For Love of a Bedouin Maid
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"It is no hallucination," replied the surgeon. "It is clear to me that you have fought in the French army of Italy. Your memory will come back to you; how soon I cannot say. But I can suggest how it may be speeded, and the course you ought to take. Return to France; there you will see so many things that are familiar to you, that I doubt not you will soon recall every incident of your life. Take my advice and go at once. I shall be greatly interested in the result. All I ask is that you let me know it."
And St. Just took his friend's advice. The shipping firm in whose employ he was gave him and Mahmoud a passage in a ship bound for Marseilles. They also handed him, in addition to his salary, five thousand francs; he had served them well, and they gave the sum ungrudgingly.
This was how it had come about that St. Just and Mahmoud were now standing side by side upon the trading vessel that was bearing them to France.
On the good ship sped, and soon the rocky islet on which stands the Chateaux d'If, famous in romance and history, came in view. Past this she flew, like a bird anxious to regain its nest, and, ere long, Marseilles was made. Then the sails were lowered, the rattling of chains was heard, the anchor fell with a plunge into the water, and the vessel was hove to.
St. Just, soon after, went ashore with Mahmoud. He had formed no plans, but, unknown to him, his career was gendering in the future and, ere long, would reach fruition. Meantime he was not without the wherewithal for his support for a few months. He had in gold the equivalent of two hundred pounds in English money.
The first thing to be done was to get shelter for the night; and St. Just asked the skipper to direct him to a respectable hostelry where the fare was good, the beds were clean and the charges moderate.
The skipper knew the very place—the Toison d'or (Golden Fleece); when at Marseilles, he put up there himself. If St. Just would accompany him to the agents of the vessel's owners, he would afterwards go with him to the inn in question, and introduce him to the landlady. The prospect was quite to the Frenchman's mind, and, in due course, they made their way together to the Toison d'or, and Mahmoud with them.
Evidently the skipper was a persona grata to the landlady, for she received him with a smiling face and warm congratulations on his return once more to the Phocean city. Altogether she was most effusive; told St. Just that any friend of Captain Ricci's was always welcome, and would receive her best attention. Then she took him upstairs to a bright, cheerful room, in which were two small beds. Everything was so neat and clean, and the hostess was so pleasant and obliging, that St. Just, who had been prepared to find that Ricci's description of the hostelry had been couched in too glowing terms, was fain to admit that every word of his friend's eulogium was deserved. He engaged the bedroom on the spot, and then sent up Mahmoud with their baggage.
This business done, the skipper suggested a parting glass, that each might wish the other "Bon voyage," and "Au Revoir," if possible.
St. Just was nothing loth, and together they adjourned to the common room; it was pretty full, for work was over for the day. All sorts and conditions of men were gathered there; market porters, dock laborers, sailors, soldiers—mostly pensioners, who had lost a leg or an arm in the numerous wars in which France for the last ten years had been engaged. Besides these, there were town officials, shop-keepers and professional men—the whole constituting a fair sample of the male inhabitants of Marseilles.
All seemed to be babbling at the same time, and in all sorts of tongues, and dense clouds of tobacco smoke filled the room, enough to choke one; the walls and ceiling were thick with it.
At intervals along the sides, stuck into tin sconces, tallow candles flared and guttered, emitting far more smell than light, for they were so sparsely placed, as to do little more than make the darkness visible.
Towards the upper end of this sweltering, reeking, voice-resounding den, Captain Ricci and his companion made their way, and found two vacant places at a table. Casting his eye round through the haze of smoke, the skipper spied a good-looking and neatly, though somewhat smartly, dressed young woman who was moving from table to table, ministering to the requirements of the customers!
"Amélie!" he roared out; and, almost before the name had left his lips, the girl was at his side, all smiles.
They ordered some brandy, which presently Amélie brought. Ricci just then saw a friend across the room; so, after drinking up his brandy, and wishing his companion luck, he shook hands with him and moved away to join his other acquaintance. Left to his own resources, St. Just found himself listening, with a sort of half-awakened interest, to the conversation of two men beside him, who looked as if they had seen service in the wars.
