“The Spahis are North Africans who enlist in the French army, are they not?”
“Yes, and they make fine soldiers. They also tend to be fine-looking men, and that fact has much relevance to my story. I am proud to serve with them. But to return to my tale.
“Some celebration or other was taking place in the city while our three Parisians were staying there. All of the African troops were out on parade—the Zouaves, the chasseurs, the tirailleurs. The governor of the province rode in procession to officiate at some no doubt tedious ceremony or other, and in front of his carriage there rode on horseback a long line of Spahis, two by two. Our Parisian visitors had heard about the dashing Spahis, but they had never actually seen them until now—astride their magnificent horses, with their turbans and their flowing Arab robes, their fine figures, their lustrous dark skin and eyes, and their extraordinary horsemanship. When you are in Algiers, Mr. Cheney, you will have an opportunity to see for yourself how they ride. There is no cavalry in the world to touch them, not even the Russian Cossacks.
“Well, my fellow Frenchmen were astonished by the spectacle. The young unmarried sister, especially, was thrilled by the sight of these exotic horsemen. As their horses passed beneath the balcony of the hotel, upon which she was leaning, she clapped her dainty little hands, in their pristine white kid gloves, and she threw down a shower of bright red roses. As they fell, the flowers startled the horses. They bucked and reared. Two or three of the roses had dropped onto the lap of one of the Spahis—a magnificent figure of a man, a bronzed Hercules, with eyes like those of a desert eagle and a handsome aquiline profile to match. He got his mount back under control with the greatest ease and insouciance, checking it with pressure applied to its flanks from his knees and thighs, disdaining to make use of the reins. As he did so, he looked up. He saw the mademoiselle gazing down at him with her beautiful, bright eyes—ah, what eyes they were! I can see them still.”
Daumier paused for breath. He took a sip of cognac.
“You were there, then?” Nigel interjected. “You witnessed this?”
“Yes. I was standing in the street, in the crowd watching the procession. It was not until later that I made the acquaintance of the Parisian gentleman and his wife, and I learned their story. I had better not use their real names. Let us call them Monsieur and Madame Benoit, and let us call the young mademoiselle Paulette—I have always liked that name.
“The Spahi flashed a smile at Mlle. Paulette with his white teeth. He was soon to retire from the service and return to his home in the desert, and so he was in high spirits. A look passed between him and mademoiselle—and then suddenly, as though a dense dark cloud had passed over the sun, neither of them was smiling. Some strange sobriety and sadness had taken possession of them both.
“This lasted for no more than a moment, of course. He rode on with the others, and she shrank back on the balcony, as though abashed. Then the Spahis were succeeded by the governor in his carriage—a small, dapper man, wearing evening dress on this brilliant afternoon, and adorned with all of his medals, and perspiring in the heat.
“I am afraid that, to Mlle. Paulette, the great man and the members of his suite were a great disappointment. Why, she probably asked herself, couldn’t civilized men look anything like the glorious Spahis? Why were all Parisian men so banal, so commonplace?
“Her sister and her brother-in-law noticed her distress. They teased her, saying that she had allowed herself to become enthralled by savages, and that if they were not careful, she would abandon them and go native, as they put it. An unfortunate choice of words, as things turned out.
“After they had seen enough of Algiers, the Parisians traveled by way of Constantine to Biskra. There they saw the desert for the first time—the mountains of the Tell Atlas range, which seem to change color according to the light that falls upon them—the Arab nomads who encamp on the sands at nightfall with tents for their walls and ceilings, and rugs for their floors—the caravans, with their camels loaded with provisions and goods, trudging against the brilliant blue of the sky.
“At Biskra, Monsieur and Madame Benoit found their accommodations, and their surroundings, quite primitive after Algiers, to say nothing of Paris. But they told themselves that they had come to Algeria in search of adventure, so, now that they had found it, they must make the most of it, and resign themselves to certain inconveniences.
