The Nabob [203]
enfeebling, which called up for de Gery feminine visions--Aline, Felicia--permeating the fairy-like landscape, in this blue-charged atmosphere, this heavenly day, which one might have called the perfume become visible of so many open flowers. The creaking of a door made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone into the next room. He heard the rustle of a dress against the thin partition, a leaf turned in a book which could not be very interesting, for a long sigh turning into a yawn made him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Had he not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," so much in keeping with the burning temperature out of doors? No--nothing more. He fell asleep again, and this time all the confused images which pursued him fixed themselves in a dream--a very pleasant dream.
He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her clear eyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. In this very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting in white morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of her trousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfasts of a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and the clear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, the eyes where one sees one's self, the future--life --the distant horizon. Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy they were!
And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad. Her eyes filled with tears. She said to him: "Felicia is there. You will love me no longer." And he laughed, "Felicia here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes; she is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, from which came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia: "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hiding and suddenly discovered.
Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room, before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the great hillside. But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of a dog, and hurried knocks on the door.
"Open the door! It is I--it is Jenkins."
Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here? How was that? To whom was he speaking? What voice was going to answer him? No one answered. A light step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously.
"Here you are at last," said the Irishman, entering.
And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through the partition for the doctor's with his sugary manners.
"At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had not gone, because the yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns on the coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have just come from him. It was he who told me you were here."
But to whom was he speaking? Who was so singularly obstinate? At last a beautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon air vibrate.
"Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?"
Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down with disgust.
"I have come to prevent you from going--from doing this foolish thing."
"What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there."
"But you don't think, my dear child, that--"
"Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know what lies underneath it. Speak to me as you did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to the spaniel. I fear it less."
"Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young and beautiful as you are."
"And am I not always alone? Would you like me to take Constance, at her age?"
"Or me?"
"You!" She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh. "And what about Paris? And your patients--deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, on any account."
"I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go," said Jenkins resolutely.
There was an instant
He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her clear eyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. In this very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting in white morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of her trousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfasts of a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and the clear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, the eyes where one sees one's self, the future--life --the distant horizon. Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy they were!
And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad. Her eyes filled with tears. She said to him: "Felicia is there. You will love me no longer." And he laughed, "Felicia here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes; she is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, from which came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia: "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hiding and suddenly discovered.
Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room, before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the great hillside. But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of a dog, and hurried knocks on the door.
"Open the door! It is I--it is Jenkins."
Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here? How was that? To whom was he speaking? What voice was going to answer him? No one answered. A light step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously.
"Here you are at last," said the Irishman, entering.
And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through the partition for the doctor's with his sugary manners.
"At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had not gone, because the yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns on the coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have just come from him. It was he who told me you were here."
But to whom was he speaking? Who was so singularly obstinate? At last a beautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon air vibrate.
"Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?"
Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down with disgust.
"I have come to prevent you from going--from doing this foolish thing."
"What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there."
"But you don't think, my dear child, that--"
"Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know what lies underneath it. Speak to me as you did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to the spaniel. I fear it less."
"Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young and beautiful as you are."
"And am I not always alone? Would you like me to take Constance, at her age?"
"Or me?"
"You!" She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh. "And what about Paris? And your patients--deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, on any account."
"I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go," said Jenkins resolutely.
There was an instant