the rumours of the camp were proved true the next morning and the preparations for provisioning and concentrating so large a force were swiftly pushed forward. gerard de montignac was to march with his squadron in a week’s time by rabat and saller to kenitra. paul was to rejoin his battalion a few days later. half of that battalion, paul’s company included, was to form part of the escort of colonel gouraud’s huge supply column, which with its hundreds of camels was beginning to assemble at meheydia at the mouth of the sebou.
paul was now a full captain in command of that company of the tirailleurs which he had led during the last engagements of the chaiou?a campaign, and marked out by his superiors as an officer likely to reach the high ranks and responsibilities. he had still a few days of his leave and he spent the greater part of them in the careful revision of his report. gerard de montignac, on his side was engaged in the supervision of the equipment of his squadron and was busy from morning until night. two or three times during the course of the week, he went down between nine and ten at night to the villa iris, and sat or danced for half an hour with marguerite lambert. but he never saw paul ravenel there and through the week the two friends did not meet except for a moment or two in the thronged streets.
“le grand serieux!” said gerard, speaking of paul to marguerite lambert with an affectionate mockery. “he will be a general when i am an old major dyeing my moustache to make myself look young. but meanwhile, whilst we are both captains, i should like to see more of him than i do. for, after all, we go out with our men—and one never knows who will come back.”
marguerite’s face lost its colour at his words and she drew in her breath sharply. “oh, it is our business of course,” he continued, taking her sympathy to himself. “do you know, marguerite, that for a second, i though you had stirred that thick soup in paul’s veins which he calls his blood? but no, he never comes here.”
marguerite laughed hurriedly, and asked at random, “you have seen him to-day?”
“yes. he was coming out of a house close to the port with the agent who looks after his property, a little italian. paul was talking very earnestly and did not notice me. he has a good deal of property in casablanca and was making his arrangements no doubt for a long absence.”
marguerite looked down at the table, tracing a pattern upon its surface with her finger. when she spoke again her voice broke upon her words and her lips quivered.
“i shall lose all my friends this week,” she said.
“only us two,” said gerard, consoling her.
“that’s what i mean,” she returned with a little smile, and gerard de montignac leaned forward.
“marguerite, i don’t go for a couple of days,” he said, lowering his voice to an eager whisper. “let us make the best of them! let me have the memory of two good days and nights to carry away with me, will you? why not? my work is done. i could start off with my troops at six o’clock to-morrow instead of at six o’clock on the third morning. give me the next two days.”
marguerite shook her head.
“no, my friend.”
gerard de montignac knew nothing of that conversation which henriette had held with paul ravenel on this spot a few nights before. he could but believe that marguerite lambert somehow found that dreadful gang of nondescripts with whom she foregathered more to her taste than he or his friend. she shone like a flower in this squalid haunt, a tired and drooping flower. it was extraordinary that she could endure this company for a moment, to say nothing of their embraces. but women, even the most delicate amongst them, would blindfold their eyes and stop their ears, and cease to appreciate both the look of their friends and the esteem in which they are held, if their interest prompted them. gerard de montignac rose angrily from his chair.
“of course poor devils of officers like myself can’t hope to compete with these rich dagoes,” he said brutally. “we must console ourselves with reflecting that our efforts and dangers have made them rich.”
marguerite lambert flushed scarlet at the insult, and then lowered her head.
“i do not wish to speak to you again,” she said in a distinct low voice, and gerard de montignac stalked out of the villa iris.
he was troubled by his recollection of the little scene during the next two days; sometimes falling into a remorse, and sometimes repeating his own words with bravado, and arguing that this was the proper way to speak; and always ending with a flood of heart-felt curses.
