All was over then! He must think no more of the poor old watch. He was overwhelmed withdespair, heartbroken, as if he had lost someone very dear to him, through his own fault.
If only he could have thrown himself into his old father’s arms and asked his forgiveness, it would have been some comfort. Had the watch but fallen into the sea, or into the river, or in some corner of the desert! But to have it thus sold and profaned by that miserable Fatou! It was beyond endurance. He could have wept, almost, if his heart had not been too full of rage against the creature.
It was this Fatou who for four years had wasted his money, his dignity, his very life. In order to keep her he had sacrificed promotion; for her sake he had remained in Africa—for the sake of this ill-natured, perverse little creature, black of face and black of soul, all strung about with charms and amulets.
He worked himself up, as he strode along in the sun; her spells inspired him with a kind of superstitious horror, while her spitefulness and impudence, the audacity of her last exploit, roused him to frantic rage.
He returned home, walking rapidly, his blood boiling, his head burning, grief and anger seething within him.
Fatou was awaiting his return in great anxiety. As soon as he entered she saw that he had not recovered his treasure—the old watch that struck the hour.
His aspect was so sombre that she thought he was probably going to kill her.
This she could understand. For if any one had taken from her a certain shrivelled amulet, the most precious one that she possessed, given her by her mother when she was a small child in Galam—she, too, would have thrown herself upon the thief and killed him if she could.
She fully realised that she had done something very terrible, driven to it by evil spirits, through her besetting sin, her inordinate love of finery. She knew perfectly well that she had been very wicked. She was sorry to have caused Jean so much pain; she would not mind if he killed her—but she would have liked to kiss him.
She was almost glad, now, when Jean beat her, because it was only on such occasions that he ever touched her and that she could touch him, pressing herself close to him as she pleaded for mercy. This time, when he should seize her in order to kill her, when she had nothing more to risk, she would gather all her strength and cling to him, striving to reach his lips. She would clasp him in her embrace until she was dead—and death was a thing of very little account to her.
If Jean could have interpreted all that was passing in that little gloomy heart, doubtless, to his sorrow, he would have forgiven her yet again, for it was never difficult to mollify him.
But Fatou did not speak, because she was conscious that nothing of all this could be expressed; moreover, the idea of this supreme struggle, wherein she wouldclasp him and embrace him and die at his hands, thus ending everything—the idea of this had a charm for her. She waited for him, fixing her great, lustrous eyes upon him, with an expression of mingled passion and terror.
But Jean had entered without one word, without one glance at her, and then she no longer understood.
He had even thrown away his whip as he entered, ashamed of the brutality he had shown towards a girl, and loath to repeat it.
He merely set to work to tear down all the amulets that were hanging on the walls, and to fling them out of the window.
Then he seizedpagnes, necklaces,bou-bous, calabashes, and, still without a word, he threw them out on to the sand.
And Fatou began to realise what was in prospect; she divined that all was over, and was appalled at the thought.
When all her possessions were thrown out of the window and scattered about the square, Jean showed her the door, saying through his clenched white teeth, in a sullen voice that admitted of no reply, the one word, “Go!”
And Fatou went, with hanging head, without a word. No, she had never conceived a fate so terrible as to be thus driven away. She felt as if she would go mad—and she went, without daring to raise her head, powerless to utter a cry, say a word, or shed a tear.
Then Jean calmly began to put together all his own possessions, folding his clothes neatly as if he were preparing his kit bag. He packed carefully, having acquired unconsciously a habit of orderliness with the regiment. At the same time he hurried over the task, for fear lest he should be seized with regret, and waver in his resolve.
He found some small consolation in this terrible act of vengeance, this satisfaction afforded to the memory of the old watch. He was glad to have had sufficient resolution, and he told himself that soon he would be able to throw himself into his father’s arms—confessing all, and obtaining his forgiveness.
When he had finished he went down to Coura n’diaye, the womangriot. He saw Fatou, who had taken refuge there, cowering motionless in a corner. The little slave girls had gathered up her possessions from out-of-doors, and had placed them in calabashes by her side.
Jean would not so much as look at her. He approached Coura n’diaye, paid his month’s rent, and told her that he was not coming back. Then he threw his light baggage on his back and took his departure.
Poor old watch! His father had said to him, “Jean, it is rather old, but it’s a very good watch; they don’t make such good watches nowadays. Later on, when you are rich, you can buy a new-fashionedone, if you like, but then give me this one back again. I have kept it for forty years; I had it when I was with the regiment. When I am buried, if you no longer need it, do not forget to place it in my coffin. It will be company for me, where I am going.”
