CHAPTER XLVI.

Before setting out on his expedition to the slave-merchant and the Almehs, the Doctor asked M. de Morin to go with him, but the invitation was declined with thanks. The young painter, as we have before remarked, had not for some time past been in the humour to partake of any pleasure that Khartoum could offer him. None of the curious sights of the place had any charms for him, and he did not take the slightest interest in unravelling those mysteries which M. Delange, for the purpose of cheering him up and rousing him from his apathy, from time to time described. On the evening when his friend made this latest suggestion to him, he was less disposed than ever to listen. For several days past he had had recourse to the favourite device of lovers—avoiding the beloved one, abstaining from paying her any visits, giving no sign of existence, waiting to be summoned. But Madame de Guéran did not appear to notice his disappearance, and pursued the even tenor of her way, just as if he had no existence so far as she was concerned. How could she have become so completely indifferent to what became of him? She was not bound to love him, he was quite aware of that, and she had a perfect right to prefer somebody else. But, at the same time, had she any right to carry to such an extreme her indifference for the man who had sacrificed everything to accompany her, and to share her fatigues and her dangers? Surely, even as a mere travelling companion he was worth the display of a little interest.

Nay, more, in defiance of all her promises she was already displaying her preference for M. Périères! She had not even waited until the journey should be more advanced, but at the very first stage of any importance, in the first town where she had stayed for any time, she threw aside all reserve, made no secret of her choice, and, whilst opening her heart to one admirer, banished the other for ever and a day! Ought she not, at all events, to have frankly sent for him, told him how the case stood, and offered him his liberty?

Or did she think that on their present terms he was going with her to the very heart of Africa, the end of the world, perhaps, to watch over her and the man she loved, to shield them from every danger, to save their precious lives, and with them to return to Paris to be present at their marriage, after having been a witness to their protracted love-making! No, a thousand times, no! he would leave her, flee from her, return to France, to Paris, forget her, plunge into the vortex of pleasure, stifle his passion, and harden his heart so as never to suffer for another what he had gone through for her.

But, before he took himself off, he was anxious to put all these thoughts into words, to reproach her with her want of candour towards him, with having caused him to appear in a perfectly ridiculous light, with having forgotten all the claims of friendship, with having treated him as an ordinary acquaintance, or a too persistent companion, with having sacrificed him entirely to the man who had won her love, and all this without one kind word, without a single expression of regret. The reproaches he would utter, the withering words he would hurl at her, straight to her face! And not to her alone would he speak! She was not the only one to blame, she was not the only false friend, Périères, too, had deceived and betrayed him!

He did not reproach him for being beloved. But why had he not come forward openly and said—"I have succeeded more quickly than I anticipated. You are no longer in the betting. Banish all hope from your heart. Drive away this love, against which you struggle now; later on it would have killed you." But, no; like Madame de Guéran, M. Périères preferred to keep by his side his companion, the friend ready to do any deed of devotion. It was shameful to act thus in the exceptional circumstances in which they were placed! If such want of confidence, such caution, such hypocrisy, and such cowardice pass muster in the world, in the drawing-rooms and boudoirs of Parisian society, they ought not to exist between friends who have together braved death and are ready to brave it again, between wanderers on a savage Continent, in a deadly climate!

He went in search of his rival, so that he might cast on him all this reproach and abase, and he was inclined to be the more violent, because at the bottom of his heart he was conscious of a feeling that he was both unjust and absurd. For was not M. Périères perfectly right to be reticent about his success, out of respect to Madame de Guéran? But what did M. de Morin care about respect, or truth, or propriety? He was jealous, his mental vision was obscured, he had lost his head.

Just as he was leaving the house he saw the interpreter Ali getting off his horse, and he asked him if he knew whether M. Périères had gone out since sunset, and, if so, in what direction.

"I have just met him on the quay," replied the interpreter. "He was going along the road leading to Madame de Guéran's house."

"I might have known as much," said M. de Morin to himself. "I was a fool to ask the question."

And, trembling with rage, he asked—

"How long ago is it since you saw him?"

"About ten minutes."

"On horseback?"

"No, he was on foot."

"I must speak with him. Lend me your horse, and I will try to overtake him."

The interpreter obeyed, and M. de Morin set off at a hand-gallop in the direction of the Blue River.

He overtook M. Périères just as that individual reached Madame de Guéran's house, and was about to enter. Leaping from his horse he joined his former friend, who, on seeing him, stopped and smiled sarcastically.

