Stolen Souls

Close to me half a dozen loungers are smoking cigars and talking loud enough for me to overhear. A handsome, elderly fop sets the key, and the others laugh in chorus whenever he utters a bon mot.

“I’m open to bet that the lovely Valerie de Noirville will not come,” he says. “Her foster-father has left her to mope alone at the Deutschmann. He is already sitting at the écarté-table, where he stands alone against all comers. I’m afraid, my dear Victor, you’ll not see your incomparable Valerie this evening.”

“I confess that, after all, I don’t care very much,” replies the person addressed, shrugging his shoulders. “This Southron is too dark-skinned, and has got a hasty temper too. For me, I only like the blondes.”

“That may be, but her millions will please you, I fancy. It is an open secret that mademoiselle is the favourite in the will, and she certainly is a most fascinating girl.”

“De Noirville hasn’t the least desire to have his will executed just yet. Besides, why should I waste time over her? The place is taken already.”

“At Paris, yes – by René Delbet; everybody knows that – but at Scheveningen – ?”

“The same here, the same here, old fellow. The lady with the black eyes never pines alone – not even at seaside resorts. What is amusing, is that our excellent friend, De Noirville, does not notice how desperately his daughter flirts. Yet he’s seen a great deal of life, and if I had been married twice, I think I should know how to play the watch-dog.”

“Eh? Has she a cavalier here? Who – who?”

“A poor devil of a lieutenant in the Chasseurs d’Afrique. He adores her, and believes he has no rival. Nobody knows him; he is a mere chance-met gallant.”

“Infernal impertinence, to aspire to the hand of la belle Valerie!” remarks one.

“Is it a serious affair?” inquires another.

“Was Valerie ever serious?” asks the elder man, with a laugh. “No, my dear fellows, she’s only serious with René Delbet; but then, he’s one of the richest men on the Bourse.”

I turn away to hide myself, for they are speaking of me. I, Lucien Peyrafitte, am the “poor devil of a lieutenant,” and it is true that I adore Valerie, the charming girl of whom those jays had spoken with so much recklessness. Although I had known her for several months, – first in Paris, and afterwards here, on the Dutch coast, – I had not breathed one word of love.

Why should I not do so to-night? She was alone at the hotel; there could be no more fitting opportunity.

Retracing my steps along the Plage to the Hôtel Deutschmann, I found her sitting upon the verandah alone, plunged in a deep reverie. In one of those huge wicker chairs which one sees nowhere else but at Scheveningen, I took a seat beside her, and, grasping her white hand, raised it to my lips.

How long I sat there I cannot tell. It must have been several hours. Before we rose to enter the hotel, she had admitted that she loved me, and as a pledge of her affection, had given me a turquoise ring from her finger, while I had kissed her passionately, she returning my caresses and appearing supremely happy.

Yet it was in a brief fool’s paradise that I existed that night, for before midday on the morrow I had left Scheveningen, having received a telegram from one of my comrades in Paris, urging me to return at once, as the regiment was ordered to Africa immediately.

Such was the irony of fate! Just as I had won the love of the woman I worshipped, I was torn away from her without scarcely an opportunity of bidding her farewell.

“We may all three die to-night!”

The words were spoken by Captain Lavigniac, who with myself and Lieutenant Maurel were crouching around the dying embers of our camp-fire.

“That’s true,” remarked Maurel; “but if so, we shall die for France. And, after all, is life worth living?”

We laughed, blasé boulevardiers that we were. Having been nauseated by the sweets of life, we were now face to face with death.

The expedition against the fanatical Kel-Ahamellen was much more perilous than we had anticipated. General La Pelletier, who commanded the Algerian forces, had sent us – a mere handful of men – from In Salah away into the wild, inhospitable Tanezrouft Desert, in pursuit of a horde of the dusky rebels; but the long weary ride across the burning plains to Djedeyyed had taken all the spirit out of us. Under a blazing sun we had been journeying for a week, and on this particular night were encamped in a small oasis of Am Ohannan, which consisted of a well of brackish water and one single palm.

Unfortunately, owing to the treachery of our native guide, – who, by the way, was summarily dealt with by being shot, – we had entered a trap laid for us by the enemy. Our scouts had only an hour before reported that we were surrounded by the Arabs, who greatly outnumbered us, and that our position was extremely grave.

