Sin in Algiers
by
Roland Graeme
Copyright © 2016 Roland Graeme
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published by Roland Graeme
Cover design by Muzio Scaevola
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Letters of Fire
Chapter Two: Our Young Hero Embarks upon His Quest
Chapter Three: Scheherazade’s French Cousin
Chapter Four: The Search for a Guide
Chapter Five: The Dancing House
Chapter Six: A Street of Women
Chapter Seven: The Moorish Bathhouse
Chapter Eight: Algerian Hospitality
Chapter Nine: The Lieutenant’s Tale
Chapter Ten: A Sandstorm
Chapter Eleven: A Private Performance
Chapter Twelve: Recreation during Daylight Hours
Chapter Thirteen: A Quartet
Chapter Fourteen: The Return to England
Epilogue: A New Adventure
Also by Roland Graeme
Chapter One: Letters of Fire
Indecent Novel to be Banned—Worse than Anything Written by Zola.
Mrs. Hermione Cheney had already memorized the article printed in the September 7, 1895 edition of an American newspaper. Nonetheless, she never tired of reading and rereading it. The paragraphs of neatly set type sent a thrill through her and brought a flush to her powdered cheeks.
The article described how A Woman without Shame, the latest work of fiction by the prolific English authoress Venetia Vayle, had achieved the distinction of being “banned in Boston.” An affront to public morals, the article declared. Thanks to the intervention of a group which called itself The League of Women against Indecency in the Arts and Literature, the book would not be sold in Boston bookstores. Nor would it be available on the shelves of Boston’s public libraries.
Despite these efforts, the anonymous journalist lamented, we regret to report that copies of this salacious volume, purchased in New York City and elsewhere, continue to circulate throughout the state of Massachusetts. The mere existence of this so-called work of literature is an attack on respectable men and women everywhere. Its promulgation by the publisher should be prosecuted as a crime.
As for the authoress, all we can do is express our incredulity. Could any woman so abandon the modesty and delicacy of her sex, and so lower herself, as to produce a narrative of this sordid nature? One must shudder at the mere thought.
Arming herself with a very sharp pair of scissors, Mrs. Cheney carefully cut the article out of the page. Then she opened her scrapbook. This was no ordinary scrapbook. It had been custom-made to her specifications by a London stationer. Its oversized boards were fashioned from fine morocco leather, dyed a delicate violet hue and embossed with a pattern of grapes and vines, traced in silver. Inside, the pages of the scrapbook were a thick grayish violet in color, and they resembled cardboard rather than paper. They were filled with clippings documenting the extraordinary career of that controversial authoress, Venetia Vayle.
Some of the clippings were reviews of Miss Vayle’s books, ranging in tone from the laudatory to the scathing. Others described the real-life Englishwoman who wrote the books, using “Violet Vayle” as her pseudonym. The lady writer’s family background, her home, her circle of friends, her clothes, her jewels, her opinions about a broad range of topics—these were a never-ending source of fodder for the men and women of the journalistic profession. Violet Vayle, in short, was always good copy.
The authoress’s true identity was an open secret. Everyone knew that “Violet Vayle” was really Mrs. Hermione Cheney, a respectable English aristocrat, who lived in a mansion in Park Lane in London. The fact only served to heap titillation upon piquancy, so to speak.
Unscrewing the lid from a little pot of paste, Mrs. Cheney brushed the adhesive over the back of the clipping. Then, with infinite care, she secured the newspaper article to a blank page of the scrapbook. She studied the result for a moment, allowing herself to take satisfaction in a task well done.
She was seated at the huge, carved walnut desk in what had once been her husband’s study. She had taken over the room, transforming it into her own private retreat. Gradually, by seemingly imperceptible degrees, she had replaced the severely masculine furniture, décor, and other trappings with delicate, pretty, feminine things. Now, pastel colors prevailed. Porcelain figurines and other knick-knacks filled the space. Ferns and ivies grew profusely in large flower pots set inside cachepots and jardinières. The Chinese and Japanese vases were always filled with fresh flowers. The silken draperies on the windows blocked out the outside world, allowing no more than a discreet, indirect light to filter through them.
In such an environment, a woman could write! Yes, as though her pen was dipped, not in mere ink, but in the very blood of life!
With a languid gesture of her bejeweled hand, Mrs. Cheney tugged on a nearby bell rope. After a moment, a handsome, strapping young footman appeared. Mrs. Cheney made it her policy to staff her home with attractive male servants, and unattractive female ones. She had an appreciation of male beauty, and an aversion to potential competition from other women—at least, from women of the servant class. To be waited upon in her own house by some pretty, empty-headed, silly slip of a girl—no self-respecting matron would tolerate that.
“Has Mr. Cheney gone out?” she asked the servant.
Mrs. Cheney was, sadly, a widow. She was referring to her son, Nigel.
“No, ma’am.”
“Where is he?”
“In his room, I believe, ma’am.”
