Produced by Douglas Ethington

A PARISIAN SULTANA

A TRANSLATION OF
ADOLPHE BELOT'S
"La Sultane parisienne"
BY
H. MAINWARING DUNSTAN.

BOOK I. THE PILGRIMS OF THE NILE.

CHAPTER I.

A charming retreat, one of a luxurious suite of apartments in the Boulevard Malesherbes, the abode, evidently, of a woman both young and of elegant tastes. One glance round the room sufficed to establish the innate refinement of its owner—the couch covered with pearl-grey brocaded satin, the timepiece of Dresden china, the Venetian mirror, the crayons bearing the signature of Latour, the tasteful what-nots filled with miniature figures, the Smyrna carpet, the cushions adorned with antique lace, and the diminutive chairs, a modern creation, which the Parisians have invented to enable them, on the first approach of frost, to creep as closely as possible to the genial warmth of a winter fire—everything, in short, bore the impress of the owner's taste and refinement.

Nevertheless, however ardent might be the desire to meet the goddess of this charming sanctum, the sight of the various articles with which the furniture was laden could not fail to temper that eagerness, if indeed a decided chill did not result from the inspection. A feeling of astonishment, at all events, would inevitably succeed, as, on a closer examination, the room, which at first sight appeared to be a boudoir, was seen to be equally suitable for the study of the most indefatigable of members of a modern Geographical Society.

As a matter of fact, the couch was lost to view, almost entirely, beneath a mass of books or pamphlets, published by Hachette, Arthur Bertrand, Delegrave and Lassailly, bearing some such titles as: "Au cœur de l'Afrique," "l'Albert Nyanza," "le Fleuve Blanc," "Ismailia," "Les Grandes Entreprises Géographiques," &c., &c. The corners of the room were littered with numbers of the "Annales des Voyages," and the slender frame of a gilded chair bent under the weight of Bouillet's famous "Atlas d'Histoire et de Géographie."

Even the satin-flock, with which the walls were covered, had not been respected, for, here and there, simply fastened by pins, appeared a map by Stieler of Gotha, another by Brué, a survey by Emile Lavasseur of the Institute, and sketches by Malte-Brun, Peterman and the Viscount de Bizemont, all of them explanatory or illustrative of the discoveries made by Burton, Speke, Grant, Livingstone and Dr. Cuny.

On a small ebony table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and of exquisite design, was piled a perfect pyramid of the "Bulletin" of the Geographical Society, whose remaining numbers found a resting-place at the foot of the couch, on the Smyrna carpet. A view of the Albert Nyanza, taken from the plans of Schweinfurth, the great German traveller, rested on the mantelpiece, between the time-piece and the mirror.

In the midst of all this furniture, which science had, as it were, taken by assault and alienated from its original destiny, amid the many seats which wore an air of astonishment at having been coverted into book-shelves, one tiny chair alone remained unoccupied, doubtless reserved for the particular use of the master or mistress of the abode.

As the clock struck eight, a lady made her appearance in the room. She might be from three and twenty to twenty-five years of age, and her figure, albeit considerably above the average height, was admirably proportioned. Her small, shapely head was gracefully poised on a well-turned neck, and her drooping shoulders and full, though not too full, bust prepared the beholder for the tiny foot which peeped beneath a dress of some dark material—a foot though, small, yet firm and evidently accustomed to being used.

She is fair, decidedly fair, and still there is plenty of decision in the features. There is self-will and determination in the wide and somewhat square forehead, and in the straight nose, with its clear-cut nostrils; there is energy in the bluish-grey eyes, and the mouth, with its resolute outline and the upper lip slightly shaded with down, might well give utterance to soft nothings, but would be equally at home with a word of command. The whole countenance is a strange mixture of good-nature and firmness, of amiability and resolution, of gaiety and sadness. She is a woman who has lived and suffered—that is evident, and yet, now and then, the innocent simplicity of her look, her child-like smile, and her movements would almost lead to the idea that she is but on the threshold of life. She might well be a widow who had not long been a wife.

She had scarcely entered her boudoir, when a servant brought her the Times. She tore off the cover without a moment's delay, looked carelessly over a column or two, and then, coming to a sudden stop, she went quickly over to a lamp which stood upon a round table, and ran her eye with great interest over the following lines, which she read to herself in English, without the necessity of even a mental translation into French:—

"The New York papers to hand to-day bring us lengthy details of the meeting between the great traveller, Livingstone, and the American, Henry Stanley. It is a well-known fact that whereas our Foreign Office contented itself with requesting its Consular Agents to furnish information as to the fate of our distinguished fellow countryman, reported to have died on the way from Zanzibar to Lake Tanganyika, the 'New York Herald' commissioned one of its correspondents to proceed to Southern Africa for the purpose of prosecuting an organised search after the missing explorer.

"Henry Stanley had spent two months in scouring the districts from which the latest news had been received from Livingstone, when, on arriving at Ujiji, he learnt that a white man, about 60 years of age, was living in that very part. Thereupon he redoubled his efforts, stirred up the enthusiasm of his escort, and, after much labour and fatigue, he found himself face to face with the man for whom England and the whole world were in mourning.

"'What were our first words?' writes Stanley. 'I declare I do not know. Mutual enquiries, no doubt, such as: What route did you take? Where have you been all this time? But I can neither remember his answers nor mine. I was too absorbed. I caught myself with my eyes fixed on this marvellous man, studying him, and learning him by heart. Every hair in his grey beard, each one of his wrinkles, the pallor of his countenance, his air of fatigue, mental and bodily—all told me what I had so longed wished to know. What evidence did these mute witnesses give? And of what absorbing interest was the study! At the same time I hung upon his words. His lips, those lips that never lied, gave me all sorts of details. He had so many things to say, that he began at the end, forgetting that he had to account for five or six years. But the tale gradually unfolded itself, ever increasing until it became a marvellous history.'

"Then," continued the Times, Livingstone began to question Stanley. 'What has been going on in the world during these last six years? Nothing, I suppose. Old Europe is wiser than Africa, and her people know how to keep the peace. They do not swallow up each other, as do the unhappy tribes amongst whom I have lived so long.' 'Alas! you are mistaken, Doctor. Your wise Europe has just been bathed in the blood of a murderous strife. A million Germans have invaded France, fearful battles have been fought, and more than a hundred thousand men have perished. Paris, after undergoing a siege for six months, has been driven to surrender by famine.' He was silent for a long time, and then said, 'Has war only ravaged France and Prussia?' 'No, Spain has rebelled. Isabella has been driven from the throne; General Prim has been assassinated, and the civil war continues.' 'And science, has she not made any progress during these six years? Have you nothing to tell me of those grand triumphs of peace which alone honour a nation and give brilliancy to an age?' 'Yes, submarine cables have been laid, the Suez Canal has been completed, and the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean now join hands. A railway also unites the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.'

"The countenance of Livingstone grew bright.

"Stanley remained four months with Livingstone. They explored together the shores of the Tanganyika, and made fresh discoveries invaluable to science. After this expedition, the American Envoy was anxious to persuade his companion to return to Europe to recruit his health, and see again his country, his family and his friends. 'No, no,' said Livingstone. 'My task is not ended. My friends, of whom you speak, want me to complete my work; my country expects a final effort from me, and even my daughter has courage enough to write: "However I may long to see you, I would rather you realised your projects in a way satisfactory to yourself, than that you should return simply to please me." Well said, my little girl!'

"Nothing would induce him. Ten years of discovery were not enough for him; he only dreamt of fresh explorations. Livingstone is not a traveller; he is a missionary, whom no amount of suffering can dishearten. This man, at times a miracle of boldness and energy, but always just and impartial, is adored by his small caravan of Arabs and blacks.

"Stanley, in consequence of Livingstone's energetic resistance, was obliged to depart alone, but all honour to him! He has nobly fulfilled his mission, he has taken his revenge on those who dared to doubt his veracity, and the Times thanks him in the name of England."

* * * * *

The paper which contained this article fell from the hands of the fair reader. Upstanding, with one elbow resting on the mantel-piece, and her head buried in her hands, she seemed to give herself up to reflection.

Suddenly, however, she made up her mind, left her station at the mantel-piece, seated herself before a small writing-table, and wrote three letters, each couched in the same terms—

"My Dear Sir,—

"If an evening spent with me and two others of your friends has not
too many terrors for you, I shall be very pleased to give you a cup
of tea at about nine o'clock to-morrow.
"With kind regards,
"Yours very truly,
"Laura de Guéran."

