“Those trenches outside Mulai Idris,” she said. “They were dug to resist the Zemmour. The people here might have used them against you but for Paul. He warned the Basha that he couldn’t win, that he would find you just and fair and careful of all his rights. Do you believe that?”
Gerard reflected.
“Yes, I do,” he said, slowly. “After all, he charged with Laguessière when Laguessière was put to it.”
“Charged with Laguessière?” repeated Marguerite.
“Yes—in Fez—one afternoon during the revolt. He had a great staff and used it—used it well. So much of the old creed remained with him, at all events.”
Yes, thought Marguerite, there had been an afternoon when Paul had been on edge and she had sent him out. He had come back, appeased, and a new man. The riddle of that change was now explained to her. But she had no leisure to dwell upon the explanation. Gerard had swung away again from her, and was now standing close to the window looking out across the chasm to the dark blue of the hill in the shadow opposite. One little step would carry him on to the balcony, and the butt of his revolver was still in his hand.
“Listen to me, Marguerite,” he said, in a low voice; and suddenly he became, to her thought, more dangerous in his calm than he had been in his anger. “Here’s a law broken by you and Paul, and see what misery has come of it! What loss! Shall I repair that law by breaking another? Hardly! Look at me, Marguerite!”
But he did not look at her. He even advanced a foot beyond the window-ledge so that the boards of the balcony creaked and groaned beneath its pressure.
“I could have lived in Paris with Deauville for the summer and Monte Carlo for the winter, and my own lands for the autumn—a pleasant, good life. I could have lived with women about me—the fine flower of them, the women who are exquisite and delicate. But I didn’t. I left the enjoyments to the others. I came out into these hot countries, the countries of squalor, to serve France. And I have served; yes, by God, I have served! That has been my creed. Shall I let another spit on it, even though he was my greatest friend? Not I!”
Marguerite gave all up for lost. The one chance at the eleventh hour was not to be tried out by Paul and her. Well—she was very tired. She closed her eyes that she might not see anything of what happened at the window—anything more in the world. If ever she had worn the look of one set apart by fate, as so many had declared, she wore it now, stamped upon the submission of her face. Her hands went to her girdle and felt within its folds; and that action saved her lover and herself. For Gerard de Montignac saw it as he was stepping out onto the boards of the balcony.