Domini had said to herself that she would speak to her husband that night. She was resolved not to hesitate, not to be influenced from her purpose by anything. Yet she knew that a great difficulty would stand in her way--the difficulty of Androvsky's intense, almost passionate, reserve. This reserve was the dominant characteristic in his nature.
She thought of it sometimes as a wall of fire that he had set round about the secret places of his soul to protect them even from her eyes. Perhaps it was strange that she, a woman of a singularly frank temperament, should be attracted by reserve in another, yet she knew that she was so attracted by the reserve of her husband. Its existence hinted to her depths in him which, perhaps, some day she might sound, she alone, strength which was hidden for her some day to prove.
Now, alone with her purpose, she thought of this reserve. Would she be able to break it down with her love? For an instant she felt as if she were about to enter upon a contest with her husband, but she did not coldly tell over her armoury and select weapons. There was a heat of purpose within her that beckoned her to the unthinking, to the reckless way, that told her to be self-reliant and to trust to the moment for the method.
When Androvsky returned to the camp it was towards evening. A lemon light was falling over the great white spaces of the sand. Upon their little round hills the Arab villages glowed mysteriously. Many horsemen were riding forth from the city to take the cool of the approaching night. From the desert the caravans were coming in. The nomad children played, half-naked, at Cora before the tents, calling shrilly to each other through the light silence that floated airily away into the vast distances that breathed out the spirit of a pale eternity. Despite the heat there was an almost wintry romance in this strange land of white sands and yellow radiance, an ethereal melancholy that stole with the twilight noiselessly towards the tents.
As Androvsky approached Domini saw that he had lost the energy which had delighted her at /dejeuner/. He walked towards her slowly with his head bent down. His face was grave, even sad, though when he saw her waiting for him he smiled.
"You have been all this time with the priest?" she said.
"Nearly all. I walked for a little while in the city. And you?"
"I rode out and met a friend."
"A friend?" he said, as if startled.
"Yes, from Beni-Mora--Count Anteoni. He has been here to pay me a visit."
She pulled forward a basket-chair for him. He sank into it heavily.
"Count Anteoni here!" he said slowly. "What is he doing here?"
"He is with the marabout at Beni-Hassan. And, Boris, he has become a Mohammedan."
He lifted his head with a jerk and stared at her in silence.
"You are surprised?"
"A Mohammedan--Count Anteoni?"
"Yes. Do you know, when he told me I felt almost as if I had been expecting it."
"But--is he changed then? Is he--"
He stopped. His voice had sounded to her bitter, almost fierce.
"Yes, Boris, he is changed. Have you ever seen anyone who was lost, and the same person walking along the road home? Well, that is Count Anteoni."
They said no more for some minutes. Androvsky was the first to speak again.
"You told him?" he asked.
"About ourselves?"
"Yes."
"I told him."
"What did he say?"
"He had expected it. When we ask him he is coming here again to see us both together."
Androvsky got up from his chair. His face was troubled. Standing before Domini, he said:
"Count Anteoni is happy then, now that he--now that he has joined this religion?"
"Very happy."
"And you--a Catholic--what do you think?"
"I think that, since that is his honest belief, it is a blessed thing for him."
He said no more, but went towards the sleeping-tent.
In the evening, when they were dining, he said to her:
"Domini, to-night I am going to leave you again for a short time."
He saw a look of keen regret come into her face, and added quickly:
"At nine I have promised to go to see the priest. He--he is rather lonely here. He wants me to come. Do you mind?"
"No, no. I am glad--very glad. Have you finished?"
"Quite."
"Let us take a rug and go out a little way in the sand--that way towards the cemetery. It is quiet there at night."
"Yes. I will get a rug." He went to fetch it, threw it over his arm, and they set out together. She had meant the Arab cemetery, but when they reached it they found two or three nomads wandering there.
"Let us go on," she said.
They went on, and came to the French cemetery, which was surrounded by a rough hedge of brushwood, in which there were gaps here and there.
Through one of these gaps they entered it, spread out the rug, and lay down on the sand. The night was still and silence brooded here.
Faintly they saw the graves of the exiles who had died here and been given to the sand, where in summer vipers glided to and fro, and the pariah dogs wandered stealthily, seeking food to still the desires in their starving bodies. They were mostly very ******, but close to Domini and Androvsky was one of white marble, in the form of a broken column, hung with wreaths of everlasting flowers, and engraved with these words:
ICI REPOSE
JEAN BAPTISTE FABRIANI
/Priez pour lui/.
When they lay down they both looked at this grave, as if moved by a simultaneous impulse, and read the words.
"Priez pour lui!" Domini said in a low voice.
She put out her hand and took hold of her husband's, and pressed it down on the sand.
"Do you remember that first night, Boris," she said, "at Arba, when you took my hand in yours and laid it against the desert as against a heart?"
"Yes, Domini, I remember."
"That night we were one, weren't we?"
"Yes, Domini."
"Were we"--she was almost whispering in the night--"were we truly one?"
"Why do you--truly one, you say?"
"Yes--one in soul? That is the great union, greater than the union of our bodies. Were we one in soul? Are we now?"
"Domini, why do you ask me such questions? Do you doubt my love?"
"No. But I do ask you. Won't you answer me?"
He was silent. His hand lay in hers, but did not press it.