“damn all dagoes and levantines! there ought to be a special code for them. they ought to be made to take off their shoes when they meet us in the street. those old moors knew something! i’ll never see that girl again as long as i live. luckily she’ll be gone by the time i come back to casablanca. henriette said she wouldn’t dance at the villa iris for long. no, i won’t see her again.”
he kept carefully away from the neighbourhood of the villa for thirty-six hours. then a post came in and was delivered throughout the camp at eight o’clock in the evening. amongst the letters which gerard de montignac received was one written in english by a colonel vanderfelt in sussex praying for news of paul ravenel. gerard had enough english to perceive how much anxiety and affection had gone to the composition of that letter.
“it ought to be answered at once,” he said. “paul must answer it.”
gerard looked at his watch. it was close upon nine now, and he was to parade at six in the morning. he must hand over that letter to paul to-night. he could have sent it by the post very well, or he could have written an answer to colonel vanderfelt himself. but he took up his cap instead and walked down from ain-bourdja towards the town. very likely he had some unacknowledged purpose at the back of his mind. for he found himself presently standing before the villa iris, though that house lay well out of the road between the camp and paul ravenel’s house by the seaward wall.
“well, since i am here,” he said, as though he had come to this spot quite by accident, “i may as well go in and make my peace with marguerite lambert. for all i know i may be quitting the world altogether very shortly, and why should i leave unnecessary enemies to hate my memory.”
thus he explained quite satisfactorily to himself his reason for entering and looking about him for marguerite. but she was nowhere to be seen—no, not even amongst the dagoes and the levantines. she must be outside in the cool of the balcony beneath the roof of vines. but a glance there showed him that he was wrong. there was nothing for it but to approach the virago behind the bar, who hotter and redder than ever on this night in early may, was polishing away at her counter and serving out the drinks.
gerard ordered one and taking it from her hand, said carelessly:
“mademoiselle marguerite is not here to-night?”
madame delagrange made a vicious dab with her duster and cried in an exasperation:
“look, monsieur! when she is here i have nothing but complaints. that little marguerite! she holds her nose in the air as if we smelled. she looks at us as if we were animals at a circus—and she has nothing to be conceited about with her thin shoulders and tired face. now she is gone, it is all the time—‘what have you done with our little marguerite?’ well, i have done nothing.” she turned to another customer. “for you, monsieur? a bottle of champagne? abdullah shall bring it to you.”
abdullah in his turkish breeches was handed the dreadful decoction and gerard de montignac tried again:
“she has left the villa iris altogether?”
“yes, yes, yes. she has gone, that miss ni’touche!”
“and where has she gone?”
the harridan behind the bar flung up her hands.
“saperlipoppette, how should i know, i ask you? i beg you, monsieur, to allow me to serve my clients who do not think that because they have bought a whiskey-soda, they have become proprietors for the night of the villa iris.”
with an indignant nod she turned to some other customers. gerard wandered out into the verandah, where he sat down rather heavily. he was more troubled than he would have thought possible. after all the disappearance of a little dancing girl from a bar in a coast town of morocco!—what was there to make a fuss about in that? that is the way of little dancing girls. they dance and they disappear, a question or two from you and me and the next man are as it were the ripples upon the pond, and then the surface is still once more.
but gerard de montignac could not dismiss marguerite lambert with this easy philosophy. he remembered her too clearly, her slim grace, the promise of real beauty if only she had food enough, her anger with him two evenings ago, and above all the queer look of fatality set upon her like a seal. marguerite lambert gone! how and whither? one or two dreadful sentences spoken a fortnight ago in the mess by the commandant marnier were written in letters of flame upon his memory. casablanca was the last halting place but one in the ghastly pilgrimage of these poor creatures. the last of all—he shuddered to think of it. to picture marguerite lambert amongst its squalors was a sacrilege. yet she had gone—she had moved on! there was the appalling fact.
he saw henriette strolling a little way off between the tables. he beckoned eagerly to her. she looked at him doubtfully, then with a mutinous air and a toss of the head she strolled towards him.
“you want to speak to me? you were not very polite the last time.”