“Mlle. Paulette, however, seemed like a young woman possessed. It was as though her first taste of the desert had intoxicated her, instilling deep within her an insatiable desire to experience more. She persuaded her sister and brother-in-law that they must undertake a true desert expedition, with tents, mules, and hired servants. And so, on a blazing hot day, they set out across the Sahara.”
Daumier once again paused, to take a sip of his cognac.
“They had secured the services of a guide named Achmed, a young man who at once developed a fierce protectiveness toward the two Frenchwomen. He would have killed, or died himself, for them. He was particularly careful that no harm should come to Mlle. Paulette. Perhaps there was some element of romantic longing in his devotion to the young woman, but if so, he sublimated it. Nothing untoward ever passed between the two of them, although he was rarely far from her side. Some strange empathy seemed to exist between the two of them, despite the gulf in their backgrounds, their upbringings, and their ways of life.
“The party traveled from one oasis to another. And, at one of them, they saw a horseman riding toward them across the sands. Such encounters are, of course, not uncommon in the desert. But this one was fateful.”
“Fateful?” Nigel echoed him. “As a storyteller, Lieutenant Daumier, you are very good at drawing out suspense. Fateful in what way?”
Daumier smiled. “It was the Spahi from Algiers, you see. Or, more accurately, I should say it was the former Spahi, for he was now a free man, discharged from the service, and answerable to no one. He had returned to his home, which happened to be in a village nearby—nearby, that is, as one judges distances across the vast wastes of the Sahara.
“He watered his horse. He engaged the Parisians in polite conversation, for he spoke excellent French, like any gentleman whom one might encounter on the Rue de la Paix in the French metropolis. They remembered him from Algiers. They invited him to sit down with him in the shade of the palm trees and take some coffee and other refreshment with them. They spoke about the desert, and its inhabitants. Mlle. Paulette said little, though. She was strangely shy in his presence—she, who back home in France knew so well how to play the coquette, and pit one chivalrous suitor against another, promising them much, but giving them little.
“The Algerian took his courteous leave and departed, and the next day, at dawn, the caravan of the Parisians also went on its way, going farther into the desert. They seemed to have left behind them all vestiges of civilization. Mlle. Paulette was in a state of intense and inexplicable excitement—indeed, of agitation. The awe of the Sahara had taken hold upon her, you see.”
“And her relatives?” Nigel asked. “Did they feel the same way?”
“I suspect that their responses were rather more prosaic. As they traveled onward, the young girl’s usual gaiety subsided. She seemed oppressed. Achmed rode close to her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection. He observed her continually with his brooding dark eyes, and yet she did not seem to mind his scrutiny—although she now found the banter of her sister and brother-in-law tiresome.
“That night there was a full moon. Mlle. Paulette could not sleep. Finally, she got up, and she went quietly to the tent door. All of the desert was bathed in light. She gazed out as a mariner gazes out over the sea. She heard jackals yelping far off in the distance, the only sound in the deep silence of the night.
“Achmed was standing watch that night, armed with his rifle. Everyone else was asleep.
“Respectfully, he approached the young lady, and they had a long conversation, conducted in undertones
.
“Achmed pointed toward the horizon. And there, barely visible in the moonlight, Mlle. Paulette saw the silhouette of a man on horseback, waiting, motionless.
“Instinctively, she knew who it was. It was the man who had ridden in the governor’s procession in Algiers—the man to whom she had thrown the roses from the balcony. He had met her again by chance in the oasis, there in the middle of the desert, and he had followed her ever since. He was biding his time—waiting with infinite patience, waiting for her to come to a decision.
“She exchanged a few more words with Achmed. She went into the tent and dressed herself. She wrote a note and left it on her bed. She slipped a few of her personal possessions into a small bag. Carrying it, she left the tent, walked past Achmed, who nodded to her respectfully—and she strode toward the silhouette in the distance.
“The horseman rode to meet her. He raised her in front of him on his saddle. They rode off together, slowly at first, but then at a gallop.
