* * * * *

The day passed slowly. I did not see him again until evening. He was

gay, very gay, and his gaiety hurt me.

When we had finished dinner, we went out and leaned on the balustrade

of the terrace. From there out swept the desert, which the darkness

was already encroaching upon from the east.

André broke the silence.

"By the way, I have returned your review to you. You were right, it is

not interesting."

His expression was one of supreme amusement.

"What is it, what is the matter with you, anyway?"

"Nothing," I answered, my throat aching.

"Nothing? Shall I tell you what is the matter with you?"

I looked at him with an expression of supplication.

"Idiot," he found it necessary to repeat once more.

Night fell quickly. Only the southern slope of Wadi Mia was still

yellow. Among the boulders a little jackal was running about, yapping

sharply.

"The dib is making a fuss about nothing, bad business," said

Saint-Avit.

He continued pitilessly: "Then you aren't willing to say anything?"

I made a great effort, to produce the following pitiful phrase: "What an exhausting day. What a night, heavy, heavy--You don't feel

like yourself, you don't know any more--"

"Yes," said the voice of Saint-Avit, as from a distance, "A heavy,

heavy night: as heavy, do you know, as when I killed Captain

Morhange."




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