We were, therefore, waiting in the momentary expectation of a night attack.

For myself I did not care. Since my arrival in Africa I had received several warm, affectionate letters from Valerie; but, alas! my awakening had come. By the same mail that had brought her last letter to Algiers, I had received from a friend a Figaro, which contained the following announcement in its “High Life” column: —

“A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between Mademoiselle Valerie de Noirville, who is well-known in Paris society, and Monsieur René Delbet.”

Perfidious fate! I had been tricked by her, and all her declarations of love were false. Heartsick and jaded, I sat beside the smouldering embers, thinking over the hopelessness of my future. The discovery of Valerie’s baseness had crushed me. With the exception of the crackling of the fire, and the measured tread of the sentry beyond, all was still in the bright, clear night. Around the well our men were lying, wrapped in their cloaks, but not sleeping. Each man, with his revolver in one hand and the bridle of his horse in the other, was ready at any moment to spring up, mount, and ride straight into the irregular column of brown-faced, white-burnoused foe, who had sworn on their Korân to exterminate us Christian dogs.

The moments passed, breathless and exciting.

“Qui est là?” suddenly demanded a sentry, causing us to start.

“Ami. Pour la France!” was the response, and in a moment later Colonel Chadoume joined us.

“There will be fighting to-night,” he said briefly. “There are thousands of those black devils.”

“There will not be so many when our sabres have whirled through them,” observed Lavigniac grimly.

“We are caught like rats in a trap,” whispered the colonel in a low tone, so that the men should not overhear his misgivings. “The only way in which we can save ourselves is to apprise Le Pelletier of our position, and give him a plan of the country between In Zizé and Chikh Salah from the survey we have made.”

“But how can we?” asked Maurel. “Whoever went would have to pass the lines of the enemy at the risk of being shot.”

We were silent for several minutes.

“I will go,” I said at last.

“You?” exclaimed the three men in surprise.

I nodded.

“I will make the attempt,” I added.

“But you must carry the plan as well as the letter, and start before daybreak,” said the colonel.

“I am ready,” I replied. I set but little value upon my life, for, truth to tell, I was utterly reckless now Valerie was false to me.

In the grey hour before the dawn I left the camp. I had exchanged my scarlet trousers and gilt-braided tunic for a shapeless white burnouse, and about my head wore a haick, around which was twisted many yards of brown camel’s hair; my face had been effectually dyed a deep brown, I had assumed a flowing black beard, and my bare feet were thrust into rough slippers. Any one who had met the inoffensive Arab trader from El Biodh, would scarcely have suspected him to be an officer of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, and a well-known figure in drawing-rooms of the Avenue de Champs Elysées.

Mounted on a camel, with well-filled bags across my saddle, I rode slowly along, over the rough stony desert, eastward, guided only by the streak of yellow light that heralded the dawn.

Far away upon the horizon was a low range of hills, at the foot of which the Kel-Ahamellen were encamped.

I knew it was useless to evade passing through their lines by taking a circuitous route, and had decided that it would be safer to act boldly, and endeavour to pass through their headquarters.

For hours I rode wearily onward. The pitiless rays of the blazing sun beat down upon the loose, parched earth, and their reflection almost blinded me. Not a breath of wind cooled the atmosphere, but, on the contrary, the blasts which ever and anon blew over the Great Sahara, whirling up dense clouds of sand, were like whiffs of hot air from a furnace.

The sun travelled its course, and sank behind me with a blood-red, angry glare that bathed the desert and mountains with brilliant tints. By shading my eyes with my hands, I could now distinguish that I was approaching the settlement of the hostile tribe, and could make out their scattered tents.

As I looked, I saw four figures approaching. They grew nearer rapidly. Then I saw they were mounted Arabs, galloping with all speed towards me. They were standing in the stirrups in the manner peculiar to the Bedouins of the Great Desert, and, with their long rifles carried high above their heads and their white burnouses flowing behind, were bearing down upon me.

Drawing a long breath, I collected all the courage I possessed.

A few minutes later, with wild yells, the brown-visaged quartette rode up to me, addressing rapidly-uttered questions in Arabic, which I answered coolly.

I told them that I had no sympathy with war, that I was a trader from El Biodh, and that my destination was In Salah, where I constantly had commercial transactions.

