For Love of a Bedouin Maid

The Revolutionists had their spies in England, and they were not long in discovering Perry's intimacy with the Monarchists. By judicious soundings, they found that he had no real love for these. He could, therefore, knowing so many of their secrets, render them important services. So overtures were made to him, which he accepted, and, at the time of St. Just's visit, he was a recognized agent of the French Republic, while all the time affecting Monarchist proclivities. He was well paid by the Republic, so that now he was receiving money from both sides. But he was careful not to give himself away, keeping the secrets of each party inviolate from the other. Thus he performed with satisfaction to himself the formidable feat of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.

Such was the man with whom St. Just now found himself in counsel.

It appeared that Perry knew Sir Henry Emerson well; this was doubtless known in Paris and was why St. Just had been instructed to apply to him. Sir Henry had called at the shop only a day or two before and, when ordering certain articles of hosiery, had mentioned casually that he was expecting every day to be ordered to the Continent with dispatches.

Perry told him that Sir Henry was in the habit almost nightly of visiting a certain gambling hell near the Haymarket, at which the hosier had the entrée and occasionally tempted Fortune. He advised that his visitor should accompany him there that night for the double purpose of familiarizing himself with Sir Henry Emerson's appearance and ascertaining, if possible, whether the date of his departure for Holland was yet fixed.

This being settled, Perry took him to a costumier, where he fitted himself with fashionable attire of English cut, he, Perry, supplying him with such hosiery and under-linen as he required. Then, having engaged a room for him at the Golden Cross Hotel, at Charing Cross, he left him, with the promise that he would call for him at a late hour that night, when they would proceed together to the gaming house.

In due course, they made their way thither. At the moment of their arrival at the door, a close carriage, with no armorial bearings on the panels, and drawn by a well-matched pair of horses, pulled up before it. St. Just and his companion drew back to let the occupants precede them.

A well-built man, above the middle height and inclined to stoutness, alighted from the carriage. His features were handsome, but inclined to puffiness. Perry nudged his companion slightly and whispered, "The Prince Regent."

The prince was followed by another man, and the two disappeared within the house, the door having been already opened in answer to the summons of a footman.

Perry waited a few minutes, so as not to follow too closely on the Prince's heels, and then knocked at the same door. It was opened by a man in livery, who greeted Perry respectfully, and then pulled a bell, that tinkled in the distance, and they moved down the passage, at the end of which was a green baize door, that opened noiselessly at their approach, and then closed behind them. They found themselves in a hall that blazed with light. A gorgeously clad, powdered footman stepped forward and relieved them of their roquelaures—they retained their hats—then preceded them up a broad staircase, so softly carpeted that their footfalls could not be heard. At the head of it was another green baize door, before which stood a negro of Herculean proportions, gorgeously arrayed. The footman murmured something and the door swung open.

The scene presented to St. Just's view was as startling as it was novel to him. Proceeding, as he had, direct from the military school to the battle field, he had little personal knowledge of the vices and amusements of Society, and was proportionately astonished. In a large room, furnished luxuriously, and, withal, somewhat meretriciously, the walls lined with long mirrors and pictures suggesting that the persons there delineated were the denizens of countries whose climate was more than temperate—to judge from their costume, or the absence of it; ottomans and lounges, heavily gilt and silk upholstered, dotted about; and the whole brilliantly illuminated by the soft light of innumerable wax candles;—were about sixty persons of both sexes—the men predominating—in evening dress of the very latest fashion, some of the ladies being conspicuous more by the audacity than the elegance of their attire. Some were walking about the room talking and laughing, occasionally pausing at the different tables to watch the progress of the game. But most of them were either seated at the tables, or standing behind the sitters engaged at play. Faro, hazard and other convenient modes for winning and losing money rapidly were going on.

Perry cast his eye carefully round the room, and nodded to several persons whom he knew. "The man we want is not here yet," he whispered to St. Just. "I think we had better join in the play, if we can find a table where it is not too high. For a stranger to come here and refrain from doing so would look singular."

St. Just at once assented, and they strolled about the room in search of a table.

