Sadness and joy, despair and ecstasy, were never so linked as they are
in my soul to-night.
Many men have gone mad upon far less provocation, and yet I am calm--so
calm with this whirligig of emotions that I surprise myself.
Ah! it will not be long ere it is all over. Death will bring oblivion,
the game will stop; and though joy, ecstasy, and delight all flee,
sadness, misery, and despair will be banished with them. Remorse will
cease to gnaw--that everlasting longing for what can never be will end
its torture, and I shall be at peace.
But if there should not be rest beyond the grave? Bah! I'm upset, and
I imagined I was calm. There is a superlative in suffering as in
everything, else, and I have reached it. Death at its worst can have no
further horrors.
Three drops from this phial in my hand into that glass of cognac at my
elbow, and my ticket is made out. One gulp, and I shall have started on
my journey.
Ah! it was not an unpleasant draught--slightly bitter, perhaps. The
spirit was strong--a bitter potion, a sweet release.
It is merely a question of time; a few minutes now, and I shall be
carried from the here to the hereafter.
How strangely my memory stirs! Am I dreaming? Or am I really growing
young again?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the evening of a hot August day. The sun has disappeared in a
blaze of crimson and gold. The breeze rises, and the broad. Plage at
Scheveningen is swept by the refreshing wind scudding across the North
Sea. Long, sharp-crested, snowy waves are breaking into hissing spray
on the shore, and, chased in by the heavy weather, the picturesque Dutch
fishing-smacks fly like gulls to reach the anchorage behind the
lighthouse towards Loosduinen.
The Casino is ablaze with light on top of the high dune dominating the
villas and hotels that line the beach. There is dancing this evening,
for the season is "at its height," as _Le Petit Courrier_ says.
Men of the _haut ton_ are promenading on the broad terrace, and gazing
on the file of fair ladies who are arriving, one after the other, in
ball dress. They are mainly Belgians in queer hats, and Parisians in
limp cravats, but there are some Dutch and English among them, and these
are none the less merry.
Close to me half a dozen loungers are smoking cigars and talking loud
enough for me to overhear. A handsome, elderly fop sets the key, and
the others laugh in chorus whenever he utters a _bon mot_.
"I'm open to bet that the lovely Valerie de Noirville will not come," he
says. "Her foster-father has left her to mope alone at the Deutschmann.
He is already sitting at the ecarte-table, where he stands alone
against all comers. I'm afraid, my dear Victor, you'll not see your
incomparable Valerie this evening."
"I confess that, after all, I don't care very much," replies the person
addressed, shrugging his shoulders. "This Southron is too dark-skinned,
and has got a hasty temper too. For me, I only like the blondes."
"That may be, but her millions will please you, I fancy. It is an open
secret that mademoiselle is the favourite in the will, and she certainly
is a most fascinating girl."
"De Noirville hasn't the least desire to have his will executed just
yet. Besides, why should I waste time over her? The place is taken
already."
"At Paris, yes--by Rene Delbet; everybody knows that--but at
Scheveningen--?"
"The same here, the same here, old fellow. The lady with the black eyes
never pines alone--not even at seaside resorts. What is amusing, is
that our excellent friend, De Noirville, does not notice how desperately
his daughter flirts. Yet he's seen a great deal of life, and if I had
been married twice, I think I should know how to play the watch-dog."
"Eh? Has she a cavalier here? Who--who?"
"A poor devil of a lieutenant in the Chasseurs d'Afrique. He adores
her, and believes he has no rival. Nobody knows him; he is a mere
chance-met gallant."
"Infernal impertinence, to aspire to the hand of _la belle_ Valerie!"
remarks one.
"Is it a serious affair?" inquires another.
"Was Valerie ever serious?" asks the elder man, with a laugh. "No, my
dear fellows, she's only serious with Rene Delbet; but then, he's one of
the richest men on the Bourse."
I turn away to hide myself, for they are speaking of me. I, Lucien
Peyrafitte, am the "poor devil of a lieutenant," and it is true that I
adore Valerie, the charming girl of whom those jays had spoken with so
much recklessness. Although I had known her for several months,--first
in Paris, and afterwards here, on the Dutch coast,--I had not breathed
one word of love.