“After a moment, Achmed raised the alarm. He put his rifle to his shoulder and he fired several shots. All of them missed his target—which was strange, because Achmed was in fact known to be an excellent shot.
“The feelings of Monsieur and Mademoiselle, when they were roused from their sleep and they discovered that Mlle. Paulette had been carried off by a native man, can easily be imagined. They could not believe that she had gone of her own free will, even though she had written so in her note. But pursuit was impossible. The fugitives had already vanished in the night. And all subsequent inquiries and appeals to the French authorities proved fruitless.”
Daumier lit another cigarette.
“I heard part of the story from Monsieur and Madame Benoit, when I made their acquaintance in Algiers, before they gave up the search and returned to France,” he explained. “But I learned further details a year or so ago, when my duties happened to take me very far into the Sahara. Late one afternoon we made camp for the night near an encampment of nomads. They extended their hospitality to us soldiers. The story of how the young girl from faraway Paris had abandoned her relatives and run off with the horseman, with Achmed’s complicity, was told to me while we sat at our ease under the flap of one of the tents and watched the sun go down.”
“It was told to you by one of the Arabs?” Nigel asked.
Daumier shook his head.
“No. It was told to me by our hostess—by a beautiful young woman, who, even there in the middle of the desert, still had about her the grace and charm of a Parisienne.”
Nigel understood.
“It was Mlle. Paulette?” he guessed.
“None other. Although, in fact, she was now Madame Paulette.”
“She was married?”
“To the man who had carried her off, and she was content.”
“Content? So far from her home—from her family? Cut off from everything she had once known?”
“She had found a new home, and a new family. Yes, she was perfectly content—happy to sit in front of her tent and watch her two little dark children playing near her in the twilight. And she was happier still when her husband returned to her from his hunt, galloping across the plain, with a gazelle which he had shot slung across his saddle horn, and singing a native love song to announce his approach. We dined on the gazelle meat that night, and I observed the couple with great interest—and not without a touch of envy. She loved him—utterly, without reservation, I could see. And, as the expression goes, she thought the world well lost for love. She had no regrets.”
“Why, this is a real romance,” Nigel remarked. “It would serve admirably for one of my mother’s novels.”
“I can tell you another story,” Daumier said. “If you’re not ready to go to bed—?”
“No, on the contrary, I don’t feel sleepy at all. They say that sea air is invigorating. It seems to be having that effect on me.”
“Nevertheless, I will not keep you up too late. This second tale is shorter than the first, and sadder. As writers of fiction, such as your mother, no doubt know—not all love stories have happy endings.
“Two years ago I had a short leave of absence, so I thought I would do some exploring. I traveled on one of the caravan routes. For fourteen hours each day we were on the road, and each evening as night fell we would stop at a some wretched, isolated little inn for a meal, and to spend the night—sleeping not indoors, as a rule, but outside in the open air, on our rugs. Late one afternoon, a sandstorm blew up. The wind not only filled the air with the sand, blotting out everything around us—it was cold, astonishingly cold for the desert. We struggled on, blindly.
“I was enormously relieved and grateful when, a few hours later, we finally reached the next inn. It was run by a Frenchman, a short, sturdy man of middle age. He was hospitable enough, but he had a strange, sullen manner about him, as though he was preoccupied by his own thoughts.
“While I ate my dinner, I engaged him in conversation. He was the only European in this isolated Arab village, lost in the great open spaces of the Sahara. Until recently, he had enjoyed the company of his daughter. She was his only child, but now that she had grown to womanhood, her father had sent her to live with relatives back in France. He had saved enough money to provide her with a large dowry, and it was his most fervent wish that she should make a suitable marriage—to a Frenchman, of course.