Presently a man called out, "Come and try your luck, Perry; you won't be ruined, we are only small fry here."

"Yes," replied the hosier, "my friend and I will join you;" and he introduced St. Just—as the Comte St. Clair, of course.

They had been seated at the table but a few minutes, when Sir Henry Emerson entered the room, and Perry pointed him out to St. Just, and, during the evening, took an opportunity of introducing them to one another. Sir Henry, who took the so-called Comte St. Clair to be an émigré, and was a strong Royalist, received him in a friendly manner and offered to present him to the Prince at a Levee to be held next day. He added that he would not have another opportunity for some time, for that, at the conclusion of the function, he would have to start for Holland with dispatches.

This was the very information St. Just desired. If the documents were to be in his hands before Sir Henry left England, he had little time to lose. He thanked the speaker for his courtesy, of which he said he would avail himself, and would present himself for the purpose at the house of the King's Messenger at the time appointed. Then, the hour being late, he shook hands with him, and he and Perry took their leave. A modus operandi had to be decided on, and there was little time to do it in.

However, before they turned in for the night, they had evolved a scheme they thought would work, if Fortune should prove kind. There was this about it, that, if that on which they counted for success were absent, they would be no worse off than they were before, and no one would know of their conspiracy. Since Sir Henry Emerson was to set out so soon as the Levee should be over, they hoped to see the coveted dispatch lying in some conspicuous position in his room—if it was not already in his dispatch box—lest, by any chance he should forget it.

And the next day, when St. Just called, according to appointment, clad in a levee uniform procured from a costumier, he found that they had not miscalculated; for there, on a sideboard, in Sir Henry's room—he occupied a suite of chambers in King Street, St. James—lay a packet addressed to "–, His Majesty's Minister Plenipotentiary at The Hague."

Perry had accompanied St. Just, making as his excuse a little present he had brought from his shop for the unsuspecting King's Messenger.

A look of intelligence passed between the two conspirators when they saw the packet on the sideboard, which stood close to the door.

Sir Henry Emerson greeted St. Just courteously and then looked inquiringly at Perry, at the same time saying, "Ah, Perry, my friend, what's brought you? Did you think the Count couldn't be trusted to find his way here alone in a hackney coach?"

"Not that, Sir Henry," replied the hosier, "But the air is sharp in Holland at this time of year, and I have just got in some woolen jackets—quite a new article—to wear under the coat; and I have ventured to ask your acceptance of one; you are one of my oldest customers, and your approval will be of service to me." He held a fiat brown paper parcel in his hand.

"Upon my word, Perry, you're a good fellow," said Sir Henry. "Egad, it was very thoughtful of you and I am much obliged to you. I've no doubt I shall find it very comforting, for, as you say, Holland is deuced cold in January. I am afraid I have scarcely time to try it on just now, for the Count and I must be off to the Levee; but when I come back."

"No need for that, Sir," answered Perry; "it is sure to fit. These things are knitted and, within certain limits, will fit any one. I will leave it on the sideboard." He walked up to it, stood his stick in a corner made by it, and put his parcel on the top of the dispatch for Holland, at the same time dexterously slipping the packet from underneath it and transferring it to his breast pocket, his back being turned to the other two.

This done, he faced about, wished the two gentlemen good day and took his leave.

"It is time for us to be going too, Count," said Sir Henry, so soon as Perry had taken his departure, "and I think our coach is at the door."

St. Just rose with alacrity. He was only too anxious to be gone, before his host should have discovered that the dispatch was missing.

"I am at your service, Sir Henry," he replied.

"Hulloa!" cried Sir Henry on their way out, "Perry has left his stick behind," and he pointed to a walking stick in the angle the wall made with the sideboard. "Well, it will be safe enough here; no doubt he will remember where he left it, when he misses it, and will call for it."

Then they stepped into the coach and were driven to St. James's Palace to pay their respects to "the first gentleman in Europe."

Three hours later they returned, St. Just accompanying the King's Messenger to his chambers. He came in merely to thank him for the attention he had received and to wish him "bon voyage," and was in the act of leaving, when Perry was announced.

