CHAPTER XVII
A flood of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from wide-open French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around the house, palms drooped and bamboos whispered. The night was laden with the scent of roses and syringa, and about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers of silver sparks.
In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton sat at dinner with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling with crystal and gold, where pink-shaded electric lights glowed among banks of flowers.
It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, and furniture that might have come out of some Paris museum. There were three Arab servants in attendance, deft-handed, silent men, well trained, and observant, who waited upon their master as if their lives held nothing but his wishes and desires.
Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown that left none of her charms to the imagination, with the emerald necklace flashing against her dead-white skin.
She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, often suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women do talk who are paid well to interest and amuse their masters.
Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or amused. In fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answering her in monosyllables, as if her perpetual chatter interrupted some pleasant reverie of his own.
As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants came to his side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice in Arabic:
"There is the English lady your Highness deigned to breakfast with in the orange groves of Telde."
Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following the Arab's to one of the wide French windows opening on the lawn.
Standing there, light and slight, a graceful, golden reed, was the girl who was now all the world to him.
But Pansy was not looking in his direction, but at Lucille, as if she could not believe what she saw before her.
The sight brought Le Breton quickly to his feet.
"Pansy!" he exclaimed.
His voice and action made Lucille glance towards the window.
She looked at the girl standing there; then she smiled lazily, a trifle maliciously.
Lucille saw before her the rival she had suspected, who had changed Le Breton's lukewarm liking into cutting indifference. With the perception of her kind she realised that Pansy was something quite different from herself and the women Le Breton usually amused himself with. That slim girl with her wide, purple eyes and vivid, flower-like face was no courtesan, no toy; but a woman with a spirit and a soul that could hold and draw a man, apart from her physical attractions; the sort of woman, in fact, that a man like Raoul Le Breton might be tempted to marry.
At sound of his voice Pansy came into the room, her eyes blazing, her breast heaving, her two hands clutching the long amber chain in an effort to keep herself calm and collected.
So it was true! He was living here with that red-haired creature, this man who had come to her vowing she was the only woman he had ever loved! This man whom she had kissed and whom she had allowed to kiss and fondle her!
Pansy looked at Lucille in her white satin and emeralds—Lucille, big and voluptuous, her profession written on her face.
"Who is that woman?" she demanded.
Lucille did not wait for Le Breton to answer.
One glance at him told her everything. On his face were concern, love, and annoyance; the look that comes to a man's face when the girl he would make his wife and the woman who is his mistress by some unfortunate circumstance chance to meet.
Her star, never particularly bright, had waned and set within a week, all thanks to this slim girl in the yellow dress. Any day she, Lucille, might be shipped back to France, with only the emerald necklace to soothe her sore heart.
As things were she could lose nothing, and she might have the pleasure of parting Le Breton from the woman he really loved. The girl looked one who would countenance no backslidings.
Before he could say anything she said in a languid voice:
"My name is Lucille Lemesurier. I'm an actress. At Mr. Le Breton's invitation I came here with him from Paris, to stay until he tires of me or I of him. Comme vous voulez," she finished, with a shrug.
For a moment Pansy just stared at the truth confronting her: the truth, lazy, languid, and smiling, in white satin and emeralds.
There was a little noise, hard and sharp, like a shower of frozen tears rattling down on the table. The hands clinging to the string of amber beads clung just a thought too hard, for the necklace snapped suddenly. The beads poured down like tears—the tears Pansy herself was past shedding. The knowledge of Le Breton's treachery and deceit had turned her into ice.
She cast one look at him of utter contempt and scorn.
Then, silently as she had come, she turned and went from the room.
She did not get far, however, before Le Breton was at her side.
Ignoring him, she hurried across the moonlit lawn, her only desire to escape from his presence.
"Pansy——" he began.
Like a whirlwind she turned on him. With a hand that shook with rage, she pointed to the open dining-room window.
"Go! Go back to that red-haired creature," she said in a voice that trembled with anger. "I never want to see or speak to you again. Never!"
At her words Le Breton's hands clenched and his swarthy face went white.
"Do you think I'm going to be dismissed in this manner?" he asked in a strangled voice.
Without a further word Pansy would have hurried on; but, before she knew what was happening, he had taken her into his arms.
"How dare you touch me! How dare you touch me!" she gasped, struggling furiously after freedom, amazed at his audacity.
But he laughed and, crushing her against him, kissed her fiercely.
Le Breton knew his case was hopeless. No amount of persuasion would bring the girl back to his arms. He was no longer a polished man of the world, but the Sultan of El-Ammeh, a barbaric ruler who knew no law save his own desire.
Pansy was too furious to be afraid. With all her might she struggled to get away from his arms and the deluge of hot, passionate kisses, not because of the danger oozing from the man, but because she knew he had held and kissed that other woman.
But all her struggles were in vain. She was helpless against his strength; crushed within his arms; almost breathless under the force and passion of the kisses she could not escape from.
"If you go on behaving in this brutal manner I shall scream," she panted presently.
Her words sobered him.
The road lay not twenty yards away, and her screams might bring a dozen people to her rescue. He remembered that he was in Grand Canary, where even he had to conform with rules, not in El-Ammeh, where none would dare question his doings.
He let Pansy out of his arms.
"Look what a state you've put me in!" she flashed the moment she was free, as she endeavoured to tidy her torn and crumpled dress with hands that shook with anger. "You're a brute. A savage. I hate you!" she finished.
But Le Breton just stood and laughed.
To-night she might go; but to-morrow——!
To-morrow she would be on his yacht, where she might scream to her heart's content without a soul coming to her rescue.
His laughter, fierce and fond, followed Pansy from the garden.