“But how camest thou here?” asked the great black-bearded fellow who had first addressed me, as he fixed his keen eyes upon mine.

“I rode,” I replied in Arabic, a language in which I was fortunately proficient. “Allah hath protected me.”

“Didst thou not see the red-legged French dogs?”

“Yes, I passed them yesterday. There are thousands of them.”

This statement seemed to cause them considerable dismay. They held a hurried conversation in an undertone, and then informed me that I should have to go before the Sheikh.

An hour later, I was taken before the chief of the tribe, who was seated cross-legged on a mat outside his tent. He was a grey-bearded, wizen-faced old man, whose eyes had lost none of the dark brilliance of youth, and whose teeth shone white in contrast with his red lips and sun-tanned yellow face. As I was led up to him, and the manner in which I had been discovered explained, he slowly removed his long pipe from his mouth, and regarded me critically.

“Thou sayest the French, the accursed offspring of Eblis, are numerous? Where didst thou see them?”

“In an oasis near Tighehert.”

“Ah! thine accent! Thou speakest French, then?”

“Yes, father,” I replied; “I learned it in Algiers.”

He grunted dubiously, and, turning to a great brawny giant who stood among the followers who crowded around him leaning upon their guns, uttered a few guttural words.

“Did not the sons of offal stop thee?” he inquired. “Relate unto me all thou knowest about them.”

“I know nothing,” I replied, bowing submissively. “I merely passed, having satisfied them that I was not a spy. I had no object in interesting myself in the movements of infidels.”

The old Sheikh replaced his chibouk between his lips and continued smoking in thoughtful silence, having fixed his gaze intently upon me.

“Hum!” he grunted.

Then he proceeded to interrogate me regarding my ride from El Biodh. My replies, however, did not apparently remove his suspicions, and he smiled sarcastically now and then, at the same time watching contemplatively the thin columns of blue smoke that rose from his pipe. Suddenly he turned, and, addressing the men who had ridden out to meet me, gave orders that I should be searched.

I stood silently by, watching the men turn out and examine closely the contents of my saddlebags, and the food I was carrying. Then they proceeded to search my pockets, compelling me to raise my arms above my head.

Peste! Fate was again unpropitious!

As I raised my hands, my loose burnouse fell from my arms, leaving them bare, and disclosing that they were white!

“Ah!” cried the Sheikh, his bright eyes flashing with anger. “So thou art a spy! Thou, son of a dog, seekest the overthrow of Allah’s chosen!”

“My father,” I cried, “I – I am not a spy. Behold! I have neither knife nor gun. Is it not written that the One Worthy of Praise showeth mercy only to the merciful?”

“Seize the dog! Take him away, and let him be shot at dawn, as soon as there is sufficient light to distinguish a black thread from a white,” the old rebel commanded with a wave of his sun-tanned hand.

Then, rising, he cast aside his pipe impatiently, and was about to enter his tent, when his passage was barred by a veiled girl in rich silks and gauzes, who stood for a moment gazing at me. Her adjar, although concealing her face, left visible a fine pair of sparkling black eyes, and a forehead that had been plentifully bedaubed with powder in the manner of Eastern women. Rows of golden sequins hung upon her brow, and upon her wrists and bare ankles were jingling bangles.

“Hold!” she cried in a commanding tone, raising her bare arm and addressing the Sheikh. “Though innocent of any crime, thou hast condemned him to die. Is it not written in the Book of Everlasting Will that mercy should be shown unto the weak?”

“He is a Roumi, and his tribe will be consumed by the unquenchable fire in Al-Hâwiyat,” answered the chief of the rebels.

“Of a verity thou speakest the truth,” she said. “But is it not also written that thou shalt not transgress by attacking the infidel first, for Allah loveth not the transgressors.”

“I have spoken!” roared the Sheikh in anger. “Seek not to argue, but return unto thy divan. The son of a dog shall die!” and, pushing her roughly aside, he strode into his tent amid the murmured approbation of the crowd of dark-visaged horsemen who had assembled.

“Brothers,” she cried in a voice that betrayed her agitation, “the Roumi now before thee hath fallen into our hands, therefore we should show him mercy. I, Halima Fathma, daughter of thy Sheikh, – upon whom may the One Merciful pour abundant blessing – appeal unto thee on his behalf. Wilt thou not release him, and lift from my heart the weight which oppresseth it?”

