paul was rewarded out of all measure for his courtesy. for as henriette sat and drank her whiskey and soda, she talked.
“you were civil to me when your friend would have sent me contemptuously away,” she said. “and when i told you that i had dined at the café de paris only three weeks ago, and your friend laughed, you did not. you pretended that you believed it. that was polite of you. for we both knew that never once in all my life have i dined at the café de paris or any such swell restaurant in paris. and it was kind of you. it made me ready to fancy that i had dined there and that does one a little good, eh? one feels better in one’s self. so i will be kind in my turn. you are interested in that little one,” and she jerked her head towards the table in the bar, where marguerite had rejoined the noisy group. “yes, she has chic, and she is pretty on her feet, and she has a personality, but—” paul ravenel leaned forward, his face hardening.
“mademoiselle, i do not want to hear.”
“oh, i am not going to crab her,” replied henriette, and her petulant temper flamed up. “you think, i suppose, that women cannot admire a girl who is younger and prettier than themselves and cannot like her. that is foolish. i tell you we all like marguerite lambert. and i speak to you for your good and hers. but, of course, if you do not care to hear me—”
“i beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” said paul. “i will listen to you very willingly.”
henriette’s passions were no more than bubbles upon the surface of her good-humour. they burst very quickly and left no traces. the flush faded from her throat and forehead and no doubt from the painted cheeks as well, though that could not be discovered by mortal eye.
“listen,” she said. “your friend asked me what marguerite lambert was doing at the villa iris, and i would not answer him. why should i? it was clear what he meant, wasn’t it? why was she, who might really have dined at the café de paris three weeks ago, already here at casablanca, so near to the end of things?” henriette’s face grew for a moment haggard with terror, as she formulated the problem. the last stage but one of the dreadful pilgrimage of her class! she herself was making that journey, and what lay beyond and so hideously close, loomed up when she thought of it, and appalled her.
paul interrupted her with a word of solace.
“you are making too much of his question.”
but henriette would have none of his consolation.
“no, that is what he meant and what you meant, too?”
“i said nothing.”
“but the question was in your face. the question and a great deal of trouble. why was marguerite lambert already at casablanca?”
paul did not contradict her again. she would not believe him if he did and he might lose the answer to the question.
“you made it still more difficult to understand,” he said frankly. there was no good to be gained by beating about the bush with this woman who was disposed to help him. “for though you didn’t answer our question you added to it another perplexity. you said that she wouldn’t remain here long.”
henriette nodded.
“that is right. the answer to both questions is the same. she drifted here so soon, and she will stay for so short a time, because she waits for the grand passion. yes, the little fool!” but it was not in scorn that she styled marguerite a little fool, but with a half-contemptuous tenderness, and perhaps a tiny spite of envy.
“the grand passion!” paul repeated, wondering what in the world his companion meant.
“yes. oh, she is quite frank with the rest of us. we talk, you know, when we are dressing, and after the café is closed, when we are changing back to our street clothes. until the grand passion comes, nothing, nothing, nothing to any man. look, they are dancing again, she and petras tetarnis, the greek.”
so he was a greek, the man with the yellow-buttoned boots and the heavy black moustache! henriette watched them with the eye of a professional.
“yes, she dances prettily, that little one. but would you like a girl to dance with you just in that way—so unconcerned, so half-asleep, so utterly indifferent to you? and if you wanted her as petras tetarnis does, furiously, wouldn’t you be mad when she swam in your arms so lightly, with so correct a grace and not one look or smile or thought for you? so that if you spoke to her, she had to recall her thoughts from the end of the world before she could answer you? you would be wild with rage, eh? you would want to take that slim little white throat between your two big hands and squeeze and squeeze until some attention was paid to you, if it was only the attention of agony and fear. am i not right?”
paul’s face turned white. he leaned across the table and cried in a low, fierce voice:
“was that what you meant, henriette, when you said that she would not be here long? that the greek would murder her?”
henriette burst into a laugh.
“oh, no, no, no, my friend. petras tetarnis is not the man to run such perils. he has made much money, since the french have come to casablanca. he is a prudent one. it would have to be a very dark night and a very empty street before tetarnis risked his beautiful money and all the enjoyment he gets from it; and even then some one else would have to do the work. but he will use other ways.”
“what kind of ways?” asked paul.
henriette shrugged her shoulders.
“he is always here. he is rich. madame delagrange makes much of him. very likely he has lent her money, and if so, he will want his interest.”
“i see.”
paul leaned back in his chair and henriette looked at him curiously.
“you were much moved, my friend, when i spoke of the big, coarse hands gripping that little throat.”
“well, any man would be, and whoever the woman,” he protested, and henriette smiled her disbelief.
“would you have been so moved if it had been my throat which you thought to be in danger?” she asked shrewdly. “no! let us be frank. you would have said, ‘it is henriette’s business to look after herself. she is old enough, anyway’; and you would have forgotten me the next moment.” she turned her eyes again upon marguerite lambert.
“the grand passion. oh, la, la, la! until it comes nothing, oh, but nothing at all for any one—not half a heart beat! but when it does come, everything, at once, with both hands. the folly!”
