For Love of a Bedouin Maid

CHAPTER I

Eighteen months elapsed before there was any change in St. Just's condition. All that time he remained a prisoner in the fortress of Vincennes.

When, at the sight of the execution of the Duc d'Enghien, he had fallen fainting to the ground, he had struck his head violently against the stone floor, with the result that when, later, his jailer entered his cell, he was still insensible. All attempts to rouse him proving fruitless, the garrison surgeon was called in. He pronounced St. Just's condition to be very serious, and warned the Government that, unless the patient received the utmost care, he would slip through their fingers. So he was at once removed to a more comfortable apartment; but it was several months before he regained his strength. Brain fever, the result of the privations he had undergone, culminating in the awful shock of the Duc d'Enghien's murder, set in, and, for weeks, he lay unconscious, sometimes delirious, with occasional lucid intervals. More than once they thought that life had left him, but he rallied just in time. At last, the fever was subdued, and, from that moment, though he was at first so weak as to be unable to raise his hand, he began rapidly to regain his strength.

In all probability his illness saved his life, for to try him for treason was impossible. The Governor informed Buonaparte of his condition, and received orders that he was to be detained in the fortress until further notice, but to be treated with no unnecessary harshness, and to be allowed such liberty as was consistent with his safe keeping. This had been due to Josephine's intercession; she had not forgotten St. Just's services to her husband on the night when she first met the young lieutenant; also she had been struck with his handsome face and manly bearing, and had a somewhat tender feeling towards him.

When he had recovered, he was allowed a fair amount of liberty within the fortress, with as much outdoor exercise as he desired, but this was on parole. At first he was naturally very anxious, for he had not forgotten the tragedy he had witnessed, and for some months he lived in perpetual apprehension of hearing that the moment for his execution had arrived: or, at any rate, that he was to be tried for treason—and this would have amounted in the end to the same thing; for that he would be found guilty there could not be a doubt.

But, when month succeeded month, and he received no untoward news, his hope revived and gradually strengthened into confidence that his life was to be spared.

The fact was that stirring events in France had succeeded each other with such rapidity, and Buonaparte's mind was so occupied with weightier matters, that he forgot all about St. Just, who might have spent the remainder of his days a prisoner, but for an accident to be presently described.

One evening, when he was sitting by his window musing over all that had occurred to him since he had regained his memory at Marsala and returned to France, he was surprised to receive a visit from the governor. He was surprised because it was usual, when that functionary desired an interview with a prisoner, for such prisoner to be brought before him at his own quarters; not for him to go to the prisoner.

So, when his door was opened and St. Just recognized his visitor, he feared that it portended mischief to himself, and a vague dread came over him. He sprang in some confusion from his seat, and had just begun to greet the governor respectfully when his eye fell on another person who was following him. The sight almost took away his breath; if his apprehension of evil had been vague before, it was now distinct enough, for the man was Buonaparte!

"The—the First Consul!" he gasped in terror, when the short figure and pale face of the "Man of Destiny" confronted him.

A grim smile flitted about the great man's features, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, he turned to the governor, who, hat in hand, had stood aside respectfully; then he said in his harsh, rapid tones:—

"Evidently, Mons. le Gouverneur, your lodgers hear nothing of what goes on in the outside world."

"Not a word, Sire; it is forbidden within these walls."

At that word, "Sire," St. Just gave a start. What did it portend? He noted, too, that the governor's manner was rather that of a subject to a monarch than of an official to the head of a republic. Had Buonaparte indeed, become King of France?

While he was still wondering, Buonaparte, who, in the dim twilight had not recognized him, turned to him and inquired sharply, "Your name, sir."

"St. Just, Sire," was the reply, he deeming it wise to use the same form of address that the governor had employed; but he was trembling visibly.

Buonaparte started, and again a cruel smile hovered about his mouth; then the words fell from him in a torrent:—

"So it is you, Sir. I had forgotten you. By my faith, it was a fitting return you made for my clemency in allowing you to live. You plotted against me once and I forgave you; I have spared your life a second time, regardful of my promise; can you suppose that, but for that, you would have lived an hour after you had been brought here? And it is to my wife that you are principally indebted; it was she who reminded me of my pledge. You have a good friend in the Empress. But for her, you would have been shot, as you deserved, and buried in yonder ditch." And he pointed towards the window, and beyond to the very spot on which the young Duc d'Enghien had been done to death.

St. Just's first fear had somehow passed away, and an irresistible impulse took possession of him to speak out all that was in his mind. Smarting at the Emperor's contemptuous lashings, boiling over with indignation at his wife's seduction and all that had followed as a consequence, he felt that even the certainty of instant death could not restrain him. He must speak and he would.

He drew himself upright and looked unflinchingly in the conqueror's face.