“i will atone for my discourtesy to-night, mademoiselle henriette.”
henriette was induced to take a chair and order a drink.
gerard believed that he must practise some diplomacy with this fiery creature if he was to get the truth from her, but as a fact he had not to put one question. for henriette had hardly begun to sip her whiskey and soda before she said:
“the little marguerite! she has been sent away. i am sorry. i told you—didn’t i?—that she wouldn’t stay here long.”
“sent away?”
henriette nodded.
“by madame?”
“last night?”
“yes. after all the guests had gone. but what a scene! oh, la, la, la! i was frightened i can tell you. so were we all. we hid in the little room there off the bar, where we dress, and listened through the crack of the door. but a scene! it was terrible.”
“tell me!” said gerard.
henriette twitched her chair into the table with an actual excitement. she was really and deeply distressed for marguerite. but for the moment her distress was forgotten. the joy of the story teller had descended upon her.
“it was the greek over there, petras tetarnis,” she began. “he was mad for marguerite and she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. so he got her turned away. see how drunk he is to-night. how proud of his fine revenge on a little girl who asked for nothing more than permission to earn her seven francs a night in peace.”
“she wouldn’t have anything to say to him!” gerard protested. “why, she was always at that table where he sits.”
“yes. because he is the real owner of the villa iris. madame is no more than his servant. so marguerite, since she wished to stay here, must be friendly to him. but petras was not content with friendliness and last night when your friend came in—”
“my friend,” interrupted gerard de montignac.
“yes, the one with the yellow hair and the long legs and the face that tells you nothing at all.”
“paul! he was here last night!”
“yes. oh, he has come here more than once during the last week, but very late and for a few minutes. he goes straight to that table and takes marguerite away, as if he were the master; and somehow they all sit dumb as if they were the lackeys. imagine it, monsieur! all of them very noisy and boisterous and then—a sudden silence and the yellow-headed captain walking away with marguerite lambert as if they did not exist. it used to make the rest of us laugh, but they—they were furious with humiliation and when, a little time afterwards, the captain had gone—oh, how bold they were! they would pull his nose for him the next time, they would teach him how gentlemen behave—oh, yes, yes! but it was always the next time that these fine lessons would be given.”
gerard de montignac nodded his head.
“i know the breed.”
henriette described how paul ravenel had entered the bar a little after midnight. he had taken marguerite lambert away, danced a round or two, and given her some supper; and whilst she ate, petras tetarnis emboldened by drink and the encouragement of his friends had left his table and begun to prowl backwards and forwards behind paul ravenel’s back, nodding and winking at his associates and muttering to himself. paul had taken no notice, but marguerite had stopped eating and sat in terror watching him over paul’s shoulder like a bird fascinated by a snake. tetarnis drew nearer and nearer with each turn, marguerite sat twisting her hands and imploring paul to go away and leave her. she was speaking in english and in a whisper so that henriette could not repeat the words. but it was easy enough to translate them. “it is for my sake,” she was saying. “it is for my sake.”
but paul would not listen; and with a little helpless flutter of her frail hands marguerite sank back in her chair. there would be a disturbance, very possibly a fight. once more she was to be the helen of a squalid iliad and the result would be what it always had been. she would move on—and this time there was no whither she could move. she had come to the end.
“i could read the despair in her eyes, in the utter abandonment of her body,” said henriette, but there had been much at that moment in marguerite lambert’s thoughts which henriette could not read at all. the passionate dream of her life was dying, as she sat there. she had come to the end. it would have no chance of fulfilment now. where to-morrow, could she find the great love waiting for her? it had made her life possible, it had given her strength to endure the squalor of her lodging and her companions, and the loss of all that daintiness and order which mean so much to women. it had given her wit to defend herself against the approaches of her courtiers, and the self-respect which kept her with the manners of one of gentlest birth. nearer and nearer drew petras tetarnis until he bumped against paul’s chair, and then very quickly and quietly paul rose to his feet.
a stifled prayer burst from marguerite’s trembling lips. then she covered her face with her hands and closed her ears with her thumbs. but there was no disturbance at all.