St. Just had listened to their talk in a dreamy sort of way. It was something to take him from himself, but he felt little interest in it, and not all of it reached his ears.
The man who had been the chief talker now got out his pipe and began to smoke; then, bringing his head nearer to his friend he puffed out a great stream of smoke and resumed in a lower tone.
"But there's more to tell; the other day I saw that same Arab girl in Paris—"
"You saw her in Paris?" interposed the other.
"But I am certain of it. I saw her driving in a carriage and pair, dressed like a Parisian; and by her side was Colonel Tremeau, whom I knew well in Egypt; he was a captain then of ours. What it all means I know not, but she is living in great style, and passes as a Frenchwoman. She is well known in Paris, it seems, and goes by the name of Madame Halima de Moncourt."
At the sound of this name, all St. Just's listlessness vanished like a flash; he started, as though some one had struck him an unexpected blow; he felt a sudden whirring in his head, for all the world like that produced by the breaking of a clock spring. Then he experienced a strange sensation of relief; the leaden feeling that had so long oppressed him, was no longer there; his brain felt clear and light.
Halima de Moncourt! Halima! These men were talking of his wife! de Moncourt was her mother's maiden name. So she was in Paris!
Then, like a panorama, his whole past career unfolded itself before him, special incidents in it standing out in strong relief; his first commission, the day on which he had first donned epaulets; his first experience in the battle field. Then his newly-recovered memory took him on to the memorable occasion of his first personal acquaintance with Buonaparte; when he saved his life and was afterwards introduced to Josephine, and all that had followed from it—the Egyptian campaign, his first sight of Halima, and his mad passion for her; his narrow escapes from death; the finding of the treasure and its capture; his sufferings on the slave ship and his subsequent recovery of his liberty. All the incidents of his life, even to the minutest detail, were marshaled in one long procession before his mental vision, and he knew himself at last for what he was. The knowledge gave him little satisfaction. He was a deserter, and, moreover, on the soil of France. Should any one recognize and denounce him, he knew the penalty. To save his life would tax all his inventive power, combined with daring and no little shrewdness.
But, at all risks, he must see his wife; on that he was decided; he must know in what position they were to stand towards one another. Had she once more surrendered herself to Buonaparte—or to some other man? The suggestion maddened him. And what about her oath of vengeance?
His brain was in a whirl. The heat and closeness of the fetid air became unbearable in his present frame of mind, and he went out to cool himself and think out his position in the fresh salt breezes from the harbor.
CHAPTER II
The next morning, St. Just, accompanied by Mahmoud, began his journey Paris-wards. For the sake of economy, they traveled by stage wagon. It was a cumbersome mode of transit, and the jolting frightful, for the roads were bad. They went the whole distance at a walking pace, and, with the exception of his experience on the slaver, St. Just found it the most wearisome journey he had ever taken; it was not only the time it occupied, but he felt bruised all over; sometimes, when he could no longer bear it, he got out and walked. But, at last, early in December, the spires of Paris came in sight, and never before had he hailed them with such delight.
At once he engaged a cheap lodging for himself and Mahmoud in the Rue de Dauphin. He was familiar with the district, for it was not far from the Luxembourg, in which palace, it will be remembered, St. Just had a post at the time of his introduction to the reader.
This little matter settled, he began his quest for Halima. From the conversation he had overheard between the two men at the Toison d'or, he had thought that this would be a simple matter; he had believed his wife well-known in Paris.
But, from the inquiries he made cautiously, he found it otherwise. From one point of view, this was satisfactory, for, from the men's remarks, he had feared she had an unenviable notoriety—that her charms, in fact, outweighed her virtue.
He began his inquiries with Mons. Gaston, the husband of his landlady, but the worthy man, although shrewd enough and a clerk in a public office, failed to obtain any light as to the whereabouts of Madame de Moncourt.
