Part 11

After what General Buonaparte had said and his orders that they were not to leave their quarters, St. Just and Tremeau naturally expected that, on the following day, or, at least, on that succeeding it, they would be entrusted with some mission, or be appointed to some position of importance.

But day succeeded day and they had no communication from the General, and now a week had elapsed and still they were confined to the barracks and not permitted to go about the city; and all, as it seemed, on the mere chance that Buonaparte might require the services of one or both of them. The young men found this period of confinement and inactivity particularly irksome and their former admiration and almost worship of their General were gradually changing to indignation and a conviction that, for some reason, they were being fooled by him.

St. Just had utilized the interval in procuring new uniforms and outfit; and he had been furnished with a charger, in conformity with Buonaparte's orders. Further, he had called in the assistance of the regimental barber, so that now he once more resembled the trim young officer of a twelvemonth earlier, the only difference being that he looked a little older, and a good deal thinner, as well as darker.

After the many months of hardship in the desert, he would have welcomed barrack life and his regimental duties as a delightful change, were it not for his uncertainty about Halima and his longing to be with her.

But, at ten o'clock one morning, an end was put to his suspense, for he and his companion were summoned to the General's presence. They found him listening attentively to a report an aide-de-camp was giving him. This aide-de-camp was Garraud, and he had come from Admiral Gantheaume, with the information that Sir Sidney Smith had left the coast, and, it was believed, for Cyprus.

It was this news that had caused Buonaparte to send for Tremeau and St. Just.

When they came in, without any preface he began, "In half an hour you will start in company, with despatches for Admiral Gantheaume. They are to prepare him for my coming. You will proceed with the utmost speed, for I shall set out but one hour after you. Make your preparations immediately and return here within the half hour, when my despatches will be ready."

The two young officers saluted and withdrew without a word. In less than the half hour they were back, their horses saddled at the door and everything ready for their ride. Five minutes later, they were on their way from Cairo, St. Just filled with distress and discontent, that kept increasing with every mile he put between the object of his passion and himself. It was clear that a fortnight must elapse before their meeting could take place; he prayed it might be no longer, but his General might, of course, take it into his head to send him on another mission.

St. Just and Tremeau met with no mishaps or adventures of any sort by the way, for this part of the country was in the hands of the French, whose line of communications extended from Cairo to the coast. They rode their best, but, for all that, did not reach the Admiral until four days afterwards, and only four hours in advance of Buonaparte.

Up to this moment, as has been seen, Buonaparte had contrived to keep St. Just and Halima apart, and even to conceal from her the fact that he was alive, and, further, was in Cairo. But for an accident, moreover, St. Just would have accompanied his General to France, when he, probably, would soon have forgotten his lady-love, in which case the incidents which follow would never have occurred.

But Dame Fortune has her own mode of arranging matters for her puppets, and in the case of Halima and St. Just, achieved her end in the way to be now described.

It so chanced that General Kleber, to whom Buonaparte had written with instructions that he was to meet him at the port, was not on the spot when he arrived. Doubtless Kleber would soon have come, but Buonaparte could brook no delay and, in his impatience, called out:

"Send for him; send for him at once."

On that, forth from the little house at Marabou, in which the General was issuing his last instructions, strode General Junot to find a messenger. Lounging outside the door, awaiting Buonaparte, was St. Just, his tall figure conspicuous amongst those who had formed the General's escort. To him Junot addressed himself.

"Ride, boot and spur, to Alexandria, and inquire at the citadel for General Kleber. When you see him, tell him the General impatiently awaits him here."

The dawn of the 23rd of August--the day whose close was to see Buonaparte set out for France to win new laurels--was breaking, when St. Just rode forth on this new mission.

Junot, having seen him start, returned to Buonaparte, whom he found pacing up and down in eager converse with General Menou.

"What news of Kleber?" asked Buonaparte impatiently, pausing in his walk when Junot entered.

"I have sent a messenger to Alexandria for him, Sir," replied Junot saluting.

"Pray Heaven he may arrive in time," was the reply.

St. Just had ridden with such despatch that it was but ten o'clock in the morning when he entered the gates of Alexandria. Forthwith he made his way to the citadel; only to learn, however, that his errand had been fruitless; General Kleber had left two hours before his arrival, unaware of Buonaparte's presence in the neighborhood.

St. Just handed over his despatches to one of Kleber's aides-de-camp, and then, tired out with the exertion of his rapid ride and prostrated by the heat, he lay down to rest himself before setting out on his return journey. Thinking that he might go to sleep, he left word with the soldier to whom he gave his horse, to arouse him in an hour, unless he, St. Just, first came to him.

Unfortunately, the man was called off to some other duty and forgot him. In consequence, the very thing St. Just had feared took place. He fell off into a profound slumber, from which he did not wake until nine o'clock at night. He had slept for quite ten hours!

