“That’s true,” remarked Maurel; “but if so, we shall die for France. And, after all, is life worth living?”
We laughed, blasé boulevardiers that we were. Having been nauseated by the sweets of life, we were now face to face with death.
The expedition against the fanatical Kel-Ahamellen was much more perilous than we had anticipated. General La Pelletier, who commanded the Algerian forces, had sent us—a mere handful of men—from In Salah away into the wild, inhospitable Tanezrouft Desert, in pursuit of a horde of the dusky rebels; but the long weary ride across the burning plains to Djedeyyed had taken all the spirit out of us. Under a blazing sun we had been journeying for a week, and on this particular night were encamped in a small oasis of Am Ohannan, which consisted of a well of brackish water and one single palm.
Unfortunately, owing to the treachery of our native guide,—who, by the way, was summarily dealt with by being shot,—we had entered a trap laid for us by the enemy. Our scouts had only an hour before reported that we were surrounded by the Arabs, who greatly outnumbered us, and that our position was extremely grave.
We were, therefore, waiting in the momentary expectation of a night attack.
For myself I did not care. Since my arrival in Africa I had received several warm, affectionate letters from Valerie; but, alas! my awakening had come. By the same mail that had brought her last letter to Algiers, I had received from a friend a Figaro, which contained the following announcement in its “High Life” column:—
“A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between Mademoiselle Valerie de Noirville, who is well-known in Paris society, and Monsieur René Delbet.”
Perfidious fate! I had been tricked by her, and all her declarations of love were false. Heartsick and jaded, I sat beside the smouldering embers, thinking over the hopelessness of my future. The discovery of Valerie’s baseness had crushed me. With the exception of the crackling of the fire, and the measured tread of the sentry beyond, all was still in the bright, clear night. Around the well our men were lying, wrapped in their cloaks, but not sleeping. Each man, with his revolver in one hand and the bridle of his horse in the other, was ready at any moment to spring up, mount, and ride straight into the irregular column of brown-faced, white-burnoused foe, who had sworn on their Korân to exterminate us Christian dogs.
The moments passed, breathless and exciting.
“Qui est là?” suddenly demanded a sentry, causing us to start.