Day succeeded day, and still St. Just could gain no intelligence of his wife, and he began to think, either that she had quitted Paris, or had assumed another name. Doubtless, he could have learned what he required from the Bureau of Police, but he was unwilling to apply there. He had not reported himself to the military authorities, and thus it would be dangerous to communicate with the Police. His reason for not announcing his return to Paris was that he feared he might be sent to some military depot outside the city, and so checked in his quest of Halima. But he was becoming very anxious; he knew the risk he ran; at any time he might be recognized and denounced as a deserter. For this reason, most of his inquiries were made at night, though sometimes he ventured out by day.
One morning he was wandering about, in a despondent mood, in the neighborhood of the Halles Centrales, when a market cart filled with vegetables, was driven almost over him. To save himself, he stepped back and took shelter under the eave of one of the stalls.
He had scarcely done so, when he heard the sound of two men's voices in a further corner of the covered booth. He could not see the speakers, nor, probably, could they see him.
At first, he paid no attention to what was being said, but presently a name was uttered that caused him to become all ears.
"Is it wise for Monsieur to remain in Paris after the recent occurrence?" said the first voice.
"Of course not," was the reply, "but what would you? I cannot cross the frontier. Buonaparte will not let the de Moncourt go even to Brussels; so the plan of my traveling with her as her servant cannot be carried out."
It was the mention of his wife's name that had riveted St. Just's attention.
"Has the man Garraud been sounded?" resumed the first man.
"Yes, but to no purpose. No boat can either land at Marseilles, or leave it, without his permission; and he will not give it, without knowing all the ins and outs of the application. He is a faithful adherent of the first Consul."
"H'm," thoughtfully, "then we must find a spot near Boulogne. The English smuggler, Wright, may be relied upon, you think?"
"I think so—if he be well paid; and this we are prepared to do."
"Well, look him up, and sound him carefully. I shall see you at Auteuil to-night?"
"Certainly; I shall be at Madame's reception. It is said the Duke is to be there."
No more was said, and the next sound that reached the listener's ear was that of persons moving. Evidently, either the conference was at an end, or they feared they were being overheard. At any rate, the speakers left the booth, though not by the entrance at which stood St. Just, but by some exit at the back. Anxious to see them and, if he thought it wise, to follow them, in the hope of learning Halima's address, he hurried round the corner for the purpose. Not watching whither he was going, he ran into a chestnut roaster, whose chestnuts lay untended, while the man himself was kneeling on one knee and peering earnestly into the booth.
So sudden and forcible was their impact, that both men fell. Quick as thought, the chestnut seller was on his legs again; then, without giving a moment's consideration to his merchandise, he took to his heels.
St. Just, less fortunate, had no sooner risen to his feet than he found himself in the grasp of the two men whose voices he had overheard.
Both were roughly attired; one, whose face was smeared with black, looked like a coal dealer; the other like a laborer.
"A word with you, my friend," said he with the coal dust on his face, and, between them, they led St. Just into the booth. He made no resistance; he was without fear, and besides, it was broad daylight in a crowded neighborhood. He was slightly curious too, to know what they would say to him.
They motioned him to a wooden stool, which he took without a word. Then, when they also had seated themselves, between him and the entrance, the man who had first spoken addressed him roughly:—
"Now then, who the deuce are you, prowling about the stalls and prying into other men's affairs? Some wretched market thief, no doubt. What were you and that other rascal doing—the man that ran away?"
The man's words and manner took St. Just aback. "From my heart (De mon coeur)," he began to stammer apologetically, his pronunciation being by no means clear; so much so, that he was misunderstood. At any rate, his words were magical in their effect. Before he could add another, both men sprang to their feet and looked earnestly into his face.
"Who? What?" demanded the man who had first questioned him. "How came you here? Do you come from her?"
The other man held up a warning finger, and the speaker changed his tone and subject. "Have you any business with us, Sir, any orders for fuel, that we find you about our booth?"
He spoke nervously, and St. Just saw that he was ill at ease. He was more bewildered now than ever.