"You are calling on the Baroness?" said the young painter, in an unsteady voice.

"That is evident," replied the man of letters, calmer, but quite as pale as his interlocutor, "and you are, doubtless, on the same errand as myself?"

"Identically the same," replied M. de Morin. They looked at each other. One word more, and these two men, who in reality esteemed each other, who had conceived and still entertained a sincere affection for each other—these two men, carried away by their passion, forgetful of the past, feverish with anxiety, and madly in love, were on the point of doing each other one of those mortal injuries which it is impossible to pardon, or to forget.

Fortunately, M. Périères retained just enough self-control to say to M. de Morin—

"Some explanation between us is necessary and desirable. Do you wish it to take place in this house—in the presence of the lady who lives here?"

"Certainly," said M. de Morin; "I will follow you."

On entering the garden they perceived one of the Nubians in the service of Madame de Guéran, and M. Périères was about to commission this woman to inform the Baroness of their presence, when M. de Morin stopped him.

"No," he said, "I see Madame de Guéran down there by that clump of trees, and I prefer going to her without giving her the opportunity of declining to see me."

"Not very often the case, as far as you are concerned," said M. Périères. "However, we will not be announced. Come along."

They were both of them actuated by precisely the same sentiments, they were experiencing a similar fear, and partaking of an equal amount of jealousy, but they remained utterly ignorant of the fact, and each of them was secretly in his heart reproaching the other for his duplicity, his cunning, and, above all, his victory.

Madame de Guéran rose as soon as she saw her visitors, and went quickly to meet them. She seemed very much agitated, and deeply affected.

"Ah!" she said, hurriedly. "You have done well to come, and to come together. I had reckoned upon postponing my interview with you until to-morrow, but I am anxious to have done with my irresolution. Chance has brought about a meeting, and I will explain myself this evening."

"When you allude to chance," observed M. de Morin, "you, doubtless, address yourself to me?"

"No," she said quietly, "I address myself to both of you. Why should I address you in preference to M. Périères? But what is the matter with you both? I declare I should not know you."

The sky was studded with stars of marvellous brightness, and Laura de Guéran, who had just raised her eyes to look at her two companions, was able to observe their pallor and their pained expression.

At the same time, she thought she could understand the meaning of the change, and, candid and out-spoken as ever, she said sweetly and kindly, but in a sad, broken voice—

"You are annoyed with me, are you not, for having remained so long without seeing you; for having shut my door against you, and having treated you as strangers—you, for whom I have so sincere a regard? Ah! if you only knew what I have undergone. But you were the last persons to whom I should have dared to confide my uncertainty, my fears, my hopes. I could only impart to you the result of my inquiries and my proceedings, and I have known that result but for a few hours. I was nerving myself to tell you all—to summon you—when you appeared. Now, I have no longer any right to be silent—I must divulge my secret."

She stopped, and they dared not reply, so deeply had her sympathetic, moving voice touched them, so strange was the emotion she aroused within them. Already their suffering had decreased, already were they reproaching themselves for their jealousy. She, who spoke to them and looked at them as she was then doing, could not be guilty of treason, either in love or friendship. They had accused her falsely, led away, blinded, and rendered unjust and cruel by their passion. But what was the secret she was about to entrust to their keeping? They longed in trembling anxiety to hear it.

She resumed, and her uneasiness was now equal to their own. She seemed to suffer from being compelled to speak as she was about to do, and blamed herself for the trouble she knew she should bring upon them. Her voice had lost its firmness, her countenance its composure, and her look its candour.

"First of all," she said, "let me tell you how deeply I regret having induced you to leave your country and enter on a life of adventure, without any object, as far as you are concerned, and—without any hope. My only idea, I assure you, was to undertake a journey, a pilgrimage, if you will, but a pilgrimage to a tomb where I had the right to kneel without wounding you. To-day the situation is changed, and you can no longer accompany me. I must continue on my way alone, and without your help go onwards towards the goal which I wish—which I ought to reach. I thank you with all my heart for your devotion to me, for the kindly affection you have ever displayed towards me. But, my dear companions, my valued friends, I must leave you, and you must forget me. My destiny is no longer my own to shape."

And as, pale, trembling, and unable to utter a word, they looked at her with anxiously inquiring gaze, she added timidly, nervously, without even stopping to take breath—

"I am not a widow. My husband, the victim of his devotion to science and his own personal bravery, is still alive, a prisoner in a country where no one had previously dared to penetrate. I must rescue him—I must save him. I am determined to do it, and I must say farewell to you."