Coura had taken the spahi’s money without offering any comments on his sudden departure, with the indifference of an old courtesan who has outlived all interest in life.
When Jean left the house he called his Laobé dog, who followed him, his ears flat, as if he had grasped the situation and were sorry to go. Then, without turning his head, Jean went his way through the long streets of the dead-alive town in the direction of the barracks.
After Jean had thus rid himself of Fatou-gaye, he was conscious of a deep feeling of relief at having carried out this act of vengeance. When he had neatly arranged in his soldier’s wardrobe the small quantity of baggage he had brought with him from Samba-Hamet’s house, he felt freer and happier. He seemed to have advanced a step nearer to his departure, to that blissful, “final discharge” which was now only a few months away.
At the same time he was sorry for Fatou. He had intended to send her his pay once more, to enable her either to set up house anew or to leave the town.
But as he preferred not to see her again, he had entrusted the spahi Muller with this errand.
Muller had visited Samba-Hamet’s house and had seen the woman griot. But Fatou had gone.
“She was in great trouble,” said the little slave girls in Yolof, forming a circle round him and all talking at once. “In the evening she would not eat thekouss-kousswe had made for her.”
“During the night,” said little Sam-Lélé, “I heard her talking aloud in her sleep, and even the Laobé dogs yapped, which is a very bad sign. But I could not understand what she was saying.”
She had undoubtedly gone away a little before sunrise, with her calabashes on her head.
A macauco woman, Bafoufalé-Diop by name, the woman griot’s chief slave, a person of a very inquisitive disposition, had followed her from a distance, and had seen her turn off by the wooden bridge, over the narrow arm of the river, in the direction of N’dar-toute.
“She had the look of knowing quite well where she was going.”
It was thought in the quarter that she must have sought a refuge in the house of a certain old and very rich Marabout in N’dar-toute, who admired her greatly. Christian or not, she was good-looking enough to be free from all anxiety as to her future.
For some time to come Jean avoided passing Coura n’diaye’s dwelling, and it was not long before he had dismissed the matter entirely from his thoughts.
It seemed to him, moreover, as if he had recovered his white man’s dignity, which had been sullied through contact with that black flesh.
Now, when he looked back, that feverishness of senses, abnormally excited by the African climate, inspired in him nothing but deep disgust. And he constructed for himself a new scheme of existence, based upon continence and integrity.
In future he meant to live in barracks, like a sensible man. He would save money in order to take back to Jeanne Méry a collection of souvenirs from Senegal—fine mats, which would some day adorn their home, the subject of his dreams; embroideredpagnes, whose rich colours would evoke the admiration of his countrymen, and which would serve for splendid tablecloths in their household; and above all, earrings and a cross in fine Galam gold, which he would order especially for her from the most skilful native craftsmen. She would wear them for ornament on Sunday when she went to church with the Peyrals, and certainly no other young woman in the village would possess such beautiful jewellery.
This tall spahi, poor fellow, who had so grave an air, was nursing in his uncultured brain a multitude of almost childish projects, simple dreams of happiness, of family life and tranquil goodness.
At this time, Jean was nearly twenty-six. He looked older than his years, as is usual with men who have led a hard life in the fields, on the sea, or in the army.
He had changed greatly during these five years in Senegal.
His features were more pronounced; he was swarthier and thinner, and had acquired a more soldierly bearing and more of the Arab look. His shoulders had expanded, while his waist had remained slender and supple. His manner of wearing his fez and turning up the ends of his long moustache had a soldierly smartness, which became him to admiration. His strength and remarkable physical beauty inspired in all who came in contact with him a kind of involuntary respect. They distinguished betweenhim and his comrades in the manner in which they spoke to him.
A painter might have selected him for a consummate type of noble charm and manly perfection.
One day Jean received two letters in a single envelope, bearing the postmark of his village. One letter was from his dear old mother, the other from Jeanne.
Letter from Françoise Peyral to her son.
