For Love of a Bedouin Maid

The story seemed plausible to Talleyrand, for it appeared incredible that a soldier with St. Just's prospects of advancement would willingly sacrifice his career.

"That seems reasonable," was his comment, "but what I can not understand is why, on your return to Paris, you did not at once report yourself. I should have thought that, having lost so much valuable time, you would not have wasted a moment in seeking reinstatement. How was that? You must have had some overpowering reason, and I am curious to know it?"

And he shot a searching glance at his hearer's face, as though he thought thereby to wrench the truth from him.

St. Just quailed beneath it. He knew, by hearsay, the character of the man before him, and, while anxious to conceal his conjugal relations, he recognized the risk he ran, should Talleyrand convict him of an attempt to palm off a lie on him. His difficulty was that he was in the dark as to how much his cross-questioner knew. But Talleyrand was noted for his gallantries; so St. Just thought he might look more leniently on his dereliction, if he assigned a woman as its cause. All this passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds that elapsed before his answer. With some hesitation, and the color mounting to his face, he said:—

"I fully intended to report myself, as was my duty; but—"

"The woman tempted me," interrupted Talleyrand with a sneer, and a smile that had more of triumph than good-nature in it.

St. Just started. Oh that he could fathom the depth of the knowledge that Talleyrand possessed of him! However, the wily statesman had given him his cue.

"Scarcely that," he answered, "for it would be base to charge a woman with what was the outcome solely of my own infatuation. For I was infatuated, infatuated to the verge of madness; my passion robbed me of my judgment; so that I lived only in the present, with no thought of consequences."

"And yet you were not content to bask in the Egyptian beauty's smiles, but must needs associate yourself with plotters against the State. 'Twas there your madness really lay—not in your infatuation for Madame de Moncourt. That I readily excuse; nay more, I can applaud; your preference does you credit, Sir; I can scarcely pay her the same compliment for the interest she takes in you."

The speaker seemed to delight in saying things that made his hearers wince, and the coarse slight in his last words had that effect upon the man before him.

A momentary flash of anger gleamed in his eyes; then surprise showed on his face. Talleyrand knew the woman for whom he had forsaken honor; and she was interesting herself on his behalf, if the statesmen's words meant anything. Probably his presence there was due to that. The thought brought much relief. But Talleyrand had made no reference to his marriage; most likely then, he was unaware of it!

"I see you have guessed my secret," he replied. "I adore the lady to whom you have just referred, and she has accorded me the privilege of a visitor. I met her first in Egypt, where I was so fortunate as to save her life."

"Indeed! And now she is using her influence to save yours. Do you know this trinket?"

He held up the charm Josephine had given to St. Just.

"I do; it belongs to me. It was given me some years ago by Madame Buonaparte, in the presence of her husband, the night I saved him from assassination."

"Dear me, you seem to have a trick of saving life," sneered Talleyrand.

"Say rather, the good Fortune. But to continue; on that occasion, the General attached a promise to the gift."

"Which he has fulfilled, and not for the first time, I understand. This is the key that has unlocked your prison cell. Madame de Moncourt, by some means,"—and he looked meaningly at St. Just—"got news of your predicament and, having this talisman of yours in her possession, entrusted it to me to pass on to the First Consul, with the reminder of his pledge to you. I have fulfilled my errand, and, on certain conditions, you are free."

St. Just could not repress a sigh of relief, for, though from the commencement of his interview he had thought that he was safe, now he was assured of it.

"I am deeply grateful to you, Sir," he said, "for your efforts on my behalf; also to Madame de Moncourt, to whom, if I may take the liberty, I will ask you to convey my heartfelt thanks."

Ignoring St. Just's request, which he had wit enough to know was not made seriously, and, in consequence, resented, Talleyrand answered sharply.

"Then show your gratitude, Sir, by abstaining in the future from dabbling in conspiracies, and by devoting yourself faithfully to your country's interests. Are you ready to act thus?"

To this St. Just answered that he was; and, at the time he really meant it.

