For Love of a Bedouin Maid

Then, seeing his unbending look, "I see my appeal is useless. Say no more, I understand you. I expected this, but the blow is not the less mortal."

She sank exhausted on the floor before him.

Hard and selfish, as he was, he had some heart, and at the sight of her killing grief and the lovely, tear-stained face, that he had never before seen, except wreathed in smiles, a wave of pity for a moment rolled over his resolve, and almost stifled it. Her pleadings had raised strong emotions. He rose and began to pace the gallery, with head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back. "Stay," he said. Then he began to mutter to himself, "Yes, I would I could defy them." His hands twitched nervously. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Yes, and I will defy them. Am I not Emperor, and shall they dictate to me? By Heavens, no. They will only cringe before me, when I tell them that I refuse to be coerced by them." His hand strayed unconsciously to his pocket, and touched something. "And yet—" Then all at once his manner changed. A man was advancing along the gallery. It was St. Just, resplendent in his uniform as Captain of the Empress's guards. Napoleon's eye fell on him, and he remembered what Colonel Tremeau had said about him, he had called him the paramour of the Empress.

At sight of him, a frown gathered on the Emperor's brow, and his face became convulsed with rage. "No," he broke out in a voice of thunder, "No, I will not alter my determination. My Ministers are right. Ah! traitress," to Josephine, who had been anxiously watching his relenting mien, but now had uttered a cry, the knell of her expiring hope, "dost think I do not know that, when I am absent, you console yourself with others? It was so from the very first. There was that man who was with you in the days of the Revolution; did you not meet him again in Italy? Then there have been others, I have heard of, but how many I know not. And now this man," pointing to St. Just. He turned savagely on him. "Pray, Sir, what business have you here?"

The Emperor's fury awed St. Just. On entering the gallery he had not known that it was tenanted, though he was looking for Napoleon. "I came, Sire," he answered deprecatingly, "in the exercise of my duty as Captain of the Empress's guard. I was not aware that you and Her Majesty were here, or I should not have so presumed."

"You lie, Sir," roared Napoleon furiously. "You came to spy. Renegade, deserter, traitor, you are always intruding on the scene. But this time you shall not escape me; by Heavens; you shall die, as you have so long deserved!"

Instantly he drew his sword and made a savage cut at the Captain of the Guard, that would have ended that officer's career, had he not stepped nimbly back. Then, smarting under the Emperor's scathing words, and moved by sympathy for the insulted Empress, he did what ever afterwards, when he thought of it, filled him with amazement at his temerity. He drew his sword and placed himself in a position of defense before the Emperor.

The combat began. The Emperor attacked with ungovernable fury; so reckless was he, taking no pains to guard himself, that, had the other chosen, he could several times have run him through, and thus terminated the First Empire; but he kept calm, contenting himself with remaining on the defensive, parrying Napoleon's furious onslaughts, with such skill as he was master of. But to guard oneself in a duel, without taking advantage of openings for attack, when one's opponent is enraged and active, and fights regardless of his own danger, is no easy matter. And St. Just had all and more than he could do, for, presently, the Emperor, in making a furious lunge in tierce, was so far successful that he ripped St. Just's sleeve and slightly wounded his sword arm. This roused the officer's temper, and he began to press Napoleon in his turn, driving him into a corner; though still it was his intention to avoid even pricking him, if he could so far control himself.

At the first onset, Josephine had tried to scream for help, but, so paralyzed with terror was she, that her voice refused to come. So, with wide open eyes and terror-struck, she watched the combat, mute and motionless.

Napoleon, in making a fierce thrust, now slipped and fell upon his knee. He was at his opponent's mercy, as, indeed he had been all along, for all he had not known it.

Burning with the sense of his own injuries, and exasperated beyond control, St. Just had shortened his sword and was about to plunge it into his opponent, when Josephine rushed forward and seized his arm.

"No, no," she cried, "what would you do? It is the Emperor you would slay. More, he is my husband."

"And he would divorce you," St. Just retorted angrily. But Josephine had saved the Emperor. The few words she had uttered had given his assailant time to think, and he became once more master of himself.

