And she remembered
once more the story of the Marseilles fisherwoman. She understood that
terrible vengeance under the hot, southern sun, beside the ruthless,
southern seas.
Meanwhile he, who so little knew or heeded how he occupied her heart,
passed unnoticed through the movements of the military crowds, crossed
the breadth that parted the encampment from the marquees of the generals
and their guests, gave the countersign and approached unarrested, and
so far unseen save by the sentinels, the tents of the Corona suite. The
Marshal and his male visitors were still over their banquet wines; she
had withdrawn early, on the plea of fatigue; there was no one to
notice his visit except the men on guard, who concluded that he went by
command. In the dusky light, for the moon was very young, and the flare
of the torches made the shadows black and uncertain, no one recognized
him; the few soldiers stationed about saw one of their own troopers, and
offered him no opposition, made him no question. He knew the password;
that was sufficient. The Levantine waiting near the entrance drew the
tent-folds aside and signed to him to enter. Another moment, and he
was in the presence of her mistress, in that dim, amber light from the
standing candelabra, in that heavy, soft-scented air perfumed from the
aloe-wood burning in a brazier, through which he saw, half blinded at
first coming from the darkness without, that face which subdued and
dazzled even the antagonism and the lawlessness of Cigarette.
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