For Love of a Bedouin Maid

They had so much to say to one another that the hours flew by unheeded; but, at last, Halima recalled herself to her shortcomings in the matter of the men who had accompanied St. Just—or rather brought him captive—and she sprang up suddenly.

"I don't know what our friends will think of us," she laughed; "I declare I had quite forgotten them; and all through you, you naughty fellow. I must send word to them that I shall be happy to receive them."

"What friends?" inquired her husband, and his tone betrayed annoyance.

"Those who brought you here."

"And who are they?"

"I will introduce you when they come. Meanwhile, will you ring the bell, my dear?"

St. Just did what he was asked, and the man who came in answer to her summons, was told to request the presence of the "two gentlemen who had arrived with Monsieur." An oath broke from her husband's lips when the servant closed the door; but she put her little hand before his mouth with a pretty action and exclaimed, "Oh! fie to say such naughty words; and so ungrateful too, when you have had me all to yourself for quite three hours."

"Ah! but think how long I've had to wait," he said. "Three years with you without a break, would not suffice me."

"Selfish glutton," she said roguishly, and her beaming countenance showed how pleased she was. The shortest route to her good will was ever by the road called Flattery.

Before she could add another word, the door was opened and the two gentlemen came in. For the moment, they seemed strangers to St. Just, but he soon recognized the features of the two men who had brought him in the cart. Had he met them without previous preparation, he certainly would not have known them. The coal merchant and the laborer were gone, and, in their places, stood two well-dressed gentlemen with clean hands and faces.

Halima advanced to them effusively, and held out her hand.

"What will you think of me? What can I say to you?" she cried. "I am in despair at the reflection of my want of courtesy. But—I will speak the truth—I had forgotten you were in the house. But indeed I had some reason, and, when you hear it, I trust you will forgive my seeming rudeness. This it is."

She turned round to St. Just, who was standing a little way behind her, and took his hand in hers; then led him forward.

"Mons. Georges Cadoudal, Mons. St. Regent," indicating first the quondam coal-merchant and then his comrade, "I have the honor to present to you Captain Henri St. Just, my husband."

The look of wonder and almost incredulity on the faces of the newcomers, and of surprise and satisfaction on St. Just's, caused much amusement to the lady. The two gentlemen, of course, had not had a notion that she was married; and he, after what had passed between himself and Halima, had never dreamed that she would disclose the fact; in that she had, he felt both grateful and delighted.

The three gentlemen bowed stiffly. "Surely Madame is not serious?" St. Regent questioned.

"Absolutely," she replied, "Naturally, you did not know that I was married," she went on vivaciously. "Nor indeed did I, until you were good enough to bring my husband to me. 'Tis nearly four years since we met, and I thought that we should never meet again. I believed he was no more. Am I forgiven for forgetting you, Messieurs?"

"Nay, Madame," replied Cadoudal, "'tis not forgiveness you require, for you have done no wrong; congratulations you demand, and from my heart I tender them."

He laid his hand across his chest and bent low before her. Then he addressed her husband, and held out his hand. "But, if Madame is to be congratulated, tenfold more are you, Monsieur, in that you call the loveliest woman in all France your wife. Have you forgiven us, for the roughness of your ride?" he laughed.

"So entirely, if any forgiveness is required," St. Just replied, "that, with the same end in view, I would ask to be allowed to undergo the ride again; for all that, I never underwent such pain before. Even now, my limbs have not recovered their full power. Messieurs, I thank you heartily for all that you have done for me."

Then Halima spoke again.

"My friends," she said, "I have told you that he is my husband, to convince you that you may repose the fullest trust in him, but the knowledge is to go no farther; the fact must be a secret most profound; for, should it be even hinted at, the consequences might be to bring our plans to naught. Amongst friends—and, dare I breathe the word, conspirators—there should be the utmost confidence; and my husband is one of us; he is with us heart and soul in all that we have set before us; he will consult with us, and I will vouch for his good faith, his intrepidity and his zeal; for he has the same cause for hating the First Consul, as myself. You may speak, therefore, with perfect openness before him, and I beg you will."

