“And you are on leave, Paul?”
Marguerite was watching her lover with startled eyes. But Paul noticed neither her look nor the urgent appeal of her voice. He was away with his company in the bed of the Oued Zitoun, now stumbling over the great stones, now flung down headlong by the rush of the rain-swollen torrent and pressing on again in the hurried march. He sat tracing with his finger on the tiles the convolutions of the river, the point where the battalion must leave its shelter and march through the gardens to the gates—lost to all else. And Marguerite, watching him, caught at any reason which could reassure her.
Of course, Paul was unconsciously expressing the regret of a true soldier that his company had gone upon difficult and hazardous service without him, and a soldier’s interest in a brilliant manœuvre successfully accomplished. His absorption meant no more than that. But—but—his cry, “I am on leave,” startled out of him a challenge, an obstinate defiance, harsh with pain, rang in her ears still, argue as she might. In spite of herself, an appalling suspicion flickered like lightning through her mind and went out—and flickered again.
She heard Paul asking questions of Selim and Selim answering. But she was asking of herself a question which made all other questions of little significance. If her suspicion were true, could his love for her remain? Could it live strongly and steadily after so enormous a sacrifice? Wouldn’t it die in contempt of himself and hatred of her? If Paul Ravenel had looked at Marguerite Lambert at this moment he would have seen the haggard dancing girl of the Villa Iris, as he had seen her under the grape-vine of the balcony with her seven francs clenched in her hand.
Paul, however, was giving his attention to Selim. The quarter of the hospitals and the Consulates was now thought to be safe, though the Moors, uplifted by their success, had planned to attack it that night. An attempt had been made by a company of Philipot’s battalion to force the Souk-Ben-Safi and its intricate, narrow streets, but the company had been driven back. A second company had been sent out to capture and hold the Bab-el-Mahroud, but it was now beleaguered and fighting for its life. Another section was at the Bab Fetouh, in the south of the town, under fire from the small mosque of Tamdert. A good many isolated Europeans had been rescued from the houses, and brought into the protected quarter, but Fez, as a whole, was still in the hands of the insurgents.
At this point Paul Ravenel broke in with a sharp question.
“You spoke to no one of this house?”
Selim shook his head.
“To no one, Sidi.”
“To none of the French soldiers? To no friend of the French? You are sure, Selim? You are very sure? There were no Europeans to be rescued from this house? Answer me truthfully!”