My dear son,—Since my last letter many things have happened which will surprise you very much. But do not worry about them yet. You must do as we do, pray to the good God, and hope for the best.I will begin by telling you that a new attorney has come into these parts, a young man called M. Prosper Suirot, who is not very much liked with us, being hard on poor people, and underhand by nature. But he is a man with a fine position, that cannot be denied. Well, this M. Suirot has asked your Uncle Méry for Jeanne’s hand in marriage, and has been accepted as his son-in-law. Now Méry came here one evening and made a scene; he had applied to your colonels for information about you without telling us, and it appears that he received bad accounts of you. They said that you were living with a negro woman out there; that you kept her, in spite of the remonstrances of your commanding officers, and that it was this that prevented you from becoming quartermaster, that there are bad reports of you out there; many things, my dear son, that I could never have believed, but it was written on a piece of stamped paper, with your regimental crest on it.Then Jeanne came running to us in tears, vowing that she would never marry Suirot, or be wife to any one but you, my dear Jean, and that she would rather go into a convent.I enclose a letter which she has written to you, in which she lets you know what you ought to do. She is of age, and very level-headed. Do exactly as she tells you, and write by return of post to your uncle, as she bids you. You will come back to us in ten months’ time, my dear son. If you behave well till you obtain your discharge, and pray constantly to the good God, without doubt everything will come right. But we are much worried, as you may imagine. We are afraid, too, that Méry may forbid Jeanne to come and see us again, and that will be a great pity.Peyral joins me, my dear son, in embracing you, and in begging you to write to us as soon as possible.Your old mother, who will love you as long as she lives.Françoise Peyral.
My dear son,—Since my last letter many things have happened which will surprise you very much. But do not worry about them yet. You must do as we do, pray to the good God, and hope for the best.
I will begin by telling you that a new attorney has come into these parts, a young man called M. Prosper Suirot, who is not very much liked with us, being hard on poor people, and underhand by nature. But he is a man with a fine position, that cannot be denied. Well, this M. Suirot has asked your Uncle Méry for Jeanne’s hand in marriage, and has been accepted as his son-in-law. Now Méry came here one evening and made a scene; he had applied to your colonels for information about you without telling us, and it appears that he received bad accounts of you. They said that you were living with a negro woman out there; that you kept her, in spite of the remonstrances of your commanding officers, and that it was this that prevented you from becoming quartermaster, that there are bad reports of you out there; many things, my dear son, that I could never have believed, but it was written on a piece of stamped paper, with your regimental crest on it.
Then Jeanne came running to us in tears, vowing that she would never marry Suirot, or be wife to any one but you, my dear Jean, and that she would rather go into a convent.
I enclose a letter which she has written to you, in which she lets you know what you ought to do. She is of age, and very level-headed. Do exactly as she tells you, and write by return of post to your uncle, as she bids you. You will come back to us in ten months’ time, my dear son. If you behave well till you obtain your discharge, and pray constantly to the good God, without doubt everything will come right. But we are much worried, as you may imagine. We are afraid, too, that Méry may forbid Jeanne to come and see us again, and that will be a great pity.
Peyral joins me, my dear son, in embracing you, and in begging you to write to us as soon as possible.
Your old mother, who will love you as long as she lives.
Françoise Peyral.
Jeanne Méry to her cousin Jean.
My dear Jean,—I am so unhappy that I wish I could die on the spot. It is a great grief to me that you have never returned, and that you do not talk of coming back soon. And now my parents, backed up by my godfather, want to marry me to that horrid Suirot, of whom I have told you. People din into my ears that he is rich, and that I ought to feel honoured because he has made me an offer. I say no, you may be sure, and I am crying my eyes out.My dear Jean, I am very unhappy, because everyone is against me. Olivette and Rose laugh when they see me always with red eyes; I think they would be very glad to marry that big booby Suirot, if he would onlyhave them. As for me, the mere thought of it makes me shudder; and I will positively never marry him. If they drive me to it, I will run away from them all, and go into the convent of St Bruno.If only I could sometimes pay your people a visit, it would cheer me up to have a talk with your mother, whom I love and respect as if I were her daughter. But as it is, I am given black looks, because I go there too often, and who knows if I shall not soon be forbidden to go at all.My dear Jean, you must do exactly what I am going to tell you. I hear there are wicked rumours about you; I say to myself that people spread them for the sole purpose of influencing me. But I do not believe one word of all these stories. They are impossible, and no one here knows you as well as I do. All the same, I should be happy if you would say one little word on this subject, and if you would tell me of your affection for me; you know that it is always pleasant to hear about it, even if one is sure of it. And then, write to my father immediately and ask for my hand in marriage, and be sure to promise him that when you are home and my husband, you will always behave like a sensible, steady man, against whom nothing can be said. And then I will beg him on my knees.The good God pity us, my dear Jean!Your betrothed for life,Jeanne Méry.