Meantime Napoleon had risen to his feet and regained his sword. The Captain of the Empress's guard snapped his own sword across his knee, flung the pieces on the floor, and stood defenseless and erect before the Emperor. Then, as though all that had just passed had never been, he saluted, and said respectfully, "Mons. de Talleyrand desires an audience with Your Majesty; he awaits you in the White Drawing Room."

Boiling with indignation at his defeat, and longing to cut him down or run him through, but conscious that he had received his life at the speaker's hands, the Emperor yet felt that it was impossible to slay an unarmed man, and before the Empress, too. Perhaps it was, in reality, her presence that stayed his hand. At any rate, he lowered his sword. But the look of concentrated malice he turned upon St. Just was fearful to behold. "Why did you not deliver your message when you first intruded here?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse with passion.

"Sire, you scarce gave me the opportunity," was the calm reply.

"Go, Sir," resumed the Emperor. "I give you one hour to quit the palace; if, by that time, you are not gone, then woe betide you; no power on earth shall save you from my vengeance."

Then he turned to Josephine.

"Madame, the King of Westphalia dines with us to-night. See that you be ready to receive him." Then, moving his head in the direction of St. Just, he hissed out the words, "Make hay while you may; you have little time." Then he added sternly and emphatically, "I go to tell Mons. de Talleyrand to arrange for the divorce forthwith."

"Sire, Napoleon, hear me," shrieked the unhappy Empress, and she moved towards him impulsively.

"I have said it," he said coldly, then stepped quickly towards the door.

Josephine staggered back and would have fallen, but that St. Just caught her in his arms and saved her.

At the door Napoleon paused and turned his head, his figure sharply silhouetted upon the panelling, by the moon, which showed up the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor he wore, and accentuated the pallor of his face.

"You have one hour," to St. Just.

He left the gallery, and the door closed with a clang behind him.

The sound roused the Empress and she withdrew herself slowly from St. Just's support, and stumbled to a seat. She looked up at him, terror-stricken and bewildered.

"He is gone from me," she moaned. "I have lost him. Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do? Cruel, cruel!"

She pressed her hands against her head, as though to still its throbbing. Until her first grief should have spent itself, St. Just knew that to attempt to comfort her would be useless; and there was nothing he could say. He stood watching her in silence.

For some time she wept silently. Then, suddenly she sprang up, and her eye fell on the broken sword. She stooped towards it and raised it from the floor.

Divining her intention, St. Just dashed forward and wrested it from her hand. "Not that," he cried; "you must be mad."

"And have I not suffered enough to make me so? Why should I live? I cannot live. Oh! let me die," she wailed.

"Never," he replied impetuously. "There is yet happiness in store for you; life and hope."

"I will live, then; I may help him yet. Give it me," pointing to the broken sword.

"You swear you will not use it?"

"I swear. I shall keep it as a memorial of your fidelity. If ever I should be in dire distress and want your help, I shall send this sword-hilt to you. Then, come to me at once, for I shall need you sorely. Be careful for yourself; for Josephine's sake be careful, and do not needlessly meet danger. It cuts me to the heart to part with you, but you must go."

Her voice was broken with her sobs, and there was a hopelessness about her tone that went straight to her hearer's heart.

He went down on his knee and passionately kissed her hand. A bracelet containing a miniature of herself dropped from her wrist. He stooped and picked it up.

"Keep it, my friend," she said, "in memory of the unhappy Josephine."

She bent forward and brushed his forehead with her lips. "We shall not meet again, except to help him who has rejected me. If I seem unfaithful it is to serve him; to regain his love. But now he loves me not, so this token of affection to a faithful friend is no treason to him. Farewell, my dear, you must not tarry."

But, ere the last words had left her mouth, St. Just had sprung to his feet. Her words and the touch of her lips upon his brow had sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. His heart was in a ferment. Before she had divined his purpose, he had taken her in his arms and was passionately kissing her. Was it his fancy only, or did she really return his kisses? At least, she showed no resentment. "Farewell," again she murmured faintly. She struggled slightly to free herself, and he released her.