Naturally after this, there was the utmost friendliness between St. Just and his new acquaintances, and he made many discoveries that astonished and amazed him.

Their conversation was, soon afterwards, interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who announced that dinner was served.

"Give me your arm, Henri," said Halima. "You will permit me, Messieurs," she laughed. "My husband has been so long away from me, that he is the greatest stranger."

During and after dinner St. Just learned much more that astonished him—notably that Halima and Cadoudal had been concerned in the recent plot to put an end to Buonaparte.

This and more was told to St. Just on that eventful evening, much to his uneasiness. He found himself, unwittingly, posted on the verge of a political volcano, with a fair chance of being speedily engulfed within its crater. He had never suspected that his wife, simply to gratify her vindictive animus towards Buonaparte, would engage in schemes so dangerous and far-reaching; and take part in a conspiracy whose ramifications extended even beyond the country, and that, whether the outcome were disaster or success, must result in deluging the land with blood. And he himself was now committed to their schemes. His heart was not in the conspiracy, and he trembled at the risk his wife and he were running. He resolved to use his utmost influence to persuade her gradually to withdraw herself from her dangerous surroundings. At the same time, he could not but admit to himself that his hope of succeeding with her was slight, for he knew her spirit and determination.

It was late when, greatly to St. Just's relief, St. Regent and Cadoudal took their leave. When the door closed upon them, he sprang to his feet and stretched himself.

"Thank God, they're gone," he cried. "I've had enough of plotting for to-night; and now, my Halima, the few hours left we'll dedicate to love."

He opened his arms to her. She ran to him and hid her face upon his breast. "And, I, too," she murmured, "have been longing to be alone with you, my Henri."

CHAPTER IV

Nothing of any moment happened during the next three weeks, the position Halima had laid down at her first meeting with her husband being rigidly maintained. He came to see her as often as she would permit, but resided at his apartment in the Rue de Dauphin, and with, of course, the ever-faithful Mahmoud, who showed much surprise at the arrangement.

Halima had expressed her wish to see him, so, on his next visit, St. Just took the young man with him. Mahmoud's delight at once more meeting his young mistress was supreme; he threw himself at her feet and uttered cries of joy in his native Arabic, blessing her and thanking Allah for having permitted him to set his eyes on her again.

She pleased him mightily when she enlarged upon his bravery and fidelity to her husband, and told him that he would find a friend in her throughout her life, because she knew that, but for him, St. Just would not be living. Nor did she forget to thank him for having slain the hated Yusuf. Then she complimented him upon his manly looks and handsome face, and prophesied that all the French girls would lose their hearts to him. Altogether, when Mahmoud left her, he was in the seventh heaven of delight, and more than ever devoted to herself and her husband. It would have gone hard with any one who should have dared to question any act or word of theirs, or say a syllable in their disparagement, in Mahmoud's hearing.

During these weeks St. Just's love for Halima, if possible, increased in fervor; with the result that, though in her presence he was supremely happy, when away from her, he was restless, discontented, and suspicious. On the whole it may be questioned whether he was not happier when he was living at Marsala, oblivious of her existence, than now, when he basked in her society for minutes, and yearned for it unsatisfied for hours.

With her it was another matter, for, though she preferred his company to that of any other man, and, when she had him to herself, placed no limitations on her passions; her love for him was neither of that depth nor of that enduring nature which was his for her. She was more like a child with a much prized toy, than a wife absorbed in her devotion to her husband.

Moreover, she had other matters to occupy her mind; she was up to her ears in intrigues with various persons, not only of the First Consul's entourage, but also of the adherents of the Bourbons. And the atmosphere of treason and conspiracy in which she lived she thoroughly enjoyed. She reveled in the power her beauty and her money gave her; and even, strange as it may appear, in the risk she ran; this to her was but a pleasurable excitement.