My dear Jean,—I am so unhappy that I wish I could die on the spot. It is a great grief to me that you have never returned, and that you do not talk of coming back soon. And now my parents, backed up by my godfather, want to marry me to that horrid Suirot, of whom I have told you. People din into my ears that he is rich, and that I ought to feel honoured because he has made me an offer. I say no, you may be sure, and I am crying my eyes out.
My dear Jean, I am very unhappy, because everyone is against me. Olivette and Rose laugh when they see me always with red eyes; I think they would be very glad to marry that big booby Suirot, if he would onlyhave them. As for me, the mere thought of it makes me shudder; and I will positively never marry him. If they drive me to it, I will run away from them all, and go into the convent of St Bruno.
If only I could sometimes pay your people a visit, it would cheer me up to have a talk with your mother, whom I love and respect as if I were her daughter. But as it is, I am given black looks, because I go there too often, and who knows if I shall not soon be forbidden to go at all.
My dear Jean, you must do exactly what I am going to tell you. I hear there are wicked rumours about you; I say to myself that people spread them for the sole purpose of influencing me. But I do not believe one word of all these stories. They are impossible, and no one here knows you as well as I do. All the same, I should be happy if you would say one little word on this subject, and if you would tell me of your affection for me; you know that it is always pleasant to hear about it, even if one is sure of it. And then, write to my father immediately and ask for my hand in marriage, and be sure to promise him that when you are home and my husband, you will always behave like a sensible, steady man, against whom nothing can be said. And then I will beg him on my knees.
The good God pity us, my dear Jean!
Your betrothed for life,
Jeanne Méry.
In country places young people are not taught to express in any way the sentiments of the heart. Girls brought up on the land sometimes feel very deeply, but they have no words to utter their emotions and thoughts; the subtle diction of passionis unknown to them. They cannot explain their feelings, save by the help of simple unimpassioned phrases. Therein lies the whole difference.
Jeanne must have felt very keenly to have written such a letter, and Jean, who spoke the same, simple language, recognised all the firmness and love that underlay it. The fervent loyalty of his betrothed inspired him with confidence and hope; he put into his reply all the tenderness and gratitude that he was able to express. He addressed to his Uncle Méry a formal request for Jeanne’s hand, accompanied by very sincere promises of steadiness and good conduct, and then he awaited, without undue anxiety, the return mail from France....
M. Prosper Suirot was a young attorney, narrow-chested and round-shouldered; moreover, a rabid free-thinker, bespattering with atheistic nonsense all the holy things of old; a short-sighted scribbler, whose small, red eyes were protected by smoked glasses. This rival would have appeared an object of pity to Jean, who felt an instinctive repugnance for persons who were plain and of poor physique.
Attracted by Jeanne’s dowry and beauty, the little attorney imagined in his foolish conceit that he was doing the peasant girl an honour by the offer of his ugly person and infinitesimal social position. He had even made up his mind that after their marriage, in order to rise to his height, Jeanne, having become a lady, should wear a hat.
Six months had passed. The mails from France had brought poor Jean no very bad news, certainly, but on the other hand none that were very good.
Uncle Méry remained inflexible, but Jeanne no less so, and she always slipped into old Françoise’s letter a few loyal and loving words to her betrothed.
Jean himself was full of hope, and never doubted but that everything would be settled without difficulty as soon as he arrived home.
He lost himself more and more in delicious imaginings.... After these five years of exile his return to the village glowed with all the colours of an apotheosis. All the dreams of the poor, forlorn soldier centred around that radiant moment. He would take his seat in the village diligence, wearing the big burnoose of his spahi’s uniform, and watch the Cevennes coming into sight once more, the familiar skyline of his mountains, the well-known road, the dear old clock-tower, and at last his father’s cottage by the roadside. With what rapture would he embrace his beloved old parents!
Then the three of them would go together to see the Mérys. The good people of the village, all the girls, would come running out of their houses to watch him go past. They would admire him in his foreign dress, with the glamour of Africa upon him. He would show Uncle Méry his quartermaster’s stripes, which had at last been awarded him, and they would have an irresistible effect. After all, Uncle Méry was kind. True, he had often scolded Jean informer days, but he had been fond of him, too; Jean had a very plain recollection of this now; he was very sure of it. (To the exile, far away, those who remain at home are always painted in softer colours; they are remembered as affectionate and kind; their defects, their hardness and rancour, are forgotten.)
