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Updated: June 6, 2025
In the recesses of the garden Larbi, that idle gardener, played upon his little flute his eternal song of love, and from the desert, beyond the white wall, there rose an Arab's voice singing a song of the Sahara, "No one but God and I knows what is in my heart!" IV. A Nomad's Honeymoon
Then they walked on in silence till they saw the purple blossoms of the bougainvillea clinging to the white walls of the fumoir. Domini stopped on the narrow path. "Is he in there?" she asked almost in a whisper. "No doubt." "Larbi was playing the first day I came here." "Yes." "I wish he was playing now." The silence seemed to her unnaturally intense. "Even his love must have repose."
Larbi played played on and on, untiring as the love that blossomed with the world, but that will not die when the world dies. Then Androvsky came back quickly till he reached the place where Domini was standing. He put his hands on her shoulders. Then he sank down on the sand, letting his hands slip down over her breast and along her whole body till they clasped themselves round her knees.
They looked at each other for a moment. Did he mean that she might create it in him? Perhaps she would have asked, or perhaps he would have told her, but at that moment something happened. Larbi stopped playing. In the last few minutes they had both forgotten that he was playing, but when he ceased the garden changed.
The caravan passes on and is lost in the desolation and the storm." She said nothing, but looked down at the thin body of the Diviner crouched close to her knees. Was this pock-marked face the face of a prophet? Did this skin and bone envelop the soul of a seer? She no longer wished that Larbi was playing upon his flute or felt the silence to be unnatural.
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