"Of course I am, Madame. I can speak their language, and I'm as much at home in their tents, and more, than I should ever be at the Vatican --with all respect to the Holy Father."
He got up, went out into the sand, expectorated noisily, then returned to the tent, wiping his bearded mouth with a large red cotton pocket- handkerchief.
"Are you staying here long, Madame?"
He sat down again in his chair, making it creak with his substantial weight.
"I don't know. If my husband is happy here. But he prefers the solitudes, I think."
"Does he? And yet he's gone into the city. Plenty of bustle there at night, I can tell you. Well, now, I don't agree with your husband. I know it's been said that solitude is good for the sad, but I think just the contrary. Ah!"
The last sonorously joyous exclamation jumped out of Father Beret at the sight of Ouardi, who at this moment entered with a large tray, covered with a coffee-pot, cups, biscuits, bon-bons, cigars, and a bulging flask of some liqueur flanked by little glasses.
"You fare generously in the desert I see, Madame," he exclaimed. "And so much the better. What's your servant's name?"
Domini told him.
"Ouardi! that means born in the time of the roses." He addressed Ouardi in Arabic and sent him off into the darkness chuckling gaily.
"These Arab names all have their meanings--Onlagareb, mother of scorpions, Omteoni, mother of eagles, and so on. So much the better!
Comforts are rare here, but you carry them with you. Sugar, if you please."
Domini put two lumps into his cup.
"If you allow me!"
He added two more.
"I never refuse a good cigar. These harmless joys are excellent for man. They help his Christianity. They keep him from bitterness, harsh judgments. But harshness is for northern climes--rainy England, eh?
Forgive me, Madame. I speak in joke. You come from England perhaps. It didn't occur to me that--"
They both laughed. His garrulity was irresistible and made Domini feel as if she were sitting with a child. Perhaps he caught her feeling, for he added:
"The desert has made me an /enfant terrible/, I fear. What have you there?"
His eyes had been attracted by the flask of liqueur, to which Domini was stretching out her hand with the intention of giving him some.
"I don't know."
She leaned forward to read the name on the flask.
"L o u a r i n e," she said.
"Pst!" exclaimed the priest, with a start.
"Will you have some? I don't know whether it's good. I've never tasted it, or seen it before. Will you have some?"
She felt so absolutely certain that he would say "Yes" that she lifted the flask to pour the liqueur into one of the little glasses, but, looking at him, she saw that he hesitated.
"After all--why not?" he ejaculated. "Why not?"
She was holding the flask over the glass. He saw that his remark surprised her.
"Yes, Madame, thanks."
She poured out the liqueur and handed it to him. He set it down by his coffee-cup.
"The fact is, Madame--but you know nothing about this liqueur?"
"No, nothing. What is it?"
Her curiosity was roused by his hesitation, his words, but still more by a certain gravity which had come into his face.
"Well, this liqueur comes from the Trappist monastery of El-Largani."
"The monks' liqueur!" she exclaimed.
And instantly she thought of Mogar.
"You do know then?"
"Ouardi told me we had with us a liqueur made by some monks."
"This is it, and very excellent it is. I have tasted it in Tunis."
"But then why did you hesitate to take it here?"
He lifted his glass up to the lamp. The light shone on its contents, showing that the liquid was pale green.
"Madame," he said, "the Trappists of El-Largani have a fine property.
They grow every sort of things, but their vineyards are specially famous, and their wines bring in a splendid revenue. This is their only liqueur, this Louarine. It, too, has brought in a lot of money to the community, but when what they have in stock at the monastery now is exhausted they will never make another franc by Louarine."
"But why not?"
"The secret of its manufacture belonged to one monk only. At his death he was to confide it to another whom he had chosen."
"And he died suddenly without--"
"Madame, he didn't die."
The gravity had returned to the priest's face and deepened there, transforming it. He put the glass down without touching it with his lips.
"Then--I don't understand."
"He disappeared from the monastery."
"Do you mean he left it--a Trappist?"
"Yes."
"After taking the final vows?"
"Oh, he had been a monk at El-Largani for over twenty years."
"How horrible!" Domini said. She looked at the pale-green liquid. "How horrible!" she repeated.
"Yes. The monks would have kept the matter a secret, but a servant of the /hotellerie/--who had taken no vow of eternal silence--spoke, and --well, I know it here in the 'belly of the desert.'"
"Horrible!"
She said the word again, and as if she felt its meaning more acutely each time she spoke it.
"After twenty years to go!" she added after a moment. "And was there no reason, no--no excuse--no, I don't mean excuse! But had nothing exceptional happened?"
"What exceptional thing can happen in a Trappist monastery?" said the priest. "One day is exactly like another there, and one year exactly like another."
"Was it long ago?"
"No, not very long. Only some months. Oh, perhaps it may be a year by now, but not more. Poor fellow! I suppose he was a man who didn't know himself, Madame, and the devil tempted him."
"But after twenty years!" said Domini.
The thing seemed to her almost incredible.
"That man must be in hell now," she added. "In the hell a man can make for himself by his own act. Oh, here is my husband."
Androvsky stood in the tent door, looking in upon them with startled, scrutinising eyes. He had come over the deep sand without noise.
Neither Domini nor the priest had heard a footstep. The priest got up from his chair and bowed genially.
"Good-evening, Monsieur," he said, not waiting for any introduction.
"I am the Aumonier of Amara, and----"