And so it seemed impossible that Uncle Méry should not suffer himself to be moved when he saw his two children pleading together. He would surely relent and place Jeanne’s trembling hand in Jean’s. And then, what happiness, what a life of joy and peace, what a Paradise on earth!...
At the same time, Jean did not find it so easy to picture himself in the dress worn by the men of his village. Especially he baulked at the unpretentious headgear of a peasant. This transformation was a subject on which he did not care to dwell. It seemed to him that he would no longer, by himself, be the proud spahi he had been, in the accoutrements of former days.
It was in this red uniform that he had learnt to know life. It was on African soil that he had become a man, and more of a man than he guessed. He had an affection for all this—for his Arab fez, his sabre, his horse—this vast, God-forsaken country, this desert of his.
Jean did not know what disillusion sometimes awaits young men—sailors, soldiers, spahis—when they return to the village which has so often inspired their dreams—left when they were children, and beheld from afar through magic prisms.
Alas! what sadness, what dreary monotony, often awaits these exiles on their return home.
Other unfortunate spahis, like himself acclimatised and enervated in this land of Africa, have sometimes regretted the desolate banks of the Senegal. The long expeditions on horseback, the freer life, the larger light, the boundless horizon—all these things are missed when, having grown accustomed to them, one is cut off from them. In the quiet of home life one feels as it were a craving for the devouring sun, the never-ending heat, a yearning for the desert, and a home sickness for the sand.
In the meanwhile, Boubakar-Ségou, the great negro chief, was making trouble in Diambour and the country of Djiargabar. A rumour of an expedition was in the air; it was discussed at St Louis in the officers’ mess; debated and commented upon in a thousand aspects by the soldiers, spahis, riflemen, and marines. It was the talk of the day, and every man had his hope of distinguishing himself, of gaining some advantage, a medal or a step.
Jean, who was approaching the end of his service, resolved to avail himself of this opportunity to make amends for whatever might have been reprehensible in his past behaviour. He dreamed of fastening in his buttonhole the yellow ribbon of the Military Medal, the reward of valour. He longed to signalise his eternal farewell to the black country by some splendid deed of bravery which would immortalisehis name in the spahis’ barracks in that corner of the world, where he had lived and suffered so intensely.
Each day there was a rapid interchange of correspondence between the barracks, the naval authorities, and Government. Large sealed covers were delivered at the spahis’ quarters, giving the red jackets food for thought. A long and important expedition was anticipated, and the moment was drawing near. The spahis sharpened their great fighting swords, and furbished up their accoutrements with much talk and bravado, much drinking of absinthe, and a great flow of cheerful comment.
It was the beginning of October. Jean, who had been on duty since early morning, going from place to place distributing official documents right and left, was on his way to Government House with a large official envelope to deliver as his final charge.
In the long straight street, empty and deserted as a street of Thebes or Memphis, he saw another man in red coming towards him in the sunshine, holding up a letter for him to see. He felt a mournful presentiment, a vague foreboding, and he hastened his step.
It was Sergeant Muller bringing the spahis the French mail, which had arrived from Dakar by caravan an hour ago.
“Here, Peyral, this is for you,” he said, handing Jean an envelope bearing the postmark of the humble village he loved.
This letter, which Jean had been expecting for a month, burned in his hands, and he hesitated to read it. He resolved to wait until he had completed his errand before opening it.
He arrived at the railing surrounding Government House; the gate was open, and he entered.
The garden displayed the same lack of animation as the street. A large tame lioness was stretching herself in the sun with the airs of an amorous cat. Ostriches were sleeping on the ground near some stiff, bluish aloes. It was noon—not a soul visible—a silence like that of a necropolis. Yellow palm trees cast never-wavering shadows upon the great, white terraces.
Jean, in his search for someone to speak to, reached the office of the Governor himself, whom he found surrounded by the heads of the various departments of the colonial service.
There, strange to say, they were working strenuously. Serious matters seemed to be under discussion at this hour traditionally consecrated to the repose of the siesta.
In exchange for the cover he delivered, Jean received another addressed to the spahis’ commanding officer.
It contained definite marching orders, which were communicated officially that afternoon, to all the troops in St Louis.
When Jean found himself once more in the deserted street he could restrain himself no longer, and with trembling hands he opened the envelope.