Then he ran to an open window and, with one last look at her, he vaulted through it and sped across the garden. On he flew, scarce noticing where he went, intent only on cutting one of the main avenues, for the time was going on, and his hour of grace would soon be spent; and then, unless he should be well clear of the precincts of the palace, the full weight of Napoleon's fury would be hurled at him. Soon he struck into a broad drive, and, by following this, it led him to the Porte Dauphin. Passing through the gate, he was hurrying onwards, when he felt a slight touch on his arm. With a start, he checked his footsteps and, not knowing whether it proceeded from friend or foe, instinctively he laid his hand upon his sword. He saw two figures in the darkness, a man and a boy; the man holding two horses by the bridles.

A silvery laugh rang out upon the stillness of the night and, the next moment, two voices spoke, together:—"Master!" "Henri!" The speakers were Mahmoud and his mistress.

"Halima!" cried St. Just astounded. "How come you here?"

"Am I not everywhere where my vengeance leads me?" she answered gayly. "And I fancy I was wanted here. Deluded schemer, it is useless trying to keep me in the dark; my agents have kept me informed of all your doings. So you have been doing a little plotting on your own account—and a little philandering too, eh? Oh! fie, you who swore that you had eyes for no other woman, that your life was torture when away from me. Oh! faithless, cruel deceiver!" And again her laughter rang out merrily.

It was so plainly unaffected, too, that even a less jealous man than was St. Just could not have avoided the conviction that he had not been greatly missed; that his wife had found consolation in another quarter. He bit his lip in mortification.

"Curses on Abdallah!" he muttered.

"Nay, curse him not, my dear," she answered airily; "he has not lowered you in my esteem. I blame you not; for, unwittingly, you have done good service. 'Tis, is't not, that the Emperor divorces Josephine?"

He nodded; he was offended at her banter, and somewhat shamed.

"Good," she replied, referring to the divorce. "It is the beginning of the end. Now tell me more."

Rapidly he sketched out what had passed, detailing Napoleon's fury and his threat to have him shot, unless he were away at once.

When he had concluded. "You have no time to lose, my dear," she said. "Mount, mount quickly, and ride away. They must not find you here. Make your way with all speed to England; there, at least, you will be safe."

"And you?" he asked.

"I shall be not long after you. Await me there. For the moment, I have work in France. My vengeance is working towards its climax. It will surely come, I know, but how soon I know not. Now go, dear."

He embraced her tenderly. "Oh! Halima, my best-beloved," he said, "why cannot we always be together?" Then he mounted one of the horses and galloped off into the blackness of the night.

EPOCH IV

CAPTIVE, BUT EMPEROR STILL

CHAPTER I

It is to be regretted that of St. Just's MS., from which this story is compiled, many pages have been lost. The reader will have noticed that there are several gaps in the narrative—years in which his time is unaccounted for. From the numbering of the leaves preserved, it appears that more than a hundred pages are missing, pages that cover the period between the moment when St. Just left Halima after his duel with Napoleon in November, 1809, and the Emperor's abdication at Fontainebleau, 1814.

So that it is impossible to state with certainty whether, when St. Just rode away from his wife with the intention of gaining England, and informing the British Government of Napoleon's contemplated divorce, he carried out his purpose. This much however is known, that, by some means he managed to escape the Emperor's vengeance. How he occupied himself in the five years' interval cannot now be ascertained; but, from allusions in the subsequent portions of his MS. it would seem that for a portion of the time he served in the Russian Army, and took part in harassing Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow. How he got to Russia is not clear; but it is likely enough that he was sent there by the British Government with despatches for the Emperor Alexander.

Doubtless he was engaged in many adventures, at the instigation of his wife, but of these there is no account.

In the five years that had elapsed, great changes had taken place. Napoleon, no longer Emperor of the French, was confined to the island of Elba, in which he exercised a petty sovereignty; having been driven from his country by the treachery of his Counsellors and Marshals, backed up by the victorious forces of the Allies.

Halima was exultant at his downfall, in which, somehow, she persuaded herself she had had a hand. True, she had been plotting against him for years, but it may well be doubted that her actions had had the slightest influence on events; but she thought so, and was, in consequence content.

