“Irena! But—”
“She could not live shut up in a room. She could not wear the veil for Hadj.”
“But then—?”
“She has divorced him, Madame. It is easy here. For a few francs one can—”
The whistle sounded. The train jerked. Batouch seized her hand, seized Androvsky’s, sprang back to the platform.
“Good-bye, Batouch! Good-bye, Ouardi! Good-bye, Smain!”
The train moved on. As it reached the end of the platform Domini saw an emaciated figure standing there alone, a thin face with glittering eyes turned towards her with a glaring scrutiny. It was the sand-diviner. He smiled at her, and his smile contracted the wound upon his face, making it look wicked and grotesque like the face of a demon. She sank down on the seat. For a moment, a hideous moment, she felt as if he personified Beni-Mora, as if this smile were Beni-Mora’s farewell to her and to Androvsky.
And Irena was dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert.
She remembered the night in the dancing-house, Irena’s attack upon Hadj.
That love of Africa was at an end. Was not everything at an end? Yet Larbi still played upon his flute in the garden of Count Anteoni, still played the little tune that was as the leit motif of the eternal renewal of life. And within herself she carried God’s mystery of renewal, even she, with her numbed mind, her tired heart. She, too, was to help to carry forward the banner of life.