Desert Air | Page 4

of the Ca?d of Beni-Kouidar,' he said. 'Algia, the dancer to whom Monsieur Henri has just given money, is his ch��re amie. But as the government has just made him a sheik, he dares not have her in his house for fear of the scandal. So he has put her with the dancers. That is why she dances, to deceive everyone, not to make money. She is not as the other dancers. But everyone knows, for Batouch is mad with jealousy. He cannot bear that Algia should dance before strangers, but what can he do? A sheik must not have a scandal in his dwelling.'
"We walked on slowly. When we got to the door of the 'Rendezvous des Amis' Marnier stood still again, and looked down the deserted, moonlit camel market.
"'I never knew air like this,' he said in a low voice.
"And once more he expelled the air from his lungs, and drew in a long, slow breath, as a man does when he has finished his dumbbell exercise in the morning.
"'Don't drink too much of it,' I said. 'Remember what the aum?nier told us!'
"Marnier looked at me. I thought there was something apprehensive in his eyes. But he said nothing, and we turned in.
"The next day I rode out with Safti into the desert to visit a sacred personage of great note in the Sahara, Sidi El Ahmed Ben Daoud Abderahmann. To my relief Marnier declined to come. He said he was tired, and would stroll about the city. When we got back at sundown the innkeeper handed me a note. I opened it, and found it was from the aum?nier, saying that he would be greatly obliged if I would call and see him on my return, as he had various little curiosities which he would be glad to show me. Marnier was not in the inn, and, as I had nothing particular to do, I walked at once to the aumonier's house. As I have said, it was the last in the town. The dancing-house was on the opposite side of the way; but the aumonier's dwelling jutted out a little farther into the desert, and looked full on a deep depression of soft sand bounded by a big dune, which loomed up like a couchant beast in the fading yellow light.
"The aum?nier met me at his door, and escorted me into a pleasant room, where his collection of Arab weapons, coins, and old vases, cups, and various utensils, dug up, he told me, at Tlemcen, was arranged. But to my surprise he scarcely took time to show it to me before he said:
"'Though a stranger, may I venture to speak rather intimately to you, monsieur?'
"'Certainly,' I replied, in some astonishment.
"'Your friend is young.'
"'Marnier?'
"'Is that his name? Well, I would not leave him to stroll about too much alone, if I were you.'
"'Why, monsieur?'
"'He is likely to get into trouble. The people here are a wild and violent race. He would do well to bear in mind the saying of a traveller who knew the desert men better than most people:
"If you want to be friendly with them, and safe among them, give cigarettes to the men, and leave the women alone.
"'I see a good deal, monsieur, owing to the situation of my little house.'
"I looked at him in silence. Then I said:
"'What have you seen?'
"He led me to the door, and pointed towards the great dune beyond the dancing-house.
"I saw your friend this afternoon talking there with one whom it is especially unsafe to be seen with in Beni-Koujtlar.'
"'With whom?'
"'A dancer called ��lgia.'
"'Talking, monsieur! Marnier knows no Arabic.'
"The aum?nier pursed his lips in his black beard.
"'The conversation appeared to be carried on by signs,' he responded. 'That did not make it less but more dangerous.'
"I'm afraid I was rude, and whistled softly.
"'Monsieur l'Aum?nier,' I said, 'you must forgive me, but this air is certainly the very devil.'
"He smiled, not without irony.
"'I became aware of that myself, monsieur, when first I came to live in Beni-Kouidar. But I am a priest, and--well, monsieur, I was given the strength to say: "Get thee behind me, Satan."'
"A softer look came into his sunburnt, wrinkled face.
"'Better take your friend away as soon as possible,' he added, 'or there will be trouble.'"

III
"That night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never seen before. The desert wine had gone to the lad's brain. That was certain. No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice. No reminiscences of the Oxford 'High' clung about the manner. A man sober and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the 'Rendezvous des