St. Just had ridden with such despatch that it was but ten o'clock in the morning when he entered the gates of Alexandria. Forthwith he made his way to the citadel; only to learn, however, that his errand had been fruitless; General Kleber had left two hours before his arrival, unaware of Buonaparte's presence in the neighborhood.
St. Just handed over his despatches to one of Kleber's aides-de-camp, and then, tired out with the exertion of his rapid ride and prostrated by the heat, he lay down to rest himself before setting out on his return journey. Thinking that he might go to sleep, he left word with the soldier to whom he gave his horse, to arouse him in an hour, unless he, St. Just, first came to him.
Unfortunately, the man was called off to some other duty and forgot him. In consequence, the very thing St. Just had feared took place. He fell off into a profound slumber, from which he did not wake until nine o'clock at night. He had slept for quite ten hours!
Horrified at the discovery, and cursing the soldier in whom he had misplaced his trust, he sprang up and sought his horse, intending to start for Marabou at once.
But, no sooner had he set his foot outside, than he heard a rumor that Buonaparte's escort was approaching. And the rumor was justified by the fact; for, just when St. Just, standing by the citadel gate with reins in hand, was on the point of springing into the saddle, there came the sound of hoofs; next a detachment of Guides appeared, and, in their midst, a Turkish groom, whom St. Just knew well by sight, leading Buonaparte's favorite horse. But Buonaparte, to St. Just's surprise, was not with them. The groom recognized the young officer and called out to him in passing, "The General has sailed for France; set out at six to-night."
St. Just was staggered at the news, for he had never dreamed that Buonaparte's departure would be so rapid. What he had just heard was so bewildering to him, that, at first, he scarce knew what to do. It seemed to have upset all his plans. At least, he must think the matter over. So, instead of mounting, he led his horse along on foot, the while he strove to marshal his ideas.
Since his return to Cairo, a struggle had been going on within him between his ambition and his love, the former backed by the influence of his General, the latter by that of Halima. Of late he had nursed a sense of injury against Buonaparte for having, whether intentionally or not, kept him from visiting his mistress. This had tended much to modify his former devotion to the General, and, now that the latter was no longer present to push him forward in his military career, St. Just's interest in that career began to lessen, while his passion for Halima correspondingly increased.
He felt that the present was the turning-point in his existence. His yearning for the lovely Arab girl became almost irresistible. But, if he should yield to the dire temptation that was assailing him, it would be at a price—the highest a man could pay—his honor. Should he now turn his horse's head to Cairo, he would be regarded as a deserter, and a deserter in time of war; if caught, the penalty would be death—and dead with dishonor. Could he run so great a risk for a woman's smiles? Could he even live, a dishonored man, supposing he saved his life? Was Halima worth the sacrifice? Was any woman worth it? In the agonizing contest warring within him, the sweat came out in great drops upon his brow and streamed down his face. He put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief, and, by accident, withdrew with it the locket containing the miniature of Halima—the locket that had turned aside Mahmoud's bullet and thus saved his life, and that he had preserved in all his wanderings.
He was standing beneath a swinging oil lantern at the time. He opened the locket and gazed upon the lovely features there displayed. That glance decided his future life; for one short moment, ambition and honor in the one scale, and love and dishonor in the other, trembled in the balance; then slowly the former rose, until it touched the beam, and dishonor had won the day. Alas, for poor weak man!
"The die is cast," he cried; "it is my fate. To Cairo and to her. But, oh! what a price I am paying for my love!"