In the evening of that day they left Beni-Mora.
Domini wished to go quietly, but, knowing the Arabs, she feared it would be impossible. Nevertheless, when she paid Batouch in the hotel and thanked him for all his services, she said:
"We'll say adieu here, Batouch."
The poet displayed a large surprise.
"But I will accompany Madame to the station. I will--"
"It is not necessary."
Batouch looked offended but obstinate. His ample person became almost rigid.
"If I am not at the station, Madame, what will Hadj think, and Ali, and Ouardi, and--"
"They will be there?"
"Of course, Madame. Where else should they be? Does Madame wish to leave us like a thief in the night, or like--"
"No, no, Batouch. I am very grateful to you all, but especially to you."
Batouch began to smile.
"Madame has entered into our hearts as no other stranger has ever done," he remarked. "Madame understands the Arabs. We shall all come to say /au revoir/ and to wish Madame and Monsieur a happy journey."
For the moment the irony of her situation struck Domini so forcibly that she could say nothing. She only looked at Batouch in silence.
"What is it? But I know. Madame is sad at leaving the desert, at leaving Beni-Mora."
"Yes, Batouch. I am sad at leaving Beni-Mora."
"But Madame will return?"
"Who knows?"
"I know. The desert has a spell. He who has once seen the desert must see it again. The desert calls and its voice is always heard. Madame will hear it when she is far away, and some day she will feel, 'I must come back to the land of the sun and to the beautiful land of forgetfulness.'"
"I shall see you at the station, Batouch," Domini said quickly. "Good- bye till then."
The train for Tunis started at sundown, in order that the travellers might avoid the intense heat of the day. All the afternoon they kept within doors. The Arabs were sleeping in dark rooms. The gardens were deserted. Domini could not sleep. She sat near the French window that opened on to the verandah and said a silent good-bye to life. For that was what she felt--that life was leaving her, life with its intensity, its fierce meaning. She had come out of a sort of death to find life in Beni-Mora, and now she felt that she was going back again to something that would be like death. After her strife there came a numbness of the spirit, a heavy dullness. Time passed and she sat there without moving. Sometimes she looked at the trunks lying on the floor ready for the journey, at the labels on which was written "Tunis /via/ Constantine." And then she tried to imagine what it would be like to travel in the train after her long travelling in the desert, and what it would be like to be in a city. But she could not. The heat was intense. Perhaps it affected her mind through her body. Faintly, far down in her mind and heart, she knew that she was wishing, even longing, to realise all that these last hours in Beni-Mora meant, to gather up in them all the threads of her life and her sensations there, to survey, as from a height, the panorama of the change that had come to her in Africa. But she was frustrated.
The hours fled, and she remained cold, listless. Often she was hardly thinking at all. When the Arab servant came in to tell her that it was time to start for the station she got up slowly and looked at him vaguely.
"Time to go already?" she asked.
"Yes, Madame. I have told Monsieur."
"Very well."
At this moment Androvsky came into the room.
"The carriage is waiting," he said.
She felt almost as if a stranger was speaking to her.
"I am ready," she said.
And without looking round the room she went downstairs and got into the carriage.
They drove to the station without speaking. She had not seen Father Roubier. Androvsky took the tickets. When they came out upon the platform they found there a small crowd of Arab friends, with Batouch in command. Among them were the servants who had accompanied them upon their desert journey, and Hadj. He came forward smiling to shake hands. When she saw him Domini remembered Irena, and, forgetting that it is not etiquette to inquire after an Arab's womenfolk, she said:
"Ah, Hadj, and are you happy now? How is Irena?"
Hadj's face fell, and he showed his pointed teeth in a snarl. For a moment he hesitated, looking round at the other Arabs. Then he said:
"I am always happy, Madame."
Domini saw that she had made a mistake. She took out her purse and gave him five francs.
"A parting present," she said.
Hadj shook his head with recovered cheerfulness, tucked in his chin and laughed. Domini turned away, shook hands with all her dark acquaintances, and climbed up into the train, followed by Androvsky.
Batouch sprang upon the step as the porter shut the door.
"Madame!" he exclaimed.
"What is it, Batouch?"
"To-day you have put Hadj to shame."
He smiled broadly.
"I? How? What have I done?"
"Irena is dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert beyond Amara."
"Irena! But--"
"She could not live shut up in a room. She could not wear the veil for Hadj."
"But then--?"
"She has divorced him, Madame. It is easy here. For a few francs one can--"
The whistle sounded. The train jerked. Batouch seized her hand, seized Androvsky's, sprang back to the platform.
"Good-bye, Batouch! Good-bye, Ouardi! Good-bye, Smain!"
The train moved on. As it reached the end of the platform Domini saw an emaciated figure standing there alone, a thin face with glittering eyes turned towards her with a glaring scrutiny. It was the sand- diviner. He smiled at her, and his smile contracted the wound upon his face, making it look wicked and grotesque like the face of a demon.
She sank down on the seat. For a moment, a hideous moment, she felt as if he personified Beni-Mora, as if this smile were Beni-Mora's farewell to her and to Androvsky.
And Irena was dancing at Onargla, far away in the desert.
She remembered the night in the dancing-house, Irena's attack upon Hadj.