CHAPTER II.

The three individuals, to whom Madame de Guéran had written on the previous evening, were punctual in obeying her summon, and they were received by their hostess, not in the geographical boudoir which has already been described, but in a drawing-room furnished with equal luxury.

After tea, or at very nearly ten o'clock, the Baroness de Guéran, after having been for some time under the influence of very powerful emotion, suddenly roused herself, and, looking her guests full in the face, said—

"And so, gentlemen, you love me?"

Astonished at theis very matter-of-fact plunge, and off their guard by reason of so utterly unforseen an attack, neither of the three knew exactly which way to look, and when one of them, gifted with more hardihood than his companions, was on the point of speaking, Madame de Guéran motioned him to be silent, and went on herself to say—

"In saying that you love me, gentlemen, I am really only expressing my opinion that you are men of honour, incapable of harbouring the idea of marrying any woman for whom you do not entertain a sincere affection. Now, you have, all three of you, proposed to me—none of you will deny that, I presume. You, M. de Morin," she continued, turning towards a tall young man of about thirty-five, whose mien and dress were alike irreproachable, "you have sent to me, in the capacity of ambassadress, your aunt, Madame de Genevray, whom I esteem highly. You, M. Périères, have written to me; and as for you, M. Desrioux, you have spoken outright. There cannot, therefore, be any doubt on the score of your proposals."

MM. de Morin, Périères and Desrioux, thus appealed to, after exchanging a triangular smile of amusement, bowed their assent, and Madame de Guéran resumed her address—

"I am deeply sensible, I can assure you, gentlemen, of the honour which you have done me. No protestations, pray! I am speaking in all seriousness, and I beg that I may be heard in the same spirit. I repeat, I am deeply grateful for the regard, at once respectful and affectionate, which you profess for me. But, if you will pardon me so far, I am at a loss to discover a sufficient reason for such a feeling. Why, you scarcely know me, even as an acquaintance."

Simultaneous protests rose to the lips of the trio, but the Baroness would not give them time to utter a word.

"I have a title," she continued, "and a fortune; I am a widow, and sufficiently well-connected to have the entrée, should I so wish, into the best society in Paris; I am barely five-and-twenty years of age, and I am passably good-looking. That, gentlemen, sums up your knowledge of me, every atom of it. It has now become essential that you should know more, and I take it upon myself to enlighten you."

Having brought this exordium to a conclusion, she rose and approached the tea-table, once more to resume her duties as hostess. But, when the wants of her guests had been attended to, she again, still smiling in her own fascinating manner, resumed her seat on the sofa, and the thread of her discourse.

"My accent, be it ever so slight," she began, "will have told you before this that, if I speak your language as well as you do, I cannot claim your beloved Paris as my birth-place. Indeed, I am an Englishwoman, but I was educated by a French governess. I was married when I was twenty, and since then I have lived uninterruptedly in France. My father, after having passed half his life in exploring the remote parts of Africa, and after having recorded, in connection with them, much valuable information and deep research, one day, when no other course was open to him, made up his mind to betake himself to a quiet life in the bosom of his family. But he could never divest himself of his great interest in those questions which he had, for so long a time, made his study, and up to the day of his death he was one of the most valuable and valued members of the Royal Geographical Society of London. In our drawing-room at home—we lived in London—I have seen, from time to time, most of the celebrated travellers of our age. I remember distinctly having been nursed, when I was quite a little girl, by Overweg and Speke; and I have an equally vivid recollection of having been kissed by Richardson, on his departure for the Soudan, as well as of the tears I shed when we heard the report of his death, which we refused to credit until it received its sad confirmation from the lips of Barth. I knew Edward Vögel, who was treacherously murdered in the Waday territory, Schweinfurth, Baker, Brun-Rollet, and as many more, whose names I cannot recall at this moment, but whom I shall ever hold in remembrance. My father, cosmopolitan rather than English, held our insular prejudices in but slight esteem, and so it happened that, after dinner, instead of receiving a hint to retire, I was permitted to remain in the society of his friends. All the great scientific questions which have stirred the world during the last ten years, have been discussed in my presence by the men best qualified to elucidate them.

"Science, however, was not the unvarying topic of conversation. Slavery, that hideous plague-spot of Africa, and the slave-trade, which still continues in unimpaired activity, frequently occupied the attention, and roused the indignation of our guests. Even now I can call to mind the words of Livingstone one evening, 'Whilst we are sitting here, in ease and pleasure, and surrounded with every comfort, long caravans of slaves are wending their toilsome way towards the markets of Khartoum, Zanzibar, and Timbuctoo. Yoked like oxen, or fastened to a long cord which drags them along in huddled groups, male and female, old and young, they plod along under that burning sun, naked, worn out with fatigue, dying by inches of hunger and thirst. And then, to think that these poor creatures are only an infinitesimal fraction of the victims of the slave-trade! In the man-hunts organised in those accursed countries, thousands die of their wounds or find a last resting-place in the woods whither they have fled for concealment. Yes—corpses and skeletons are the landmarks in the way of the desert.'

"Trembling with indignation I used to drink in every word of these conversations, and I could not but admire, from the very depth of my soul, those men, who, free to live a life of wealth and honour in their own land, yet chose to pass their existence in deadly climes, facing all dangers, bearing every ill, that they might lend a helping hand to the progress of science, and interest the world in the sacred cause of the victims of oppression."

Here Madame de Guéran paused to sip her tea, whilst her hearers, completely under the charm of her winning eloquence and moving tones, kept an almost religious silence. They were learning, and for the first time, to know her. Living in the world of Paris, they had recognised in her a woman distinguished for her intelligence, her beauty, and her manner, and they had fallen in love with her, attracted by the refinement of her features, the grace of her smile, and the vivacity of her wit. But now, all suddenly, that countenance was resplendent with a novel brilliancy, those eyes shone with renewed light, the mind unfolded itself with unexpected rapidity, and the heart was beating with a sympathy which made itself felt.

"It will scarcely astonish you," resumed the Baroness, in a calmer voice, "to learn that I, brought up, as I have been, amongst the men whom I have mentioned to you, have become a sharer both in their ideas and their enthusiasm. Neither will it surprise you, I am sure, that I should have given my love to one of my father's most frequent guests. The Baron de Guéran was a Frenchman, and was descended from that fearless René Caillet, the first European who attempted the perilous journey from Sierra-Leone to Tangier, and, it may be, effected an entrance into Timbuctoo. Although he had not reached his thirtieth year when I saw him for the first time, M. de Guéran had already journeyed in central Africa, and had there made some important discoveries. If his name is not familiar to you as a geographer or an explorer, it is simply because he would not publish any of his notes until all were complete. Alas! he has not been able to finish his work.

"My father raised many objections to my union with the Baron. As a colleague, he both loved and esteemed him—as a son-in-law he had his doubts. So soon as I had to enter into his calculations, his admiration for travels and travellers cooled down considerably. He was never tired of saying to me—'Take care; the love of remote exploration and discovery—I speak from experience—absorbs all other love, and would make the best of men utterly oblivious of his family duties. Be not too confident; your husband, whilst adoring you, may still accustom himself to worship you from a distance. You will be proud to belong to him, but you will rarely be happy at his side, for your life will wear away in fear and apprehension.' And then I would reply—'Have no fear; I will answer for M. de Guéran.' 'What? You imagine that he will sacrifice all his ideas for your sake, and will live ever by your side?' 'Nothing of the sort, my dear father; I should not wish it for a moment, but I will go with him. I am determined to share all his dangers, and I will say to him, as our friend Lady Baker did to her husband—whither thou goest I will go; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried.'