"See that you keep your word," rejoined the other; "your honor requires much cleansing ere it will be bright. Here is your trinket, which I trust you will never again prostitute to such vile purpose as that to which it has just been put. But now, as to the conditions of your liberty. It is thought a change of air would be beneficial to you. Are you willing to leave France forthwith, for as long or as short a period as may be ordered?"

St. Just's face fell; absence from France meant also absence from Halima; but he was in no position to make terms; he had no choice but to submit; still his distaste to the position was apparent in his answer.

"If my sole choice lies between captivity in France, and liberty abroad," he said despondently, "I must fain choose the latter, though life lived out of France will be mere existence. Is my place of banishment yet decided?"

Talleyrand smiled sourly. "Things need not be quite so bad for you as your forecast; if so you will it. The First Consul is disposed to give you a chance of regaining your lost honor, but it will be your last. He is in contemplation to send you to England on a mission of some importance. To ensure success, tact, courage, secrecy and adaptability will be required; and, above all—fidelity." And he fixed his eyes significantly on his hearer. "On your conduct of the affair will depend your future. The business will not occupy you long. Your answer?"

By the time the speaker had concluded, St. Just had brightened up considerably. He hastened to reply with energy, "I accept without a moment's hesitation. Sir, I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the kindness shown me; and I pledge my honor—"

Talleyrand looked up with a curious, amused expression. "Your what, Sir?" he asked cynically.

St. Just colored with shame. For a moment he was discomposed. Then he replied, "I deserve your reprimand, Monsieur. I should have said, I give my solemn word—I swear—that I will do my utmost to assure the success of the mission to be entrusted to me. If earnestness of purpose, unwearying labor, fearlessness of danger and unswerving fidelity can secure it, I shall not fail. If needs be, I am ready to sacrifice my life, in the cause committed to me."

Talleyrand's nature was too cold, and he had too full a knowledge of the workings of the human heart for such "high falutin" to make much impression on him: indeed, he rather despised enthusiasm; in his eyes it showed want of self-control. But, in the present instance, he was satisfied that St. Just meant all he said; whether his sentiments would be enduring, was another thing.

"Your words are fair enough, Sir," he said coldly; "see that your deeds lag not behind them."

The words had scarcely left his lips, when the folding doors at the end of the room were opened, and the First Consul entered.

He paused for a moment in the doorway and then came forward. The light from the lamp, modified, as it was, by the green shade, made his countenance, always pale and passionless, look almost death-like now, and emphasized by contrast the wondrous eyes which flashed and glistened with vitality and movement. He wore the uniform of an officer of Artillery, and with scarce a decoration. His nether limbs were encased in white breeches and silk stockings; a sash of tricolor completed his costume.

His eyes fixed the two men in the room; both felt their magnetic force, and one seemed almost turned to stone. But almost instantly, both bent before him.

"So!" he began, in a hard, dry voice, "Mons. St. Just, you have come to life again. I will inquire into that anon. Meantime, perhaps you, Mons. de Talleyrand, will explain the meaning of this—gentleman's presence here." He stamped his foot impatiently.

"Sir," began Talleyrand, in his icy tones, "I ventured to send for Mons. St. Just with a view to his being despatched to England on the mission we have discussed together. You left in my hands the selection of the agent, and, for several reasons which I shall be happy to give you when we are alone, I deemed him suitable."

"An assassin, a prisoner from the Temple! I congratulate you on the felicity of your selection," was the ironical rejoinder.

"A prisoner whom your clemency has freed. You cannot, General, have forgotten the token from Mons. St. Just I handed you."

Buonaparte had not forgotten, but for a purpose he affected to have done so. The Man of Destiny forgot nothing. "Token, what token?" he asked sharply. He dropped into a chair, then leisurely took snuff.

"This charm, Sir," said St. Just respectfully. He stepped forward and held out the trinket. "This jewel given to me by Madame Buonaparte in your presence, one memorable night, when you attached a promise to it."