In the silence that followed, she gazed appealingly around.

“No,” they answered, when they had whispered among themselves. “Our Sheikh hath condemned the spy. He seeketh to betray us, and must die.”

“I am hungry,” I cried, as, after further vain argument, the Sheikh’s daughter was turning away. “It is permissible, I suppose, to have a last meal?”

Saying this, I stopped, and, picking up the small loaf which the Arabs had taken from my saddle-bag, commenced to eat it with a coolness which apparently astonished the group of freebooters of the plains.

Through that balmy moonlit night I remained where my captors had left me, bound to a palm tree in the vicinity of the settlement. Hour after hour I waited alone, watching the beauty of the Oriental sky, and longing for the end. I knew I should receive no quarter – that ere the sun rose I should be shot down, and my body left to the vultures. My thoughts reverted to my boyhood, to my gay, reckless career in Paris, and most of all to Valerie.

The moon was fast disappearing, and I was calmly watching for the steely-grey light which in the desert is precursory of dawn, when suddenly I heard a footstep. The person was concealed behind some huge boulders, and I concluded that it was one of my captors who had mounted guard over me.

Yet, as I listened, the steps sounded too stealthy, like those of a light-footed thief. I stood breathless in wonderment, when suddenly a slim, white-robed figure crept from behind the rocks, and advanced towards me.

It was an Arab youth. He placed his finger upon his lips, indicative of silence.

As he came up to me, I gazed at him in surprise, for his haick concealed his face.

“Hush!” he whispered in Arabic; “make no noise, or we may be discovered. It is cruel that a brave officer like thyself should be murdered,” he added. “I have come to save thee.”

“How didst thou know I was an officer?”

“Ask no questions,” he replied. And drawing a keen knife from beneath his burnouse, he severed the cords that bound me.

“Thou art free,” he said. “Come, follow me.”

Picking up the bread I had not eaten, I thrust it into my pocket, and followed my unknown friend up a stony path that led into a narrow mountain pass. When some distance from the settlement, we came to a clump of trees, to one of which was tethered my camel.

“Quick! Mount and ride away,” he urged. “Keep straight through the pass, and when thou gainest the desert, turn at once towards the north. A day’s journey from here will bring thee unto the encampment of thy comrades.”

“Only a day’s journey!” I cried. “To what do I owe the sudden interest that the daughter of the Sheikh hath taken in my welfare?” I asked, laughing.

“I know not. Women have such strange caprices sometimes. But get away quickly,” he urged. “Lose not a moment, or thou wilt be overtaken. Slamá. Alah iselemeck!”

Turning from me, he hurried away; not, however, before I had discerned in the faint grey light that the face, half hidden by the spotless haick surrounding it, was beardless, evidently that of a woman. Was it Halima herself?

At first I was prompted to follow and ascertain; but next second I saw the grave risks we both were running, and, mounting my swift méheri, started off at a gallop over the rough stones and dunes of loose, treacherous sand.

Suddenly the crack of a rifle startled me. Then, as I glanced back, I saw, to my amazement and dismay, the slim, burnoused figure lying in a heap upon the stones; while three yelling, gesticulating Arabs were standing over it, cursing, brandishing their knives and shaking their fists. Evidently they had shot my rescuer!

To linger, however, would mean death. Therefore, on emerging from the pass, I took the route described by the mysterious person who had given me my freedom; galloping over the trackless desert in a northerly direction, with eyes eager to discern the encampment of Spahis and Zouaves.

Before nightfall I was safe within the French lines, relating to General Le Pelletier the events of my journey, and explaining the perilous position of the 39th Regiment.

“But you mentioned something of dispatches, and a plan of the country?” he said.

“Yes; I have them here,” I replied.

Then, taking from my pocket the half-eaten roll of bread, I broke it, and took therefrom two small pieces of paper.

One was a map in miniature, showing the route he was to travel, and the other the dispatch.

“We are close upon them now,” I remarked to an officer riding by my side on the next night. “They’ll fight like demons.”

Hardly had the words passed my lips, before wild yells of rage rent the air on every side; and ere we could realise it, we had surprised the encampment of the Kel-Ahamellen, and rifles flashed on every side.

I need not describe the desperate hand-to-hand conflict in the darkness. Suffice it to say, that we punished the tribe for their temerity in sentencing me to death.