“I am sorry to disturb Mr. Cheney,” the lady of the house said, with that innate graciousness of hers which never failed to win people over—including servants. “But I wish to see him. Ask him to come to me for a moment.”
“At once, ma’am.”
The footman left the room on his errand. Mrs. Cheney arranged herself in a pensive attitude, suitable for a woman of letters. She smoothed the voluminous folds of her skirt.
Even though she was not receiving guests this afternoon, she was, as always, well dressed. Her sense of style was not the least thing which the public found fascinating about her. Today, her dress was pale green and pale lilac striped silk, trimmed with delicate cream-colored lace.
In her day, she had been a great beauty. She had married the younger son of an earl. Although he had not inherited his father’s title, her husband was still an aristocrat. Through him, Mrs. Cheney had entered society. And there, she had always played her part to perfection.
She had loved her husband. His death, at a relatively young age, had been a real blow to her. But she was a woman of indomitable spirit, who refused to be broken. She had her children—two girls, both of whom had recently made brilliant marriages; and her son, who was h
er youngest and who was still a bachelor. As such, he lived at home with his mother as a matter of course.
Mrs. Cheney was still a handsome woman. She had many male admirers. People didn’t hesitate to speculate about her private life. She might take a lover—indeed, emulating the audacious heroines of her novels, she might take more than one. She might remarry—and, again like her heroines, she might take her marriage vows rather lightly. What was there to stop her from doing either or both of these things? Certainly the fictional women created by her alter ego, Violet Vayle, never hesitated to defy convention, and they indulged in far more controversial behavior.
Mrs. Cheney’s late husband had left her and the children well provided for. But she refused to be idle.
And so, after an appropriate period of mourning, Mrs. Cheney had taken up her pen and tried her luck as a writer of fiction. Under the nom de plume of Violet Vayle, she produced thick books, their pages crammed full of sensational incidents. They were published in tasteful hard covers of various colors—rose-red, peach, lilac, mauve, tawny yellow, pale green—with elegant little Art Nouveau designs embossed upon them in gold or silver. Externally, the volumes were works of art in their own right.
In terms of their actual content, though, these novels were, without exception, of an exceeding luridness. Venetia Vayle’s stock in trade was seduction, adultery, betrayal, drug addiction, drunkenness, murder, suicide, and depravity in general. Mrs. Cheney explored these vices in great detail, without ever leaving the safety of her elegantly furnished study—where, seated at her desk with pen in hand, she covered page upon page with horrific depictions of the most lamentable human failings. These pages were, in due course, handed over to a typist for transcription. The typescript in turn was submitted to Mrs. Chaney’s editor at the publishing house—who was invariably thrilled by what he read. As he turned the pages of the typescript, the editor could almost hear the sound of profits being deposited into the firm’s coffers.
The reading public was thrilled, too—and often shocked. Violet Vayle’s books could be seen displayed on tables or in bookcases in every smart home. The mere possession of a copy of one of them was an act of defiance. It gave a man or woman a reputation as a freethinker, liberated from bourgeois constraints. It was true that clergymen had been known to denounce the tomes from their pulpits. In other circles, the books inspired serious debates about their possibly pernicious influence. Those who took the extreme view insisted that no respectable woman could cut the pages of a Violet Vayle opus, fresh from the press, and peruse its contents. As for allowing an unmarried girl to read one of them—why, parents who would permit such a thing might as well sell their daughters into white slavery, and be done with it.
Controversy did nothing except to increase sales. The books may or may not have been indecent, but they brought in an obscene amount of money.
Writing in order to earn money was, for a woman of Mrs. Cheney’s status, considered vulgar in some quarters. But the lady was well known for her charitable work, which helped to mollify any suggestion of a mercenary motive on her part.
The door of the study opened, and Nigel Cheney entered the room.
“You wished to see me, Mater?” he asked.
“Yes, Nigel. Come here and sit down.”
Nigel obeyed. “You are not busy writing?” he observed, in some surprise. He was not used to seeing his mother in this room without her pen in her hand and at least one indiscreet ink smear upon her fingertip.
“I am granting myself a brief respite from my labors.”
“A well-deserved one, I am sure.”
Mrs. Cheney looked at her son, with some satisfaction.
Nigel was a young man of twenty-four, who in fact looked even younger than his years. He was a very handsome youth, with dark blond hair, which he wore parted in the middle and well brushed to either side, pleasant blue eyes that could twinkle, a clear pale complexion, and a fine, tall figure. One could guess, simply by looking at him, that he had been an Eton boy. Now that he had completed his studies, Nigel had given serious thought to entering into military service. He suspected he might look rather good in a uniform. But Mrs. Cheney opposed this ambition. With the Transvaal War still vivid in her memory—she had written a novel about it—she was not about to let her boy run off and be shot at by Boers, or by any other such savages.
Patiently, Nigel sat there in silence, awaiting his mother’s commands. At last the oracle spoke.