"However, he had to give way and consent to the marriage, and I came to reside in Paris with M. de Guéran. For two years the fears of my father appeared groundless; the Baron did not seem to be troubled with any desire to travel. He wandered in Elysian fields only, and I was only too happy in wandering there with him. The awakening was terrible. 'I am off to Africa,' said he to me one day. For two years I had forgotten Africa, the slave-trade, slavery, science, everything but love. And you might well suppose that, starting up thus suddenly, as it were, out of my sleep, I called to mind, and whispered in the ear of my husband Lady Baker's, or, to speak more correctly, Ruth's touching words. Nothing of the kind! Thenceforth, I had but one thought—and that was to preserve my mode of life unaltered, not to risk my happiness in any one way, to leave nothing to chance or contingency. I devoted all my energy to the task of trying to persuade M. de Guéran that the tribes of Africa had no claim whatsoever on him, that the Geographical Society could well dispense with any information from him, and that science would still march onward without his aid. My efforts were unavailing, and I failed to convince him, so that, taking advantage of my absence in England on a visit, he rushed off to Marseilles, and embarked without even letting me know the exact destination of his fresh expedition. 'You would be wanting to follow me,' he wrote. 'I cannot take advantage of your devotion; but, take courage, my absence will be of but short duration.' At first, I waited, for where was I to go? And I always hoped that he would not delay his return, but would keep his promise to me. Tired of waiting, at last I made up my mind to start, when the French Consul, at Cairo, sent me word that the Baron de Guéran was dead.

"Such has been my life. Gentlemen, you know me now, and, doubtless, you have come to the conclusion that I have devoted too much time to myself. Let me relieve your minds by telling you that, what more I have to say refers solely to you. Let me give you all another cup of tea, and then I will commence my peroration."

CHAPTER III.

"And now, gentlemen," resumed the Baroness after a momentary pause, and in a tone of great vivacity, "you are fully informed, as far as I am concerned. You have a thorough knowledge of the antecedents of the defendant, but you are apparently undismayed, and you continue to prefer your suit. Be it so! Then do not complain, if, after exposing myself, I expose you in turn."

The three aspirants made a simultaneous effort to interrupt her.

"One moment, please," said she quickly, "I ask for no confessions from you, seeing that they would be superfluous. For the last six months I have been gaining information about you, I have been studying you, and now I know you. That sounds flattering, does it not? Do not let yourselves be prematurely inflated with pride, for you are very, very far from divining either the thought which has actuated me, or the object of my inquiries. First of all I will consider you generally, in the aggregate, if you prefer it. You are, each of you, from thirty to thirty-five years of age, the best age for marriage; on that point I profess myself satisfied. You are neither," continued she laughing, "too prepossessing nor too plain; you can all of you boast that golden mien, as far as appearances are concerned, which every sensible woman would desire in the man whom she intends to acknowledge as her lord. Each of you is in the enjoyment of a fortune sufficiently large to secure independence, and to divest marriage with a rich woman of even a suspicion of mercenary motives. You have your faults, no doubt; who, indeed, has not? But those persons from whom I have gained my information assure me that you have no vices, and that is sufficient for me. Moreover, during the siege of Paris, which in some degree was a standard by which to test the men of our time, you all of you bore yourselves as good men and true. Lastly, you have shown yourselves, capable of creating occupations for yourselves and you have the great merit, which I gladly acknowledge, of being neither idlers nor useless members of society. I have thus, as I promised, described you generally, and now I will sum you up individually.

"You, M. de Morin," continued the Baroness, addressing the one who was seated nearest to her, "you are one of our most notable draughtsmen. I know the greater part of your works, and I appreciate them, both from an artistic point of view, and as a woman who has a certain object in view. But the moment has not come to unfold that object, so you must perforce exercise your patience a little longer. You are, moreover, daring to a degree; that is to say, no adventure, however perilous, would cause you to recoil. You have an intuitive genius, and are formed for attack; a shrewd commander would appoint you to the Zouaves. I shall post you—but we will discuss that later on. Take your place in the ranks, Mr. Zouave, and I will pass on to No 2."

The young aspirant, who was seated next to M. de Morin, at once made ready for the inspection, for he stood up, saluted his hostess after the military fashion, and sat down again.

Madame de Guéran smilingly continued—

"You, M. Périères, are to be congratulated on the articles which have appeared in the Revue de France. Your ideas are good, your reflections often profound, and you put your thoughts into language both elegant and concise. In the field you would be admirably adapted for writing despatches, without, however, precluding you from taking your part in the campaign as a combatant. You would scarcely advance without an order, but once committed to the fray you would bear yourself as bravely as would M. de Morin. You are gazetted to an infantry regiment, and so I dispose of your case."

The third aspirant, with whom alone Madame de Guéran had now to deal, was a man of about thirty, fair, of medium height, with a rather sad expression, and whose clothes, of a serious cut, made him look somewhat older than he really was.

"My dear M. Desrioux," said the Baroness to him, "in my eyes you possess a rare merit, very rare, indeed, amongst men of your means; that of having adopted the medical profession, a profession which binds you down to a course of severe study, and condemns you to a continuous slavery. Accept my sincere congratulations, and if I do not, as I have done in the case of these other gentlemen, post you to any particular branch of the service, it is not that I doubt your courage, but that a military surgeon, a rôle for which you are admirably adapted, cannot be considered as belonging to any special arm, or, I might almost say, to any nationality, for he hastens to the succour of all who call upon him, be they friends or foes, wheresoever they may be. You may, therefore, resume your own position, my dear doctor, and consider your case disposed of."

Then turning once more to all three, she continued with all the charm of manner which was so natural to her—

"You cannot accuse me of having been too hard upon you or ill-treated you in any way. Indeed, I have dwelt upon your merits alone, and any one hearing me might place you all in the calendar as minor saints. But I will be quite open with you. I have spoken well of you because I have nothing to say against you. It is not by accident that you meet here to-night in my house, or that, during the past six months you have been admitted by degrees to intimacy with me—it is solely because I so willed it. In view of certain projects, of which I am about to apprise you, I have chosen you out of all my acquaintances, and, as I believe, I have chosen well."

Her hearers bowed in silence, and she resumed—

"Alas! It is your very good qualities which puzzle me. They are varied, but each one of you has an equal share. How then, without being inexcusably unjust, can I choose between you? In a state of embarrassment, similar to that of the shepherd, Paris, of old, I know not on whom to bestow the apple. If one of you had only made himself famous by some conspicuous action, my mind would be more at ease, but, situated as you are in this civilized Paris of ours, and so long as the country is at peace, what test can I impose upon you, or what proof can you offer me? As matters stand, you are simply men of the world, whose first duty is to be as little conspicuous as possible. I, therefore, have nothing to expect, nothing which could put an end to my hesitation. You see, do you not, that I am approaching—no, not yet? Well, at last I am coming to the root of the matter, without further circumlocution or beating about the bush. The daughter, the wife, the friend of the famous explorers of our age comes once more upon the scene.

"I have made up my mind definitively to traverse Africa, not that portion which all the world knows, and which commences at Alexandria and finishes at the desert; but the desert itself, and those strange territories which are to be found by those who have the courage to cross it. The longing, nay, I may say, the necessity which has taken possession of me, and impels me to see for myself these imperfectly explored regions—to what can I attribute it? To the education I have received, to the conversations to which I have listened, and the circle in which I have lived? Or, is it not rather that I am obeying an impulse which attracts me towards the spot where M. de Guéran perished? Does not this contemplated journey seem almost like a 'pilgrimage?' I cannot explain it, and, after all, it is of but slight importance as far as you are concerned. What really does concern you, gentlemen, is, that for some time past I have thought of you as my companions. Yes, it would be impossible for me alone to conquer the difficulties and encounter the dangers which I foresee. As for surrounding myself with hired attendants or companions, I should never dream of any such thing. They would only desert me half-way. No! courage and devotion are not to be bought. With you it is different. I have been brought in contact with you, I have watched you narrowly, and I have come to the conclusion that you are the only persons who are capable of aiding me in the accomplishment of my self-imposed task.

"In you I possess the man of literary accomplishments, who will record our impressions, the painter whose pencil will immortalize the scenes through which we pass, and the doctor and savant combined, who, whilst assuaging our sufferings, and the sufferings of those with whom we may meet, will labour, hand-in-hand with us, in the interests of science. If I mistake not, and I know you too well to be mistaken, I shall find in you, above all, three champions, three friends, three brothers, and to your loyalty and your honour I would confide, without one single qualm, my reputation and my life."

She was entirely carried away by her feelings, and without paying any attention to her guests, who had in turn and in silence warmly pressed her hand, she resumed—

"And what shall I give you in exchange for the immense sacrifice I am calling upon you to make, for the almost sublime devotion to which I lay claim? My unending friendship to two of you; my love, perhaps, to the third, and who will that third one be? I know not. At this moment I assure you that I know not; you have each an equal chance. If, on our journey, one of you should succeed in gaining my heart, I will make no sign, lest by so doing I should rouse the jealousy of the other two. Not until we return will I proclaim the name of the conqueror. Either of you gentlemen may achieve this conquest; it depends on yourselves alone. In the regions where we shall spend our days, you will find ample field for exploits of all descriptions, and he who shall prove himself richest in good and brave actions, shall be rewarded by me. Thus he will have deserved the hand I cannot, with any show of reason, bestow upon him to-day. For my part, too, I shall have every cause to love him and for ever.

