When in the early morning, after a severe engagement, we walked among the ruins of the tents and heaps of dead, I searched diligently for Halima, being aided by a dozen other officers and men. But we did not discover her; and I became convinced that my worst fears were realised, and that she had fallen a victim to the relentless vengeance of her people.
Nearly two years elapsed before I again trod the asphalte of my beloved Paris.
A few weeks after my return to civilisation, I attended a ball at the German Embassy. I had been dancing, and was taking my partner, a rather skittish widow, into the supper-room, when I accidentally stepped upon and rent the dress-train of a dark-haired girl, who, leaning upon the arm of an elderly man, was walking before me.
She turned, and I bowed my apologies. The words died from my lips.
The woman, whose flower-trimmed dress I had torn, was Valerie! It was a mutual recognition; but neither of us spoke.
Half an hour later, however, I was sitting alone with her. To my fierce demands for an explanation of the sudden breaking off of her communications, she replied boldly, and with such an air of veracity that I hated myself for having spoken so harshly.
Judge my joy when she told me she was still unmarried, that the paragraph in the Figaro was unauthorised, and that it had been inserted by some unknown enemy, during her absence from Paris.
“Then you are not Madame Delbet?” I cried, with ill-concealed delight.
“Certainly not; M’sieur Delbet is an old friend of our family, that is all,” she replied, laughing. “After you left Oran, I could not write, as you were away in the desert. I read of your adventures and your bravery in the newspapers, but did not know where a letter would find you; therefore, I left all explanations of my enforced silence until your return.”