"It is true that you have spared my life," he said; "but of what value is it, since you have poisoned it? It would have been no misfortune to have died like him, whose grave you can see out yonder, innocent of all, except the attempt to rid France of a despot. I could even have welcomed death, had I succeeded."

The governor was astonished at St. Just's temerity. He stepped forward and drew his sword, and, but for the Emperor's interference, would have cut down the audacious speaker.

But Napoleon waved him back.

"Nay, do not seek to check him," he said calmly. "I would hear him out. When the tongue wags freely, we learn who are our friends and who our enemies. Proceed, Sir," to St. Just.

At the Emperor's words and tone St. Just was greatly discomposed, but, having started, he could not now draw back. For all that, his confidence and rage were waning fast, and he proceeded stumblingly:—

"Was it honorable to seduce the woman to whom I was affianced, and, with that object, to do your best to send me to my death? In such circumstances, would not you strive to be revenged; would not you strike down the man who should dishonor her you love?"

"Tut, tut, man," struck in Napoleon, "I like not generalities. Let us inform ourselves of whom we talk about. Is it Madame de Moncourt of whom you speak?"

"It is."

"And pray, Sir, what right had one of my officers when on duty in the field to enter into a marriage contract without my permission? But let that pass. In the first instance I did not know how matters stood between you. Possibly, had you taken me into your confidence, events might have taken a different course. But do you mean to tell me seriously that this is the reason of your treachery? That, with a grand career before you, you sacrificed your whole future for a woman; that, instead of remaining brave and honorable, as I know you were, you could become a traitor to your country, a deserter from your colors, a creature forced to crawl about disguised, a plotter of assassination; and all this because a woman has smiled upon another? What is woman? a toy, a plaything for an hour; a bagatelle not worth consideration in comparison to a man's career. I did not think you had been so great a fool. And it was for this, you madman, that you raised your feeble hand at me!"

And the Emperor laughed boisterously. St. Just became more and more confused. Napoleon's mockery hit him hard. All his angry vehemence had left him, and with it all his hope. He no longer stood erect, but hung his head. He felt as though his speech had left him; but, with a mighty effort he managed to force out the words:—

"Yes, that was my sole reason. Now do with me what you will. I do not flinch from death, and will meet it like a soldier." And, with these words, he once more stood upright, expecting, the next moment, to hear his doom. He was resolved to receive it like a man.

For a short space no one spoke. As for the governor, he was amazed. It astounded him how any one could dare to beard Napoleon.

The Emperor took a step or two to the window and gazed out, his eye reposing on the low mound, below which lay buried the body of the murdered Bourbon. He was debating how to deal with the man who had had the rashness to speak his mind to him. He was not magnanimous, but he was whimsical; many of his actions that were attributed to generosity were actually the outcome of caprice, and, sometimes, of a belief in fate.

Twice he resorted to his snuff-box, as though hoping to gain inspiration from it. Then he wheeled round sharply and fixed his piercing eyes upon St. Just, who stood trembling at his own audacity, and at the expectation that the first words that would reach his ear would sound his death knell. He was astonished, therefore, at what they really were.

"You have made a great mistake, my friend. Doubtless the best way to prevent its repetition, would be to have you shot. But I will spare your life, once more; you might think, otherwise, that I went in fear of you. Pshaw! a lion does not dread a snapping cur. For all that I would send you to the traitor's fate, but that the memory of one man's death restrains me." He pointed to the ominous mound that varied the level of the moat. "You may thank your star for that."

He paused and began to pace the room, the eyes of the other two men watching every moment; they scarce durst breathe. Their suspense was becoming almost unbearable, when he spoke again.

"You shall have your liberty once more, Sir; but—before I leave, I will sign the necessary papers for your release—not in France. On leaving here, you will proceed to Ministry of Marine with a letter I shall give you, authorizing and instructing the Minister to give you a packet of papers. With these you will proceed to England, where you will hand them to Mr. Perry, the hosier in London. You know the man, having made his acquaintance on a previous occasion, when he helped you to intercept a despatch from the English Government to their Minister at the Hague. I have no more to add, except that you will not return to France, without permission. If you do, your death be on your head."

He turned to go; then wheeled round suddenly and shook his hand threateningly at St. Just. "And beware, Sir; think not to escape my vengeance, if you again betray my trust. Even in England you will find my arm long enough to reach you. Spies will dog your steps; so have a care, Sir, have a care."

He walked rapidly to the door, the governor, at his heels, the latter throwing the words to St. Just on his way out, "I will have everything put in order for your journey at once."