Horrified at the discovery, and cursing the soldier in whom he had misplaced his trust, he sprang up and sought his horse, intending to start for Marabou at once.

But, no sooner had he set his foot outside, than he heard a rumor that Buonaparte's escort was approaching. And the rumor was justified by the fact; for, just when St. Just, standing by the citadel gate with reins in hand, was on the point of springing into the saddle, there came the sound of hoofs; next a detachment of Guides appeared, and, in their midst, a Turkish groom, whom St. Just knew well by sight, leading Buonaparte's favorite horse. But Buonaparte, to St. Just's surprise, was not with them. The groom recognized the young officer and called out to him in passing, "The General has sailed for France; set out at six to-night."

St. Just was staggered at the news, for he had never dreamed that Buonaparte's departure would be so rapid. What he had just heard was so bewildering to him, that, at first, he scarce knew what to do. It seemed to have upset all his plans. At least, he must think the matter over. So, instead of mounting, he led his horse along on foot, the while he strove to marshal his ideas.

Since his return to Cairo, a struggle had been going on within him between his ambition and his love, the former backed by the influence of his General, the latter by that of Halima. Of late he had nursed a sense of injury against Buonaparte for having, whether intentionally or not, kept him from visiting his mistress. This had tended much to modify his former devotion to the General, and, now that the latter was no longer present to push him forward in his military career, St. Just's interest in that career began to lessen, while his passion for Halima correspondingly increased.

He felt that the present was the turning-point in his existence. His yearning for the lovely Arab girl became almost irresistible. But, if he should yield to the dire temptation that was assailing him, it would be at a price--the highest a man could pay--his honor. Should he now turn his horse's head to Cairo, he would be regarded as a deserter, and a deserter in time of war; if caught, the penalty would be death--and dead with dishonor. Could he run so great a risk for a woman's smiles? Could he even live, a dishonored man, supposing he saved his life? Was Halima worth the sacrifice? Was any woman worth it? In the agonizing contest warring within him, the sweat came out in great drops upon his brow and streamed down his face. He put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief, and, by accident, withdrew with it the locket containing the miniature of Halima--the locket that had turned aside Mahmoud's bullet and thus saved his life, and that he had preserved in all his wanderings.

He was standing beneath a swinging oil lantern at the time. He opened the locket and gazed upon the lovely features there displayed. That glance decided his future life; for one short moment, ambition and honor in the one scale, and love and dishonor in the other, trembled in the balance; then slowly the former rose, until it touched the beam, and dishonor had won the day. Alas, for poor weak man!

"The die is cast," he cried; "it is my fate. To Cairo and to her. But, oh! what a price I am paying for my love!"

Then he vaulted into the saddle and galloped off into the darkness.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

Five days later, making his way through the suburb of Gizeh towards the city of Cairo, might have been seen a tall, well-built man, with shaven face, whom, from his dark complexion and Moorish dress one would have set down as a denizen of the desert, the more so that he was closely followed by two Arabs. The observer, however, who should have come to this conclusion, would have been in error, for the traveler was St. Just, but so changed in appearance, that scarce even his most intimate friend would have recognized him.

After the decision he had come to, this change in his appearance had become imperative for the achievement of his purpose, in consequence of his having come away without having obtained leave of absence from his General. When he learned of Buonaparte's departure, he ought, of course, either to have reported himself to General Kleber, or rejoined his regiment. To all intents and purposes he was, therefore, a deserter. Hence the necessity for his disguise. How he had managed it was in this way.

On the outskirts of Gizeh he had met Mahmoud, whom, in the suddenness of his departure from Cairo with Buonaparte's despatch to Admiral Gantheaume, he had forgotten to inform of his intended mission. In consequence, Mahmoud, when two or three days had elapsed without his seeing or hearing anything of his master--for it will be remembered that Tremeau had accompanied St. Just--came to the conclusion that he had been deserted, so had decided to make his way back to his tribe as best he could. He had fallen in with another member of the tribe, one Abdallah, and the two had joined themselves to a caravan en route for the desert.

On their meeting, mutual recognitions and explanations had taken place, between St. Just and Mahmoud, with the result that a bargain had been effected by which St. Just had sold his horse to one of the dealers in the caravan, and exchanged his uniform for an Arab costume. Then he had darkened his complexion, and his disguise had been completed.

Next he had explained to the two Arabs his intentions with regard to Halima; how, by her father's wishes he was going to marry her, get her by some means out of Cairo, and make his way with her to the Sheik Ibrahim. He had asked them to help him, and they had assented, and the three were now proceeding to Cairo on this errand.

Early on the following morning, therefore, St. Just presented himself at Halima's house--having first procured for Mahmoud and Abdallah lodgings in an obscure quarter of the city not far from Halima's--where, in answer to his summons, the door was opened by an Arab of forbidding aspect, who scowlingly inquired his business.

