“Hadj can go home if he is afraid of anything in the dancing street,” said Domini, rather maliciously. “Let us follow the soldiers.”
Hadj started as if he had been stung, and looked at Domini as if he would like to strangle her.
“I am afraid of nothing,” he exclaimed proudly. “Madame does not know Hadj-ben-Ibrahim.”
Batouch laughed soundlessly, shaking his great shoulders. It was evident that he had divined his cousin’s wish to supplant him and was busily taking his revenge. Domini was amused, and as they went slowly up the street in the wake of the soldiers she said:
“Do you often come here at night, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?”
“Oh, yes, Madame, when I am alone. But with ladies—”
“You were here last night, weren’t you, with the traveller from the hotel?”
“No, Madame. The Monsieur of the hotel preferred to visit the café of the story-teller, which is far more interesting. If Madame will permit me to take her—”
But this last assault was too much for the poet’s philosophy. He suddenly threw off all pretence of graceful calm, and poured out upon Hadj a torrent of vehement Arabic, accompanying it with passionate gestures which filled Suzanne with horror and Domini with secret delight. She liked this abrupt unveiling of the raw. There had always lurked in her an audacity, a quick spirit of adventure more boyish than feminine. She had reached the age of thirty-two without ever gratifying it, or even fully realising how much she longed to gratify it. But now she began to understand it and to feel that it was imperious.
“I have a barbarian in me,” she thought.