"Gentlemen," he said, and he could not forbear a smile, "you manners are, to say the least, bizarre; you begin by rating me, suggesting that I am a market thief, and then you ask me whether I bring an order for your wares. I can see that my presence has in some way disconcerted you; but why, I am at a loss to tell. Though I am in no way accountable to you for my actions, I will not emulate your want of courtesy, but will tell you frankly why you find me here. You may be able to assist me; sometimes one gains intelligence from most unlikely quarters."
His hearers looked at him in some surprise; they doubted whether he was not amusing himself at their expense. His bearing puzzled them.
"Anything we can do to assist Monsieur," began the one who had not yet spoken.
St. Just bowed and resumed, "There is little to tell, and that little is soon told. I have been but a few days in Paris, and I came to make inquiries for a person for whom I have an important communication. I was merely strolling about here on the chance of meeting some one who could give me the address of the one I seek. Now, gentlemen, you know my business. There is naught of mystery about it, though something I did or said a while ago seemed to discompose you strangely."
The men seemed now reassured, satisfied that his presence there was an accident and himself no spy upon their actions. His frankness and dauntlessness had disarmed them. They hastened to apologize, and then the man with the swarthy face went on, "It is just possible, but hardly likely, that we might give the information Monsieur seeks. If Monsieur would be at the trouble to state the name of the person he inquires about—"
"But certainly," St. Just interrupted, "the lady's name is Madame de Moncourt."
Again both men started visibly; it was plain that this name was wholly unexpected by them; and that its mention stirred them greatly. In his way St. Just was almost as astonished as themselves; he never thought to get the news he sought from them. Now he was assured that they could give it.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I see that the name is not unknown to you and that you can oblige me with the lady's address. It was a fortunate circumstance that brought me to you."
The next moment he had reason to doubt the truth of this last remark, for, in an instant, he found himself seized, and a dagger pointed at his heart. At the same time, a voice muttered in tones that, though low, were distinct enough, "The first of your myrmidons who enters here shall see this planted in your breast."
For all the suddenness of the attack and his inward trepidation, St. Just showed no outward mark of flinching. He knew his best chance of safety lay in keeping cool and exhibiting no signs of fear.
"Is this a comedy, Gentlemen," he said, "or what? Such rapid changes in demeanor I never saw before; one moment you are all courtesy, the next all menace. I think, if you would explain yourselves, we should the better understand each other. First, for whom or what do you take me?"
"For an agent of Police," was the reply, the poniard still held in unpleasant closeness to his breast.
St. Just laughed scornfully.
"My good sirs," he said, "so far am I from that, that did they but know I am in Paris, they would arrest me. I am unarmed; search me."
Once more he was beginning to regain their confidence; what he said seemed reasonable enough.
"Will you allow us first to bind your hands?" asked the man with the coal-stained face, who seemed to take the lead throughout.
"By all means," was St. Just's answer, and he held out his hands and brought his wrists together.
One of the men took out a handkerchief and with this he tied his hands together; then searched him carefully, the other, meanwhile, still keening the dagger in position.
Finding him unarmed, as he had stated, and that he had nothing about him to connect him with the Police, the men once more became composed, and he who held the weapon lowered it. St. Just was the first to speak.
"Now, gentlemen, I trust that you are satisfied that I had no designs against you. I know nothing whatever of your business, nor do I seek to know it. But I will be frank with you; I am sure you are not what you seem; your speech and manner belie your dress. Further, I believe the man I ran against outside was watching you. You know best whether he had any object and whether you run any risk.
"And now you will confer a favor on me, by giving me the address of Madame de Moncourt."
"Peste! Monsieur," said the leading man, with a gesture of annoyance, "what folly is this? Why do you persist in assuming that we can help you to it?"
"I know you can," was the cool reply.
"You are bold, Monsieur."
"And determined," he retorted.
The men moved to a little distance from him and held a whispered consultation. After a few minutes, the first man again addressed him.
"What is the nature of your business with Madame de Moncourt? Your visit might be unwelcome to her."
"Nay, gentlemen, I have not asked your business. I claim the same consideration."
"Your name?"
