For Love of a Bedouin Maid
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After that, his imprisonment did not last long. The basket was soon hauled out, and St. Just was lifted from it. He was in a pitiable condition; not only was his face streaming with perspiration, but he was wet through from the same cause from head to foot, and he was gasping for breath. When they untied his legs and arms, he was so stiff that it was some time before he could straighten them, and, of course, to stand was quite out of the question.
But oh! the relief of being able to breathe without restraint. He lay panting on the ground, drinking in deep draughts of fresh, cool air, seeming as though he would never have enough. In a few minutes, he became himself, except for the stiffness of his limbs; every bone in his body ached, and the pain when he tried to move was terrible.
All this time, no word had been spoken by his conductors; but, when they saw that he was breathing easily, they expressed their regret for the discomfort they had put him to, at the same time telling him that they were now in Madame de Moncourt's grounds.
Then they helped him to his legs and supported him while they moved him about quietly, until he could stand alone. Next they straightened and bent his arms. The pain of all this was excessive, but he bore it manfully, bore it with the hope that he was so soon to see his wife. In a short time he could work his arms and legs without much pain, though stiffly still.
"You can walk now?" asked one of his companions.
"Walk!" repeated St. Just, with a laugh, "my faith, it will be some time before I can walk like a sober man; but I can crawl, which must serve me for the present. I seem to have no joints, and my sinews feel as though they were tied in knots. Never before have I endured such purgatory. But 'tis over, and I do not regret it, since it is to bring me to Madame de Moncourt."
All this time they were in the open air.
"We will proceed then," said a voice which St. Just recognized as the smutty faced man's. And he put his arm through St. Just's, and the three proceeded to a door, through which they passed, and, by the difference in the air and sound, the blindfolded man at once knew that he was inside a building. Then he was led along a passage, another door was opened, and they entered a room, the door of which was closed behind them.
"Pray be seated, Monsieur," said the voice that had spoken last; and a chair was placed behind him.
St. Just did so, and the next moment, the bandage was taken from his eyes. After having been so long in darkness, he was almost blinded by the sudden light, and was forced to place his hand before his eyes; but, in a few seconds, they had become used to it.
"Thank God, I am able to use my eyes again," he said. "Doubtless, Monsieurs, you have not restored my sight for nothing, and you will now lead me to Madame de Moncourt."
"Softly, Sir," was the reply; "we know not yet whether she will desire to see you. If not, you will remember our bargain, that you are to return to Paris under the same conditions that attended your arrival here.
"Pen, ink and paper are before you; write what you think proper to Madame, and it shall be delivered at once; the result will rest with her."
"What I desire above all things," replied St. Just; and he drew his chair up to the table and sat down to write. It was only a few lines, and it was in Arabic. He took this precaution lest his companions should attempt to read it, though, at the same time, he thought it most unlikely. He addressed the note in French, then handed it to one of the men, who left the room with it, the other remaining behind to watch him.
Not two minutes had elapsed when his messenger returned; there was a marked change in him. He was no longer cold and unbending, but there was a smile on his face, his tones were genial and his bearing was almost deferential.
"First let me apologize, Monsieur," he said, "for the unconventional and, I fear, painful mode of your conveyance here. I can assure you we had strong reasons for our seeming want of courtesy, and—"
"Pray say no more," interposed St. Just. "My journey, I cannot deny, was somewhat rough; but, if you bring me the news that Madame will receive me, it will be to me as though it had never been. I am impatient only for her answer to my note."
"She bids me say that it will give her great pleasure to receive you. A servant will be here to attend you to her almost immediately."
The man had scarcely ceased speaking, when the door was opened and a man in livery entered. Approaching St. Just, he bent deferentially before him, while he said:—
"Madame awaits Monsieur." Then he moved to the door and opened it. Bowing to his companions, who replied with, "An revoir, Monsieur," St. Just left the room, and then followed the man-servant, his heart beating with exultation as well as trepidation. A minute later, the door of another room was opened; then closed behind him. Instantly a well-known figure rushed up to him and flung herself into his arms.