This time it contained only his mother’s handwriting—handwriting that was shakier than usual, and stained with tears.
He devoured the lines—dizziness seized him, poor fellow—clasping his head in his hands, he leaned against the wall.
The packet entrusted to him was very urgent, the Governor had said. He kissed old Françoise’s name piously, and went on his way like a drunken man.
Was this thing possible? It was over, over for ever. They had taken from him, the poor exile, the betrothed of his childish days, whom his old parents had chosen for him.
“The banns are published. The marriage will take place before the month is over. I had been fearing this, my dear son, even since last month; for Jeanne no longer came to see us. But I did not dare to tell you just then for fear of distressing you, since there was nothing that we could do in the matter.
“We are in deep despair. Now, my son, a thought struck Peyral yesterday which has alarmed us; it is that you may not wish to come home again now, but to remain in Africa.
“We are both very old. My good Jean, my dear son, your poor mother begs you on her knees not to let this prevent you from being sensible and from coming back to us soon, as we had expected. Otherwise I would rather die at once, and Peyral too.”
Incoherent, tumultuous thoughts rushed through Jean’s brain.
He made a rapid calculation of dates. No! It was not all over yet, it was not yet an accomplished fact. Telegraph! No! What possessed him? There was no telegraphic communication between France and Senegal. And after all, what could he have said? If he could have gone away, leaving everything behind, gone away on some very swift ship, and still have arrived in time, he might have thrown himself at their feet, with supplications and tears, and have yet succeeded in moving them to relent. But so far away! What futility! What impotence! All would be consummated before he could even reach them with his message of grief.
And he felt as if his head were crushed by iron hands, and his breast in the grip of a remorseless vice.
He halted again and reread the letter, and then remembering that he was the bearer of urgent orders from the Governor, he folded up the letter and went on.
Around him all things were lapped in the profound stillness of noon. The old Moorish houses stoodranged in straight rows, milk-white beneath the intense blue of the sky. At times, behind their brick walls, the ear of the passer-by might catch some negress’s plaintive, drowsy song, or perhaps the eye might light on a small, coal-black negro asleep on a doorstep, lying on his back in the sun, quite naked, with a necklet of coral, forming a dark patch in the midst of universal radiance. On the smooth sand of the streets, the lizards were chasing one another with curious little swaying movements of the head, drawing their tails along the ground and tracing an infinity of fantastic zig-zags, complicated like an Arabic design. A distant noise ofkouss-kousspounders, in its monotonous regularity almost a form of silence, came from Guet n’dar, deadened by the hot, heavy strata of the noontide atmosphere.
It seemed as if this tranquillity of prostrate nature were seeking to make mock of poor Jean’s emotion, and to intensify his sufferings. It oppressed him like a leaden winding sheet.
Of a sudden this country appeared to him as a vast tomb.
The spahi awoke as if from a heavy sleep that had lasted five years.
He felt himself in fierce revolt, revolt against everything and everyone. Why had they taken him from his village, from his mother, to bury him, in the prime of life, in this country of death?
By what right had they made of him that anomalous being called a spahi, a swashbuckler, half African, an outcast, forgotten of everyone, and at last disowned even by his betrothed.
He felt his heart possessed with frantic rage; he was conscious of a desire to wreak his wrath on some person or some object; a desire to torture, to seize, to crush in his mighty arms a fellow man.
And all around him there was nothing, nothing but silence, and heat, and sand.
Alas! he had not even one friend in this whole country, not one devoted comrade to whom he could confide his sorrow. Good God! he was indeed forsaken, indeed alone in the world.
Jean hastened to the barracks and threw the packet entrusted to him to the first person he met. Then he turned away and set off haphazard for a rapid, aimless walk—it was his own method of stifling his sorrow.
He passed the bridge leading to Guet n’dar and turned southwards in the direction of the Point of Barbary, just as he had done that night four years ago when he had fled from Cora’s house in despair....
But this time his despair was the deep, supreme despair of a man ... and his life was wrecked....
For a long time he went southwards, losing sight of St Louis and the negro villages. He sat down exhausted at the foot of a sandy mound overlooking the sea....
His ideas had no sequence. The day’s excessive sunshine had disordered his mind....
He noticed that he had never been in this place before, and he began to glance absently about him.
