For a moment she saw a fanatical expression in his eyes. She thought of it as the look of the monk crushed down within his soul. He opened his lips again, as if to pour forth upon her a torrent of burning words. But the look died away, and they parted quietly like two good friends. Yet, as she went to the hotel, she knew that Father Roubier could not give her the kind of help she wanted, and she even fancied that perhaps no priest could. Her heart was in a turmoil, and she seemed to be in the midst of a crowd.
Batouch was at the door, looking elaborately contrite and ready with his lie. He had been seized with fever in the night, in token whereof he held up hands which began to shake like wind-swept leaves. Only now had he been able to drag himself from his quilt and, still afflicted as he was, to creep to his honoured patron and crave her pardon. Domini gave it with an abstracted carelessness that evidently hurt his pride, and was passing into the hotel when he said:
“Irena is going to marry Hadj, Madame.”
Since the fracas at the dancing-house both the dancer and her victim had been under lock and key.
“To marry her after she tried to kill him!” said Domini.
“Yes, Madame. He loves her as the palm tree loves the sun. He will take her to his room, and she will wear a veil, and work for him and never go out any more.”
“What! She will live like the Arab women?”
“Of course, Madame. But there is a very nice terrace on the roof outside Hadj’s room, and Hadj will permit her to take the air there, in the evening or when it is hot.”
“She must love Hadj very much.”
“She does, or why should she try to kill him?”