"Henri! at last, my husband!"
"Halima, once more I have you!"
CHAPTER III
St. Just led his wife to a couch and, seating himself beside her, placed his arm round her waist and drew her to him in a close embrace. Then, interspersing his words with fervid kisses, he exclaimed:—
"Once more we are together, my beloved, my darling, my wife. My Queen! you are more beautiful than ever. Oh! to think of all that I have missed, the years that we have been parted. And you, my Halima, have you thought of me?"
"Often indeed, my Henri, but with tears, as of one whom I should never see again; for I feared that you were no longer living. I felt sure my husband would come back to me, were he alive. Oh! why did you leave me all these years—it is more than three? It was cruel, Henri!"
"Cruel indeed, had I had the power. But I will tell you all that has befallen me since we parted. You will then see that I have not been to blame. Ah! I would have flown to your side, had I been able."
His eyes were all aflame with love, and he pressed her closely to him—almost savagely—and rained fresh kisses on her blushing face. She could not doubt the depth and fervor of his passion, and she had an intuition that it would be lasting. Moreover, his unstinted admiration was a tribute to her beauty, that appealed to the leading attribute of her being—pride in her own surpassing loveliness—and filled her with exultation and delight. No one knew better than herself the power that lies behind the eyes and smiles of a lovely woman, and in her own person, she missed no occasion of exploiting it; for the homage of the other sex was as the breath of life to her; a necessity of her existence. And she was irresistible; no man could approach her without becoming, if she so willed it, her devoted slave. Their hearts were as tinder to the spark of her personality. She was fascination in the concrete. All the Frenchmen she had met in Paris pronounced her "ravissante," and that summed her up. What contributed much to her success was that she retained the mastery of her own feelings; for no man, save St. Just, had plumbed the depth of passion in her; thus she had all others at a disadvantage. There were many that she liked, some that she had a certain fondness for, but none that could appease that love hunger that St. Just had roused in her and, when with her, satisfied. But, warm as her affection was for him, it was more ardent than enduring; for, when away from him, she was ready to console herself with others. "La donna e mobile," might well have been applied to her. She was a strange mixture, for, while erotic passion was strong in her voluptuous nature, she was discriminate in its indulgence; and, while she was sensual to the fingers' tips, there were few indeed who could boast with truth of having enjoyed her favors.
Now, at her husband's close embrace, her whole being trembled with desire, and she bent her eyes languishingly upon his face, while she pressed her full red lips against his own; for his ardor had aroused the like in her.
"Oh! my own, my darling," she softly murmured, "I am in heaven now that you are back to me. No one has ever touched my heart like you."
For a space, with downcast eyes, she lay panting in his arms; for, what with their mutual kisses and his strong embrace, to breathe freely was impossible. Then she struggled gently.
"Loose me somewhat, dear," she gasped. "I love to feel your arms around me, but your clasp is so unyielding that I scarce can draw my breath. Nay, withdraw not altogether," she added, when he removed his arms, "but hold me gently, while you tell me all about yourself. There will be time for love's dalliances hereafter; now I am burning to be informed of your adventures."
Thus adjured, St. Just gave her a full description of all his doings since their separation. The story took long in telling, the longer that it was continually interrupted by her endearments and sympathetic comments on his sufferings. When it was ended, everything down to his arrival in Paris and his appearance in that room having been recounted she turned to him again.
"Oh! my Henri, what you have suffered," she exclaimed; "and to think that you should have lost all memory even of me! But, at least, you were spared the pain of wanting me."
"Ah! but think of the years of love that I have lost; for had I known, this wasted period would not have been. If necessary, I would have searched the whole world through for you. But my search would not have been prolonged, for love would have winged my feet, and brought me quickly to my goal."
"You can turn a pretty compliment. Tell me now, how like you me in this costume; you have never yet seen me, but in Eastern dress. Does my Parisian gown become me, with all these pretty chiffons?"
"You are ravishing, ma chérie; bewitching as you looked in Arab garb, your charms are even enhanced in European habit. You look a gay Parisian from head to foot."