"I stupidly forgot my stick, Sir Henry," he began at once, "when I was here three hours ago. Ah, there it is;" espying it in the corner. It was a handsome stick with a heavy embossed gold knob; such a stick as one would not like to lose; so that he might be well excused for calling for it. He walked quickly to it, placing one hand in his breast pocket at the same time. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck him, he said, "Oh, if you have now the time, Sir Henry, you might try on the jacket." At the same time he took up the brown paper parcel from the sideboard and brought it towards Sir Henry. On the spot that it had covered lay the dispatch once more.

"By all means," replied Sir Henry, "if it will not take long; for I am due to leave in half an hour."

Perry quickly undid the parcel, the jacket was brought out, admired, tried on and pronounced an excellent fit, all in the course of a couple of minutes. Then St. Just and Perry took their leave, the latter, this time not forgetting to take his walking stick.

Not a word passed between them on the subject of their visit to Sir Henry Emerson, until they were closeted in Perry's parlor. Then St. Just, who had been itching all the way to learn what Perry had done, burst out, "I suppose you managed to take a copy of the dispatch, since I saw what looked like the original lying on the sideboard, when you took up the parcel."

"I did," was the reply, "but it took me all my time; there was so much of it."

He went to a drawer, unlocked it, took out some papers and handed them to St. Just. "This is the copy."

St. Just's eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

"Bravo, my friend," he said, "you have done well. I don't know what I should have done without you. This is much better than the original, for the English Government will not know what has occurred; whereas, if the original had been missed, it would have aroused suspicion, and a fresh dispatch of different import might have been substituted for it. Is there any chance of their discovering that the envelope has been tampered with? But perhaps you used a fresh one. But how about the Foreign Office seal?"

Perry laughed. "Those are some of my little secrets," he replied; "but it was the same envelope I replaced, and you may rest assured, my friend, that it will not be guessed that it has been tampered with. It was fortunate that everything favored us. I expected much more manoeuvring would have been required to get the packet."

All that remained now, was to remunerate Perry for his services. St. Just gave him notes for five thousand francs, with which the hosier seemed well satisfied.

Later in the evening, they visited several places of amusement, and, the next morning, St. Just took leave of Perry, and started on his return for France. Three days later he presented himself before Mons. de Talleyrand.

CHAPTER VII

It appeared that the dispatch, a copy of which St. Just had contrived to get, was of great importance. The First Consul and Talleyrand, accordingly, were proportionately gratified, and expressed their satisfaction at St. Just's aptitude and alertness. But there was no warmth about their words, for both were men who put a chain upon their thoughts and a mask upon their faces. The cynical diplomatist, moreover, discouraged and even ridiculed, in others anything that approached enthusiasm. But St. Just had not looked for fulsome praise, and, knowing the character of the two great men, was satisfied with such faint approval as he had received. They had said enough to show him that they thought he had done well. And this was proved by the First Consul's last words when St. Just was quitting his presence. "Keep Mons. de Talleyrand informed of your abode, Sir; there may be other work for you to do."

From this, St. Just had little doubt there would be; that, before long, Mons. de Talleyrand would send for him again.

A thrill of satisfaction speeded through him at the thought, for, at the sight of Buonaparte once more, all the subtle influence the General had on those who came in contact with him had returned; he forgot his grievance and pursuit of vengeance, and desired nothing better than to devote himself faithfully for the future to the service of his old commander. If only Halima would forego her cravings for revenge. There lay the obstacle to his desire. He resolved to make a strong appeal to her. But his hope of success was small, for he knew her headstrong, dictatorial nature, and how bitter was her rancor against Buonaparte. He longed to retrace his devious steps and regain the path of honor; but, were it not, at the same time, the path of passion, he knew he would not have the strength to take it. Strong as were the cords that were drawing him towards Buonaparte, the fetters forged by Halima were stronger still.

These reflections filled him with despondency, for he could not rid himself of the conviction that, with Halima unyielding, disaster was impending; the only question was how soon.