"My master, the merchant Abdallah," St. Just made reply, "bade me bring this parcel to the Lady Halima, and to await here her instructions." And he held out a little packet that contained the miniature of Halima, together with a paper on which was inscribed in Arabic, "News of him to whom you gave this, and of your father, from whom the bearer has a message."

After looking St. Just up and down suspiciously, for the man had noticed that the few words the Frenchman had uttered had lacked the natural ring, the Arab took the packet, and admitted him to the courtyard, where he bade him wait.

Not a soul was there besides himself, yet memory peopled it for him with throngs of living, moving beings. In his mind's eye he could see men in the uniform of his own country, some mounted, some on foot, small in numbers, defending themselves gallantly against a horde of dark-visaged, vindictive Egyptians, mingled with half-clad slaves of even darker hue, all bent on the destruction of the little desperate band. He could see the great general, once the object of his most absolute devotion; now, alas!--he shuddered when he thought of Buonaparte; and turned his mind to pleasanter reflections; he thought of Halima.

There above him--it was the second from the right--was the window from which she had made her escape on that eventful day, the first of their acquaintance. And next to it was the one from which, in the moonlight, she had bidden him a fond farewell, the last time they had met, and flung him a rose, her parting gift. And this was ten months ago. How much had passed since then!

The fountain plashed musically into its marble basin, and St. Just seated himself beside it, and, resting his elbow on his knee, placed his hand beneath his chin, and resigned himself to thought. What an age it seemed since he had seen Halima; how would she receive him when they met? Would her eyes gladden at the sight of him, or would she treat him as a stranger? Oh! no, she could not be so cruel.

His reverie was broken by the re-appearance of "The Scowler," as St. Just had mentally nick-named him.

"My mistress would have speech with you," he said; "follow me."

St. Just arose, his heart beating wildly with mingled excitement and suspense, and, in silence, accompanied the Arab along the colonnade, through the deserted pillared hall, and up the narrow staircase, that had been the scone of the sanguinary contest from which he had emerged with his bare life and Halima's. Then they came to the well-remembered curtains, through which he had so often passed. His guide drew these aside for him to enter; then let them fall back to their place, and retraced his steps.

And there was Halima. At last they had met. She was seated on the divan she had so often shared with him. In his eyes, she was, as she had ever been, beautiful beyond compare; but it cut him to the heart to see the look of care and sadness that now overspread her former laughing features. She was noticeably thinner, too. At the moment of his entrance, her eyes were bent upon the miniature before her. Perhaps, she was regretfully comparing the joyous, rounded face she saw there, with her own altered looks. Silently and motionless he waited for her to raise her eyes. Then she gave a little sob, and a tear stole down her cheek and dropped upon the miniature, blurring the winsome face on which her gaze was bent.

Her lover could contain himself no longer. Forgetful of his changed appearance, and the character that, for the time, he was assuming, he rushed to her side and seized her hand.

"Halima! My own," he cried in fervid accents. "My darling! my betrothed! It is I, your Henri. I have come back to you. Oh! let me look in your sweet eyes and there read that you are glad to see me. Speak to me, dear one; surely you are not afraid of me," he added, for she had taken no notice of his glowing tones. Then he kissed the hand he held, almost devouring it.

At last she turned her liquid eyes upon him; but, instead of the joy he had hoped to see in them, there was a look of doubt, of bewilderment, even of fear.

"Who? What?" she stammered. She looked intently at him to assure herself that he was indeed the man he said; then, with a low cry of "Henri!" she withdrew her hand from his and, burying her face in the cushions, burst into a storm of tears.

Pained beyond measure and astonished at the violence of her grief, for she sobbed without restraint, St. Just threw himself on his knees beside her, placed one arm round her waist and, with caresses and loving words, did his best to stem her tears.

"What ails my darling? why these tears?" he asked in gentle accents. "Is it excess of joy at my return, or what? You are unnerved, my Halima. It was thoughtless of me so suddenly to come upon you. You thought no doubt, with others, that I was dead, that we should never meet again. It was so said, I know, but it was false; I am indeed your Henri. And I have seen your father; have been his guest for months; and he has sent me here to take you to him. Then we are never to be parted more. So, weep no more, my darling, but look into my eyes and say you love me."

With such words and more of the same nature did the young men seek to allay her anguish, whose intensity was beginning to alarm him. Then he gently strove to raise her head from the cushions in which she still kept it buried.

She made but a faint resistance, and turned her tear-stained face on his. He tried to kiss her, but she shrank back from him, with a hunted look upon her face. He had never seen such a look on it before, and it made him tremble; still more so did her words.

"Oh, no! no! you must not. Do not touch me. And go, go away, if you would save both further misery. You cannot guess what shame and suffering your presence causes me. If you would spare me more, I entreat you, leave me."