"And now you know all I had to say to you; now you know why you have met here to-day. Whatever may be your decision, I trust that my too lengthy address will not lead to your passing an unfavourable judgment upon me. My education has been peculiar, carried on in the midst of people who had studied so many diverse manners and customs, that their minds had become confused, and well-nigh incapable of distinguishing between the usages tolerated in Europe and the habits in vogue amongst savages. I carry this eccentricity to the extent of wishing to make my own choice of a husband, and putting him to the proof. I am wayward, if you will; obstinate, hard upon others as well as upon myself, greedy of sensation, an ardent seeker after adventure. I am guilty, too, of making strange propositions to my friends—on that count you can give evidence; but I do not insist on an immediate answer. I allow them time to reflect. In eight days you will have had leisure enough to weigh all the pros and cons and come to a decision, and I will ask you to meet me then, in this same room, at the same hour. If you accompany me, I shall be very pleased indeed; if you do not, none the less shall I set out on my journey, and I shall remain a widow. And now, gentlemen, it is late, so good-night."

CHAPTER IV.

Eight days after this interview, and exactly an hour before the time named by Madame de Guéran for her second interview with MM. de Morin, Périères and Desrioux, she was informed that the last named individual wished to speak to her. Accordingly she joined him in the drawing-room.

"If you are before your time," she cried, as she went quickly towards him, "it is because you bring me bad news. You have decided, I suppose, upon not accompanying me?"

"No," was the reply, "I have not yet come to any decision on the subject. My object in coming to you is to lay my position frankly before you, and then ask your advice."

"I know your position," said she. "You are a doctor, and, as I feared, you are loth to give up your practice."

"But I have no practice to give up, so to speak, seeing that my private income enables me to devote my whole time to the poor. They do not come to me; I go in search of them."

"Surely the charitable organisations of Paris cannot be suffering from any lack of doctors," was the reply of Madame de Guéran, "and they may very well dispense with your services."

"I have no connection with any establishment whatever," answered M. Desrioux, "and I have nothing to do with what are called the 'official' poor. But just as there are proud paupers, so are there in Paris many sick persons who shrink from soliciting medical attendance, and would rather die than apply to the district establishments for relief. These are the unfortunates I seek, and when I find them I do my best to cure them."

"Do sickness and disease, then, exist only in Paris?" exclaimed Madame de Guéran. "Shall we not find them in those regions which I ask you to traverse with me? I looked upon you as the most useful of my travelling companions, not merely for the attention you would have lavished upon us in those territories where the strongest have to succumb to fever, but more especially for the numerous cures you would have wrought amongst those tribes abandoned or disowned by science. They whom you succour here are worthy of your interest, I admit, but are they not also, to a certain extent, the victims of false pride and their own improvidence? When a sick child belonging to them, for instance, is day by day wasting away, they take no notice of it—they wait for you to come to them. You are right to go, undoubtedly, but in the countries which I purpose visiting there are both suffering and death, and if the doctor is not called in, it is simply because medicine is unknown. Have you not, therefore, a mission to fulfil in the midst of these ignorant tribes, as well as by the bedsides of your poor?"

"It is not alone a question of my poor," said M. Desrioux, sadly.

Too astonished to speak, she was regarding him with a questioning air when, suddenly, he went to her side, and, seizing her hands before she could prevent him, exclaimed—

"Do not let anything I am about to say wound you. If I do love you, my respect for you is as thorough as my love. Eight days ago, after having listened to you almost with veneration, I left this house enraptured, carried away by enthusiasm. And was it to be wondered at? You summoned me to live your life for months, perhaps for years; you desired that I should share your joys and your sorrows, should protect you, defend you, minister to you! You gave me permission to adore you every hour of my life—and that—that to me was light, and warmth, and happiness, aye, life itself! Ah! if you but knew how I love you! For pity's sake let me speak, I beseech you, for I may, perhaps, never see you more! I have not lived the life of those about me—I have always worked and struggled—study and science have been my only love. I met you, and science 'paled her ineffectual fire.' From that moment I had but one single thought—to see you again, to be close to you, to be something in your life. The dismal garrets visited by me each morning looked bright and cheerful from the hope that I might see you ere night. And then, the ecstasy of the thought that, by your own free will, I was not to leave you! Nay, more than that, you held before my eyes the gleaming hope that one day, perhaps—Ah, that was more than hope, it was certainty! Yes, yes! I know it, I feel it—I should have triumphed—I should have deserved you, in that I love you best!"

The first impulse of Madame de Guéran, when these impassioned words fell upon her ears, was to stem the torrent, but she had not the courage to interrupt the speaker, and, besides, to astonishment succeeded a conflict of emotions. What! was it this man, so calm, apparently, and so reserved, who spoke thus eloquently, and with such fervour expressed his ardent love? Had she, then, succeeded in imbuing with so burning a passion this man, held by all to be old before his time? Was she so wildly loved by this staid being, who was supposed to hold the very name of love in contempt?

Suddenly she raised her eyes, till now lowered beneath his impassioned gaze, and, looking him full in the face, she said—

"If, indeed, you feel all you say, why cannot you accompany me?"

"I cannot go with you," was the reply, "because I have a mother, aged and feeble, who has no one but me in this world, and who will die if I leave her. Ah! but for her, nothing would have kept me back. You would then have had no need to tell me that those who suffer here could well do without my care; that other men, as disinterested as I, as devoted, as skilful, would care for them, cure them, save them. In the regions whither you asked me to go with you, there are the halt, the maimed, and the sick, lacking the blessings of science. I would have unfolded to them her secrets, I would have attempted cures to them impossible. With you at my side, I feel that I should have accomplished great deeds—Ah! how truly you divined, the other day, with subtle flattery, my tastes, my instincts, my aspirations! The life of a missionary has ever had a charm for me. To make civilisation, charity, the good, and the beautiful, a reality in those countries which do not even know them by name, to drive out before me barbarism, to bind up the wounded, to heal the sick, to cheer the broken-hearted, to open all hearts to the influence of love—that would indeed be a mission of glory!"

He was no longer the same man; his voice was impassioned and full of feeling, his every gesture eloquent. His eye glistened, his very countenance seemed illumined. The metamorphosis we noticed in Madame de Guéran at the former interview, when she was carried away by her subject, was reproduced in him.

He stopped for a moment, and then, in a calmer tone, resumed—

"But side by side with these ennobling tasks, these holy missions, there are others, less prominent, which cannot, ought not to be overlooked. By her only child, her sole support, her one hope, a mother must always be the most fondly-loved of all created beings. I was all the world to mine, as she was to me, in the time when I yet knew you not. She would let me go were I to say that I was going with you and for you—a mother is ever ready for any sacrifice. She knows you, for I have poured out my heart, so full of you, to her. She might even push her self-denial to the extreme of urging upon me this long voyage. But, away from her, I should always have her before my eyes, weeping, anxious, despairing, growing weaker and weaker, and, perhaps, dying. I could not bear the thought of her dying when I was far away from her, unable to close her eyes, to hear her latest wish, to receive her parting sigh, to wrap her in her shroud, and scatter flowers on her resting-place! The agony of a mother in such a case would indeed be terrible; I have no right to leave her, I must remain. It is the duty, perhaps the first, of a son to be beside the death-bed of her who has given him life."

He stopped, and as she took his hand in hers she said—

"You are right. You ought not to leave her, and I would not have you go."

"I knew full well that you would tell me so," said he, with tears in his eyes, "but, you will leave me, and with them! Ah," he exclaimed, quickly, "if you could only give up the idea of this journey!"

"I have no more right to give it up than you have to leave your mother," was the reply. "You would be present during the last moments of your mother. Recollect that I was not present at those of my husband. I know from strangers that he is dead, but I do not even know the spot where he died, the victim of a dastardly outrage. I shrank, the other evening, from dwelling upon this subject. To you alone I will confess that, before I can think of putting off these widow's weeds, before I can dream of beginning a new life, I must see with my own eyes the spot which witnessed the dying agony of M. de Guéran. I want to learn the details of his last moments, to recover his papers, to publish his studies, his works, and before surrendering his name, if, indeed, I do surrender it, to make it famous. You see, my friend," she continued, softly, "that if you have a duty to perform here, I have one equally binding there beyond. Every one has his work in this world. I respect that which has fallen to your lot, and I ask you to respect mine."