"I now remember, Sir," answered the First Consul sternly, "and the pledge I gave you, but I little guessed that I should be reminded of it in such circumstances as the present. I did not expect that, in the fulfillment of my promise, I should be called upon to save a would-be assassin, and a deserter from his colors from the penalty of his crimes. But I will respect my word, Sir; your life is spared. See that you make a worthier use of it in the future." Then, in a voice of thunder, he concluded, "But have a care, Sir, have a care, lest you try my patience and forbearance beyond their limits. Never again put that trinket to so vile a use, or I fear me you will find that it has lost its virtue. Nay, I marvel that, on this occasion, you should have shielded yourself with its protection. A brave man dishonored, is glad to hide his dishonor in the grave."

The countenance he turned upon St. Just was awful in its sternness and contempt, and the confusion and abasement of the wretched man were piteous to behold. He bent his head to his chest, and trembled in every limb, and his face rivaled in its pallor even Buonaparte's. The scathing words of the First Consul had so affected him that, for the moment, he felt that death itself would have been preferable, and regretted that the talisman had been employed to save his life. His breath came hard and fast, and he made several ineffectual attempts to speak; at last he gasped out:

"Sir I thank you for your clemency. I am so bewildered, so abashed, I despise myself so much, that I can scarce find words. I can only say—you have spared my life, do with it what you will."

Buonaparte eyed him searchingly. From his inscrutable expression it was impossible to judge whether St. Just's words and manner had affected him.

"And what guarantee have I of your future behavior?" he replied. "Wait here."

He signed to Talleyrand, and they left the room together.

Ten minutes passed, during which St. Just, in some measure, recovered his composure. At the end of that time, they returned, and Buonaparte, without referring to his last question and without noticing St. Just walked across the room and placed his back against the marble mantelpiece. Then he began to kick with his heel the smouldering embers in the grate.

Meanwhile Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "You will proceed to England with the utmost speed, and there make it your business to become acquainted with a certain Sir Henry Emerson. He is a King's Messenger, and we have information that he will be setting out next week for Holland with dispatches. It is of vital importance that we should know their purport. It will be for you, when on the spot, to devise the best means of bringing this about. Take copies of them, if you can, and restore them without his knowledge; but, if this should be impossible, secure the papers, and let me have them without a moment's loss of time. You may not be able to achieve your purpose before Sir Henry Emerson has set cut; if so, you must dog his footsteps until you do succeed. Don't be too nice about the methods you employ: use bribery, violence, anything so that you do not fail.

"On reaching London, you will go instantly to the house of one Perry, a hosier at this address"—he handed it to St. Just—"and ask 'where you can get the best bees.' If the man laughs at you, go away, for he is not the right person; but try again later. If to your inquiry he reply that he is a large bee farmer himself, you may state your business freely, and he will give you every assistance. He is keeping a watch on the movements of this King's Messenger.

"Here are ten thousand francs." He handed him a bundle of notes. "You can change them, according to your requirements into English money at a money changer's. Perry will see to that for you. Should you require more, apply to him, and he will give it to you."

A clock on the mantelpiece struck two. St. Just was surprised to find it was so late; his drive to this house must have taken hours. It puzzled him to know where he was; not in Paris, clearly.

"You have had your instructions, Sir," said the First Consul, speaking for the first time, since his second entrance into the room, "and will start at once; and, as you value your life, be true. Another act of treachery, and nothing shall protect you."

St. Just stepped forward, and was beginning to renew his protestations of fidelity and gratitude, when Buonaparte waved him back and, with a frown, walked rapidly from the room.

Then Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "To-morrow, at eleven, you will start for Boulogne. There you will embark on the La Flèche. You have a fair knowledge of English, I understand. You will pass as the Comte St. Clair. Live as the others do—not ostentatiously, but don't grudge expenditure, when needful. Return the moment you have achieved the object of your mission.

"One last injunction; don't go to Auteuil, before you start."

He looked meaningly at St. Just. "Ah, you meant to; don't."

He touched a bell and an attendant entered.

"Captain Beaumont," he said.