For the moment there was no need to discuss the point with the Egyptian Beauty, as Talleyrand had called her; for he was, so to speak, in a position of neutrality. He would wait and see what the future had in store for him.

St. Just had not miscalculated, for, three days after his return to Paris, he received a summons from the wily statesman who at that time directed the Foreign Affairs of France.

Talleyrand suggested that he should go back to England and remain there, until otherwise instructed, as a secret agent of the French Government. He would have to learn all he could of the movements of the émigrés and the plans of the English Government, and report them to his own. Further, he would have to execute such instructions as he received.

The proposal was a compliment to his sagacity and discretion, and so St. Just received it, and was proportionately gratified. Coming from the quarter whence it did, it amounted to a command that, even had he desired to do so, he would not have dared to disobey.

St. Just knew this well; so, without the slightest hesitation, and with professions of gratitude and allegiance to the Republic, he accepted the offer made him.

He was given a week for his arrangements; then he was to start for England.

On leaving the minister, he made his way at once to Halima. Now that it was known to the authorities that he was alive and had returned to Paris, there was no further need for secrecy in his intercourse with his wife; he could visit Auteuil openly, and as often as he liked.

At first Halima was indignant when she heard of the mission he had undertaken, and she upbraided him, affecting to believe that he had accepted it in order to get away from her. This was too monstrous, and he indignantly repudiated the imputation, which, he said, could not have been made seriously. No one knew better than herself the sacrifices he had made for her. He trusted it was only an outburst of ill-temper—anger and disappointment at the prospect of their being parted; and this he told her, and she admitted it, saying that she knew he loved her. Then she tried her woman's wiles on him; throwing her arms around his neck, with mingled embraces, tears and kisses, she besought him not to leave her; told him that she loved him more than life, that it would be cruel to desert her; that she would die without him. He must tell Mons. de Talleyrand that, on reconsideration, he felt himself unequal to the work required of him, and must beg to be excused.

He pointed out to her the impossibility, the madness of such a course, and at last succeeded in convincing her that, were he to do what she suggested, it would defeat the very object they had in view—the enjoyment of each other's company, that he would at once become an object of suspicion, would be watched and would speedily find himself arrested. Thus they would be separated. Reluctantly, she was compelled to admit the force of what he said.

"Let me think," she said when he had finished speaking. Her first fury had spent itself, and, having regard to her emotional nature, she was calm.

It was several minutes before she spoke again.

Then, "If you must go, and it seems you must, I will follow you to England," she declared. "I will not be separated from you again, after the years we have been parted. I love France: still I should like to see England. I suppose the people are not quite uncivilized."

St. Just smiled at this. Coming from a native of the desert, her knowledge of men and manners, up to a recent date, having been picked up at Cairo, the conceit amused him.

She went on, "I am not sure, besides, that a temporary absence from France, at the present time, would not be wise. Things are becoming somewhat risky here. Since that affair in which you were implicated, the police have shown more activity than ever. Some of our friends have thought it prudent to leave Paris; some even have gone to England. We can organize our plans for Buonaparte's confusion in greater safety there. Really, Henri, I am beginning to think that your appointment is a fortunate occurrence; you will now be able to give us valuable help. Oh! if the First Consul could only know that he is appointing as his agent, a man who is pledged to contrive his ruin; who, when told to watch the Royalists and report their doings, will give him false intelligence, and will warn them when in danger and keep them informed of what is doing in the other camp! The First Consul paying an agent to betray him! Oh! it is a rare comedy; it is delicious." Her eyes sparkled with delight, her face rippled with animation and she broke into a ringing laugh, in which was not the slightest affectation.

But St. Just looked very grave. The picture she had drawn of him was so absolutely true—and so contemptible. A spy, and not an honest spy; a traitor to the man who paid him for his espionage. He writhed inwardly at his horrible position. What was comedy to her was to him the direst tragedy; the enormity of his offense came home to him. To any honorable man, whose judgment was not bemused by passion, the situation would be unbearable. Now was the time, if ever, to pour out his heart in one last appeal to her to relieve him of his pledge to be avenged on Buonaparte. He had little hope of its success, but he would make it.

