Then, "If you must go, and it seems you must, I will follow you to England," she declared. "I will not be separated from you again, after the years we have been parted. I love France: still I should like to see England. I suppose the people are not quite uncivilized."
St. Just smiled at this. Coming from a native of the desert, her knowledge of men and manners, up to a recent date, having been picked up at Cairo, the conceit amused him.
She went on, "I am not sure, besides, that a temporary absence from France, at the present time, would not be wise. Things are becoming somewhat risky here. Since that affair in which you were implicated, the police have shown more activity than ever. Some of our friends have thought it prudent to leave Paris; some even have gone to England. We can organize our plans for Buonaparte's confusion in greater safety there. Really, Henri, I am beginning to think that your appointment is a fortunate occurrence; you will now be able to give us valuable help. Oh! if the First Consul could only know that he is appointing as his agent, a man who is pledged to contrive his ruin; who, when told to watch the Royalists and report their doings, will give him false intelligence, and will warn them when in danger and keep them informed of what is doing in the other camp! The First Consul paying an agent to betray him! Oh! it is a rare comedy; it is delicious." Her eyes sparkled with delight, her face rippled with animation and she broke into a ringing laugh, in which was not the slightest affectation.
But St. Just looked very grave. The picture she had drawn of him was so absolutely true—and so contemptible. A spy, and not an honest spy; a traitor to the man who paid him for his espionage. He writhed inwardly at his horrible position. What was comedy to her was to him the direst tragedy; the enormity of his offense came home to him. To any honorable man, whose judgment was not bemused by passion, the situation would be unbearable. Now was the time, if ever, to pour out his heart in one last appeal to her to relieve him of his pledge to be avenged on Buonaparte. He had little hope of its success, but he would make it.
"Oh! Halima," he cried, and there was a ring of pleading in his tone that would have roused an echo in any heart not deadened by revenge; "why nurse this vengeance against that man? Time generally blunts the edge of the weapon sharpened for vindictiveness. It is four years since this injury was wrought, and no one, but you and me, has knowledge of it. If I can overlook it, why not you? This scheme of vengeance is blasting my whole career, and, if I am still to prosecute it, will render me, in the trusted position that has been forced upon me, so despicable in my own eyes, that death even would be preferable. Oh! if you love me—and you say you do—get free of these conspiracies, which, in your own heart, you know you join in, not from love of France, but hate of Buonaparte. And it is useless; he is too strong for you; how can the hawk aspire to conquer in a contest with the eagle? Be advised by me, my dearest, let your vengeance sleep; or, better, let it die. We love each other, we have ample means, I have a career before me; this paltry passion of revenge alone obstructs the road to honor and contentment. Oh, my dear one, my life, my soul, if you only knew the hell that is within me, you would be merciful to me, by sparing him. It is not that I love him, but he means France, and I love my country—and I love my honor. Say, love, shall it be so? Shall we not bury in the limbo of oblivion the recollection of your wrong? Oh, Halima, relieve me of my pledge to you, and leave me free to do my duty to my country."
He ceased speaking, and scanned her anxiously, to mark the affect of his appeal. But the hope that was on his face changed quickly to despair. Her eyes flashed upon him angrily, and the look she turned on him was pitiless, infuriated, contemptuous.
"Never!" she cried, and her voice rose almost to a shriek. "I will never abandon my revenge. I can wait for its accomplishment, and I know that time will bring it me. And you, if you are so poor a thing, you, my husband, that you will not make my wrong your own, depart; leave me to work it out alone. But, if you do, much as I have loved you, I shall hate you for your pusillanimity even more than I hate him. Almost I hate you now, for that you can suggest forgetfulness of my wrong. Leave me now, ere I say words to you that cannot be recalled."
Her bosom was heaving with emotion, her eyes were like two balls of fire that seemed to bulge beneath her brow, and she paced with rapid steps about the room. "Go," she repeated, and she threw her hand out towards him; "go, before my temper gets beyond control."
And, with the feeling that all hope was gone, he left her.
It was two months later; early in March. Both St. Just and Halima were in London. Three days after his fruitless appeal to her to forego her scheme of vengeance and leave him free to follow the path of duty, he had started for England, whither, a fortnight afterwards, she had followed him.