Left to himself, St. Just tottered to a seat and panted audibly, for such were the strength and conflict of his emotions and the violent beating of his heart, which seemed struggling to burst from its fleshy prison, that his breath could only come in short, quick sobs. He seemed to have withered up under the fire of Napoleon's scorching words. Shame, remorse, hatred, thirst for vengeance, and a sense of utter impotence, all fought together within him, and were tearing him to pieces in the contest. Oh! that he could relive the past, blot out the present, cast in a nobler mould his future! But alas! he knew the hopelessness of his aspirations! He had the rectitude to wish aright, but not the will to do. He knew that, in Halima's hands, he would be as wax. Honor, for him, involved a life apart from her; for the Emperor, in sending him to England, was, without meaning it, sending him to dishonor.

For one mad moment, he thought of refusing to obey the Emperor's command, and submitting to the consequences. It was certain death; but what of that? It would save his honor. And the pain; that would be only momentary; he had suffered far more anguish in the battlefield; and to be shot was a fitting end to a soldier's life.

But death meant never again to set eyes on Halima. No, he could not face it. Not yet.

An hour later he had left Vincennes, and, three days afterwards, he was in London.

At once he made his way to Hartford House, his mind disturbed with mingled hopes and fears. For aught he knew, his wife no longer lived, and, if she did, it did not follow that she was even in England.

But his mind was quickly set at rest on both these points. Of the servants who came in answer to his summons he inquired whether Halima still lived there, asking for her in her mother's name, for he did not know whether she had thought fit to adopt his own.

The man replied that Madame de Moncourt still lived there and was at home. Oh! the relief at this intelligence! By his emotions at that moment, St. Just knew what would have been his feelings, had the reply been different. Yes, Halima was still all in all to him. His spirits sprang up with a bound; he had made his inquiry in a tone of mingled eagerness and dread; but now his whole mien and manner changed; a gleam of pleasure lighted up his face, and his tone was bright and cheerful.

"Will you tell Madame," he said, "that a messenger has arrived from France on business of importance, and begs the favor of an interview?"

Since the servant did not know him, he would not give his name.

The man invited him to enter, and showed him into an anteroom off the hall.

Presently he heard a step upon the staircase, that sent a thrill right through him and made the heart within him dance with joy. For the moment, all the past was blotted out; all his shame, his rage, his desire to be revenged upon Napoleon, were as though they had never been; he lived only in the present.

He had been warming his hands before the fire, but, at the opening of the door, he swung round and faced her.

She advanced into the room with a quick, gliding motion, a look of eager expectation on her face. Then, bending courteously, she said, "I bid you welcome, Sir. I understand you are direct from France, and are the bearer of important news. Does it by any chance concern—Vincennes? I am deeply interested in one—"

All the while she had fixed her eyes piercingly, inquiringly upon St. Just, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Suddenly they glowed with a brighter light, and a flash of joyous recognition was darted from their depths.

"Henri!" she cried, nay, almost shrieked; and she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. She drew his head down to her own and covered him with kisses. "Oh! my darling, to think that you are given back to me once more. And I had mourned you so, and had tried, oh my very hardest, for your release; and the terror I have been in lest—but there, I cannot put it into words. But it is over, and you have come back to me, my dearest. Oh! my happiness is too great."

She burst out laughing; then she began to sob hysterically, and the tears fell from her eyes in scalding drops.

St. Just laid his hand gently on her gold brown locks and stroked them fondly. "Don't weep, my own," he said; "this is no time for tears; tears are for sorrow, not for joy; and we are happy now. Ah, chérie, you don't know what it is for me to be with you again, after all that I have suffered, it is like heaven, but I will spare you the recital of what I have undergone. Our hours shall not be so misspent, and we have lost too many since first we met. So, dry your tears, my sweet, and let me see you smile."

She looked up at him, smiling lovingly through the drops that glistened, like liquid diamonds, on her cheeks. "It is joy, my Henri," she murmured sobbingly. "It has been too much for me to see you so unexpectedly; but I shall be myself again directly." Then she stroked his face again.

It was two hours later and the reunited couple were still seated together in Halima's boudoir, whither she had taken him. Of course she had coaxed out of him a full account of all that he had seen and done and suffered since their last meeting. At his relation of the Duc d'Enghien's murder, the tears rushed to her eyes; but her grief was only momentary, for it was overwhelmed in the swirl of indignation that swept over her. She sprang to her feet and began to pace rapidly about the room; the blood rushed in a torrent to her face, and there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"Coward! inhuman monster!" she exclaimed. "Oh! that women can be the mothers of such men—more bloody and ruthless than any tiger. One would almost believe that, at his conception, Allah must have slept, and the enemy of mankind been thus left free to wreak his malice on humanity unchecked. Oh! cruel, cruel! But it shall be the worse for him. Of late my lust for vengeance has seemed to languish somewhat; but this cold-blooded, this perfidious murder of an innocent man has put new life in it, and it will now increase in strength so long as the breath is in me, or it finds satisfaction in the hurling of the bloody upstart into infamy. I am glad you have given me this full account for it has put the seal on my resolve."