Buonaparte's visits to the Auteuil villa, to St. Just were a perpetual sore; not that he was jealous or suspicious of his wife—for he had accepted without reserve her statement that her old relations with the General neither had been nor would be resumed; and he had confidence both in her will and her ability to maintain her intimacy with him on a platonic footing—but that he was filled with a deep-seated rancor against the First Consul, not only for Halima's betrayal, but also because he, St. Just, regarded him as the cause of all the sufferings and misfortunes he had undergone. Animated by this resentment, therefore so far from condemning the treasonable proceedings of his wife's associates, he acquiesced in the plotters' aims, at the same time that he doubted their accomplishment; and, additionally, the wisdom of the means proposed for bringing them about. Then there was the accompanying danger, and St. Just had had enough of that to make him circumspect.

Altogether, he resolved to mix himself as little as might be with the conspiracy; though, had he desired it, he might have learned its inmost workings; for, now that Halima had vouched for his fidelity, the conspirators were ready to place absolute trust in him. As it was, they spoke openly before him on the few occasions when he chanced to be present at their meetings; so that, had he been minded to play the traitor, he was in possession of ample information to lay the whole party by the heels.

Situated as he was, he could not wholly withdraw himself from active participation in their schemes, but he confined himself as a rule, to a subordinate position, his duties being principally the delivering of messages and letters to various persons more or less in touch with the conspiracy.

St. Just had formed a close friendship with St. Regent, one of the two men, it will be recollected, who had brought him to Halima. There was a great charm for St. Just in St. Regent's good-tempered, frank, impetuous nature. Moreover the man had a strong will and a large amount of that magnetic force which, when put forth, compels the acquiescence of those on whom it is brought to bear. And he had exercised it upon St. Just, with the result that he had gained over him complete ascendancy, and could mould him to his will.

He started a plot, in which he was determined that St. Just should take a part. The latter, though unwilling, was like wax in the other's hand, and found himself unable to resist.

St. Regent numbered among his associates one Carbon, a chemist, an ardent conspirator, like himself. To him, he and St. Just repaired, and the three, with four others of like mind, laid their heads together to evolve a plan for Buonaparte's assassination.

The outcome was, an "Infernal machine" of the following description. An ordinary hand water cart, with its barrel made of zinc, was filled with gunpowder and scraps of iron; in the tap, barely protruding from it, was placed a special fuse that, on being touched with a chemically prepared stick, would become ignited. This fuse, in a given time, would fire the gunpowder inside the barrel, when the results would not be difficult to guess.

St. Just, much to his annoyance and dismay, was told off to perform the duty of artillery man.

The machine prepared, the next thing was to select a place for its employment; and in this the plotters would be guided either by the public announcements or by the information privately conveyed to them of the First Consul's intended movements.

Meanwhile St. Just awaited his instructions.

Lest he should be recognized—for he had abandoned his idea for the present of reporting himself to the military authorities—he was now posing to the outside world as a doctor come to Paris, not to practice, but to study. His appearance was so changed that none of his old acquaintances would have known him. His former dark locks were now cut close to the head, and by the aid of chemicals had assumed a light brown hue, and the once clean-shaven, resolutely moulded mouth and chin were now concealed under a mustache and beard to match his hair. His clothes were of a sober cut and color to suit his professional assumption, and his gait was slow and measured. Carrying the conventional silver-headed stick, and with serious mien, and apparently immersed in grave reflection, he moved about the crowded streets; no one of all the thoughtless, laughter-loving Parisians, who differed little at that time from what they are to-day, would have dreamed that he was aught but what he seemed, a sober citizen, on lawful business bent.

On a certain afternoon in the expiring year, just when it was growing dusk, St. Just received instructions to repair to the appointed spot, and perform his part in the dastardly conspiracy.