The man withdrew and, in a few seconds, that officer stood before him.

"You will escort Mons. St. Just in a carriage to his apartment."

He bowed to both men and they left the room. Five minutes afterwards they quitted Malmaison and took the road to Paris.

CHAPTER VI

It was hard on daybreak when St. Just reached his lodging in the Rue de Dauphin, and the people in the house were not yet up; but the summons at the door soon aroused them. His landlord was at first disposed to be unfriendly, but when he saw the handsome carriage and horses, the liveries of the coachman and footman, and the officer in uniform who had accompanied his lodger, he made no ado about admitting him, and became almost fulsome in his words of welcome. The belief of the worthy couple had been that St. Just had been spending his week's absence in the country; and they had been confirmed in it by a beautiful lady who had driven up in a carriage and told them that it was so. She had also interviewed his servant Mahmoud, whom it appeared, she knew, and had taken him away with her.

Before going she had left a note for St. Just; and this was all they had to tell him.

Halima's note contained but these few words:—

"Am quite well. We shall meet again soon. I have taken Mahmoud with me. I know you will not want him for the present.

Then, Halima guessed, if she did not positively know, of his coming journey to England.

His preparations did not take him long, and he left Paris at the time Talleyrand had ordered him to start, and reached Boulogne on the evening of the following day. He soon found the La Flèche, a small vessel, at anchor in the harbor. He presented himself to the captain as the Comte St. Clair, according to instructions, and handed him papers authorizing his passage to England.

The next morning, so soon as it was light, they moved out of the harbor, but the breeze was so light, and what there was of it, so unfavorable to their course, that they had to keep continually tacking; thus it was night before they sighted the shores of England. As it was, they were taken somewhat out of their course, and the nearest port was Shoreham; this they made. St. Just was landed in a sir all boat a short distance from the port itself, which, indeed, at that time, was little more than a cluster of cottages—a hamlet; though now a town of some importance.

Taking his small bag in his hand—for he had not cared to encumber himself with luggage, intending to supply himself in London with such clothing as he required—he began to make his way across the sandy flats that intervened between the shore and the high road, meaning, on gaining Shoreham, to obtain some means of conveyance to Brighton, and thence to take the coach to London. He was told that, by bearing direct northwards from the sea, he would soon hit the road.

The night was dark, for there was no moon, and but a few stars were to be seen; but that his way was so direct, he would not have attempted it without a guide. Not a sound was to be heard, not even the fall of his own feet, for the sand and the tufts of coarse grass that dotted it formed a soft carpet that made his footsteps noiseless. But walking was somewhat arduous; the more so that he had to feel his way, or he would have fallen, for the ground was full of little mounds and hollows. His progress, accordingly, was slow.

He went stumbling along, but never actually falling and had made about half the distance to the road, when, all at once, close by his ear, he heard the words shouted in a strident voice, "Here he is, lads!" and, the next moment, received a violent blow on the head that felled him to the ground, and, before he had so much as seen his assailant, he was stretched insensible on the sand.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself in a low, scantily and rudely furnished room, which, from the nets and ropes that hung against the walls and lay in heaps upon the floor, proclaimed its owner to be a fisherman. With the feeling, so common to us all when sleeping, and some one is approaching us, he felt that he was being watched, and he opened his eyes. A rough-looking, middle-aged man was bending over him, scrutinizing him intently, with an expression of mingled anxiety and alarm. But, when the Frenchman opened his eyes, that were now lighted with intelligence, the fisherman's strained look relaxed, and a smile of satisfaction took its place.

"Glad to see you coming round, Sir," he said cheerily. "You'll soon be all right now; but I was mortal feared once; I began to think you were going to turn it up. How are you feeling, Sir?"

St. Just looked at him inquiringly, and with some alarm, as one does at unexpectedly finding oneself in an unknown place and in the presence of a stranger; but the man, though rough, looked kindly and good-natured; so that St. Just's anxiety was but brief.

"My head aches badly here," he answered; and he put his hand at the back part of his crown. The action made him wince; the place felt so tender.