The whole mound bristled with tall posts of a grotesque appearance, bearing inscriptions in the language of the priests of Mahgreb. Bleached bones lay strewn pell-mell upon the ground, unearthed long ago by jackals. There were likewise a few sprays of greenery, lost, as it were, in the midst of absolute aridity. These were garlands of convolvulus, exquisitely fresh, opening here and there their large pink calyces, trailing among old skulls, old arm and leg bones.
At intervals other funereal mounds of grim aspect rose above the level plain.
Great flocks of pelicans, their white feathers tinged with pink, were stalking about the beaches. Seen in the distance through the evening mirage, their forms assumed weird and unnatural proportions....
Evening had come. The sun had sunk down into the ocean, and a cooler breeze had set in from the sea.
Jean took out his mother’s letter and began to read it again....
“Now, my son, a thought struck Peyral yesterday which has alarmed us. It is that you may not wish to come back again now, but to remain in Africa.
“We are both very old. My good Jean, my dear son, your poor mother begs you on her knees not to let this prevent you from being sensible and from coming back to us soon, as we had expected. Otherwise I would rather die at once, and Peyral too.”
Then poor Jean felt his heart break—sobs rent his bosom, and his spirit of revolt dissolved in tears.
Two days later all the warships required for the expedition were assembled to the north of St Louis, in the bend of the river near Pop-n’kior.
The embarkation was carried out in the midst of a great throng of people and a tremendous hubbub. All the women and children of the black riflemen were massed on the banks, screaming to heaven, as if bereft of reason.
Moors who had come by caravan from the interior of the Soudan stood round in circles looking on, with their camels, leather sacks, piles of miscellaneous baggage, and their pretty young wives.
Towards three o’clock the whole flotilla, which was to proceed up the river as far as Dialdé in Galam, was groaning under its freight of men. It got under way in appalling heat.
St Louis was receding into the distance.... Its level outlines sank lower, fading away until they were mere bluish streaks upon the golden sand.... On either side of the river, stretching away until lost to sight, lay vast, unhealthy desert plains, everlastingly hot, everlastingly dreary....
And these tracts were but the approach to this great God-forsaken country—the vestibule of the immense solitudes of Africa....
Jean and the other spahis were embarked on the Falémé, which led the flotilla, and was presently a two days’ voyage ahead of the other vessels.
In the very moment of departure Jean had written a hurried reply to poor old Françoise. After consideration, he had decided that he would not deign to write to his betrothed, but in his letter to his mother he had put his whole soul into the task of comforting her, and restoring peace and hope to her mind.
“After all,” he had written, “she was too rich for us. We shall have no difficulty in finding some other girl at home who will have me. We will arrange to live in our old house, and then we shall be nearer to you than ever. My dear parents, I think of nothing all day long but the joy of seeing you once more, and I swear that I will never, never leave you again....”
Such, to be sure, was his intention, and it was true that he thought of his dear old parents every day. But the idea of sharing his life with a woman other than Jeanne took the brightness out of everything. It was a terrible thought, which cast a dense, mourning veil upon the joy of his return....
Do what he would to regain his courage, it seemed that he had no longer an object in life, and that the future was a blank wall to him for ever and ever.
Beside him on the bridge of the Falémé was seated the gigantic Nyaor-fall, the black spahi, to whom, as his most faithful friend, Jean had confided his troubles.
Nyaor did not attempt to understand thesesentiments—Nyaor, whom no one had ever loved, whose thatched roof harboured three purchased wives, whom he intended to sell as soon as they ceased to please him.
Nevertheless he realised that his friend Jean was unhappy. He smiled at him kindly, and to distract him told him negro stories irresistibly soporific.
The flotilla sailed up the river with all possible speed, making fast at sunset and getting under way again at dawn.
At Richard-Toll, the first French outpost, more men, negresses, and material were taken on board.
At Dagana, a two days halt was made, and the Falémé received orders to continue her voyage alone as far as Podor, the last outpost before reaching Galam, where several companies of riflemen had already been concentrated.
The Falémé continued on her way through the vast desert; she plunged swiftly into the interior, sailing up the yellow waters of the narrow river which separates Moorish Sahara from the great mysterious continent with its black population.
Jean, in melancholy mood, saw one desolate region succeeding another. His eyes followed the ever-receding horizon—the winding ribbon of the Senegallost in the infinite distance that lay behind him. These accursed plains, unfolding themselves endlessly before his gaze, made a painful impression upon him. He felt a tightening of the heart, as if all the time this whole country were closing in upon him, and he were never to return.