Now, though, from day to day, he had held himself in readiness for such directions as he had now received, when the news came to him that the time for action had actually arrived, he felt almost stunned, and shrank with horror from the performance of the deed imposed on him. For all that, he knew that there was no evading it; the hour for backing out was past; any treachery to his comrades, or even a mere refusal to play his part would, he was convinced, result in retribution that would cost his life. True, that, in executing the conspirators' behests, he would be placing that life in serious jeopardy; but this was preferable to the certainty of losing it.

He set out from his apartment on his murderous errand, with dragging footsteps and a heavy heart. No one, to look at him, would have guessed that, under that calm exterior, there raged a tumult of emotions. He recalled the memory of his campaigns under the great general on whose destruction he was bent, and his feet faltered. He felt he could not go through with what was ordered. For a moment, a wild idea took hold of him to retrace his steps and, at all hazards, to make his way to the Tuileries and acquaint his old commander with his impending danger. He stopped and turned half round. Then the thought of what would be the consequence, the certainty that those he had betrayed would track him down and take his life, no matter how or where he tried to hide himself, restrained him from acting upon his half formed purpose. With a despairing sigh he resumed his progress to the rendezvous, the conflict being waged within him almost tearing him to pieces.

But, for all the tempest of his mind, he was careful how he held his silver-headed stick, keeping it as nearly perpendicular as he could, and never letting it touch anybody or anything except the ground; for, innocent as it appeared, it contained the potentiality of destruction. The upper half of it was hollowed out and held at the bottom a powerful acid. Above this, but separated from it, and concealed under the silver knob, was a subtle chemical. When the knob should be unscrewed and the stick sufficiently inclined, the acid would come into contact with this chemical and ignite it; on touching with this the fuse in the supposed water cart, the explosion would follow in due course.

Presently he came to a broad thoroughfare, and, once more, he halted, undecided. To his left lay the way to the Tuileries, the way to honor, pardon, and—death! To the right, that to the Opera House, whither the carriage of the First Consul would shortly pass—the way to dishonorable revenge and Halima, and, if the scheme should prove successful—Life!

His indecision was but momentary, he chose the turning to the right; it was the crisis of his career. A hollow, scornful laugh broke from him at the reflection that, should the explosion be successful, there would be no performance at the opera that night. On the other hand, should it result in a fiasco, Paris would, on the morrow, be engaged in the performance of a "Dies Iræ," in which he and his associates would be taking leading parts.

He had scarcely started afresh, after his temporary pause, when a beggar who was tapping the ground in front of him with a stick, as though blind, shoved against him. At the same moment St. Just felt something pressed into his palm. Muttering an apology, the beggar dived into the crowd and disappeared.

Instantly St. Just closed his hand, then quietly put it into his pocket; by its feel he knew he held a piece of folded paper—no doubt a message of importance. He clenched it tightly in his palm, lest some police spy, having witnessed the beggar's action, should seek to seize it; for spies in Paris were plentiful as blackberries in those perilous times, so that one could scarcely trust one's neighbor.

The conspirator strolled insouciantly towards an oil lamp which hung a little higher than his head, over a grocer's shop.

Here he withdrew the note and opened it. It was from one of the leaders in the plot, and its words were few, but to the point, for one who understood their language:

"The weather seems settled, so cloaks will not be needed." In the corner was a little flag roughly delineated in red ink.

St. Just started, and an uneasy look appeared upon his face at the reading of this note. The words, taken alone, meant that everything was going satisfactorily, that the police had apparently no suspicions, and that no special precautions needed to be taken. But the addition of the red flag imported danger, and that the words signified the exact opposite of what they stated, viz.—that the police had got wind of something and were on the alert, and that St. Just was to exercise the utmost care in all his movements, and to warn any others in the plot, that he might see, to keep themselves as little in evidence as they could. Disquieting intelligence for a man engaged on such an errand as was his.

The first thing to be done was to get rid of this unwelcome missive, for the agents of police were expert at reading cryptograms and digging out their meaning how deep soever it was buried. Should he be arrested, therefore, he had no mind that this compromising message should be found on him.