“the captain paul took petras by the elbow and looking down upon him talked to him as one talks to a child. i could hear what he said. ‘you are terrifying this lady. you must not behave like this in public places. you must go back to your place and sit very quietly or you must go home.’ and petras went. yes, without a word, as if he had been whipped he went back to his chair amongst his friends. but, i tell you, monsieur, his eyes had all hell in them! and after a little, very cautiously, as if he was afraid lest the captain paul should notice him he crept to the counter and talked very earnestly with madame.”
“what was he saying?” asked gerard de montignac.
“i could not hear at all. i dared not even try to listen. i went to the table where marguerite and her friend were sitting. marguerite was imploring him to go away. i agreed with her. the storm was over. it was better for marguerite’s sake that he should go away quietly now without any fuss.”
“and he went?” asked gerard.
“not at first,” returned henrietta. “no, he was stubborn. he was thinking of his pride, as men do, not of the poor women who suffer by it. but at last—it seemed that some idea came into his head, some thought which made him smile—he consented. he paid his bill and walked, neither quickly nor slowly through the bar and out by the passage into the street. and so the people settled down, and the trouble seemed at an end.”
and so until the closing of the bar it was. as a rule the visitors had all gone by two o’clock in the morning; and this particular night was no exception. it was the practice as soon as the room was empty for madame delagrange to pay the girls their seven francs apiece at the counter. then they crossed into the little dressing room, changed their clothes and went out into the lane by the street door, which was locked behind them. on this night, however, madame delagrange kept marguerite lambert to the last.
“you others can run away and get off your clothes. i want to have a little talk by myself with this delicate miss touch-me-not,” she said, lolling over the counter with a wicked leer on her coarse red face and licking her lips over her victim. the others were very glad to hurry away and leave the old harridan and marguerite alone in the gaudily tiled, brightly lit room. they kept the door of the dressing room ajar, so that they could both see and hear what took place. but for a minute or two madame delagrange contented herself with chuckling and rubbing her fat hands together and looking marguerite up and down from head to foot and almost frightening the girl out of her wits. marguerite stood in front of the counter looking in her short dancing skirt like a schoolgirl awaiting punishment.
“so this is how we repay kindnesses!” madame delagrange began, slowly wetting her lips with her tongue. according to henriette she was exactly like an ogress in a picture book savouring in anticipation the pretty morsel she meant to devour for supper. “we make troubles and inconveniences for the kind old fool of a woman who lets us sing our little songs in her bar and dance with her clients and who pays us generously into the bargain. we won’t help her at all to keep the roof over her head. we treat her rich clients like mud. only the beautiful officers are good enough for us! bah! and we are virtuous too! oh, he, he, he! yes, but virtue isn’t bread and butter, my little one. so here’s an address.” she took a slip of paper from the shelf behind her and pushed it towards marguerite. marguerite took a step forward to the counter and picked up the paper.
“what am i to do with this, madame?” she asked in perplexity.
“you are to go to that address, mademoiselle.”
“to-morrow?”
“now, little fool!”
“why?”
“he is waiting for you.”
marguerite shrank back, her face white as paper, her great eyes wide with horror.
“who?” she asked in a whisper.
“petras tetarnis.”
madame delagrange nodded her head at marguerite with an indignant satisfaction.
“off you go! we shall be a little more modest, to-morrow evening, eh? we shan’t look at everybody as if they would dirty our little slippers if we stepped on them. come, take your seven francs and hurry off. or,” and she thrust out her lips savagely, “never come back to the villa iris.”
marguerite stood and stared at the paper in her hands.
“you can’t mean it, madame.”
madame snorted contemptuously.
“make your choice, little one. i want to go to bed.”
marguerite folded the paper and with the tears running down her cheeks slowly tore it across and across and let the fragments flutter down to the floor. madame delagrange uttered an oath and then let loose upon the girl such a flood of vile abuse, that even those hiding behind the door of the dressing room had never heard the like of it.