He bowed his assent at once, but, after a moment's pause, he could not help saying—

"Are you not setting before yourself a task beyond your strength? A woman of your age, brought up as you have been, and accustomed to luxury, to venture into such countries in the midst of such inhabitants?"

"I should not be the first woman who has visited them—Mrs.
Livingstone, for instance—"

"Do not speak of her. In three days she succumbed to fever on the banks of the Zambesi."

"I do not dispute it. But Lady Baker never left her husband, and Ida Pfeiffer twice travelled round the world. And have you no recollection of that charming young girl, the Countess Alexina Tinne, who, though scarcely twenty-three, had traversed the whole of Eastern Africa?"

"Ah!" said he, "do not cite her example. She is dead, as you know, a victim to Arabian butchery."

"Well," she replied, without a tremor in her voice, "if God so wills it, I will die as she did. I have often thought of her glorious death, and it has no terrors for me."

Hopeless of convincing her, he asked at last—

"When do you set out?"

"That I shall decide this very evening."

"With these other gentlemen?"

"Yes," she replied, casting down her eyes.

He moved impatiently, with a gesture of repugnance. But, with an effort he recovered himself, and said calmly—

"I leave you with them, but shall I not see you again?"

"Every day, if you wish, until my departure. It cannot take place at once, as I have many preparations to make."

"And will you let me have news of you when you are away?"

"Certainly. But you know that the opportunities of sending letters are few and far between."

"Unfortunately, that is so," said he. "May I write to you?" he added.

"I beg you will. Your letters will seem to me fragrant of home."

The bell rang.

"Here are they whom you await," said M. Desrioux. "Happier than I, they come, doubtless, to say that they will accompany you. I prefer not meeting them, so pray let me escape by this other door."

"Go, then," she said, sadly, as she held out her hand in token of farewell.

CHAPTER V.

MM. de Morin and Périères were evidently in the best of humours when
Madame de Guéran joined them, and, as had been foreseen by Dr.
Desrioux, they were the bearers of good news for their fair hostess.
Nevertheless, she looked at them anxiously and inquiringly, as she
said—

"Well?"

"We go with you," was the joint reply.

"Could you doubt it?" added the painter. "There was no need to give me a week to reflect. The morning after you imparted your project to us, I made up my mind to follow you to the end of the world, if you wished it."

"As for me," chimed in M. Périères, by way of stealing a march on his rival, "my resolution was taken before you had finished speaking."

"I thank you both, gentlemen," said the Baroness, "but let us be serious, please. This is not a question as to which of you will set out with the greater haste. Still less is it a question of following me, for we all go together, each on a precisely similar footing, as loyal comrades and true. From to-day you will have the goodness to treat me as one of yourselves, and spare me even an approach to any vapid compliments. I hare already told you that we will settle our accounts on our return to France. In the meantime, it most be thoroughly understood that any display, in any way whatsoever, of the feelings with which I inspire you is absolutely and expressly forbidden. Unless I take these precautions against you our journey may become—" and then she added with a smile, "dangerous. And now that we understand each other, let us to work, that is to say, let us arrange the preliminaries of the expedition."

"Quite so. Quite so!" cried M. de Morin. "We have not a moment to lose, for we shall set out at once, shall we not? In a fortnight at the latest?"

"And why not at the end of this week?" asked his companion.

"Not so fast, gentlemen, not so fast," said the Baroness. "Voyages of exploration, and quests such as that which we contemplate, are not to be matured in a moment. I can, it is true, spare you certain delays, seeing that, in anticipation of what has occurred to-day, I took my precautions six months ago; but, not withstanding all that, we have still much to do in the way of preparation."

"You have only to issue your commands," exclaimed M. de Morin. "As for me, I thought that I had only to say good-bye to my friends, pack my portmanteau, and provide myself with plenty of money."

"Well, you have only made three mistakes, my dear sir. Say good-bye, if you like, but at the same time make your will, and leave it with your lawyer, who, by-the-way, may soon have to open it. I do not want to damp your ardour, but you, apparently, look upon this voyage as a pleasure trip, and I must undeceive you. Neither is it a question of one portmanteau, but of many, and they must be packed as I direct."

"There you surprise me," remarked M. Périères, "for I always understood that in countries where railways are unknown, the less luggage the better."

"Instead of railways we shall have to put up with boats, bearers, and camels. As for money, it has not, in most African territories, the value which we give it. All sorts of cloth goods, glass beads, brass wire, copper rings, sometimes even shells, called kourdi or koungona, but generally cowries, are far more appreciated as current coin than gold would be. All these things have their market prices, just as a bank note or a railway share has in France. So, you see that, up to the very moment of our departure, a great portion of your time will have to be given up to important purchases. All this business, of course, you will transact on behalf of our community; and, whilst on this subject, had we not better elect a cashier?"

"Certainly," replied M. de Morin, "let us choose a cashier, or rather, will you appoint one of us to the post, for I hope you will not object to our raising you to the dignity of commander-in-chief of the expedition?"

"I accept the post, gentlemen, and I trust that I shall prove myself worthy of the confidence which you repose in me. In immediate virtue of my office, then, I appoint M. Périères to be our cashier, and I also direct him, after our purchases are made, to arrange for the despatch of all our baggage to Cairo, where we will meet it."

"Oh!" said the new cashier, "then we are going to attack Africa from the Egyptian side. And here have I been devoting myself for the last eight days to the study of Tripoli, Tunis, St. Louis, Sierra-Leone, Zanzibar—in short, all the customary points of departure for such expeditions."

"Then you had better devote yourself now to Egypt, which leads to
Nubia, the first region we have to traverse."

"Nubia?" exclaimed M. de Morin. "It has ever been one of my dreams!
And afterwards?"

"I am not quite sure about the afterwards."

"Charming! Charming! We do not know where we are going. I have always longed for an expedition of that sort."

"You forget, perhaps," said she, gravely, "that the end of it may be death."

"Better still! To be buried, in Nubia, instead of that commonplace
Père-la-Chaise! My happiness is complete!"

The Baroness could not help laughing, for this genuine gaiety disarmed her.

As for M. Périères, who, not content with his appointment as cashier, had also constituted himself Historian to the Expedition, he was incessantly making notes, and, as he wrote, kept murmuring to himself disjointed phrases such as—"Cloth," "Brass-wire," "Cairo," "Nubia," "We are buried in the desert."

"May I ask whether you are already practising the African dialect?" said M. de Morin, in astonishment at this telegraphic style of speech.

"Yes," said the man of letters, "I am getting into some of their ways."

"Then the sooner you get out of them the better," said Madame de Guéran. "These African tribes are not what we conceited Europeans often take them for. Their languages are very beautiful, and they have no patois. I beg of you not to give credence to all the absurdities which have been uttered on these subjects. You will meet with a number of very intelligent tribes. They are merely behind the age; and Livingstone, who had studied them thoroughly, stated once in my presence that Europe, a century ago, was not one whit more enlightened than the Africa of the present day. But let us turn our attention once more to the preparations for our departure. You must provide the best possible arms, on the most approved principles, but perfectly plain. Amongst certain of the tribes it is imprudent to go about with too highly-finished and elaborate weapons, for they merely serve to excite the cupidity of some Chief, who, in order to possess himself of them, will not shrink from assassination. You must also lay in a stock of second-hand pistols, revolvers, carbines, swords, sabres, and such like things, to be offered to those Chiefs whose good-will we wish to secure."

"An arsenal, upon my word—a regular arsenal!" exclaimed M. de Morin.

"Yes, in certain parts of central Africa you can only get on by taking a gift in your hand."

"Their idea of direct taxation, I presume?"

"Just so. And now you may consider yourselves armed offensively and diplomatically, but you have still to furnish yourselves with safe conducts and letters of recommendation, which must be obtained from the foreign consulates, the Viceroy of Egypt, his Ministers, his Pashas, and, in fact, from every quarter representing any authority in the Turkish dominions. For my part, I will obtain some very valuable letters, as my friends have left in Africa remembrances of themselves, upon which it may be useful for us to call. I think I have told you everything, and, at all events, our conversation will have enlightened you on many points. If we do not waste any time, we may possibly be ready in a few weeks. Employ them, over and above the preparations we have arranged, in taking long walks and rides, in practising your shooting, and in studying Arabic. I mean the ordinary Arabic, which is spoken throughout one half of Asia and Africa. I will complete your education en route."

