“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“She is here!” he answered meaningly.
“Do you mean Madame de Largentière?” I asked, remembering in that moment how dearly he loved the woman who had been so cruelly snatched from him, and with what self-sacrifice he had buried himself beneath the scarlet drapery of a homard of the Desert. “Is she in Algeria?” I inquired.
For answer he blew a cloud of smoke slowly from his lips, then from beneath the folds of his burnouse he drew forth a worn but carefully folded copy of the Algiers newspaper, L’Akhbar, which he handed to me, saying, “Read the first column.”
Opening the limp paper, I noticed it was dated two months before, and on glancing at the column indicated, my eyes fell upon the heading in large type: “The New Governor-General of Algeria: Arrival of Monsieur de Largentière.”
Eagerly I read on. The report described the landing and enthusiastic reception of Monsieur de Largentière, who had been appointed Governor-General. The streets had been gaily decorated with Venetian masts and strings of flags, salutes had been fired from the warships in the harbour and from the Kasbah, as the vessel conveying his Excellency from Marseilles had cast anchor, and as the party stepped on shore, the little daughter of the General of Division had presented a bouquet of choice flowers to Madame de Largentière, who, the journal incidentally mentioned, was “well known as one of the most beautiful women in Paris, and a leader of fashion.” Algerian society, continued L’Akhbar, welcomed her as its queen. No doubt, during the coming season the Governor’s palace would be the scene of many a brilliant festivity, and the colony owed a debt of gratitude to the Government for appointing as its representative an official so upright, so experienced, and so genuinely popular. All Algeria, it concluded, extended to the new Governor and his beautiful wife a boundless and heartfelt welcome.
“Well?” I exclaimed, handing back the paper. “You will have an opportunity of seeing her very soon, I suppose?”
“See her? Never!” he answered, with poignant bitterness. “Already I have discovered that she is instituting inquiries about me; that is the reason why I have not sought to return to Biskra. I do not desire the past disinterred;” and he thoughtfully watched the ascending rings of smoke.
“Fate plays us some sorry tricks sometimes. Most probably you will meet her just when you least expect—”
“What?” he cried, interrupting. “Face her? To hold her hand as before—to tell her that her husband, the man whose ring she wears, and over whom the journalists gush and drivel, is—is a murderer! No! No! I never will!”