“After I had finished my dinner I lit a cigarette. The storm was still raging, with an unabated fury. The sand was driven like hailstones against the closed wooden shutters of the inn’s windows, and I felt weary after the day’s slow, rough ride. I asked my host, whose name was Carnot, if he could provide me with a bed for the night. He could, for overnight travelers were scarce, and I invited him to join me in a warming drink before I retired.
“Over our glasses, he told me his story.
“He had lived in Algeria for the past twenty years. He had been born near Marseilles. After his three years’ service in the army, he had married a girl from his village, whose name was Marguerite. Monsieur Carnot then took it into his head that he and his wife should leave home and seek their fortune in Algiers.
“For a while, all went well. They found work in a hotel—Carnot as a porter, his wife as a housemaid. They were thrifty, and they saved their money.
“His wife, Carnot told me bluntly, was a good woman at first—because she had seen and experienced nothing. She was as innocent as though she had been brought up in a convent.
“With the money they had saved, the couple left Algiers. They bought, in a small town to the south, near the end of the railway line, a café called Au Retour du Sahara. It was a good little business. It made money.
“In those days, the railroad had just been extended that far, and the town was still an isolated outpost, and a fairly wild place. The couple’s child, a girl whom they christened Marguerite after her mother, although they always called her Margot, was born there.
“Madame Carnot was perhaps too free in dealing with the Arab men. A woman who helps to run a public house, in any country, must of course be friendly—a good hostess.
“But—!
“The North African men, Mr. Cheney. The Algerians. They know how to flatter and please women. They are often very handsome. To speak plainly—they are often very virile, and very sexual, as well. They can stare down a woman in the same way a wild beast in rut can, and that’s what some women like, although they may not care to admit it. Madame Carnot—she was a wife and a mother, but she was no better than she should have been. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do,” a rather flustered Nigel said. She sounds like one of the characters in Mater’s books, he couldn’t help thinking.
“And so—she began to meet one such man, in secret. And then, one day, after dark—she gave in to temptation. She fled.”
“She fled!” Nigel exclaimed.
“Monsieur Carnot had been ill with a fever, and so he went to spend the night at the sulphur baths at the foot of the mount
ains. That is a common treatment for such ailments here. He returned to his home just before dawn to find—well, Mr. Cheney, to find his wife gone, and their child there, abandoned by its mother. Madame Carnot had left her husband a note. She had met a man, she wrote, and she had decided to run off with him. It was not her husband’s fault. He had been a good husband to her, and a good father to little Margot, which was why she was leaving the child in his care. But Madame Carnot had fallen in love. She was, she acknowledged in her note, a worthless woman, and it would be best for her husband if he could forget she had ever existed.
“Carnot, by his own admission to me, went half mad with jealousy, rage, and despair. As he so bluntly put it to me, he might eventually have forgiven his wife for being a whore—but he could never forgive her for abandoning her child. At the same time, he was grateful she had not taken little Margot with her, for then he would have been entirely alone—with nothing to live for. He would have put a bullet through his head, he told me.
“He could not even guess the identity of his wife’s lover.
“At first, he searched for his wife, devoting all of his spare time to the quest. But he was handicapped by the fact that, in this remote region, many of the women rarely set foot out of doors, and when they did, unless they were the dancers who performed in cafés and taverns, they went about are so heavily veiled that their features could not be distinguished.
“Carnot was tempted to confront and tear away the veil from the face of every woman he saw, and his bold way of following them and staring at them soon got him into trouble. The local French authorities—his own countrymen—intervened. They urged him to abandon his search and take up his residence elsewhere, before some man avenged the perceived insult to his wife, mother, sister, or daughter by driving a knife into him.
“That was how Carnot came to run the inn.
“He lived there like an exile. Unlike some Frenchman who immigrate to Algeria, he did not assimilate himself. He hated the Arabs—their language, which he was forced to learn in order to do business with them, their traditions, their way of life in general. And perhaps he had good reason to feel as he did. His life here became a punishment for him. He sent his daughter away as soon as she was old enough and he could afford to do so. And then he was alone—and embittered.
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