Why should I not do so to-night? She was alone at the hotel; there
could be no more fitting opportunity.
Retracing my steps along the Plage to the Hotel Deutschmann, I found her
sitting upon the verandah alone, plunged in a deep reverie. In one of
those huge wicker chairs which one sees nowhere else but at
Scheveningen, I took a seat beside her, and, grasping her white hand,
raised it to my lips.
How long I sat there I cannot tell. It must have been several hours.
Before we rose to enter the hotel, she had admitted that she loved me,
and as a pledge of her affection, had given me a turquoise ring from her
finger, while I had kissed her passionately, she returning my caresses
and appearing supremely happy.
Yet it was in a brief fool's paradise that I existed that night, for
before midday on the morrow I had left Scheveningen, having received a
telegram from one of my comrades in Paris, urging me to return at once,
as the regiment was ordered to Africa immediately.
Such was the irony of fate! Just as I had won the love of the woman I
worshipped, I was torn away from her without scarcely an opportunity of
bidding her farewell.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"We may all three die to-night!"
The words were spoken by Captain Lavigniac, who with myself and
Lieutenant Maurel were crouching around the dying embers of our
camp-fire.
"That's true," remarked Maurel; "but if so, we shall die for France.
And, after all, is life worth living?"
We laughed, _blase boulevardiers_ that we were. Having been nauseated
by the sweets of life, we were now face to face with death.
The expedition against the fanatical Kel-Ahamellen was much more
perilous than we had anticipated. General La Pelletier, who commanded
the Algerian forces, had sent us--a mere handful of men--from In Salah
away into the wild, inhospitable Tanezrouft Desert, in pursuit of a
horde of the dusky rebels; but the long weary ride across the burning
plains to Djedeyyed had taken all the spirit out of us. Under a blazing
sun we had been journeying for a week, and on this particular night were
encamped in a small oasis of Am Ohannan, which consisted of a well of
brackish water and one single palm.
Unfortunately, owing to the treachery of our native guide,--who, by the
way, was summarily dealt with by being shot,--we had entered a trap laid
for us by the enemy. Our scouts had only an hour before reported that
we were surrounded by the Arabs, who greatly outnumbered us, and that
our position was extremely grave.
We were, therefore, waiting in the momentary expectation of a night
attack.
For myself I did not care. Since my arrival in Africa I had received
several warm, affectionate letters from Valerie; but, alas! my awakening
had come. By the same mail that had brought her last letter to Algiers,
I had received from a friend a _Figaro_, which contained the following
announcement in its "High Life" column:--
"_A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between
Mademoiselle Valerie de Noirville, who is well-known in Paris society,
and Monsieur Rene Delbet_."
Perfidious fate! I had been tricked by her, and all her declarations of
love were false. Heartsick and jaded, I sat beside the smouldering
embers, thinking over the hopelessness of my future. The discovery of
Valerie's baseness had crushed me. With the exception of the crackling
of the fire, and the measured tread of the sentry beyond, all was still
in the bright, clear night. Around the well our men were lying, wrapped
in their cloaks, but not sleeping. Each man, with his revolver in one
hand and the bridle of his horse in the other, was ready at any moment
to spring up, mount, and ride straight into the irregular column of
brown-faced, white-burnoused foe, who had sworn on their Koran to
exterminate us Christian dogs.
The moments passed, breathless and exciting.
"_Qui est la_?" suddenly demanded a sentry, causing us to start.
"_Ami. Pour la France_!" was the response, and in a moment later
Colonel Chadoume joined us.
"There will be fighting to-night," he said briefly. "There are
thousands of those black devils."
"There will not be so many when our sabres have whirled through them,"
observed Lavigniac grimly.
"We are caught like rats in a trap," whispered the colonel in a low
tone, so that the men should not overhear his misgivings. "The only way
in which we can save ourselves is to apprise Le Pelletier of our
position, and give him a plan of the country between In Zize and Chikh
Salah from the survey we have made."
"But how can we?" asked Maurel. "Whoever went would have to pass the
lines of the enemy at the risk of being shot."
We were silent for several minutes.
"I will go," I said at last.
"You?" exclaimed the three men in surprise.