Undoubtedly she did. No one, viewing her, would have guessed that in her veins there ran a drop of Arab blood, for she was fairer even than most Spanish women.
She laughed merrily at the compliment, for, in many things, she was pleased as easily as is a child, and was as open in displaying her delight.
"But now," resumed St. Just, "I am longing to hear about yourself; how it is I find you here, and what you have been doing in the interval."
"Ah! but it would take all night to tell you everything," was her reply. "By degrees you shall know all. Rest content on this occasion with the chief incidents. You know you left me at the "Tomb of the Kings" to take that treasure on to Cairo. Oh! that horrid treasure! But for that, I should not have lost you. Well, I waited for month after month for the message from you that was to tell me where I was to meet you; and, each day, I became more sad and lonely. Ah! my Henri, how I did miss you. When no news came, my anxiety became almost insupportable, for I feared that some misfortune had befallen you; and I—I was helpless to assist you, for I knew not what it was, or where you were.
"At last, three months after you had left me, one of the men who had formed your escort came into the camp alone. He could scarcely walk, but swayed about, like a drunken man, from side to side. He was unarmed and had scarcely a rag about him, and he looked as though he had not tasted food for many days. Altogether he was in a pitiable condition. At first, he was too weak to speak; he staggered into the encampment, and then his strength gave out, and he fell at full length to the ground. When he had been sufficiently restored with food and drink, he was brought to me, and then—then, my husband, I heard the dreadful news; the very worst that could have happened had befallen me." Even now she shuddered at its recitation; there was no make-believe about it, and St. Just's heart leaped with joy and sympathy at the thought of how she must have loved him.
"He told me," she went on, "of the attack on you at Thebes, and how he had seen you fall; also that Yusuf who was in the attacking party, had been slain by Mahmoud. May Allah bless the boy for that good deed! Henri, there must have been treachery somewhere, though I know not how it came about."
"There was," he interposed. "Some traitor in the camp must have given Yusuf notice of our coming, and he, in consequence, waylaid us."
"When I heard this dreadful news, I fainted," proceeded Halima, "and it was long before I again was conscious; and then—Ah! may I never again suffer what I went through then. I rent the air with piercing shrieks, when I realized that I should never see you more; for, after what this man had told me, and hearing nothing from you, I could not doubt that you were dead. How I passed the weeks that followed—but no, I cannot bear to dwell on it; I will draw a veil over that fearful time; it was worse even than when, once before, I thought that you were lost; for then you were not my husband." She trembled violently at the recollection.
"Of course," continuing, "the treasure having been captured from you, there was an end to my father's ambitious schemes on my behalf; and I was so depressed that I felt a desert life would drive me mad. Its dullness was more than I could bear. I wanted rousing; grief and monotony were killing me. So I resolved to do alone what we had meant to do together; to travel to my mother's country. I had still the jewels, and I knew that they were of enormous value, so that I should not be short of money. With Abdallah and a few more to escort me, I set off for Cairo, letting it be understood that I should remain there for a while and eventually rejoin the tribe.
"Arrived at Cairo, I told Abdallah only, under an oath of secrecy, of my real intentions, and that he was to take steps at once to put them into execution. He did his utmost to dissuade me, but, when he saw I was resolved, he promised to do his best to help me, and agreed to see me safe to France."
"Faithful old soul," interposed St. Just, "I am sure you could depend on him."
"Yes, indeed, I don't know what I should have done without him. He is with me still. Well, we made our way to Rosetta. Thence we took ship to Syracuse, where we landed, for the vessel went no further. Soon afterwards, Abdallah heard of a French brig that was bound for Brest, and in this we took our passage. From Brest we made our way to Paris.
"The first thing I did was to make my presence known to Buonaparte. I knew no one else in Paris, and I wanted an introduction to a dealer in precious stones, who would not rob me. He gave me this, and also told me of this villa at Auteuil, where I have since lived."
"You have renewed your intercourse with him!" St. Just exclaimed with anger, "and you professed to hate him."