“the glorious imprudence!” replied paul.
henriette broke into a harsh laugh as she heard the softly spoken words and saw the light in paul ravenel’s eyes. it was the light of a great relief rather than of hope. the fear which had plagued him all through this evening had gone now. there was no need for the excuses. he had not to argue a defence for marguerite lambert.
“the glorious imprudence,” henriette repeated with a sneer. “yes, so you say—you, the man who has everything to gain from the glorious imprudence and when he is tired of it, can drop it in the road behind him. but i tell you those are not good ideas for a girl who dances for her living, in the cafés. there is the patron behind the patron like petras tetarnis, who will make trouble if he doesn’t get what he wants, for there are rich patrons whom the patron does not wish to drive away. or there are jealousies which may mean fighting and the police. no, my fine gentleman! girls who are difficult, the villa irises are no place for them. that is why marguerite lambert at twenty is dancing in casablanca and will not dance there long.”
“but if the great passion comes?” cried paul.
“then it must come quick! believe me, very quick. petras tetarnis is growing troublesome. and if it comes! shall i tell you what will happen? she will blow her brains out! oh, you may start in your chair. but look at her where she sits! there is the mark of fate already upon her face. it is written, as they say in this country.”
so to henriette as to gerard de montignac and to paul ravenel, that indefinable look of destiny in marguerite was evident. paul asked himself whether it was not simply the outward and visible sign of that passionate self-respect which had kept her untarnished against the rush and play of the great passion when it came. or was the future really written there—a history of great joys perhaps and great sorrows certainly to be?
“so marguerite lives on seven francs a day and—”
she got no further. paul interrupted her with an exclamation of horror.
“seven francs!”
“yes. that is what our generous madame delagrange pays us each night and we provide our own dancing kit out of it. oh, the little fool starves. that is certain—all the more certain because she will not let any of the clients here give her food.”
“but she let me,” cried paul with a smile of pride.
“yes, she let you to-night. but the others, never, never, lest—you understand? lest they should make a claim.”
“out of so small a service?” asked paul incredulously.
henriette smiled.
“you have been lucky in your world,” she said. “the clients of the villa iris are not so generous. they will make a claim out of anything, as, by the way, most men will, if the claim may get them what they want. so that little one, since she will give herself to none of them, is wise to starve. you are the only one from whom she has taken food. it is curious, eh? it is because of that and because you treat me like a human being that i, henriette, who like the little fool, ramble on so seriously to you to-night.”
the plastered face softened into tenderness and the bird-like eyes shone and filled suddenly with tears.
“it is kind of you,” said paul. if any one had said to him a couple of hours before that he would have felt himself intensely privileged because a little dancing girl of the villa iris had taken supper from him and from him alone, he would have laughed his informant to scorn. but it was so. paul was radiant with pride. he saw himself as a very fine fellow, a much finer fellow than he had ever believed himself to be. the loneliness of his boyhood, a sudden blow crushing his pride and his dreams in the dust, and years thereafter informed with a strong purpose to regain his name and his place in his own country, had combined to defer but had not slain his youth. it was back with him now, all the more ardent and dangerous from the restraint which had held it in check. paul ravenel was a boy of nineteen on this evening in the fire of his passion, but with the will and the experience of his own years; and he was old enough to hide any plans which he might be forming and to seek all the knowledge he could get from henriette.
“why should she blow out her brains, as you say?” he asked, offering to henriette a cigarette.
“because that is what she will do,” replied henriette as she lighted her cigarette. “i know my world. listen! my father kept a little eating-house at rouen, where i saw many types of men. he went bankrupt. i went to dance in paris. oh, i was nothing out of the way. i danced in a quadrille at the casino de paris for a little time, then at the bal tabarin. i went to madrid and barcelona where i danced at the lion d’or, the restaurant which has no doors, for it is open night and day. and in the end i came here. well, i tell you this. fine dreams are for rich people. for us, if we are wise, we bury them out of sight the moment they are born. we will not think of them. we will not allow them. the rich have much which makes disappointment bearable. for us—we blow our brains out.”
whilst she spoke she kept darting little swift glances at her companion, as though she was practising on him some trivial diplomacy. she believed, in truth, every word she said. but since her philosophy was not marguerite’s, if this man could give the girl a year or two of happiness, it would be something, at all events. but paul sat and listened carelessly and answered not at all.
“see!” she cried. “when you spin the racquet for the choice of courts at the tennis, it is ‘rough’ or ‘smooth,’ eh? well, it is always rough with us and we lose the choice.”
she laughed at her trifle of a joke, and again her eyes glanced at paul. but the clearer his purpose became to himself, the more impassive grew his face. long ago he had learnt that lesson of defence. henriette rose. she, at all events, was openly disappointed.
“so! i have talked to you long enough,” she said. the piano began once more its dreadful cacophany. “ah, marguerite is dancing with another of that band. he does not matter. you yourself will dance with her again to-night, isn’t it so?”
paul shook his head.
“no,” and as he saw henriette’s face cloud over, he added, “she herself bade me keep away.”
the cloud passed at once. that was good news. there was an understanding between them, then, already. henriette beamed.
