Three days later there was a dramatic development. Drifting idly into Bréton’s studio one morning I found him pacing the place in despair and glaring at his unfinished canvas like a man distraught.
“Where is Shejeret ed-Durr?” I inquired.
“Gone!” he replied. “She disappeared yesterday and I can find no trace of her.”
“Surely the excellent Suleyman, proprietor of the dancing establishment, can assist you?”
“I tell you,” cried Bréton savagely, “that she has disappeared. No one knows what has become of her.”
I looked at him in dismay. He presented a mournful spectacle. He was unshaven and his dark hair was wildly disordered. His despair was more acute than I should have supposed possible in the circumstances; and I concluded that his interest in Yâsmîna was deeper than I had assumed or that I was incapable of comprehending the artistic temperament. I suppose the Gallic blood in him had something to do with it, but I was unspeakably distressed to observe that the man was on the verge of tears.
Consolation was impossible, and I left him pacing his empty studio distractedly. That night at an unearthly hour, long after I had retired to my own apartments, he came to Shepheard’s. Being shown into my room, and the servant having departed—
“Yâsmîna is dead!” he burst out, standing there, a disheveled figure, just within the doorway.
“What!” I exclaimed, standing up from the table at which I had been writing and confronting him. “Dead? Do you mean——”