"And so I do, and would circumvent him all I could; but, to do so, it is necessary that I know his schemes and movements. My vengeance is not forgotten; it is but gaining strength in slumber. I will be frank with you, Henri. He seemed overjoyed to see me, so far as one so impassive shows his feelings; and at once assumed that I desired our former relations to be restored. But I quickly undeceived him, though I told him he could visit me as a friend; and this he does. Perhaps he thinks I shall relent, but he deceives himself."
"I would he came not here," St. Just said gloomily. "He is both determined and deceitful and, should he guess your feelings towards him, will not spare you."
"Have no fear for me, my friend. I can protect myself. But it was necessary that I should be on friendly terms with him, so as to worm myself into the confidence of his ministers and adherents, and thus learn his plans."
"But how can you do this?" inquired her husband. "Surely they are not the men to reveal State Secrets!"
"They are men, my dear, and I am a woman. I have some of my sex's wit—and I am not wholly destitute of other weapons." And she looked at him coquettishly, and laughed a merry laugh. "Foolish boy, have I no powers of fascination?"
"Ah! have I not reason to know it!" he cried with strong conviction. "You are a queen, who, if you will it, can bring all men to your feet. But tell me, how did the First Consul take it when he learned that you were married?"
"Married!" she laughed gayly, "who says that I am married? My faith, not I."
St. Just loosed his hold of her with a sudden movement that was involuntary, and looked at her in wonder, to see whether she had spoken in mere banter, or in sober earnestness. He learned nothing from her face; it was an enigma to him.
"This jest is out of place with me," he said.
"No jest, my friend," she answered airily, "but the honest truth."
His face clouded and took on a stern expression.
"What mean you, Halima?" he asked, and there was deliberation in his voice. "But now, when first we met, you addressed me as your husband."
"A facon de parler, chéri. I thought 'twould please you; I ought rather to have said 'My lover.'"
He gazed at her in mingled anger and stupefaction. Then he sprang from the divan to his feet.
"Your effrontery amazes me," he said. "Pray do you pass as an unmarried woman?"
"I pass as Madame de Moncourt," she replied, flashing her eyes boldly on him, "and no one has yet had the temerity to ask for my credentials."
"I shall claim you as my wife," he said, his anger rising.
"And get shot as a deserter," was the cool response.
Her audacity and coolness staggered him; but, before he could reply, "Nay, I can save you from that," she said, "while I think of it, let me hand you this." And from a bangle on her wrist she unfastened the charm Buonaparte's wife had given him, as a reminder that her husband would spare his life, should it be jeopardized.
"I have worn it ever since we parted." She held it out to him.
But he declined it. "I will not have it," he said fiercely. "What care I for life, without you to share it? No matter what the consequences, I will proclaim you as my wife. Keep the talisman and be my murderess, if you will." Then he added with a heartfelt wail, "Oh! Halima, was all your boasted love for me but counterfeit?"
While his unbending resolution angered her, his anguish, which was but the expression of his great love for her, touched her heart. Besides which, she really loved him, and she did not mean to lose him; but she must have him on her own conditions. A smile of triumph overspread her face, but softened withal by love.
"Counterfeit," she cried. "You have had little experience of women, if you cannot discriminate between real and pretended passion. You have held me in your arms, and I have given you every proof that woman can of how I love you. You insult me when you suggest that my passion was assumed."
"Then why repudiate our marriage?"
"For the safety of us both. Be calm, my dear, and listen to me. First, as to the position. I am no longer in Egypt; I am in France and am a naturalized Frenchwoman. And you are a Frenchman. The Mahommedan ceremony we went through is not binding on us here. Were I to proclaim myself a Christian and disown the tie between us, you would be powerless to enforce it. Impersonally I have made inquiries. No doubt were I to admit your claim, I could not afterwards have it set aside. Now those are the cold, hard facts. Next, to consider the consequence that would ensue from such admission. I have said before, that I would be frank with you, and I will; I will keep nothing from you. Buonaparte pursues me with his attentions, but I know how to keep him at a distance. For all that, if he knew that I was married, he would see in it the cause of my refusing his advances. In such a case, for how long would your life be safe? Do you think his promises to you would bar the way to his desire? Even if he spared your life, he would either imprison you, or, at best, order you to join some regiment now abroad; in any case we should be separated. I am as firm as ever in my resolve to punish Buonaparte, and I want your help. As my acknowledged husband you could not give it. I cannot spare you, dear; believe me when I say that my love for you is true and deep. No other man has ever touched my heart like you; has made it leap within my bosom, and the blood to rush like a torrent through my veins. Be reasonable, my own man, and come and sit by me, and I will wind my arms around your neck, and kiss you to compliance. Come, Henri, to your Halima, whose heart and soul are wholly yours."