"But the medical man of the expedition," asked M. de Morin, "where is he? Has he declined to accompany us?"

"Yes, he has just told me so."

"Really? That dear doctor!" said the painter, rubbing his hands.

"That excellent doctor!" echoed the historian, patting his memorandum book with an air of relief.

"Are you no more concerned than that?" asked Madame de Guéran.

"Concerned!" exclaimed M. de Morin.

"On the contrary," continued M. Périères, keeping the ball rolling, "we are delighted!"

"Why so?"

"Because the number of aspirants to your hand, Baroness, is lessened thereby. We are now only two, and our chances are better by one-third."

"That is true!" said she, laughing. "I never thought of that. But do you think that we can manage without a doctor?"

"Perfectly, my dear madam—perfectly. We shall never be ill."

"It is very evident that you do not know Africa. However, I agree to all. We shall never be wounded; fever will treat us with every respect, and we shall be in better health than if we were in Paris. But you are too young for me to make this trip alone with you."

"Desrioux is no older," said M. de Morin.

"But his character is more staid."

"Oh!" exclaimed M. Périères, "do not say that. What need have we to be serious? Do not reproach us for our gaiety and enthusiasm; they will serve to help us all to pass the time pleasantly out yonder. The originality of this expedition appeals directly to our peculiarities. We shall take with us into the very heart of the most uncivilized regions of Africa the true Parisian element. Apart, we should soon lose our spirits and our worldly ways and manners; but together, each with his eye on the other, and both desirous of amusing you, de Morin and I will continue still to be true men about town. In crossing the desert we shall do our best to suppose ourselves going from the Chaussé d'Antin to the cross-roads in the Champs Elysées, and we shall intentionally jumble up the great lakes of Southern Africa with the Auteuil pond. Please do not try to damp our spirits, or make us melancholy. If you did, you would never succeed, happily for us and for you."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied Madame de Guéran, "but, all the same, I must have a companion rather more venerable than you two are."

"Very well," said M. de Morin, "then we must go and find out some good-natured old soul."

"He must be a doctor. Don't forget that."

"I quite understand. One of your really respectable old family practitioners."

"Not a bit of it! He would never be able to keep up with us; we should leave him on the road. He must not be more than forty or forty-five years of age."

"We shall never find one of that sort," interrupted M. Périères. "At that age a doctor is in the zenith of his practice, if he is worth anything, and if he is not, it would not be prudent in us to take him, because, instead of being put to death by the Aborigines, we should perish at his hands. There would be no poetry about that."

"I have hit upon a plan to meet every difficulty," suddenly exclaimed M. de Morin, who, for the last few moments, had evidently been following out some idea of his own. "I have him—just the man for us, not yet forty, a perfect gentleman, and a clever fellow who would have had a splendid practice if—"

"If what?" was the exclamation.

"If he did not gamble as if all the gambling in the world was concentrated in his own proper person. Does that alarm you. Baroness?"

"It would alarm me for you, if you are to be bound to lose your money to this gentleman."

"I am quite easy on that score, because I always win from him. I have put him under a spell."

"Well, then, in that case he will only be dangerous to the tribes of
Africa. But how can you possibly hope to induce him to accompany us?"

"That is my secret, and, with all due deference, I must decline to disclose it just yet. In the mean time, I can only say that everything leads me to believe that by to-morrow we shall have replaced M. Desrioux."

"Wait one moment," M. Périères called out hurriedly. "It is, I presume, quite understood that M. Desrioux is to be replaced only in his capacity as our doctor, and not as an aspirant—a candidate—an intended—"

"Make your minds quite easy, gentlemen," replied Madame de Guéran, "I will never marry a gambler. The new-comer is without the pale of our compact."

"Under that gratifying understanding, Baroness, we will take our leave for the present, and will call to-morrow for fresh orders."

CHAPTER VI.

MM. Périères and de Morin lighted their cigars as they descended the stairs, and then walked arm in arm down the Boulevard Malesherbes, on their way to the Chaussée D'Antin.

Destined, by virtue of their engagement with Madame de Guéran, to live together for a long time, they were doing their best to forget their rivalry, and to think only of the great adventure they were about to attempt. Though, in the presence of the Baroness, they had thought it right to assume utter indifference to the dangers which menaced them, and on which, lest they should ignore them, she laid such stress, yet, when they found themselves by themselves, they did not in the least under-rate the serious nature of the undertaking.

They knew, well enough, how noxious the interior of Africa is to Europeans, and that, out of every ten explorers, three or four at the outside live to see their native land again, where even they often succumb to the sequelæ of maladies contracted in that deadly climate. They called to mind the fate of Richardson and of young Overweg, barely thirty, who both died, worn out by fever, on the borders of Bornou; of Vögel, who was assassinated by order of the Prince of the Waday territory; of Vaudey, the uncle of the brothers Poncet, who was killed at Gondokoro; of Brun-Eouet, Steudner, and Lesaint, who died from sickness and over-work; of Mdlle. Tinne, her mother, and her aunt, the Baroness Van Capellen, and many others whose names serve to swell the sadly long obituary of African travellers. They knew, too, that these pioneers of civilization, these grand missionaries, had, before death released them, experienced human suffering to its fullest extent. But they were young, brave, hardy, trusting to luck, anxious to see everything they could, eager to learn, and, above all, in love. And it was not to be wondered at that these Parisians, although so difficult to touch, and so thoroughly on their guard, should have been taken by surprise, so to speak, by a love as unselfish and sincere as it was sudden. For they were both of them men of a high order of intellect, with their hearts in the right place, and though, naturally, they had not been altogether innocent of the follies of youth, they were far too refined to allow those follies to take any real hold of them, and so it happened that when, weary of their mode of life, and heart-whole, they met Madame de Guéran, they gave themselves up to her without reflection, without hesitation, charmed by the repose of her beauty, fascinated by the simple grace of her mind, and obeying an instinctive necessity for a purifying and ennobling; influence.

She was, indeed, a woman eminently calculated to attract such high-minded, straightforward natures as these. Putting aside the question of mere personal beauty, which was, indeed, conspicuous in her, Laura de Guéran was immeasurably superior to the general run of women, by reason of the originality and refinement of her mind, her fascinating conversational talents, her elevated ideas, her reliable judgment, her artistic nature, her disdain of all beaten tracks and everything commonplace or conventional, her charity, her courage, her uprightness, her devotion to her friends, her horror of evil, and her enthusiasm for good. She had merely said to them—"I am going this way; come with me." And, subjugated and submissive, they obeyed her, without troubling themselves very much as to where, or how far they were going; each of them simply determined not to remain behind whilst it was in his power to be side by side with Madame de Guéran.

As soon as they reached the Chaussée d'Antin, they gave themselves a treat by extolling the object of their adoration, and praising her many merits, and they forgot the dangers of the projected expedition in the ecstacy of the thought that it would be accomplished with her.

Towards midnight, when they were about to separate, M. Périères said to M. de Morin—

"Then you take the doctor on your shoulders entirely?"

"Yes, and I am just going to set about the task."

"But you are at your own door; are you going in?

"You have hit it. I am going to recruit my strength so as to bring him bound hand and foot."

"I don't understand."

"You will, very soon."

"Good-night, my rival."

"Good-night, my friend."

CHAPTER VII.

M. de Morin went up two storeys of a house in the Rue Taitbout, and rang. His servant, who was waiting up for him, came at once to open the door. The young painter went straight towards his bedroom, and, addressing the individual who was following him, candlestick in hand, said—

"Joseph, I am going to bed at once, and I must be called at five o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Are you going on a journey, sir?"

"Not at present."

"Then shall I get ready your shooting things, sir?"

"No, I am not going out shooting. You will merely have ready for me the things I am going to take off."

Joseph, like the well-bred domestic that he was, gave no sign of the astonishment which the order caused him; but, whilst his master was undressing, he thought he might venture on saying—

"Will you kindly grant me, sir, a moment's conversation?"

