gerard de montignac found paul still up and putting the last words to the report of long and solitary wanderings amongst the inland tribes. the report was to be despatched the next morning to the bureau des affaires indigènes at rabat, and gerard waited in patience until the packet was sealed up. then he burst out with his story of what had taken place on the night before at the villa iris. paul listened without an interruption, but his face grew white with anger and his eyes burned, as he heard of madame delagrange’s coarse abuse and marguerite’s tears and humiliations.
“so you see, paul, it was your fault in a way,” gerard urged. “of course sooner or later petras tetarnis—damn his soul!—would have presented his ultimatum, as he did last night, but you were the occasion of it being done.”
“yes,” paul agreed.
“then you must find her. you must do what you can, send her home, give her a chance. i’ll start searching myself this very night. but you have more time and better means of discovering her.”
“yes.”
paul had knocked about casablanca as a boy. he had many friends amongst the natives, and was accustomed to sit with them by the hour, drinking mint tea and exchanging jokes. he was a man of property besides in that town and could put out a great many feelers in different quarters.
“i have no doubt that i can discover where she is,” he said, “if she is still in casablanca.”
“where else can she be unless it’s in the sea!” cried gerard. “but remember you have got to be quick. she had only the seven francs. god knows what has become of her!”
he stood gazing at the lamp as if he could read her whereabouts in that white flame as the gifted might do in a crystal; with his cap tilted on the back of his head and a look of grave trouble upon his face.
“i’ll find her, never fear,” said paul ravenel, touching his friend upon the arm. “and what i can do to keep her from harm that i will do.”
gerard responded to the friendliness and the assurance in paul’s voice. he shook off his dejection.
“thank you, mon vieux,” he said and held out his hand. “well, we shall meet in fez.”
he had reached the door before he remembered the primary reason for his visit.
“by the way, i have a letter about you from some one in england, a colonel vanderfelt. yes, he is anxious for news of you. he wrote to me because in your letters to him you had more than once spoken of me as your friend.”
a shadow darkened paul’s face as he listened, and a look of pain came into his eyes. he took the letter from gerard.
“have you answered it, gerard?”
“no. it only reached me to-night. i must leave that to you.”
“right.”
the door-keeper let gerard out and he tramped through the now silent and empty streets the length of the town to the market gate; and so to his quarters in the camp at ain-bourdja. some years were to pass before the two friends met again.
paul stood for a long time just as gerard had left him with colonel vanderfelt’s letter in his hand. the fragrance of an english garden seemed to him to sweeten this moorish room. though the lattices were wide open, he heard no longer the thunder of the great breakers upon the shore. the letter was magical and carried him back on this hot night of may to a country of cool stars. the garden, he remembered, would be white with lilac, the tulips would be in flower, the rhododendrons masses of red and mauve, against the house the wisteria would be hanging in purple clusters. and in the drawing room some very kindly people might at this moment be counting the date on which they could expect an answer to this letter.
well, the answer would never come.
“all those pleasant dreams are over,” thought paul. “they have not heard from me for more than a year. let the break be complete!” and with a rather wistful smile he tore the letter into shreds. then he went out and turning into a street by the sea-wall came to that house from which gerard de montignac had seen him and his agent depart three days before. a lattice was open on the first floor and from a wide window a golden flood of light poured out upon the night. paul whistled gently and then waited at the door. it was thrown open in a few seconds, just time enough for some one to run down the stairs and open it. paul stepped into a dark passage and a pair of slender arms closed about his neck and drew his face down.
“marguerite, why didn’t you tell me how that venomous old harridan treated you?” he whispered.
marguerite lambert laughed with a note of utter happiness which no one had heard from her for a long while.
“my dear, what did it matter any longer;” and clinging to him passionately, she pressed her lips to his.
* * * * *
paul could have added a postscript to henriette’s story, as gerard de montignac had told it to him, if he had so willed. for when marguerite lambert stood alone on that verandah, her bundle in her hand, a figure had risen up out of the darkness of the garden and stepped onto the boards. she recoiled at the first moment in terror, and her bundle slipped from her hand and scattered its contents.
“marguerite,” the man whispered, and with a wild throb of her heart she knew it was paul ravenel who was speaking to her.
“you! you!” she said in so low a voice that, though he stood at her side, the words only reached his ears like a sigh. “oh!” and her arms were about his shoulders, her hands tightly clasped behind his head, and her tear-stained cheeks pressed close against the breast of his tunic. he tried to lift her face, but she would not let him.
“no! no!” she whispered. he could feel her bosom rising and falling, and hear the sobs bursting from her throat. then she flung up her face.
“my dear! my dear! i was hoping that some sudden thing would kill me, because i couldn’t do it myself. and then—you are here!”
she drew herself from his arms, and not knowing what she did she kneeled and began to gather together her scattered belongings. paul ravenel laughed and stooping, lifted her up.
“you won’t want those things any more, my dear,” and with his arm about her he led her from the garden through the quiet streets to this house by the sea-wall which had been got ready against her coming.
