Eager as he was to behold her again, his bruised arm still pained him and he did not make any better speed than he had on his outward journey; but during the five days that it took him to get back to Cairo visions of Zanthe filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. He had to tell himself repeatedly that he must not let her make a slave of him, yet he knew that he was more passionately in love than he had been for a very long time.
Late in the afternoon of the 8th he entered Cairo and, in duty bound, rode straight to Bonaparte's headquarters to report his arrival. News of the annihilation of the French Fleet had reached the capital from Kleber by fast courier three days earlier, so the first shock and sense of despair felt by Bonaparte's Staff on learning that there could be no return to France had worn off. But when Roger entered the General-in-Chief's ante-room he was surprised to find that his own escape had been reported by another courier the previous day.
His fellow aides-de-camp and his old friend Junot, now a
General, who happened to be there, all hailed him with delight, crowding round to embrace and congratulate him. He was even more surprised when he heard the account they had received of his escape. It was believed that when being taken from one ship to another in a boat he had fallen upon the officer-in-charge, snatched both his pistols, shot him with one and the coxswain with the other, then dived overboard and swum through a hail of musket balls to the shore.
It was not uncommon for acts of bravery to be magnified in this way by inaccurate information and, as no one could prove to the contrary, Roger decided not to disillusion his admiring companions. It tickled his sense of humour that he should be acclaimed a hero for an exploit he had planned himself and carried out at little risk, and it was also pleasing to know that it would add considerably to the already high regard that Bonaparte had for him.
A few minutes later the General-in-Chief received him with great cordiality, patted him on his bruised arm, tweaked the lobe of his ear painfully—a favourite, if peculiar, way he had of showing his approval of those who had performed brave deeds—then made Roger sit down and give him a description of the battle, as he had so far had reports of it only from people who had not been present.
Bonaparte was still furious with Brueys for having failed to obey his instructions to seek safety under the guns of either Malta or Corfu, and thus losing his Fleet; but he did not seem at all dismayed at his Army now being cut off in Egypt, and he was intensely interested in the tactics used by the British Fleet.
Anxious as Roger was to get to Zanthe, it was over an hour before his master, giving Roger's ear another sharp tweak, allowed him to depart.
As he reached the door Bonaparte called after him, ' You have returned just in time to accompany me on an expedition. That crafty old rogue, Ibrahim Bey, is still lurking, with several thousand Mamelukes, two or three days' march east of Cairo. Reynier, whose Division I sent in pursuit, does not appear able to overcome him, so I must go myself to drive him out of Egypt. We leave at four o'clock tomorrow morning.'
Roger's breath caught in his throat. Turning, he stared at Bonaparte's back, his face a picture of dismay. His first delight in Zanthe had been all too brief. Now he was to be torn from her arms in the middle of the night and might not see her again for weeks. To protest at an order of Bonaparte's could bring on one of those furious rages and even lead to dismissal. Yet he felt he must risk it. After a moment he said:
' Mon General. You know well that I would willingly go with you anywhere at any time. But should I collapse, I would only be a burden to you. During the past fourteen days I have had little sleep and in getting clear of the burning L'Orient my arm and side were bruised black and blue. One more day in the saddle and I fear I'd fall from it from sheer exhaustion.'
Bonaparte was already busy with some papers. He did not turn his head, but said, 'I had temporarily forgotten what you have been through. Get to bed, then, and I'll see you on my return.'
Nearly overcome with relief, Roger thanked him and stumbled from the room. On leaving the headquarters he almost ran the short distance to his little house. The door was standing open. Hurrying inside he noticed that, although the fountain was still playing in the small open court, the piles of cushions had been removed from the corners. Vaguely he wondered why. Running upstairs, he found the door of the principal bedroom also open. There was not a stick of furniture in it. Frantically, he yelled for Marbois. There came no reply. The house was empty, and Zanthe gone.
The Loves of the Exiled
Scarcely able to believe his eyes, Roger stared about him. Empty of furniture, the room seemed larger than when he had last been in it. For an instant he thought that he might have entered the wrong house; but he had not. He recognized the intricate pattern of the lace-like woodwork of the enclosed balcony that protruded over the narrow street.
Swinging on his heel, he again yelled for Marbois, then for the Arab servants. The echo of his voice came back to him, but no other sound broke the stillness. Pounding down the stairs three at a time he rushed through to the kitchen quarters. There was no one there, the fire was out, the cooking pots had gone and the cupboards stood open. Only some decaying vegetables and a little spilled fat on a stone slab, both now black with flies, showed that the place had ever been occupied.
Still he could hardly credit that he was not suffering from an appalling nightmare. The mental pictures he had been conjuring up of his return to Zanthe were still so clear in his mind that it fought desperately against accepting the fact that he had lost her. After a few minutes he persuaded himself that she would not have fled from him deliberately, and that there must be some other explanation for her disappearance.
Although already subconsciously aware of it, the thought that Marbois had also disappeared suddenly became uppermost in his mind; and Marbois must know what had happened. Next moment Roger was out in the street and running hard in the direction of a Flamam in which his servant's Company had been quartered. On reaching it he controlled himself with an effort, broke into a swift walk and strode inside.
There, amid a splendour of Moorish arches, tiled walls and bathing pools, some fifty soldiers were lounging, playing cards, polishing their equipment or simply dozing on straw-filled palliasses.
Marbois was among them. On seeing Roger enter, he stood up then, suddenly white-faced and apprehensive, came hesitantly towards him.
'What are you doing here? ' Roger demanded. '1 ordered you to remain in the house until my return.'
'1 ... I left it only because it was empty, Monsieur le Colonel' stammered the young Provencal.
'Empty! ' cried Roger. 'What the hell do you mean? Who emptied it? Explain yourself this instant! '
' The people who owned the house,' replied the trembling Marbois. ' They came back two days after you left Cairo. A father and three younger men that I took to be his sons. They talked for some time with the Arab servants, then went away. That night they came back with carts and carried all the furniture out to them. . . .'
' And you let them? ' Roger blazed. ' You, a soldier of France, allowed these people to render my lodging uninhabitable and put you out into the gutter! '