She seated herself again upon the couch, with a sudden movement threw one leg over the other, and swung her foot restlessly to and fro. Her bosom was heaving with agitation, and her nostrils quivered with violence of her passion. All her husband's efforts to compose her were unavailing; for the time, her passion for him seemed to have spent itself. He now sat mutely watching her. Presently she spoke again.

"And the French people have made this fiend their Emperor! Poor deluded fools! And he boasts that he will bring all Europe to his feet. And I think he will. So be it; the higher the eagle soars, the more crushing will be his fall when wounded. Ha! ha! So far my incantations have revealed the truth; I doubt not now they will be fulfilled in their entirety. I shall live to see his downfall and disgrace; then I will mock at him in his despair."

She turned her face towards the fire and gazed absently at the glowing embers; for the moment so lost in her reflection that she forgot that she was not alone.

With a start, she roused herself and faced St. Just, then laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"So he has entrusted you with papers for his agent." She spoke in her natural tone, without excitement; but, though the outward expression of her hatred was for the present satisfied, her longing for revenge was as intense as ever, and her determination.

St. Just assented. "That is so."

"And where are these papers?"

"In the lining of my cloak."

"And what do you intend to do with them?"

"Deliver them to the man, Perry, of course."

"Do you know their contents?"

"No."

"Do you mean to examine them?"

"I should not dream of it. I should not dare. I should be a traitor."

"And you would act as the instrument of this perfidious despot, our bitter enemy, in the advancement of his nefarious designs to keep the rightful King of France in exile, and its people holden in his iron grip! You would miss this opportunity of discovering his intentions and informing his opponents of them! Why, those papers may contain intelligence that may make, or mar him. It may be vital to our cause!" She bounded from the couch and faced him. Then she went on disdainfully. "And you would not dream of it; you would not dare; you would be a traitor! Oh! you craven, you poor-hearted creature! Is it blood that flows along your veins, or is it milk. Oh! to think that I should have given my heart to such a man!" Her voice was rising rapidly with her temper, and her face flushed red. "But I should dream of it; I should dare; and I should be no traitor; and I will see those papers!" Her words seemed to tumble over one another as she rushed them out, and the last ended almost in a shriek.

St. Just turned pale and shivered at her violence. He thought he had already plumbed the strength and depth of her emotions, but found them still unfathomable. Again he felt that he was helpless in her hands. Only personal violence would restrain her, and that he would not dream of.

"My dearest, what you ask for is impossible," he remonstrated, but his accents lagged behind his words.

"Impossible," she cried, "No, but certain; and I mean to have them."

And, before St. Just could say another word, she had seized his cloak, which had been flung across a chair hard by the door, and had darted from the room. Pursuit was useless, for she was fleet of foot and could easily out-run him. Almost before he knew that she was gone, he heard the key turned in the door outside, and her footsteps vanishing in the distance. He was a prisoner, until it should please her to release him.

His heart went down within him. What would be the upshot of what had just occurred? Would she restore the papers to him when she had mastered what was in them—perhaps made a copy of them? A grim smile came over him at the thought that this would be playing off on him the very trick that he himself had played upon Sir Henry Emerson.

Fool that he had been! Why could he not have delivered his papers to the hosier, Perry, before going to see his wife? Then this awful predicament would have been avoided. Again his insensate passion for this Delilah had made him betray his trust. And he had meant to be true this time—certainly so far as the delivery of this despatch. He cursed himself for not having foreseen that, when once Halima had discovered the object of his journey, she would do her best to make it futile, when, by so doing, she would baffle Buonaparte.

And now what could he do? Nothing against her will; she had him, so to speak, bound and gagged.

In a fit of desperation, he rushed to the bell and pulled it frantically; so violently, indeed, that he quickly broke it. But no one came in answer to his summons. Halima had given orders to the contrary. Also she had placed a strong man-servant at the door, with instructions to stop St. Just should he burst it open. He did try, but his efforts were in vain. Again and again he threw himself against it, but the door was strong and resisted every impulse.

Then he began to shout with all his strength, now employing threats and now entreaties. But still no one came to him. At last, he was compelled to cease for want of breath. Patience only seemed left to him, but how could he be patient?

He threw himself into a chair, worn out with his exertions, and abandoned himself to the bitterness of his thoughts. So bitter indeed were they, and so plunged in misery was he and so unhinged, that he could not have been safely entrusted with a lethal weapon; for probably that evening would have been his last. It was fortunate that Halima had removed his traveling cloak, for it contained a brace of loaded pistols.