CHAPTER XXII.

As the caravan had not yet surmounted all the hills which form a barrier, natural but very little respected, between the territory of the Bongos and that of the Niam-Niam, the camp had been pitched on the final declivity of the mountain, on the edge of a large plain, whence we obtained a magnificent view. Everybody retired early, and the bearers and soldiers, tired out with a long march up the steep side of the mountain, succumbed to the influence of the drowsy god sooner than usual.

Before the final descent into the country of the Niam-Niam was made, M. Périères put together the notes jotted down with reference to the Bongos, and made up the register of the expedition. M. de Morin, meanwhile, spread a bullock hide on the grass, close to his tent, and, lying flat on his back, with a cigarette in his mouth, gave himself up to a lazy contemplation of the star-lit sky. Miss Poles, with folded arms and head in the air, paced to and fro with lengthy strides, from the camp to the nearest trees and back again. The movement of her lips showed that she was talking to herself, and she was, no doubt, debating the question whether Dr. Delange was really worthy of her, or whether she would not do better to transfer her affections to M. de Morin or M. Périères.

Madame de Guéran, in whom the loveliness of the night possibly caused a longing for solitude, was seated in front of her tent, but she, nevertheless, appeared insensible to the surrounding splendour, and looked straight before her: Were her thoughts flying backwards, over the vast expanse of memory? or were they, perchance, leading her on in an attempt to fathom the future?

Dr. Delange walked up and down in front of her for a few moments, without her seeing him. He seemed anxious to accost her, but yet unwilling to break in upon her reverie. At last he summoned up courage and joined her. Seeing him, she raised her head impatiently, as if to drive away the thoughts that had been oppressing her, and said, in her sweet voice—

"You have something to say to me, I suppose, my dear Doctor? Pray say on."

"Yes," he replied. "For some days past I have been anxious for a little conversation with you, but I could never find you alone. To-night, on the contrary, everybody appears inspired with a desire to respect your solitude, and I venture to disturb it."

"And you have done well. But why choose this late hour, and so isolated a position? Have you a secret to confide to me?"

"No," replied M. Delange, quietly, "but you have one, and I am come to ask you to confide in me. Do not be indignant with me," he continued, seeing that Madame de Guéran looked surprised. "Do not tell me that our friendship is of too recent a date to warrant me in any attempt to discover your secrets or seek your confidence. In so saying you would be guilty of an injustice, and would, moreover, cause me an amount of pain which I have not deserved. Our mode of life during the last six months has brought us into closer connection than many years of ordinary society would have done, and I know that you are good enough to give me a place in your friendship and esteem already. For you, Madame de Guéran, I have a sincere respect, I may say, a sacred regard. The term is not at all high-flown, for you recall to me, both in feature and disposition, a fondly-loved relative, whom I had the misfortune to lose two years ago. It was, I think, her death which caused my going astray to a certain extent, and led me to adopt a club life, up to that time a sealed book to me. There is no reason, therefore, why you should not honour me with your confidence, and I think you will not accuse me of being over-bold in asking you for it."

"That is true," she replied, holding out her hand. "But what have I to tell you? What do you want to know?"

"Many things; and if you still hesitate to throw off your reserve towards the friend, look upon me merely as your doctor. We medical men are, as you know, confessors, to whom everything may be revealed, but by whom nothing is repeated."

"But, my dear Doctor, I am not ill."

"There lies your great mistake. You are ill, and that is my reason for interfering, first of all, as a doctor. Have you not been suffering from fever for some days past?"

"Oh, yes; but that is unavoidable in this climate."

"Excuse me; the climate, so far as concerns the districts through which we have lately passed, and the altitude in which we now are, is excellent. If a constitution such as yours could be influenced by climate, you would have been ill during the first portion of our journey—at Khartoum, which is very unhealthy, on the Upper Nile, or the Gazelle River. You were, on the contrary, in perfect health there, better than any of us, and you only began to suffer when we left off."

"From a spirit of contradiction, perhaps," said she, smiling. "But what is the result of your diagnosis?"

"This. Africa has no effect whatever upon your organization, and I must, therefore, look to other causes to account for the fever from which you are suffering, the state of depression and prostration noticeable in you, and for certain nervous symptoms which you cannot conceal from me, notwithstanding all your efforts."

"And what are those causes, Mr. Inquisitor-General?"

"May I tell you?"

"I have made up my mind to hear all your have to say."

"Well, then, they are purely moral. Your mind is ill at ease, your imagination is ever at work, and your heart is distressed. Hence the physical disturbance and disorders which I have just mentioned to you."

Madame de Guéran changed colour and bent down her head without replying. She seemed to be uncomfortable and embarrassed by the close scrutiny to which she had been subjected, but, though at first she was pained by the dissection of her innermost feelings, she still felt less isolated, less thrown back upon herself.

This state of feeling was intelligible enough—instead of being called upon for a confession she would not have had the courage to make, it was made for her. Her silence was in itself an avowal, and in saying nothing she told all.

M. Delange hastened to follow up the advantages he had gained, and continued, with warmth—

"Confide in me. You know very well that for some time past you have been seeking a confidant, but you could not find one. It was impossible for you to know me as I really am—serious enough when occasion calls for it, and devoted heart and soul to those I care for. You could not open out your heart to Miss Poles, because her eccentricities prevent her claims being taken into serious consideration, and as for our two friends, they are the very last persons you would choose as confidants."

"Why so?" she asked, abruptly.

"You want to know?"

"Certainly; candour for candour."

"And if my candour displeases you?"

"So much the worse for me. I ask you for it."

"Very well. You can only confide in a friend, and both these gentlemen love you."

"Have they told you so?" asked the Baroness, quickly.

"Never, I assure you," replied M. Delange. "But you will admit," he added, with a smile, "that it was not a very difficult discovery to make."

"Yes, they do love me," she said, resolutely, "but you forget. Doctor, that we were dealing with my sufferings, and, I presume, you do not wish me to infer that they are due to these two gentlemen."

"To a certain extent they are."

"How so? Is it absolutely necessary that I, too, should respond to this two-fold love, and be _éprise_ in my turn?"

"No; it is very clear to me that you have no love for either of them. But their suffering conduces to yours, and you cannot help a constant feeling of uneasiness as you say to yourself—'What is to be the end of all this? How am I to extricate myself from the difficulty? How am I to get out of the false situation in which I have put myself?'"

"And, according to you, this simple feeling of uneasiness has sufficed to render me susceptible of fever, to cause me to lose my colour, to throw me into a state of prostration, and to bring on a nervous attack? I thought I was stronger."

"And so you are, in reality. The sufferings of these gentlemen simply annoy you. Your illness is within yourself. Your nerves are over-excited by the continual struggle that is going on within you, and the state of hesitation and uncertainty in which you are living."

"What uncertainty?"

"You are not in love with either of our two friends, but you are not quite sure that it will not come to pass some day. They evidently please you, and their conversation is agreeable. When they do some good action, or render you some service, your heart beats somewhat more quickly. And, what grieves you, unnerves you more than all, and puts you in a fever, is the fact that you do not know which of the two pleases you most. You are continually hesitating between one and the other, you are carried away by your imagination, and you lose yourself in useless questions and futile self-examination."

"It is because I do not love at all!" she exclaimed. "Do you think a woman does not know when she loves? Do you think she can be deceived in that?"

This time she spoke with determination.

The shades of night had now fallen completely, and the moon, which had taken possession of the sky and was reigning there in undisputed sway, lighted up the countenance of Madame de Guéran with a silvery radiance, and enhanced the natural delicacy of her features.