True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire after Androvsky's health. He happened to come just before /dejeuner/ was ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door.
"It's not fever then, Monsieur," he said, after they had shaken hands.
"No, no," Androvsky replied. "I am quite well this morning."
The priest looked at him closely with an unembarrassed scrutiny.
"Have you been long in the desert, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Some weeks."
"The heat has tired you. I know the look--"
"I assure you, Monsieur, that I am accustomed to heat. I have lived in North Africa all my life."
"Indeed. And yet by your appearance I should certainly suppose that you needed a change from the desert. The air of the Sahara is magnificent, but there are people--"
"I am not one of them," Androvsky said abruptly. "I have never felt so strong physically as since I have lived in the sand."
The priest still looked at him closely, but said nothing further on the subject of health. Indeed, almost immediately his attention was distracted by the apparition of Ouardi bearing dishes from the cook's tent.
"I am afraid I have called at a very unorthodox time," he remarked, looking at his watch; "but the fact is that here in Amara we--"
"I hope you will stay to /dejeuner/," Androvsky said.
"It is very good of you. If you are certain that I shall not put you out."
"Please stay."
"I will, then, with pleasure."
He moved his lips expectantly, as if only a sense of politeness prevented him from smacking them. Androvsky went towards the sleeping- tent, where Domini, who had been into the city, was washing her hands.
"The priest has called," he said. "I have asked him to /dejeuner/."
She looked at him with frank astonishment in her dark eyes.
"You--Boris!"
"Yes, I. Why not?"
"I don't know. But generally you hate people."
"He seems a good sort of man."
She still looked at him with some surprise, even with curiosity.
"Have you taken a fancy to a priest?" she asked, smiling.
"Why not? This man is very different from Father Roubier, more human."
"Father Beret is very human, I think," she answered.
She was still smiling. It had just occurred to her that the priest had timed his visit with some forethought.
"I am coming," she added.
A sudden cheerfulness had taken possession of her. All the morning she had been feeling grave, even almost apprehensive, after a bad night.
When her husband had abruptly left her and gone away into the darkness she had been overtaken by a sudden wave of acute depression. She had felt, more painfully than ever before, the mental separation which existed between them despite their deep love, and a passionate but almost hopeless longing had filled her heart that in all things they might be one, not only in love of each other, but in love of God. When Androvsky had taken his arms from her she had seemed to feel herself released by a great despair, and this certainty--for as he vanished into the darkness she was no more in doubt that his love for her left room within his heart for such an agony--had for a moment brought her soul to the dust. She had been overwhelmed by a sensation that instead of being close together they were far apart, almost strangers, and a great bitterness had entered into her. It was accompanied by a desire for action. She longed to follow Androvsky, to lay her hand on his arm, to stop him in the sand and force him to confide in her. For the first time the idea that he was keeping something from her, a sorrow, almost maddened her, even made her feel jealous. The fact that she divined what that sorrow was, or believed she divined it, did not help her just then. She waited a long while, but Androvsky did not return, and at last she prayed and went to bed. But her prayers were feeble, disjointed, and sleep did not come to her, for her mind was travelling with this man who loved her and who yet was out there alone in the night, who was deliberately separating himself from her. Towards dawn, when he stole into the tent, she was still awake, but she did not speak or give any sign of consciousness, although she was hot with the fierce desire to spring up, to throw her arms round him, to draw his head down upon her heart, and say, "I have given myself, body, heart and soul, to you. Give yourself to me; give me the thing you are keeping back--your sorrow. Till I have that I have not all of you. And till I have all of you I am in hell."
It was a mad impulse. She resisted it and lay quite still. And when he lay down and was quiet she slept at length.
Now, as she heard him speak in the sunshine and knew that he had offered hospitality to the comfortable priest her heart suddenly felt lighter, she scarcely knew why. It seemed to her that she had been a little morbid, and that the cloud which had settled about her was lifted, revealing the blue.
At /dejeuner/ she was even more reassured. Her husband seemed to get on with the priest better than she had ever seen him get on with anybody. He began by making an effort to be agreeable that was obvious to her; but presently he was agreeable without effort. The simple geniality and lack of self-consciousness in Father Beret evidently set him at his ease. Once or twice she saw him look at his guest with an earnest scrutiny that puzzled her, but he talked far more than usual and with greater animation, discussing the Arabs and listening to the priest's account of the curiosities of life in Amara. When at length Father Beret rose to go Androvsky said he would accompany him a little way, and they went off together, evidently on the best of terms.