"I must have fallen, or been struck. What has happened? Where am I? Who are you?" Then before the other could reply, he resumed, "Ah, I remember now; I was crossing the sands and some one knocked me down. Was it you, and if so, why?"

"No, it wasn't me, Sir," replied the man, "and it was all a mistake." He went on to explain that, in the dark, St. Just had been mistaken for some one against whom his son had a grudge, and been knocked down in consequence. On discovering the mistake, he and his son had brought him to their cabin. He now expressed his sorrow and asked how he could serve St. Just.

"I am much obliged to you," replied St. Just dryly. "Suppose you lend me a hand to help me up, for I am still weak and dizzy."

The man gave him his hand willingly, and raised his visitor to a sitting posture on the bed. St. Just rubbed his eyes, then let them wander round the room. From the appearance of the roof and walls, and from the thunder of the waves, which he could hear against the sides of where he was, he was satisfied that he was in a cavern on the shore.

"This is not a house," he said, "we are underground; do you live here?"

"Well, it's all the house I have, when I'm at home, but I'm mostly out."

"And what's your name, and what are you?"

"John Slade, fisherman."

St. Just turned his eyes keenly on him and smiled faintly. "And you do a little foreign trade as well, eh? Brandy, cigars, silks and lace?"

John Slade started and scowled at the injured man, who continued with a laugh, "You needn't be alarmed, my friend, the secret of your retreat is safe with me; I've nothing to do with the coastguard. Besides, as you must have discovered, I am a foreigner, a Frenchman, and I know no one in this country. But I have business in London and must be there as soon as possible. How long have I been here?"

"Since the night afore yesterday. You'll soon be all right now, and I'll see you to the coach for London. I daresay you'll be well enough to start to-morrow. But now, Master, couldn't you take something to eat and drink?"

St. Just thought he could. As a fact, he was feeling very hungry; he had had nothing for two days.

A good night's rest made him another man, and, the next morning, he got into John Slade's boat, and the smuggler rowed him to Brighton. The boat was moored, and his companion went ashore with him and carried his bag to the starting place of the London coach. Then they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill—for St. Just had quite forgiven the mistake that had laid him prostrate—and the young Frenchman was soon rattling along the road to London.

As yet, he had formulated no plan of action; he deferred that, until he should have seen the hosier in the Strand. So he hailed a hackney coach and told the driver to take him to the address Mons. de Talleyrand had given.

Fortunately Mr. Perry was in his shop and, on St. Just's putting the question to him about the bees, he gave the expected answer; then he asked his visitor into his parlor at the back of the shop, and inquired in what way he could serve him.

The latter, having been told that he might speak to the hosier without restraint, at once explained his errand, and asked his hearer the best way to set about it.

Perry was a man of much better social standing and education than the generality of London tradesmen of a hundred years ago. He had not been born in the ranks of shopkeepers, but in his early days had fallen desperately in love with the pretty daughter of the former proprietor of this shop. The girl's virtue being every whit on a level with her beauty, despite his efforts to deprave it, he had been compelled either to marry her, or give up her pursuit; unable to do the latter, he had done the former, and her father dying shortly afterwards, he had found himself in possession of the business, which was too good to be relinquished, the more so that he was without means or occupation.

Chance had thrown him into the way of many of the French émigrés at that time in London. He had traveled in France and could speak the language. There was a good deal of the mole in him, and he was fond of burrowing into secrets. Gradually he had strengthened his relations with these emigrants, so that he had wormed himself into their confidence, and there were few of their plots for the restoration of the French king with which he was unacquainted. Believing in his sympathies, they spoke openly before him and even consulted him about their schemes; almost he had become their trusted agent. And while all this fed his appetite for excitement and his love for plotting, it, at the same time, put money in his pocket, for any services he rendered were well paid for. As a matter of fact, his sympathies were not with the French King's party, for, while filled with horror at the bloodshed of the "Terror," he considered that the French people were quite right in rising against the oppressors—king, nobles and priests—who had ground them down for centuries.