St. Just, not having an inkling of the truth, supposed that it was his own conduct in having, as she supposed, so long neglected her, that had caused this outburst. Still her face expressed neither injured pride nor anger.

"Tell me, my Halima," he implored in piteous accents, "in what have I offended. Indeed it was not my fault that I came not to you sooner. I have been ill for many months--at death's door twice. I----"

With an effort she choked back her tears, and, turning her lovely head, her hair all disordered and her eyes red with weeping, towards him, she looked at him, oh so sadly in the face; then she said softly:

"I blame you not, Henri; it is I alone who am to blame. And I am your Halima no longer. I am not worthy of you. Forget me, forget that the unhappy woman you knew as Halima ever lived, and, if you can, forgive her. But go, I pray you."

Still mystified, but with an awful suspicion growing in his mind, St. Just replied, "Nay, Halima, I cannot leave you thus. If, as you say, you blame me not, I have a right to an explanation of your strange words--words that have stirred me more than any I have ever heard. After you have told me all that they portend, it will be time for my decision."

"You will not spare me, then," she said, "the shame of my disclosure? Oh! you are cruel, Henri." Then, after a momentary pause and with a sigh of resignation, she went on, "But, perhaps, 'tis better so; for, when you have heard the confession I have to make, you will no longer seek to stay."

Gradually, while she had been speaking, he had withdrawn himself from her side, and now, with a look of expectant horror in his face, he took a seat that faced her.

"Then listen," she resumed. "Some months after you had gone, they told me you were dead. It was General Buonaparte who first brought the news to me. I had seen him many times since your departure, and he had professed to love me; but, despite all his pressing, I remained true to you. I told him that my heart whispered to me that you still lived, and that nothing but the evidence of eye-witnesses would make me think otherwise. A month later he brought two men of my father's tribe, who said that they had seen you slain, shot by my father's orders. My grief was terrible, but how could I decline such evidence? And you must remember that, all this time, I had received no single word from you. Then----"

"It was impossible for me to send to you," he interjected; "I was stretched upon a bed of sickness, where I lay for months. I had like to have died, but for your father's help."

"I know; I understand all now; Oh! that I had known before. How cruel has been Fate to me."

She paused again, and the frightened look she wore became intensified.

"And then?" asked St. Just sternly.

"And then," she panted in a tone so low that he had to strain his ears to catch her words, "believing that you still lived, I had allowed General Buonaparte to think--in order that I might stave off his importunities--that, were I assured that you were dead, I would assent to his wishes, and become his. My love had died with you, and I resolved to live for ambition, and thought I saw the way through him to its gratification. Then, at the moment when I was almost distraught with grief, he reminded me of my promise, offered me his love as consolation for my loss of you. He promised to take me with him to Paris, a city he knew I longed to see, and drew such glowing pictures of my life there, that he lulled my scruples. Then, taking advantage of my weakness, he--and--and--I--became--his mistress!"

The last word was uttered in a whisper, but it penetrated to her hearer's ear. The blood rushed to her neck and face, with the shame of her confession, and she hung her head, not daring to raise her eyes to his.

St. Just sprang to his feet, and put his hands before his face.

"His mistress!" he exclaimed. "'Twas this I feared. Oh, infamy!" And his voice sounded like a despairing wail. "And he knew that you were mine. Twice I have saved his life, and he robs me of my mistress."

There was silence for a space, she bending forward with her eyes still fixed upon the floor, her expression that of abject hopelessness. He took his hands from before his eyes, and his face was piteous to behold, so changed it was. He spoke again.

"And for this woman I would have freely sacrificed my life. For her I have sacrificed--and uselessly--what is dearer far, my honor as a soldier, my whole career."

And, without a word of farewell to the broken woman, he turned his face from her and passed through the curtains; then scarcely seeing which way he was going, he stumbled down the staircase and, somehow, gained the courtyard, where he staggered to a seat.

All this time, she had not dared to raise her eyes, but she knew that he was gone, for she heard his gradually retreating footsteps on the stairs. When they were no longer audible, she looked up and gazed around the room despairingly. Then, with a piercing cry of "Henri!" she fell forward fainting to the floor.

He heard the cry, but for the time was too full of his own grief to heed it; instead he kept repeating to himself the words that seemed to have stamped themselves upon his brain, "Buonaparte's mistress!" and then these others, "A dishonored soldier, a deserter!"

In his agony, he laid his face within his hands and burst into tears.

The tears of a woman in mortal agony are piteous to behold, but a strong man so affected is a sight over which one would fain draw the veil.

But grief so violent, as was St. Just's, cannot be long continued without one of two things occurring--either the sufferer overcomes it, or it overcomes the sufferer. In this case the latter happened; St. Just fell forward to the ground, unconscious.