Josephine, the one woman who had had true and lasting love for the Emperor, was dead, her end, no doubt, accelerated by the divorce.

Louis XVIII was king of France, but, with the usual obstinacy of the Bourbons, he failed to recognize the enormous change that had taken place in the temper and sentiment of the people; and already there were signs, for those who had the wit to understand them, that, under the surface there were smoldering embers of discontent that would burn fiercely at the first fanning. But the powers in France were unaware of it, and the deluded monarch sat his throne in cheerful self-sufficiency.

But it is with England, not with France, that the reader has now to do.

The first of January in the year 1815 was remarkable for its mildness, enhanced, in the locality which was the scene of the events next to be recorded, by the blazing sun which was pouring its rays generously upon the earth from the blue expanse of cloudless sky, making the sap stir in the leafless trees, and dyeing the herbage a more vivid green.

In the Spring and Summer the scene would have been a lovely one, and even now, it was not without its charms—the charms that belong to an English landscape.

Away in the distance lay in the Sussex Downs, sheltering from the cold blasts from the North, a roomy, weather-beaten, red-brick house, at present the abode of Halima and St. Just. A short distance from this house, and looking down upon it, was Wolstonbury Hill, nestling beneath which was the little church of Hurstpierpoint; the spire only was visible from the house, by reason of the trees that intervened. Away to the right was Devil's Dyke, and still further in the same direction lay Shoreham Gap. Extending the range of his vision the gazer would discern a clump of trees, called Chantingbury Ring, a well-known landmark for miles round—the sailors say that, coming up channel, you can see it thirty miles away.

In the old-fashioned garden that surrounded the house and was bounded by the high road between London and Brighton—about ten miles distant from the house—strolled on this same first of January, a lady and a gentleman. Let it be said at once that they were Halima and St. Just. Her age at this time was about three and thirty. She was still a lovely woman, but had parted with her girlish looks. Some might even think that her increased years had added to her charms; there was no waning in them; only maturity; and from her intercourse with high-bred men and women, she had acquired an ease of manner, a dignity of presence and a wit and polish in her conversation that, with her quick intelligence, made her more fascinating even than of yore. Withal, she had lost none of her strong will power and imperiousness. She was dressed handsomely, but more quietly than heretofore.

As for St. Just, he was noticeably aged, though the change in him in the last five years was not so great as in the five that had preceded them. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a wound received in Spain.

Presently they halted in their walk, and stood silently watching the sun just beginning to slip behind the leafless trees that crowned a little knoll to the West. At the same time the chime of distant bells struck on their ears.

St. Just was the first to break the silence.

"Art happy, chérie, in the reflection that your vengeance is complete; that our enemy, Napoleon, no longer the great, is exiled; that my wanderings about the Continent are over, and that now we can be all in all to one another."

"But is it really true?" she asked.

"True enough, my dearest. Did you not read it in the newspaper I brought last week, when I went to London?"

"But newspapers oft lie. I am still not easy. You know, or ought to by this time, that I depend on what my spirits tell me; not altogether on what is common knowledge. And they have told me—"

"Hush! little woman, not so loud; you may be overheard. As it is, these English about here are suspicious of us, because we're French; what would they think, should they see and hear you at your incantations? I believe they would burn you as a witch."

She burst into a merry, careless laugh. "They must catch me first," she said.

But he did not join in her merriment.

"Don't laugh, my dear," he said. "If harm should come to you—" he sighed.

"No harm will come to me. If any should threaten me, my spirits would forewarn me of it."

They resumed their walk in silence, pacing up and down the graveled walks. He seemed moody and disturbed.

By this time the sun had disappeared, and the air had become cold and raw. Halima shivered. "I shall go in, Henri," she said. "It is getting cold. This country is not like our sunny France." After a moment's pause, she went on complainingly, "Where are your reflections straying to?"

"I was thinking," he replied in an absent tone, "of what I had been reading in the newspaper. I was thinking of the unhappy woman who was Napoleon's wife."

