CHAPTER XLVIII.

Madame de Guéran was about to reply, but he did not give her time.

"Yes," he went on at once to say, "why cannot we accompany you? Why cannot Périères and I, for I see by our friend's face that he shares my feelings on this subject, why cannot we attempt an enterprise which does not appear to you to be beyond your strength? After having brought us thus far, have you, indeed, any right to send us back and say to us, 'I can do without you; you may return whence you came? I have made a pleasure trip with you, and have reached a spot arrived at by a thousand others before us. The question now is one of journeying through countries visited by three or four Europeans at most, of going still further afield into the midst of unknown tribes, into places described by geographers as unexplored regions. The pleasure trip becomes one of danger; each step along my new road is a step towards death. But I do not consider you fit to accompany me; go back to Europe and your pleasures, and let me die alone!' And we, who worship the ground you tread upon, we, to whom you are all the world, we are to obey you? Never! I tell you it is an impossibility!"

"De Morin is right," added Périères, laconically. His voice was perfectly calm, but, beneath the coldness of his tone, there lay an inflexible will and fiery enthusiasm.

In his usual excitable manner, M. de Morin continued—

"Picture to yourself what our feelings would be on the day when you leave us, and when we let you go alone. For my part, I should never dare to look Périères in the face again, and I am equally certain that he would never be able to lift his eyes to mine. We should each go on his own way, with eyes downcast, crest fallen, and blushing for very shame. When we reached Paris we should be greeted with—'What! back again already? How about the grand tour? Had it become too risky? Then why did you start? Did you not know what you had to expect? Of course you have brought your companion back with you? No! Do you mean to say that she has gone on? The courage that fails you, she has; the strength that you lack, she possesses; she does not fear death, but you did not see it in the same light. Well, every one for himself in this world. But surely, she would not have started if you had not gone with her; she relied on your assistance and support, and suddenly, you deprive her of both—it's a queer business altogether!' That, believe me, is what would be said in our club, and throughout Paris, and that is just what we do not want to have said about us.

"But hold our _amour-propre_ as cheap as you like, expose us to ridicule and contempt, if you will! Let us speak only of your opinion of us, the only opinion about which we, in reality, care one jot. We have talked of our devotion, our respect, our affection for you, and the day when you put these sentiments to real proof, you find nothing; all have vanished into thin air, respect, affection, devotion, all taken to flight! You cease to be a widow, and in twenty-four hours we cease to love you; the one woman in the world having disappeared for us, the friend disappears with her, and we have not an idea even of devoting ourselves to the friend. She held out to us the hope of a reward, the hope is taken away, everything is at an end, adieu! As she in whose service we were can no longer pay us, let her live as best she may, let her die when she will, it is no affair of ours!"

"No, we have duties to fulfil towards ourselves, towards you, and, I do not hesitate to say it, towards a fellow countryman. There is no necessity for mentioning his name, nor for saying that he is your husband. In certain situations all feelings of rivalry, jealousy, or envy disappear. A European like ourselves, a Frenchman is, perhaps, suffering, dying in a country we have heard of, and can reach. The distance which separates him from us is diminished, we have achieved a third, possibly half the journey, and we must go on to the end. We agreed to accompany you on a pilgrimage to render homage to the dead; now we wish to, and we must, bring succour to the living. That is all I have to say to you in my own name and that of Périères. Pardon my prolixity; I cannot be silent about my feelings, a thousand thoughts course through my mind, and I cannot help putting them into words."

"And I thank you for it, my friend," said Périères, holding out his hand.

Madame de Guéran could not utter a word, but her eyes spoke her thanks.

They did not leave her until nearly midnight, after having arranged to see her again on the following day, for the purpose of conversing, together now, about the preparations for departure.

Without wishing in the least to depreciate the good qualities of MM. de Morin and Périères, without casting the slightest doubt upon their chivalrous self denial, we must, all the same, confess that they were not quite so disinterested as might be supposed. They had not, without any reservation, abandoned all hope. The woman they loved had not become, in a single moment, a simple travelling companion to whom they were going to devote themselves till death. Their passionate love could not so easily give place to an equally sincere friendship. A common thought struck them at the time the revelation was made to them, but they had not time to dwell on it, and it was out of the question that they should give expression to it before Madame de Guéran. But when they were alone, and left to themselves, it was not long before it found vent in words.

"There is nothing," said M. Périères, abruptly, "to prove that M. de Guéran is still alive."

"In reality," continued M. de Morin, as if he were speaking to himself and following out an idea of his own, "our dear Baroness is possibly labouring under a delusion. She has just been furnished with proof that her husband was not dead, as had been reported, in 1871, and that, moreover, he was still alive at the commencement of 1872. Granted! The evidence she has collected, and the letter she has at length received are proofs positive of that, and I accept them as such. But since then? There is nothing whatever to show that M. de Guéran has not succumbed during the course of the year now drawing to a close."

"I agree with you," replied M. Périères. "In a year he might surely have reached, either towards the south-west or south-east, some territory, comparatively speaking, civilized, and have had an opportunity of sending news about himself. Evidently, however, Madame de Guéran does not share our ideas; she wants to find out the key to the enigma, and we must help her to discover it."

"No need to tell me that!" said M. de Morin.

Conversing thus, they went along a road on the bank of the Blue River towards their house, which was in the very centre of Khartoum. It was past midnight, the ships in the port had, long ere this, put out their lights, and the road was deserted. A few yards still separated them from the first houses of the inhabited part of the town, that is to say, the commercial quarter, when they saw a knot of six or seven persons who appeared to be wending their way to the Nile, and were walking parallel with them.

"Where are those people going at this time of night?" asked M. Périères. "They seem to be anxious not to be seen, for since they have perceived us, they have been hesitating, apparently, which direction to take."

"What does it matter to us?" replied M. de Morin. "They cannot have any motive for picking a quarrel with us, and, for the matter of that, in this charming country our revolvers never leave us."

"It is precisely for that reason that I propose to give them the benefit of our society; they interest me. We shall possibly find some curious specimen of their manners and customs to surprise us, and, to tell the truth, my dear fellow, I have up to now paid so very little attention to the customs of Khartoum that to-night I feel inclined to devote some of my time to them."

"Come along then," replied M. de Morin, who never objected to any proposition to throw himself headlong into some fresh adventure.

They hastened their steps and soon found themselves in close proximity to the people who had excited their curiosity.

"See!" exclaimed M. Périères. "They are carrying something."

"Yes, and that something looks very like a human form. A midnight burial, perhaps. The Nile, you know, like the Ganges and other great rivers, is often made a receptacle for corpses."

"Then their corpse is returning to life; it is struggling, defending itself, protesting, no doubt, against its destined tomb."

"You are right! It is no burial—it is assassination. We must interfere."

The band of men, seeing the pair coming towards them in hostile fashion, stopped, deposited their burden on the ground, surrounded it as if anxious to defend it, and assumed a threatening attitude.