“I am in love.  Yes.... Ai, ai, Raoul habiby, if but thou couldst see her—­the lotus bloom opening at dawn—­the palm tree in a land of streams ——­”

“Talk French!” Genet got his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.  He passed a hand through his hair.  “You are in love, then ... and again I tell, you, for perhaps the twentieth time, Habib, that between a man and a woman in Islam there is no such thing as love.”

“But I am not in Islam.  I am not in anything!  And if you could but see her ——­”

“Lust!”

“What do you mean by ’lust’?”

“Lust is the thing you find where you don’t find trust.  Lust is a priceless perfume that a man has in a crystal vial, and he is the miser of its fragrance.  He closes the windows when he takes the stopper out of that bottle to drink its breath, and he puts the stopper back quickly again, so that it will not evaporate—­not too soon.”

“But that, Raoul, is love!  All men know that for love.  The priceless perfume in a crystal beyond price.”

“Yes, love, too, is the perfume in the vial.  But the man who has that vial opens the windows and throws the stopper away, and all the air is sweet forever.  The perfume evaporates, forever.  And this, Habib, is the miracle.  The vial is never any emptier than when it began.”

“Yes, yes—­I know—­perhaps—­but to-night I have no time ——­”

The moon did shine through him.  He was but a rag blown in the dark wind.  He had been torn to pieces too long.

“I have no time!” he repeated, with a feverish force.  “Listen, Raoul, my dear friend.  To-day the price was paid in the presence of the cadi, Ben Iskhar.  Three days from now they lead me to marriage with the daughter of the notary.  What, to me, is the daughter of the notary?  They lead me like a sheep to kill at a tomb....  Raoul, for the sake of our friendship, give me hold of your hand.  To-morrow night—­the car!  Or, if you say you haven’t the disposal of the car, bring me horses.”  And again the shaking of his nerves got the better of him; again he tumbled back into the country tongue.  “For the sake of God, bring me two horses!  By Sidna Aissa! by the Three Hairs from the Head of the Prophet I swear it!  My first-born shall be named for thee, Raoul.  Only bring thou horses!  Raoul!  Raoul!”

It was the whine of the beggar of Barbary.  Genet lay back, his hands behind his head, staring into shadows under the ceiling.

“Better the car.  I’ll manage it with some lies.  To-morrow night at moonset I’ll have the car outside the gate Djedid.”  After a moment he added, under his breath, “But I know your kind too well, Habib ben Habib, and I know that you will not be there.”

Habib was not there.  From moonset till half-past three, well over two hours, Genet waited, sitting on the stone in the shadow of the gate, prowling the little square inside.  He smoked twenty cigarettes.  He yawned three times twenty times.  At last he went out got into the car and drove away.