As things were, his being alive did the Huntingtens no harm. It was the knowledge of his existence that would do the injury—both legal and personal. … No harm, so long as it wasn't known. They were quite innocent in the sight of le bon Dieu, and so long as neither they, nor anyone else, knew—nothing mattered so far as they were concerned. …
But fourteen years as a second-class soldier of the Legion! … And what was he to do at the end of the fifteenth? They would not re-enlist him. He would get a pension of five hundred francs a year—twenty pounds a year—and he had got the cash "bonus" given him when he won the médaille militaire. Where could he hide again? Perhaps he could get a job as employed-pensioner of the Legion—such as sexton at the graveyard or assistant-cook, or Officers'-Mess servant? … Otherwise he'd find himself one fine morning at the barracks-gates, dressed in a suit of blue sacking from the Quartermaster's store, fitting him where it touched him; a big flat tam-o'-shanter sort of cap; a rough shirt, and a blue cravat "to wind twice round the neck"; a pair of socks (for the first time in fifteen years), and a decent pair of boots. He'd have his papers, a free pass to any part of France he liked to name, a franc a day for the journey thereto, and his week's pay.
And what good would the papers and pass be to him—who dared not leave the shelter of the all-concealing Legion? … Surely it would be safe for him to return to England, or at any rate to go to France or some other part of Europe? Why not to America or the Colonies? No, nowhere was safe, and nothing was certain. Besides, how was he to get