Here and there on the desolate banks great, black vultures stalked solemnly, or bald-headed marabouts, with a suggestion of something human in their profiles.
Sometimes an inquisitive monkey would spring out from the mangrove thicket to watch the ship glide past—or a splendid white heron would rise from the reeds, or a kingfisher in its sheen of emerald and lapis lazuli, disturbing in its flight a sluggish crocodile asleep on the mud.
On the south bank—the bank pertaining to the sons of Ham—an occasional village would appear, lost in the midst of this vast region of desolation.
The existence of these human habitations were advertised from a great distance by two or three gigantic palm trees, with fan-shaped leaves, huge fetish trees, as it were, keeping watch over the towns.
In the midst of the great bare plain, these palm trees had the appearance of giants lying in wait in the desert. Their perfectly straight, highly polished, greyish pink trunks were thickened like Byzantine columns, and displayed at the top scanty bunches of leaves, as stiff as if cut from iron plate.
Presently, as one drew nearer, one could discern a negro anthill, huts with peaked roofs, grouped in compact masses at the foot of the palm trees, producinga general effect of greyness against the unvarying yellow of the sands.
Some of these African cities had a large population; all were surrounded by thick, gloomytatas—walls made of earth and wood, and erected as a protection against enemies and wild beasts. A tattered piece of white cloth, floating from a roof loftier than the rest, marked the dwelling of the chief.
At the gates of their ramparts sombre figures showed themselves, aged chiefs, aged priests covered with amulets, their long, black arms contrasting with the whiteness of their flowing robes. They watched the Falémé pass, her rifles and guns ready to open fire at the slightest sign of hostile intention.
One might well ask what means of subsistence these men possessed, what lives they led, what occupations they pursued behind those grey walls—these beings who knew nothing of the outer world, nothing beyond the solitudes and the merciless sun.
On the north bank—where the Sahara lies—there was more sand, more desolation, but of a different aspect.
In the distance, very far away, shone out great fires of grass kindled by the Moors, with columns of smoke rising straight up in the still air to an incredible height. On the horizon, chains of hills showed up, intensely red, like burning coals, resembling, amid these columns of smoke, an unlimited succession of furnaces.
And there, where there was nothing but arid ground and scorching sand, a perpetual mirage produced the semblance of great lakes, wherein thewhole conflagration was reflected and reversed. Little wisps of quivering vapour, such as rise from a furnace, wove above all this a shifting web. The delusive landscapes shimmered and vibrated in the intense heat, and then could be seen changing shape and dissolving like visions. The eyes were dazzled and wearied by the sight of them.
From time to time on this bank appeared groups of men of pure white race—wild-looking and bronzed indeed, but with features of regular beauty, and with long curling hair, which gave them a look of Biblical prophets. They went bare-headed under that terrible sun, arrayed in flowing robes of dark blue. These were Moors of the tribe of Braknas or Tzarzas, bandits to a man, plunderers, robbers of caravans—the most lawless of all the tribes of Africa.
The east wind, which is like the mighty respiration of the Sahara, had sprung up, gaining strength by degrees as the distance from the sea increased.
This parching wind, hot like a blast from a forge, now blew across the desert. It covered all things with a fine sandy dust, and brought with it the burning thirst ofBled-el-Ateuch. The awnings that sheltered the spahis had to be continually watered by a negro, whose hosepipe traced rapid arabesques which disappeared as quickly as they were made, evaporating almost immediately in the parched atmosphere.
And now the ship was approaching Podor, one ofthe largest towns on the river, and the Sahara bank began to show signs of life.
This was the entrance to the country of the Douaïch, shepherds grown rich through cattle raids upon the negro territory.
These Moors used to swim their long caravans across the Senegal, driving before them the stolen cattle. Presently camps came into view, pitched upon the never-ending plain. The camelskin tents, stretched between wooden stakes, resembled huge bats’ wings spread out upon the sand; they formed weird patterns of an intense black in the midst of a country that was of a uniform, unvarying yellow. Everywhere there were somewhat increased signs of animation, of activity and life.
On the banks larger groups of people came running to see the ship. Moorish women, beautiful, copper-coloured creatures, half dressed, with frontlets of coral, trotted up, sitting astride their small, hump-backed cows; and often there were children scampering along behind them on tiny frisky calves; naked children, their heads shaven, except for great tufts of flowing mane, their bodies tawny and muscular as those of young satyrs.