“i understand that,” she said in a whisper, “and i hope you understand it, too. madame delagrange is not very content that we dance much with the officers. she says they have no money.”
paul laughed. he would have loved to have seen gerard de montignac’s face if that remark had been made before him and to have heard his reply.
“not so much, certainly, as those gentlemen over there whom we have made rich. but enough, mademoiselle henriette, to thank a good friend.”
for a moment henriette was puzzled. then she looked down. beside her empty glass lay a folded slip of paper. the broad band of purple told her the amount of the bank note. she leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“a thousand francs! it is a fortune to me! you understand that? i will take it, yes, with a thousand thanks, but it was not to get your money that i spoke to you.”
“i never thought it. if i had thought it, your surprise would have proved me wrong.”
henriette gathered the note in the palm of her hand and making a movement as if to take her handkerchief, slipped it secretly into her bosom. another thought came to her.
“you are really rich then! you could make a little home, a little safe home, where there would be no clients or patrons or starving. oh, that would be different!” she said in a wondering voice. “i take back what i said about the end her grand passion would lead her to.” henriette glanced again towards marguerite. “she is chic, eh? she has style, the little one? an air of good breeding. whence does it come? how is it that she has kept it?” paul could have answered that question had he wished to. she had kept it because of her immense pride and self-respect, she had probably got it to keep, from the same source. henriette looked from the girl dancing to the officer at the table.
“a little home, eh. if it could be!” she pleaded. paul gazed at her with a smile upon his lips and in his eyes, but he did not answer her, and she flung away.
“oh, you are a box with the lid shut! good-night, monsieur!”
“good-night, mademoiselle henriette.”
a few moments later paul ravenel followed henriette into the bar. he stopped before the counter where madame delagrange was vigorously wiping the wet rings made by the bottoms of the glasses from the light polished wood. she had always the duster in her hand, except when she was measuring out her drinks into the glasses, and very often then, and generally was at work with it.
“this is quite maxim’s, madam,” he said.
the flattery had little effect. madame barely paused in her polishing and smiled sourly.
“in that case i must see about raising my prices, monsieur,” said she. no, clearly she did not like the officers. paul went on to the door. marguerite, seated with the levantines, never looked at him, but just as he was going out she raised her glass to her lips with a little nod of her head, as though she drank a health to some absent friend, and her slow smile dawned and trembled on her lips.
but the night was not yet over for paul ravenel. as he reached his house he heard his name called aloud and turning about saw his friend gerard de montignac hurrying towards him.
“there is news at last,” he said.
the town had been full of rumours for many days. certain things were known. it was certain, for instance that the tribes of the beni-m’tir, the ait-youssi and the gerouan had actually pitched their tents on the plain of fez and in full revolt against mulai hafid the sultan, were pressing the city close. it was known too that a flying column purposely small in order to set at rest the distrust of the german press and the opposition of politicians in paris, had been assembled at kenitra for a swift march to relieve the capital. this had been delayed by bad weather which had turned the flat country beyond kenitra into a marsh.
but there had been for days a continual disembarkation of fresh troops at casablanca which pointed to operations on a wider scale. on this night the truth was out.
“come into the house and let me hear, gerard,” said paul, and opening his door he switched on the electric lights and led gerard into a room.
“meknes has risen too. a new sultan, mulai zine, the brother of mulai hafid has been proclaimed sultan there. it is no longer to be a flying column which will camp for a few days under the walls of fez and return. it is to be a great expedition. the whole camp at ain-bourdja is ringing with it to-night. i ran down to tell you.”
“that was good of you, gerard,” said paul.
there was a great contrast visible now between the two officers, the one excited and eager, the other playing with the switch of the standard lamp upon his table, and lost in thought.
“i hear that my squadron is to go up in the first column under colonel brulard. you, of course, with your battalion will be wanted too.”
“i suppose so,” replied paul slowly. “i should have liked to have finished this report before i go.”
“the report can wait,” cried gerard, “france can’t.”
the two friends talked late into the night. paul gradually threw off the reticence with which he had at first answered de montignac. they fell to debating the strength of the different columns, the line of march, whether through the forest of zemmour or over the plain of the sebou and by the col of segota, and who would command.
“brulard for the advance force,” said gerard, “the general himself will follow.”
“and gouraud?” asked paul.
“yes, yes, gouraud. he couldn’t be left behind. it is said that he will have the supply column and follow a day or two behind brulard.”
“we shall know more about it to-morrow,” said paul, and gerard looked at his watch.
“do you know the time?” he said springing to his feet. “if we were in france now, we should see daylight.” he was in an emotional mood. he clapped his friend upon the shoulder. “we shall see one another again, my old one, before i start, no doubt. but if we don’t, and anything happens to either of us, well, it is good luck to the survivor.”
he shook hands with paul and paul let him out of the house.
paul went back to the room. the eagerness with which he had discussed the technical details of the expedition fell from him as soon as he was alone. he sat down at his table and remained there until dawn at last did break over the town. but he was not at work upon his report. he had pushed it from him and sat with his face between the palms of his hands.
