For Love of a Bedouin Maid

by Voleur

Near the Tuileries was a cul de sac, called the Ruelle de Dauphin, and here was situated at this time the Hotel Mirabeau, where St. Just was living by himself.

On the afternoon of the day last mentioned a woman, closely veiled, and followed by two men, entered this building and proceeded to the third story. Here a latch-key in the woman's hand admitted them to a small vestibule that led to a long, narrow room. In one corner of this apartment was a door, which, on being opened, disclosed a closet.

The movements of the persons who had just entered were peculiar.

The woman crossed the room, opened the door of the closet, and motioned to the men to enter; "When I kiss him," she said, then closed the door upon them.

Then she took off her cloak and removed her veil, placing both on a chair. There was a mirror in the room and, naturally, the next thing she did was to step up to it. It reflected the face of Halima, and on it was a look of triumph, tinged with hatred. She turned away with a scornful smile, and sat down to wait. Evidently she was expecting some one. She was still a woman of rare beauty, but long-continued determination, in the face of repeated disappointments, had imparted to her expression a certain hardness, that, in former days, had not been there. For the rest, as regards appearance, she was somewhat fuller in figure than of yore.

Napoleon's return from Elba had been a dreadful blow to her, and, for the moment, she had reeled under it. To find that, only a few months after she had thought his fall complete, he was once more supreme in France, had at first taken all the spirit out of her. But, when the initial shock had passed, she had soon plucked up again and set her busy, vindictive brain to work to devise fresh plans for her betrayer's overthrow. It was not that she now resented, or even thought of, the act that had been the original cause of her vindictiveness; if she had dwelt on it, it would have been rather with a feeling of complacency, and even pride, that a man who had risen to such a height of power should have honored her with his amorous regard.

Rather, what moved her now, what fostered her desire for vengeance, added virulence to her malice, and strengthened her resolve, was the revelation of her own importance, in contra-distinction to Napoleon's power, the frequency with which her plottings had been baffled, the little there was to show for all the wealth she had so lavishly expended in the prosecution of her schemes. For, though, in her self-sufficiency, she tried to persuade herself that she had taken a leading part in causing the Emperor's misfortunes; yet her own heart told her it was a very small one.

Now, for the second time, Napoleon's downfall seemed complete and permanent. Surely this time there would be no recovery. She thought out the position calmly, and decided that it was impossible. His defeat at Waterloo had been so overwhelming, and the Allies were so resolute to crush him, and so strong.

These were her reflections while she sat there waiting, and her smile deepened in malignant triumph.

Since she had fooled her husband in his mission to the Empress Marie Louise, they had not met. On their return to France on that occasion, he had separated from her and had resolutely declined all her advances to resume cohabitation. Heart and soul, he was now devoted to the Emperor, and her power to make him swerve from his allegiance was gone. But she knew all that he was doing, or nearly all, for in all his movements her spies dogged his steps.