She held out her arms to him invitingly.
The man cast his eyes upon her glowing face and then on her heaving bosom, over which her draperies rose and fell; thence they traveled downwards, past the rounded arms and tapering fingers, to her dainty ankles and the little slender feet that rested on a footstool; and the blood began to boil within him with desire; but still he hesitated. She saw it and resumed:
"Henri, you will not desert me. There is no one I can absolutely trust, but you. I cannot do without you, but the public knowledge of the tie between us would defeat my plans, and would, I know, result in harm to you; and that I could not bear; for you are all the world to me."
The last words were uttered low, but were full of seductive sweetness to the hearer. She turned her liquid eyes on him, eyes in which his own image was reflected, and there was a witchery in her smiling, pleading mouth. Once more his gaze roamed over the woman's sensuous perfections, and he felt drunk with passion.
He sprang forward into her extended arms, and she caught him in her sinuous embrace.
"My queen! My life," he murmured.
She read her victory in his eyes and words, and was content. His passion seemed to have entered into her, for she pressed him tightly to her breast, and kissed him madly—almost hungrily—on his lips and eyes, as though she could not have enough of him.
But to one's capacity even, for his endearments, Dame Nature puts a limit, and soon Halima was fain, for want of breath, to place a drag on her effusiveness. She drew back and panted to regain her breath. When somewhat calmed, she spoke again.
"Cruel man," she murmured softly, "I began to think my charms were waning, when you remained so obdurate. Tell me, have I fallen off in face or form?"
He looked her over searchingly; there was hunger and covetousness in his eyes.
"My God!" he said in a tone almost of awe. "You are more beautiful than ever; I almost tremble at your loveliness."
A deep-drawn sigh escaped him. Presently he resumed, "Now tell me what you purpose. On what footing are we to stand towards one another?"
"Exactly as before, except in name. The world is not to know of our relationship. You will visit me openly, like my other friends, and sometimes in secret; only you must be circumspect. You will have your apartments in Paris, and I shall live on here. I shall have no secrets from you; you will know and be consulted about all my plans, for your help is vital to me. I am rich, and my purse will be always at our disposal. I will give you money before you leave me. Nay, you shall have it now, lest I forget it."
She moved to an escritoire and drew forth from it a roll of notes and gave it to him. "That will suffice for present needs," she said, "Do not be sparing in its use; there is plenty more."
Then she resumed her seat beside him. "Henri," she said, once more twining her arm around his neck, "I am all your own: body and soul and every atom of me are yours; but this is our own sweet secret."
"Sweet wife," he answered softly; "and I am wholly yours; my thoughts have never strayed to any other woman. I devote my will, my life to you. Henceforth I exist but to serve you."
"Dear boy," she cooed, "and do you think I could have let you go?"
"And yet, though we have but just met for the first time for years, you would send me from you. Oh! not to-night, my Halima," he cried imploringly.
There was a sensual sparkle in her eye.
"Nay, not to-night," she answered; "after so long a parting, I cannot spare you yet. But we must be circumspect. You shall pass here merely as my guest. I can so arrange it as to avoid suspicion."
"A hungry man is fain to accept a crust; I must make the most of what you offer," was his reply.
Now, whether throughout this burning interview Halima had spoken from her heart, whether even she had persuaded herself that all she said was true—that she had no thought for any other than her husband—need not be stated here. But so much may be chronicled, that he implicitly believed her.