M. de Morin, who was unbuttoning his waistcoat, raised his head, looked at his valet, who was standing at attention before him, impassible, respectful, correct in every detail, and then, satisfied, apparently, with his inspection, replied—

"Say on, but be brief—I want to go to sleep."

"Rumours," commenced Joseph with an air of great importance, "have been current in Paris for several days past about a design which you, sir, are supposed to have formed—I make bold to ask you, sir, if there is any foundation for these rumours?"

"To what rumours do you allude?" asked M. de Morin, whilst his servant, on his knees, was taking off his master's boots.

"It is said that you cherish the idea, sir, of setting out for Africa very shortly."

"And it is true. To re-echo your expression, I do cherish that idea."

"Is it your intention, sir, to take me with you?"

"I had not thought of it."

"Would it be inconvenient to you, sir, if, at my request, you allow me to accompany you? I might be of some use, as I was a long time in Africa."

"As how?" asked M. de Morin.

"As valet de chambre to a General."

"And in what part of Africa did you live?"

"In Algiers, sir."

"And you never went out of it?"

"Never."

"That," observed M. de Morin, as he got between the sheets, "will hardly give you a very comprehensive idea of the country which I am about to visit. So I advise you to reflect a little, and to gather some further information before persisting in your request that I should take you with me. Algiers is a town where one goes to recover one's health, whereas you lose it, as a rule, even if you are lucky enough to preserve your life, in that part of Africa which I propose to traverse."

"That is a matter of no importance, sir," said Joseph, as he tucked his master in. "Africa tempts me, and I take the liberty of repeating my request."

"All right, then. I will see about it, and mention your request to my companions. What increase in wages do you ask if you go with me?"

"None at all, sir. The pleasure of travelling with you, sir, is sufficient. I merely take the liberty of mentioning three wishes."

"Out with them, then, because I am going to sleep."

"The first," replied Joseph, once more at attention in front of his master's bed, "is to secure a small annuity for my family, in case I should die during the expedition."

"That appears to me reasonable enough. Now for the second, for I am half-asleep as it is."

"The second consists of being allowed, on setting foot in Africa, to wear a bûrnus."

This idea appeared so irresistibly comic to M. de Morin that he sat up in bed.

Fearing that he had gone too far in his demands, Joseph hastened to add—

"Pray do not alarm yourself, sir. I will only wear the bûrnus whilst on the march. When I am in attendance on you, sir, you may be assured that I shall appear in my usual dress. I know the proprieties, sir."

"Be it so, then. And your third wish?"

"Is, that you, sir, will be kind enough to allow me to change my name of Joseph to that of Mohammed. Ever since I lived in Algeria I have dreamt of calling myself Mohammed."

M. de Morin had all his work cut out to keep his countenance over this fresh request. However, he replied, with the utmost gravity—

"If I take you with me to Africa you shall wear a bûrnus and a turban to boot. If you like, you shall call yourself Mohammed; and, in order that you may be at hand, I will find you a horse, an ass, or a camel, according to circumstances."

"You overwhelm me, sir," said Joseph. "Oh, I never dared dream of a camel!"

"You deserve one, Joseph; you deserve one, and you shall have one. But, for the present, allow me to go to sleep. Do you go to bed, too, and don't forget to call me at five, as I have already told you. By-the-way, you may as well bring me something when I awake—it does not matter what."

"A cup of café noir, sir?" asked Joseph.

"No, thank you. That would disturb my nerves, and I have need of all my coolness. A plate of soup and a glass of claret will do. Off with you!"

The door shut, and the future explorer of Africa was speedily in the land of dreams.

CHAPTER VIII.

As the clock struck five, Joseph Mohammed entered his master's bedroom, but the latter appeared but little inclined to open his eyes. Joseph, however, knew his duty. If M. de Morin had given an order that he was to be roused at so early an hour, there was evidently something important in the wind, and, consequently, he had no right to sleep. So Mohammed proceeded to pull down the bed-clothes with precisely the same precision with which he had tucked them in.

At the first symptom of cold the young painter showed a disposition to protest against such a brutal proceeding, but his valet, always respectful but firm, said to him—

"I am sure, sir, that you would not wish me to have passed a sleepless night to no purpose."

As this reproach had not the desired effect, Joseph thought himself bound to add—

"When an expedition to Africa is contemplated it is just as well to know how to get out of bed."

This time M. de Morin was convinced. With one bound he was on to the handsome tiger-skin which served him for a carpet; he put on his Eastern slippers, got into his dressing-gown, and went into his dressing-room, which Joseph had lit up to its fullest extent in order to dazzle his master's eyes and complete his awakening. His success was complete, and in five minutes' time M. de Morin had recovered all his gaiety and was hard at work at his toilet, humming the while the very latest air of Offenbach, set to the words of MM. Meilbac and Halevy.

Mohammed, however, did not appear to partake of this light-heartedness. He forgot none of his duties, it is true; he put in the wash-hand basin the proper quantity of eau de Lubin, stropped his favourite razor, and at a spirit-lamp warmed the curling-irons for his master's moustaches. But his countenance was gloomy, and his smile sad, and, every now and then, a sigh, but half-suppressed out of respect, escaped from his over-laden heart.

M. de Morin did not condescend to notice this by-play, and his valet, wishing, probably, to attract attention, became somewhat more demonstrative in his grief. At last the young man, whose ears had been saluted by a sigh deeper than usual, asked Joseph what was the matter with him.

"I am broken hearted, sir, broken hearted," was the reply.

"Really? And so you are broken hearted," said M. de Morin, with the utmost indifference, and buttoning his wristbands. "What has happened to you to make you so broken hearted? Have you been giving way to reflection during the night, and has the camel I promised you frightened you?"

"No, sir, it is not the camel which distresses me. I shall welcome that noble animal with open arms. At this moment, sir, I am not thinking of myself; all my thoughts are with you."

"I should not have thought so, Joseph, seeing that you have handed me a pair of black trousers, which, you will admit, are not quite the thing at 5 a.m."

"That depends, sir. In certain momentous circumstances in life black trousers are not to be despised, nor a high waistcoat either which hides the shirt, and does not allow a single spot of white to be seen or to serve as an aim."

This time M. de Morin was completely puzzled.

"What on earth do you mean," he exclaimed, "by your spots of white and your aims? Has the idea of travelling in Africa turned your brain? Put that razor down—you make me nervous."

"Do not be uneasy, sir. My good sense has not deserted me. I should not suffer as I do if I had lost my reason."

"Look here, Joseph. Though I am pretty well accustomed to your eccentricities, you are going a little too far now, and I insist on your explaining yourself, and that without delay. I did not get up at five o'clock in the morning for the sole purpose of giving you an audience."

"Oh! I am not ignorant that you have other affairs on hand, and it is just that which is distressing me."

"And, in your idea, what have I on hand?"

"That is easily guessed, and I am surprised, sir, that you should have imagined that you could keep your plans a secret from me."

"Keep my plans secret!"

"Yes, sir. It would have been very easy to have told me all, and I take the liberty of saying decidedly that my care, my zeal, and my devotion in your service are worthy of this proof of your confidence."

"Do I understand you, then, to imply that I am compelled to tell you where I am going?"

"There is no compulsion, sir. There is no question of any obligation towards me, but you would have only been acting with prudence by claiming my presence in such circumstances as these. I could, at all events, carry the swords or the pistols, keep off the gendarmes, and assist in conveying the wounded one to a carriage."

"Swords! Pistols! Gendarmes! The wounded!" echoed M. de Morin, wondering whether he had not turned prematurely silly. Suddenly he understood it all, and exclaimed—

"I have it I You fancy that I am going to fight a duel."

"What else could I think, sir?" said Joseph, very grave and solemn. "Did you not tell me that you were neither going on a journey, nor out shooting?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Well then, sir, for what other reason than an affair of honour would you leave the house at five o'clock in the morning, contrary to your usual custom and the usages of high life?"

He pronounced the words "high life" with an accent perfectly irresistible, and then went on to say—

"And besides, sir, you told me to fetch your duelling pistols from
Devisme's. It is clear, it is more than clear—alas! it is evident."

This evidence apparently struck M. de Morin also, for he at once proceeded to reassure his faithful servant.

"You are mistaken, Joseph," he said, kindly, "and your vivid imagination has led you astray. I got up this morning at five o'clock simply to go to my club, where, for a reason which, with your permission, I will keep to myself, I wish to arrive calm and collected, after a few hours' sleep. You may come with me, if that will ease your mind. As regards my pistols, I desire, in anticipation of this expedition, to practice my shooting every day, and you can take them to the shooting-gallery in the course of the morning. And now that my frank explanations have restored you to your usual serenity, perhaps you will have the goodness to bring in the soup and claret I ordered, and once more resume that engaging manner which becomes you so well."