“out with you,” she said, spitting upon the ground and sweeping the seven francs off the counter towards marguerite, so that they rolled and spun and rattled upon the floor. “pick up your money and get your rags together and march! quick now!”
she lolled over the counter screaming with laughter as marguerite ran hither and thither seeking through her blinding tears for the coins, stooping and picking them up. “there’s another somewhere,” the old harridan cried, holding her fat sides. “seek! seek! good dog! it takes ten years off my life to see the haughty miss touch-me-not running about after her pennies.”
marguerite had got to retrieve them all. in the dreadful penury in which she lived, a single franc had the importance of gold. so she ran about the room, searched under tables and chairs and in the corners. the seven francs were all her capital. they stood between her and death by hunger. she must go on her knees and peer through the veil of her tears for the last of them. even the women behind the door, hardened though they were, felt the humiliation of that scene in the marrow of their bones, felt it as something horrible and poignant and disturbing. as soon as marguerite had picked up her money, madame delagrange shuffled out from behind her counter.
“now come along with me. i mean to see that you don’t take away what doesn’t belong to you.”
she took the weeping girl by the elbow and pushed her along in front of her to the dressing room. then she stood over her whilst she changed into her street dress and put up her dancing kit in a bundle.
“do you miss anything, girls?” madame delagrange asked with her heavy-handed irony and indeed with an evident hope that one of them would miss something and the police could be sent for. but all of them were quick to say no, though not one of them had the courage to take marguerite by the hand and wish her good luck in the face of the old blowsy termagant.
“very well then!” and madame delagrange took a step towards marguerite who shrank back as if she expected a blow. madame delagrange laughed heartily at the girl’s face, rejoicing to see her so cowed and broken.
“come here,” she said with a grim sort of pleasantry and she grinned and beckoned with her finger.
marguerite faltered across the room, and the big woman took her prisoner again and marched her out through the bar onto the verandah.
“there! you can go out by the garden and a good riddance to you!” madame delagrange banged to the big doors behind marguerite lambert and bolted them, leaving her with her bundle in her hand standing on the boards beneath the roof of vines.
“that’s the last we saw of her. poor kid!” said henriette. “if she hadn’t been such a little fool! do you know that for a moment or two i hoped that your friend—”
“paul,” gerard de montignac interrupted with a nod of his head. “i also—for a moment or two. but women don’t mean much to paul.”
henriette laughed bitterly, wondering to what man women did mean anything at all. in her experience she had never run across them.
“i am afraid for that little one,” she said, her thoughts coming back to marguerite. “you know what happened? her little bundle was found on the balcony this morning. the knot had broken, and her dancing dress, her slippers, her silk stockings were lying scattered on the boards. she just left them where they fell. you see, they were her stock-in-trade. she had brought them over with her from france and she has no money to replace them with. i am afraid.”
gerard de montignac was conscious of a chill of fear too. he recognised the significance of the abandonment of that bundle. the knot had burst, as marguerite stood on the verandah, the doors shut behind her, the dark garden in front of her. she had not thought it worth while to gather her poor trifles of finery together again. their use was over. whither had she gone? was she alive now? had those roaring breakers on the coast drawn her into their embrace and beaten her to death upon the rocks and the sands?
“where does she lodge?” he asked sharply.
“i don’t know,” answered henriette. “none of us know. she would never tell. i think that she had some poor little room of which she was ashamed. with her seven francs a day, she could have nothing else.”
“i must find out,” cried gerard, and then he struck his fist upon the table. “but i can’t find out. i march at six o’clock to-morrow morning for fez.”
“your friend then,” henriette suggested eagerly.
“paul!” replied gerard. “yes. he has a few days still in casablanca. he has compassion, he will help. i know him.”
henriette’s face lightened a little.
“but he must be quick, very quick,” she urged. “you will see him to-night?”
“i will go to him now,” and gerard remembered the letter in his pocket from colonel vanderfelt. “i was indeed on my way to him when i came here.”
gerard looked at his watch. it was half past ten. he had stayed longer than he had intended at the villa iris.
