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."