He saw a ready way to its destruction. With the hand that held the note he took out his watch, and brought it near the lamp above him, as though to learn the time. Apparently, he was unable to see distinctly by the feeble, flickering light; so he carefully transferred the watch to the hand that grasped his silver-headed stick; then, lighting the paper at the oil lamp, he held it close to the watch face, as though the better to read the figures on the dial.

It burnt more rapidly than he had expected, with the result that it scorched his finger.

With the sudden smart he forgot the rôle and tone he was assuming, and, without a thought, brought out in his natural voice a string of military oaths. Suddenly he pulled up, at the reflection of his indiscretion. But not before his imprecations had been heard.

They caught the ear of a drunken-looking man, who was supporting himself against a cabaret across the street. He was an old soldier, and instantly recognized the familiar oaths. He looked long and searchingly at St. Just, with a clearness of perception that would scarcely have been expected in a drunken man.

Annoyed at his unguarded exclamation, St. Just put his smarting finger into his mouth, and once more forgetting the added years and professional gravity he was simulating, strode rapidly down the street.

This also the watcher noted. "Military oaths, military step," he muttered. "You're not exactly what you seem, my friend. And your voice I've heard before. I shall put a name to you anon." And he wheeled round and entered the cabaret against which he had been leaning.

Meanwhile, St. Just strode on and, rounding a corner to the right, he hurried forward. Half way down the street, he stopped. In the middle of the road and almost blocking it were two carts, a market man's and a water carrier's. They seemed to have collided, for the water cart was tilted on its side, with one wheel off. The water carrier was assailing the owner of the market cart with language more forcible than polite; and the other was retaliating in terms equally expressive, each charging the other with having caused the accident.

But a glance showed St. Just that this mutual vituperation was all make-believe, for in the water carrier he recognized St. Regent and in the market man another of the conspirators; but both so well disguised that, had he not been prepared beforehand, he would not have known them.

When both thought that their wordy warfare had continued long enough to allay any suspicions that they were in collusion, the driver of the market cart, first giving St. Just a wink that was almost imperceptible, moved forward for a few yards, then deliberately drew round his horse so that it and the cart behind it stood crosswise in the street and blocked it.

Soon—it is always so, even in the most trivial street accidents—a little crowd began to form. This gave St. Just the opportunity he wanted to transmit to his friends the warning he had received. Elbowing his way to them, he called out in loud tones:

"Messieurs, how is this? Come, you must clear the road; the First Consul is on his way to the Opera and will pass by almost immediately." Then in a lower tone, "Be on your guard; there is danger ahead; the police are on the qui vive."

The words had hardly left his mouth, when, in the distance, the sound of horses' hoofs was heard. They came on at a brisk trot, and, before St. Just had had time to unscrew the knob of his stick, half a dozen dragoons had wheeled round the corner of the street, and were advancing up it. They were the foremost of the First Consul's escort. With fumbling fingers, St. Just removed from his stick the silver top. He was trembling violently. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, his nerve gave out. The dastardly nature of what he purposed presented itself in full force before him. He felt he could not do the deed.

St. Regent shot a searching glance at him and understood. He saw that, though St. Just was no intending traitor, his resolution had deserted him, and that, unless he himself applied the match, their plot would be abortive. With a gesture of impatience and a muttered exclamation, he snatched the stick from the trembling man.

Meanwhile, at the First Consul's approach, a crowd had quickly gathered, impeding the progress of the cavalcade. But the soldiers, striking the people with the flat of their swords and pressing their horses on them, soon forced a passage for the carriage which, driven at a rapid pace, passed the point of danger at the very moment that St. Regent applied the match.

For a few moments, St. Just remained standing at a distance he judged safe from the fateful water cart. He was still trembling violently. Then, realizing that the explosion would occur too late to achieve its object, he elbowed his way through the seething mob and, when clear of it, made a dash for the end of the road. This he gained without impediment, but, no sooner had he done so, than he found himself grasped firmly by the arms and surrounded by a party of men, who turned the corner of the street just when he reached it.