"Of Marie Louise?" she asked.

"No, of Josephine."

"Ah! I might have expected it," she retorted angrily and there was a dangerous light in her eyes, that might have warned him. But it only angered him. He turned upon her sharply.

"You sneer, but she was a noble woman. I am proud to admit that she regarded me with favor. I would have done much for her. But for your devilish ingenuity and persistent malice, I might have saved him for her sake."

"That you could not have done," she answered scornfully, "against my will."

"Pray how?"

"Recall to your mind the eve of the battle of Wagram. Ah! you would have made him believe in her, but for me. Abdallah was my agent, as you know."

St. Just nodded in assent.

"He was watched by one of the Empress's Maids of Honor."

"Yes; go on," interposed the man, in a tone of unnatural calm. He was putting a rein on his excitement. He felt that he was about to get an insight into circumstances that had puzzled him.

"She was in the power of her lover," resumed Halima, "a Colonel of the Guard. What was his name? Ah!" after a moment's pause, "Tremeau. He was watched by the palace Marshal, who was in the pay of Fouché. Fouché had his own interest to serve, and was in league with Talleyrand; and he, in his turn, was intriguing with Pitt and Malmesbury and other enemies of Napoleon. And I was in it all; I knew all that was going on, and helped to pull the strings. I was kept informed of all your doings at Fontainebleau, my dear—amours and all."

"I see," he said; "spy upon spy."

"V'là!" she exclaimed, airily, "One must watch one's husband when he is away. I know something of the ways of men. I always followed your movements, when you were traveling."

"Except in Spain."

"No, not even excepting Spain, for there I was kept au courant by Tremeau, who, you may remember, was in that country after Napoleon's second marriage. He was in favor with Marshal Soult, and betrayed his plans to Wellington. Yes, my friend, I had a finger in the Spanish pie, not less than in other articles of Napoleon's menu."

"But my missions?"

"Blinds, my innocent, mere blinds; the instructions in your papers were not intended to be acted on. They were written to mislead, in case they should be taken from you. I soon found out that you were only half in earnest about Napoleon; that, once under the glamour of his presence, you would return to your allegiance to him. Fortunately, I discovered this in time. Had you been trusted, you might have wrought irreparable mischief."

"Then I was played with all along?" was his moody comment.

"I would not put it so offensively as that, my friend. Let us say that the part you played was not a leading one; but you filled your rôle, such as it was, with credit. A stronger part would, I fear, have proved too much for you. You may thank me, therefore, that you were not cast for the jeune premier."

She laughed, a little scornful laugh that was not pleasant to the hearer.

For a few seconds, St. Just made no rejoinder. Then, looking at her sternly, he enquired, "Do you tell me seriously that you had anything to do with Tremeau's listening to my conversation with Josephine at St. Cloud, and afterwards forestalling me in my mission to the Emperor?"

"Certainly I do."

"You did an innocent woman a grievous wrong; what harm had she ever done to you?"

"None that I know of. I was not jealous of her, if you suggest that. I did not mind your philandering with her in my absence. Without vanity, I think I might put my attractions in the scale with hers. No, I had not the least animus against her; she was a quantité négligeable, a victim to the odium Napoleon would incur by her divorce."

"'Twas a heartless act. Had you no consideration for your fellow woman?"

"What thought had Buonaparte for me, when he robbed me of my innocence?" she retorted sharply.

He recoiled from her, as though he had been struck. "Ah! don't," he said imploringly. "Why remind me of it? It was almost blotted from my mind."

"But never from mine," and her eyes looked hard and cruel, and gleamed with a vindictive fire.

She tripped away from him, and he turned round to watch her until she disappeared into the house. A deep sigh escaped him. For the last ten years—the best of his life and hers—he had been her husband in little more than name; no sooner had he returned from one mission, than he had been despatched upon another. Now he came to think of it, he had been the mere instrument of her revenge, a tool in her hands, a sort of confidential servant; and, even so, not wholly trusted. The position irked him terribly, and, for the first time in his life, a something, that he hardly durst acknowledge as regret, stole over him, that they had ever met.