"That question also I have not put to you. Thus much, however, I will tell you; that what I have to say to Madame de Moncourt will cause her the utmost satisfaction, and that she will hold him her enemy who obstructs me. If you decline to furnish me with what I ask, I shall soon elsewhere obtain it; you will merely delay, but not restrain me. Still even delay I am desirous to avoid. I have another suggestion to make, if you still doubt me; will you give me your word of honor to convey a letter from me to the lady?"
There was another whispered conversation, and, at the end of it, they advanced to him again.
"We have discussed this matter," said the man who had first addressed him, "and this is our conclusion. We are ready to take you at once to Madame de Moncourt, provided you agree to our conditions. If you are a true man and are as anxious as you say to obtain speech with her, you will show your confidence in us by agreeing to them. If you decline, we, on our part, shall decline to convey any letter from you to her."
A smile of satisfaction lighted up the hearer's face; he was to see Halima; all else mattered nothing. The promptness and decision of his answer were worthy of Buonaparte himself:—
"I accept your conditions in advance."
It was now the others' turn to smile.
"Your trust in us is highly flattering, my friend," said one; "but surely it is somewhat indiscreet. Had you not better hear our stipulations before you commit yourself to their acceptance."
"I care not what they are," St. Just rejoined impetuously; "but name them, we are wasting time."
"In the first place you will have to consent to make the journey blindfold; and, should Madame decline to see you, or fail to recognize you, or, having recognized you, desire your absence; to be brought back here in the same condition."
"I agree to that without the slightest hesitation. But surely for you to traverse the streets with a blindfolded man, either on foot or in a vehicle, would arouse suspicion; which, I take it, gentlemen, is not what you desire."
"Excellently put, Monsieur; your perspicuity does you credit. We purpose taking steps to provide against the danger you suggest. In effect, you will be carted to our destination in the guise of merchandise—firewood, to be precise."
It was a curious mode of transit, but St. Just at once consented. He was prepared to submit to almost any inconvenience to see his wife. Then they proceeded to unfold their plan, and no time was lost in putting it in execution.
A long, open wicker basket, almost as long as a coffin, and considerably broader and higher—such as is used for carrying firewood—was dragged from the corner of the booth. Then a handkerchief was tied across St. Just's eyes. They wished to gag him, but refrained on his giving his word of honor that he would not utter a sound. Then they tied his feet together, his hands being already bound. Next he was lifted into the basket, the sides and ends of which were then lined with bundles of firewood, a layer being also laid upon the top of him.
Then one of the men went away to fetch a cart. St. Just hoped the journey was not to be a long one, for already he was beginning to feel far from comfortable; he was lying on his side, his knees doubled up to his chest. Though the air was cool and fresh outside, in his cubicle, packed round, as he was, with wood, it was almost stifling, and he began to sweat profusely. Breathing became oppressive, and his limbs soon ached with cramp. Then an intolerable itching of the skin set in, and the unsatisfied desire to scratch almost drove him mad. He fancied that his sensations must be those of a person buried alive.
After enduring this for about ten minutes—but which seemed to him a good half hour—he heard a cart draw up. Then he felt that he was being carried out and hoisted into it, and that wood and charcoal—as he supposed—were being thrown in after him.
Next, one man mounted on the cart, and another placed himself beside the horse, and they moved away.
Placed as he was, it was impossible for the passenger to see whither they were going, nor could he guess at their direction. But, after jolting and bumping along what seemed to him interminable streets, he believed they had reached a city barrier. At any rate, the cart was brought to a standstill, and a colloquy took place.
It must have been satisfactory, for they soon set off again, and now proceeded for what St. Just, in his imprisonment, thought many miles along a road without a turn. Then, from the change in his position, he could feel that they were going up hill; next, after a moment's halt, they passed through a gate; he knew this because he heard the gate clang to behind them.
At last, when his sufferings from his cramped position and the difficulty of breathing had become almost insupportable, and he was feeling that, unless they should be quickly ended, he must call out, despite his word of honor to keep silent, the cart came to a final stop.