“Nigel, I am sorry, but I am going to have to send you on an errand. An errand of the utmost importance.”
“Of course, Mater. I shall be glad to do it. Whatever you require. ”
“I’m afraid it will inconvenience you. Still, it’s a matter of such a personal nature that I really cannot entrust it to anyone else.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Mater. Please tell me what I can do for you.”
“It’s a mission of the utmost importance, the utmost delicacy. And it is one which will require you to travel.”
“To travel? Will it take me far?”
“Yes. That is the cause of my concern. It will take you very far from here.”
“Out of London?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Not out of England?”
“I’m afraid so. It will take you across France, and then across the Mediterranean. All the way to Algeria.”
“That far!” Nigel exclaimed.
Mrs. Cheney sighed. “I know. But it’s unavoidable, my dear.”
“Am I to go alone?”
“No. Of course, you must take Mornay along with you.” Mornay was Nigel’s valet. “It will be difficult enough to keep yourself well dressed and looking tidy in a hot, dry climate such as that of the Sahara. But Mornay has always seemed to me to be more than competent, despite his youth.”
“Oh, yes. He has been entirely satisfactory. He takes good care of me.”
“They speak French in Algeria, and Mornay is a Frenchman.”
“Forgive me, Mater. I never like to contradict you. But I believe Mornay is Swiss.”
“Oh? Really? I hadn’t noticed. He is not obvious about it. But it’s much the same thing, isn’t it?”
“The inhabitants of Switzerland might disagree. But Mornay, having been born in one of the French-speaking cantons of Switzerland, does speak French.” Nigel did not think it necessary to inform his mother that he was required, on occasion, to reprove his valet for swearing to himself in the sort of vulgar, slang-laced French commonly used by the working classes.
“Some of my friends have asked me whether it was altogether wise to engage a foreigner as one of our servants,” Mrs. Cheney said. “But, as usual, my instincts have proved to be correct. I am afraid, Nigel, that your French is not all it could be. Your nasal dipthongs, for example, are deplorable. At any rate, on this trip Mornay will be able to interpret for you, if necessary. They speak French in Algeria, as well as Arabic.”
“Well, that will be convenient. But—what exactly am I to do in Algeria? What is the purpose of this journey?”
“You will spend some time in Algiers. Perhaps in Tunis, as well. And you will make such side excursions as may seem necessary. And while you are doing this, you must obtain for me there in North Africa all of the background material which I will need for my new book.”
“Oh, do you mean the novel which you have recently begun?”
“Precisely. As you know, Nigel, my most recent work, A Woman without Shame, has met with considerable success,” Mrs. Cheney said, without false modesty. “It has had just the stimulating effect upon the reading public which I had hoped for.”
“Yes, you are to be congratulated, Mater. Why, the men even talk about your book down at my club.”
“Do they, Nigel? I am pleased that your men friends have taken the time and trouble to read my book. And what do they say about it?”
“Well,” Nigel replied, with tact, “they may not actually have read your book themselves, Mater. But they say that their wives have re
ad it, and that they speak of nothing else. Apparently, A Woman without Shame is discussed at great length at the dinner table—and even in the privacy of the marital bedroom,” Nigel added, with a slight blush.
“I am pleased to hear that, Nigel. But we digress. I may have enjoyed another success, but that is no reason for me to rest on my laurels. As you know, with each new work I strive to improve, and to surpass what I have done before. I have already written about A Woman without Shame. Now I shall write about a man without scruples.”
“Oh, is that to be the title of your new book, Mater?”
“No, Nigel, although now that you mention it, A Man without Scruples might not be a bad title for a book. No, my new novel will be called The French Legionnaire’s Women. It is about a young Englishwoman who travels to Algeria with her husband, on their honeymoon. Her husband is an aristocrat. She comes from a respectable enough family, but still—he has married beneath him. Nevertheless, he loves her. And she loves him, too, until she meets a French soldier. He is an officer, of course, a lieutenant. He is handsome. He is gallant. But underneath this suave surface there is something of the brute animal in him, which appeals to her baser instincts. At first, as one would expect from any Englishwoman, she resists. She resists, in fact, at considerable length—for many chapters, which it will be my task to fill with suspense. But ultimately she surrenders. She deceives her husband, who at first suspects nothing, and she embarks upon an adulterous relationship with this vile man.” Mrs. Cheney shuddered, deliciously, at the thought.
“Oh, Mater,” Nigel protested. “Do you really think that’s quite the sort of thing one ought to write about—let alone publish? Surely no Englishwoman, whatever her class, would behave like that?”
“Fortunately for you, Nigel, you are still a child in so many ways, and female frailty is foreign to you. You don’t understand about such things.”
“Well, you know best, Mater.”
“To continue the story—this Frenchman, this officer, already has a mistress. She is an Algerian, a native tribeswoman, half savage. There is a sort of ferocity in her love. When she discovers that she has a rival, jealousy maddens her.”
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