When in the early morning, after a severe engagement, we walked among the ruins of the tents and heaps of dead, I searched diligently for Halima, being aided by a dozen other officers and men. But we did not discover her; and I became convinced that my worst fears were realised, and that she had fallen a victim to the relentless vengeance of her people.

Nearly two years elapsed before I again trod the asphalte of my beloved Paris.

A few weeks after my return to civilisation, I attended a ball at the German Embassy. I had been dancing, and was taking my partner, a rather skittish widow, into the supper-room, when I accidentally stepped upon and rent the dress-train of a dark-haired girl, who, leaning upon the arm of an elderly man, was walking before me.

She turned, and I bowed my apologies. The words died from my lips.

The woman, whose flower-trimmed dress I had torn, was Valerie! It was a mutual recognition; but neither of us spoke.

Half an hour later, however, I was sitting alone with her. To my fierce demands for an explanation of the sudden breaking off of her communications, she replied boldly, and with such an air of veracity that I hated myself for having spoken so harshly.

Judge my joy when she told me she was still unmarried, that the paragraph in the Figaro was unauthorised, and that it had been inserted by some unknown enemy, during her absence from Paris.

“Then you are not Madame Delbet?” I cried, with ill-concealed delight.

“Certainly not; M’sieur Delbet is an old friend of our family, that is all,” she replied, laughing. “After you left Oran, I could not write, as you were away in the desert. I read of your adventures and your bravery in the newspapers, but did not know where a letter would find you; therefore, I left all explanations of my enforced silence until your return.”

“And – you still love me?” I asked, with trepidation, placing my arm tenderly around her slim waist, and drawing her towards me.

“Of course. But, mon cher, you have never doubted me, have you?”

“No,” I replied, after an awkward pause, gazing fondly into her eyes. “But now I have gained my promotion, will you become my wife?”

Her answer was affirmative, and we sealed our compact with a kiss.

Would that I could omit this last and terrible chapter of my biography. But no! The hideous story must be related to its bitter end, to serve as warning to others.

Through closed windows and drawn curtains was borne the solemn clang of a bell in a church tower in the Avenue de Villiers, recording the death of to-day and the birth of to-morrow. A simple canary in its gilded cage, mistaking for morning sunshine the soft glow of electricity, as it filtered through its shade of orange silk, chirped a matin song in shrill staccato. A tiny slippered foot nervously patted the sleek fur of the tiger rug beneath it, a strong arm girt a slender waist; and, between the solemn strokes of the church bell, and the cheery passages of the bird-song, quick, passionate kisses alone stirred the scented air.

The man spoke. It was René Delbet!

“I must go now, darling,” he said. “We have both braved too much already. He may return at any moment.”

“And if he did?” Valerie asked defiantly.

“He might at least – suspect.”

“Suspect?” and she laughed a chorus to the canary. “He doesn’t know what suspicion means. He would trust me with Mephistopheles himself. Should he find you here, he would only thank you for entertaining me. He’s the most easy-going fellow in the world.”

The man smiled, released his companion from his embrace, and rose from the settee, upon which the two had been seated.

“I’m afraid, my dear,” he said, “that you presume too much upon his confidence. There is no cord so elastic that it will not snap.”

I waited for no more, but burst into the room, having, in my frenzy of madness, drawn a revolver from my pocket.

“Diable! You?” cried Delbet, starting up in alarm.

“Ah, my husband!” gasped Valerie, covering her blanched face with her hands.

“Sacré! You shall die!” I shouted.

The tolling bell throbbed once again, and then – a short, sharp, loud report and a flash together. A little puff of blue-grey smoke floated ceilingward, a man’s frightened cry pierced the night, and upon the harmonious colours of the flower-strewn carpet Valerie lay dead.

Rushing to my wife’s boudoir, I broke open her escritoire, bent upon ascertaining the nature of any letters she might have concealed there.

There were many. Ah, Dieu! When I think of the passionate love-missives penned by the man whom I had implicitly trusted, and admitted to my home as a friend, my brain is lashed to frenzy.

One discovery I made was startling. Several of the letters bore the stamp of twenty-five centimes, and their envelopes were addressed to “Mademoiselle Halima Fathma, care of Hadj Hassan, Douéra Algérie.”