This last suggestion was superfluous, for a smile was once more visible on Joseph's lips.

A quarter of an hour afterwards M. de Morin ascended the staircase of his club, passed through an entrance hall where two servants lay asleep on the benches, and entered the only room which at that moment was occupied.

It was the room devoted, as in most clubs, to baccarat. Along the walls were to be seen roomy couches, whereon to repose from the excitement of play, and where, when the cards were adverse, the unlucky player could snatch a moment or two of sleep whilst waiting for a change of luck. In one corner was placed a table, at which a confidential servant sat, elevated, so to speak, to the dignity of cashier. His duty was to give the player, on demand, counters of all sorts, sizes, and colours, which were intended to represent certain amounts, from the highest to the lowest. Indeed, in all well conducted clubs, it is not customary to have the tables covered with gold or bank notes. These are represented by counters, or fish, in exchange for which, on the following day, as soon as each loser has paid his losses, the cashier hands over their money value. Gambling debts must be paid, not within forty-eight hours, as is generally understood, but really within a limit of sixty hours. This term passed, the member of the club who has lost his counters, if he has not handed in their corresponding value in money, is subject to a penalty which is termed "being posted" and consists in his name being written up on a board hung in the principal room of the club. This punishment is very rarely carried into effect. The unlucky gambler, who has lost more than he can pay, can generally count upon the forbearance of his creditor, and comes to some arrangement with him. If he does not succeed in doing that, his name, after being posted for a moment only, is rubbed out. He ipso facto no longer belongs to the club, and his reputation is thereby seriously damaged.

These details are necessary in order to comprehend the scene which was on the point of being enacted between M. de Morin and the young doctor, called Delange, whom he had undertaken to secure as a travelling companion in the expedition.

A large oval table, covered with green cloth, and lighted by lamps hung from the ceiling, took up most of the space in the room we have attempted to describe. In the centre sat the player who held the bank for the time being. On either side of him, to the right or left, he dealt the cards to his fellow players, who were thus divided into two groups, or "sides," to use the recognized description. In front of him were several packs of cards which, when they had been once used, he threw into a sort of leathern bowl placed on the table.

As M. de Morin entered this baccarat room some half-a-score players were commencing another set, and by them his arrival was noisily welcomed.

"Holloa! de Morin, come along! Where do you spring from at this hour? A supper party, of course. Fearful depravity! Your family must be communicated with, and asked to interfere. A splendid game, my dear fellow. Not many of us, it is true, but all of the right sort. Come along and take a hand. Sit by me and bring me luck."

At such an hour a new-comer was a god-send, and the heartiness of the welcome given to M. de Morin had, in reality, nothing personal about it. The winners, anxious to get away with their winnings, but hesitating to leave lest their departure should be too noticeable, were delighted at the arrival of a recruit ready to take their place, and the losers, on the other hand, interested in prolonging the game so that they might have a chance of recouping themselves, were jubilant over the increase to their number, and with that superstition inherent in all gamblers, trusted that the new arrival would turn the tide of fortune in their favour.

M. de Morin, having by a glance satisfied himself that M. Delange, true to his habits, was seated at the baccarat table, secured a supply of counters to the amount of five thousand francs, and, as the bank was up and nobody seemed anxious for it, took it himself.

CHAPTER IX.

In a very few moments M. de Morin had doubled his bank, which now amounted to ten thousand francs.

That this would happen might have easily been foreseen, for baccarat cannot be classed amongst games of chance, properly so called, and, consequently it is, if not actually recognized, at all events tolerated in many clubs. It requires to be played with plenty of coolness, and even then only on the basis of certain calculations. It is evident that a player who has to contend against successive runs of eights and nines must inevitably go to the wall, however well he may play, but, as a matter of fact, such knock-down blows are very exceptional. The fall of the cards, as a rule, ranges between one and seven, and this average allows of certain rules for play being formulated, which it is important to study. For instance, whether it is good play to ask for a card when you hold a five and you do not yet know your adversary's play; or whether the banker, after having dealt an ace or a two to the right "side," and a court card to the left, should stand at five. All a matter of inspiration, according to some people, but entirely a matter of calculation in the opinion of regular baccarat players.

But, when the players have been at it for some time, without rest or cessation, they very often forget all about their calculations, and simply trust to chance. Their vaunted science disappears before what they are pleased to call their inspirations, and, for that very reason, the greater part of their winnings disappears, too. Consequently those who, cool and fresh, drop in upon them unexpectedly, are pretty nearly sure to win. These new comers are like troops in reserve. After having been held inactive during the progress of an extended engagement, they receive a sudden order to advance to the attack, and must necessarily get the better of any division of the enemy which has been ever since the morning sustaining repeated onslaughts, is beginning to run short of ammunition, and is ready to drop with fatigue.

M. de Morin, with his skin cool and his head clear, completely master of his game and not in the least pre-occupied, was in a position to watch his adversaries and profit by their mistakes. From their countenances, from the nervous twitching of their wearied hands, and from the exclamations which escaped them unawares, he could tell what they thought of their cards, and could regulate his own play accordingly. If, when worn out with the fatigue and feverish excitement of the game, they stood on a seven, thinking it was an eight, or if they made a mistake in the points of the game, the new comer, as he had every right to do, appealed to the rules and insisted upon their being adhered to.

He also had another, and a very apparent advantage in the game, because, although he was banker, and the players were divided into two sides, he only paid attention to the right side, to which M. Delange belonged. He only cared about winning on that side, and did not trouble himself about the other. For example, if he dealt a ten on his right and a three on his left, he would stand at five, or even at four, although the proper game in such a case would be to take cards. He had only one end in view, and that a secret one, which he pursued with great dexterity—to win as much money as possible from the doctor.

This result was attained all the more easily because his adversary, tired, unnerved, and chafing against the bad luck which fell, on this particular occasion even more than usual, to his share, was playing wildly. At 9 a.m. he had lost some thirty thousand francs. The other players, whose losses were of minor importance, or who had come off quits, wanted to leave off when the waiters appeared to open the shutters and let in the light of day, but M. Delange having insisted on play being continued, a further term of an hour was agreed upon. Coffee was called for, and the game again went on fast and furious.

At 10 a.m. the doctor had lost eighty-five thousand francs. One more bank was started, the last, and then just one more, and afterwards positively the last.

At length play ceased, and each of the players, more or less fatigued and out of spirits, betook himself to his room, and went to bed.

CHAPTER X

On the following morning, about eleven o'clock, just as M. de Morin was getting ready to go out, the faithful Joseph informed him that Dr. Delange wished to see him. "Aha!" said the young painter to himself. "Now I've got him!" and he at once gave the order for his visitor to be shown up.

Notwithstanding his knowledge of the world, the Doctor could not, on meeting M. de Morin, hide a certain degree of embarrassment; in fact, he was decidedly uncomfortable and by no means at his ease. His face alone, had need been, would have told the painter that an important service was to be solicited.

"You are surprised to see me?" commenced M. Delange, with a very hesitating manner.

"Not the least in the world. Why should such a happy thought on your part astonish me? You had an hour to spare before breakfast, and you are giving me the benefit of it. I am delighted."

"Alas!" replied the Doctor, "I am not here for the pleasure alone of seeing you. I want to speak to you about a matter of considerable importance."

"Indeed! What is it?"

"You know that I was a heavy loser at the Club the other night."

"Yes, and I am very sorry for it. You see, I wanted to stop playing at eight o'clock, but you were so persistent that I was compelled to carry on the bank."

"Good Heavens! My loss then was more than I could pay, and I wanted to go on, in the hope of getting some of it back. It is the old story over again."

"That is bad. What is the amount of your loss?"

"Ninety thousand francs."

"It is a lot, a very big lot, and I sympathise with you sincerely."

"But worse remains behind," said the Doctor, and his voice trembled.
"It is absolutely impossible for me to pay up just at present."

"You don't mean to say so! That is unfortunate, very unfortunate. What will they say at the Club? They have this year been very much down on all that sort of thing. The Committee decided, at their last meeting, to apply the rule in all its severity."

"I know all about it. I shall be posted in twenty-four hours."