Algeria -- Fiction; British -- Algeria -- Fiction; France. Armée. Légion étrangère -- Fiction; Love stories
Yet he had never treaded more deftly the maze of the waltzers, never
trodden more softly, more swiftly, or with more science, the polished
floor. The waltz was perfect; she did not know it was also a farewell.
The delicate perfume of her floating dress, the gleam of the scarlet
flower-spray, the flash of the diamonds studding her domino, the
fragrance of her lips as they breathed so near his own; they haunted him
many a long year afterward.
His voice was very calm, his smile was very gentle, his step, as he
swung easily through the intricacies of the circle, was none the less
smooth and sure for the race that had so late strained his sinews to
bursting; the woman he loved saw no change in him; but as the waltz drew
to its end, she felt his heart beat louder and quicker on her own; she
felt his hand hold her own more closely, she felt his head drooped over
her till his lips almost touched her brow;--it was his last embrace;
no other could be given here, in the multitude of these courtly
crowds. Then, with a few low-murmured words that thrilled her in their
utterance, and echoed in her memory for years to come, he resigned
her to the Austrian Grand Duke who was her next claimant, and left her
silently--forever.
Less heroism has often proclaimed itself, with blatant trumpet to the
world--a martyrdom.
He looked back once as he passed from the ballroom--back to the sea
of colors, to the glitter of light, to the moving hues, amid which
the sound of the laughing, intoxicating music seemed to float; to the
glisten of the jewels and the gold and the silver--to the scene, in a
word, of the life that would be his no more. He looked back in a long,
lingering look, such as a man may give the gladness of the earth before
the gates of a prison close on him; then he went out once more into the
night, threw the domino and the mask back again into the carriage, and
took his way, alone.
He passed along till he had gained the shadow of a by-street, by a sheer
unconscious instinct; then he paused, and looked round him--what could
he do? He wondered vaguely if he were not dreaming; the air seemed to
reel about him, and the earth to rock; the very force of control he
had sustained made the reaction stronger; he began to feel blind and
stupefied. How could he escape? The railway station would be guarded
by those on the watch for him; he had but a few pounds in his pocket,
hastily slipped in as he had won them, “money-down,” at ecarte that day;
all avenues of escape were closed to him, and he knew that his limbs
would refuse to carry him with any kind of speed farther. He had only
the short, precious hours remaining of the night in which to make
good his flight--and flight he must take to save those for whom he had
elected to sacrifice his life. Yet how? and where?
A hurried, noiseless footfall came after him; Rake's voice came
breathless on his ear, while the man's hand went up in the unforgotten
soldier's salute--
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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