Achmed Abdullah

“ THAT night Alexander Semionovitch Demidoff tried to explain to Jerome Townsend—who was very English—that the duel was inevitable; that he could not apologize for insult and blow; that in lying about Suzanne's hair, the Turkoman had really polluted her character, her soul, her inner and sacred self. Then, when his friend had let him, he prayed at length to Kyrill, his patron saint, and then he slept like a little child, for he had no fear and knew that he was going to kill the other. ”

“ I considered that Prince Demidoff had remained steeled to the last in the armor of his Slav idealism. Had fate dealt differently with him, disillusion would have waxed stronger as the simplicity of his faith declined. He would have changed gradually from a dreamer to a doer; would have had to struggle with the dark and unreasonable forces of life. And he was a Russian, congenitally pessimistic, potentially destructive. ”

“ Came applause, like far thunder, steadily bloating, jerking and thumping and droning in hectic beats, then growing into a solid phalanx of sound as Russian vied with Tartar and Turkoman, the former clapping white-gloved hands, the latter rattling crooked daggers in silver scabbards with a vicious, steely crackle.
“She is superb!” whispered Prince Alexander Semionovitch Demidoff, captain in the Black Hussars, to his friend Jerome Townsend, attached to His Britannic Majesty's consular service. ”

“ There were still glistening blue eyes of Slav, glistening black eyes of Tartar and Turkoman.
IT WAS not that the Frenchwoman was beautiful. Indeed, she was not. Nor could she sing three notes in tune. Nor was her dancing exceptionally graceful. But “extraordinary!” Jerome Townsend admitted. “She has a certain something—a oh—how shall I put it—”
“She has soul—a great and fragrant sweetness of soul!” said Demidoff; and he added, in a curiously cold and even voice, “I shall marry her.” ”

“ All he had to do was to relate the truth, that Suzanne de Cassagnac had played a fleeting but hectic part in his own life before Timur Kadjar Khan, the Parisianized Turkoman, had stepped on the scene with his gold, his cabochon emeralds. But Townsend's code of honor was rigid. It did not permit him to speak in such a fashion about a woman who had been an intimate factor of his life. And, even supposing that he sacrificed his code of honor on the altar of friendship, would Demidoff believe him? ”

“ At a table across the hall sat Timur Kadjar Khan, the Tekké Turkoman chief, recently returned from a two years' visit to France and startlingly Parisianized, his waxed mustache and pompadoured hair giving the lie to his high cheekbones, and his gold-rimmed monocle to his beady, black Tartar eyes.
He turned to his companion, the Viscount Jean-Marie de Broglie, of the French consular service, breaking the barrier of Moslem reticence.
“Charming, that little Suzanne!” he said. “But expensive! Notice that cabochon emerald on her left hand?”
“Too big to be genuine.” ”

“ He was becoming frightened because he knew the other well, knew his soft, slow Slavic sweetness, knew that his imagination was all boyish and quixotic and silvery-white, clear of the vague, tongue-showing satyr shapes which rot the core of western Europe. ”

“ First you'll listen to me!”
“But I know what you are going to tell me!”
“Eh?”
“Yes,” continued the Russian, still in his cold, curiously even voice. “You mean to tell me that Suzanne—and you—and Timur Kadjar Khan—”
“What? You know?”
“I am neither blind, nor a fool.”
“Blind? No. Evidently not. I see that now. But—” Suddenly, at a flash, as the full realization of the other's intent burst upon him, a towering rage swept over the Englishman, leaving his brain crimson and dry, “but—as to not being a fool—well”—his voice rose, “you are a fool! ”

“ Why—” his voice leaped up extraordinarily strong, “am I the fool—I—because I am man enough, decent enough, to deny that purity is some sort of cruel, blood-stained fetish which, once broken or spotted, ruins a woman's life forever? Because I believe, as I do believe, that purity is a quality of the soul, and not of the body? You are the fool, Jerome, not I!”
“You make me sick!” came the Englishman's rough rejoinder.
“Very well.” Demidoff rose.
“Where are you going?” asked Townsend pushing back his chair. ”

“ It would be too obvious.”
“He is going to force the quarrel, not I.”
“How?”
“Listen!” smiled the Turkoman, waving a hand in the direction of Demidoff, who had stopped a few feet away to light a cigar and whose voice drifted across with a soft, purring distinctness.
“Yes,” the Russian was saying to Townsend, “there is that pearl diadem which the Tsaritsa gave to my grandmother, Alona Vassilievna. It will look very beautiful on Suzanne's golden hair. It will stab little points of silver into that glorious aureole. Jerome-tell me—was there ever such hair in all the world?” ”

“ He looked imploringly at Viscount de Broglie, who raised his eyebrows as if to say that he had nothing to do with all this.
“And, I suppose,” the Turkoman went on ruthlessly, “you are going to offer her more money than I, finer jewels?”
“I shall offer her my name,” said Demidoff, and he saluted, clicked his heels, and turned away, followed by Townsend.
TIMUR KADJAR KHAN stared after him, the rage in his heart surging in deadly waves. He was an Oriental to the core, thus a practical man, a materialist whose essence of life was a fact and not a dream. ”