"Oh! Halima," he cried, and there was a ring of pleading in his tone that would have roused an echo in any heart not deadened by revenge; "why nurse this vengeance against that man? Time generally blunts the edge of the weapon sharpened for vindictiveness. It is four years since this injury was wrought, and no one, but you and me, has knowledge of it. If I can overlook it, why not you? This scheme of vengeance is blasting my whole career, and, if I am still to prosecute it, will render me, in the trusted position that has been forced upon me, so despicable in my own eyes, that death even would be preferable. Oh! if you love me—and you say you do—get free of these conspiracies, which, in your own heart, you know you join in, not from love of France, but hate of Buonaparte. And it is useless; he is too strong for you; how can the hawk aspire to conquer in a contest with the eagle? Be advised by me, my dearest, let your vengeance sleep; or, better, let it die. We love each other, we have ample means, I have a career before me; this paltry passion of revenge alone obstructs the road to honor and contentment. Oh, my dear one, my life, my soul, if you only knew the hell that is within me, you would be merciful to me, by sparing him. It is not that I love him, but he means France, and I love my country—and I love my honor. Say, love, shall it be so? Shall we not bury in the limbo of oblivion the recollection of your wrong? Oh, Halima, relieve me of my pledge to you, and leave me free to do my duty to my country."

He ceased speaking, and scanned her anxiously, to mark the affect of his appeal. But the hope that was on his face changed quickly to despair. Her eyes flashed upon him angrily, and the look she turned on him was pitiless, infuriated, contemptuous.

"Never!" she cried, and her voice rose almost to a shriek. "I will never abandon my revenge. I can wait for its accomplishment, and I know that time will bring it me. And you, if you are so poor a thing, you, my husband, that you will not make my wrong your own, depart; leave me to work it out alone. But, if you do, much as I have loved you, I shall hate you for your pusillanimity even more than I hate him. Almost I hate you now, for that you can suggest forgetfulness of my wrong. Leave me now, ere I say words to you that cannot be recalled."

Her bosom was heaving with emotion, her eyes were like two balls of fire that seemed to bulge beneath her brow, and she paced with rapid steps about the room. "Go," she repeated, and she threw her hand out towards him; "go, before my temper gets beyond control."

And, with the feeling that all hope was gone, he left her.

It was two months later; early in March. Both St. Just and Halima were in London. Three days after his fruitless appeal to her to forego her scheme of vengeance and leave him free to follow the path of duty, he had started for England, whither, a fortnight afterwards, she had followed him.

*      *      *      *      *

Halima was living in a London suburb—the district now known as Earl's Court. A Lord Hartford, a strong supporter of the French Royalists, and a friend and great admirer of the dark-eyed beauty, had placed a house he had there at her disposal. It was a roomy, old-fashioned red-brick structure standing in its own grounds, which were of considerable extent.

It was one o'clock in the morning. In a large room to the right of the hall, a room with long French windows that gave in to the well-kept garden, a merry party sat at supper; the men numbered about thirty, while the ladies did not exceed a dozen; all were dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion, and each wore a white rosette pinned to coat or gown, the emblem of the cause they were supporting. The meal was practically over, and many of the guests had drawn their chairs back from the table and were sitting about in groups engaged in animated conversation, interspersed with occasional bursts of merriment and ringing laughter from the lips of some fair woman; for they had supped well, and the wine had passed round freely, warming hearts, sharpening wits and unlocking lips.

One person alone sat moodily apart, seeming to take no interest in the doings of the merry crew; a thin, sallow complexioned man with a nervous manner; his eyes moved uneasily about the room, and, more from restlessness, to judge from his appearance, than that he took much pleasure in it, he kept taking sips from a glass of wine that stood in front of him. When anyone addressed him, it was as Mons. de Guichard, but his real name was Querel. He had been a surgeon in the Royalist army and had joined in the plot to reinstate the Bourbons, and affected to be one of the most ardent supporters of the cause.