

“If I secure entrance you will, too.  Come.”

They reached side by side the Basilique de Sacre-Coeur, which crowns the summit of the Butte Montmartre, and bought tickets from the porter, whose calm the proximity of untold Germans did not disturb.  John saw the little Apache make the sign of the cross and bear himself with dignity.  In some curious way Bougainville impressed him once more with a sense of power.  Perhaps there was a spark of genius under the red cap.  He knew from his reading that there was no rule about genius.  It passed kings by, and chose the child of a peasant in a hovel.

“You’re what they call an Apache, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Well, for the present, that is until you win a greater name, I’m going to call you Geronimo.”

“And why Zhay-ro-nee-mo, Monsieur?”

“Because that was the name of a great Apache chief.  According to our white standards he was not all that a man should be.  He had perhaps a certain insensibility to the sufferings of others, but in the Apache view that was not a fault.  He was wholly great to them.”

“Very well then, Monsieur Scott, I shall be flattered to be called Zhay-ro-nee-mo, until I win a name yet greater.”

“Where is the Father Pelletier, the priest, who you said would bar your way unless I came with you?”

“He is on the second platform where you look out over Paris before going into the lantern.  It may be that he has against me what you would call the prejudice.  I am young.  Youth must have its day, and I have done some small deeds in the quarter which perhaps do not please Father Pelletier, a strict, a very strict man.  But our country is in danger, and I am willing to forgive and forget.”