CHAPTER I.

It will not, we trust, have been forgotten that in the month of March, 1873, the Count de Pommerelle paid a visit to Dr. Desrioux, whom he found bowed down with grief, in consequence of the death of his mother. To his affection for her the young doctor had sacrificed his love for Madame de Guéran, his plans for accompanying her in her travels, and his most cherished hopes. In this state of almost despair he had begged M. de Pommerelle to take him away anywhere out of Paris.

The two friends met again at the funeral of Madame Desrioux. Prom the house of death they proceeded to the church, and thence to Père La Chaise. The Count at first considerately mingled with the crowd of relations and friends who had assembled to show the Doctor their sympathy with him in his distress. But as soon as the mournful ceremony was over, and the concourse of people had taken their departure, some in mourning coaches, and others down the long avenues of the cemetery, M. de Pommerelle resumed his place at his friend's side, to which he was entitled by his daily association with the Doctor, by their ties of friendship, drawn closer and closer during the few past months, and by the words which had passed between them on the previous evening.

"By virtue of the powers you have yourself given me, I take possession of you," said the Count.

And, acting up to his words, he put his arm in that of M. Desrioux, and drew his grief-stricken friend away. At the gate of the cemetery they found a brougham in waiting, which, after half an hour's drive, deposited them in front of a small hotel in the Avenue Montaigne.

M. Desrioux alighted from the vehicle mechanically, ascended the steps, and, with his friend and host, entered a room on the ground floor. He appeared quite unconscious of how he had reached the hotel, or what he was doing. It was almost as if his mind, clinging to its former companionship with his mother, had sought a voluntary grave by her side, and as if his spirit had ascended to heaven with hers.

The Count felt bound to make an attempt to rouse him from this state of stupor and mental lethargy, this physical and intellectual prostration, which not unfrequently follows upon excessive fatigue and prolonged experiences of sorrow. Placing himself right in front of M. Desrioux, and compelling the latter to look up, he said—

"You have fulfilled to the utmost every duty, both as a son and a physician. You have fought against death, and have been worsted in the fight. Now, what do you intend doing?"

M. Desrioux looked at him at first without taking in the sense of his words, but, on the question being repeated, he exclaimed—

"What am I going to do? I know not—I know not."

"But I do," said the Count, decidedly. "You are going to rejoin her whom, after your mother, you loved best in the world, by whose side, even if you cannot altogether forget the past, you will at all events suffer less acutely. You are going to set out for Africa, and endeavour to rejoin Madame de Guéran."

"No, no I do not let us speak of her now," exclaimed M. Desrioux, "I have no right to talk about her. I must devote myself to the memory of my mother. All my thoughts belong to her, and I cannot turn to any one else."

"Was not Madame de Guéran a favourite with your mother?" asked the Count.

"Oh! yes, a very great favourite."

"Then," replied M. de Pommerelle, "what wrong can there be in your devoting yourself to one who was dear to her whom you have lost? It is a homage to the dead to think of all they loved here below. And have you not also told me that Madame Desrioux regretted your having remained with her in Paris, and your refusal to accompany Madame de Guéran?"

"Yes, in her thorough unselfishness and self-denial she did her best to induce me to go, and was never tired of urging me. 'Go, my dear boy,' she would say, 'go with that charming woman. I am not jealous, I love her as a daughter. I will take care of myself during your absence, I will not be guilty of any imprudence, but will watch over myself for your sake. You will find me on your return, sitting by the window in my arm chair, waiting for you, and ready to welcome you back with a smile and a kiss.' I did well," continued M. Desrioux, "not to listen to her. I should not have seen her again, and she would have looked for me at her bedside in vain. Her latest moments, soothed, perhaps, by my presence, would have been sad indeed had I been away."

"Be it so. You did well, I admit, to remain, but now you will be doing equally well to go away, because in that lies your only means of assuaging your grief. As a matter of fact, the idea was your own— did you not entreat me to take you away, far away?"

"Yes, that is true; and, possibly, with you, and giving myself up entirely to your guidance, I might carry out the idea, but I have not the courage, at all events now, to tear myself away from the spots hallowed by her memory, and the tomb in which we have but just laid her."

"Who said anything about your going alone?" asked M. de Pommerelle, "What makes you think that I intend to give you up?"

"Do you mean to say," said the Doctor, in astonishment, "that you would go to Africa—you?"

"Yes, I—I will go to Africa. When one has been as far as Monaco, as I have been, one is capable of anything. Besides, did we not make up our minds to go, only our plans were nipped in the bud?"

"We certainly did map out a journey one evening, in a fit of passing excitement, but on the following morning we came to our senses, and released each other from the engagement."

"Say rather, my dear fellow, that you released yourself."

"That is true. But, tell me frankly—if I had started would you have come with me?"

"No, I would not, because for certain reasons, less weighty than yours, but serious enough from my point of view, I was compelled to remain where I was. These reasons have disappeared, and with them have vanished all my man-about-town proclivities, as well as that dislike to travelling which I have so often assumed for the simple purpose of deceiving myself, and endeavouring to hide the heavy clogs and chains which held me fast, like a convict, in Paris. I will not do your sorrow the injustice of comparing it to the annoyance I have just undergone, but you have already experienced your severest shock; if you are destined still to suffer much, you will, at least, admit that you are not in any danger; neither your future nor your honour are menaced. My annoyance, on the contrary, is mingled with serious fears; I dread giving way to a ridiculous temptation, and committing an act of downright folly—in short, for I have no secrets from you, I am afraid of committing matrimony with a charming, but decidedly ineligible woman. Let us be off, then, as soon as ever we can; you, to distract your mind from its sorrow, and I, to run away from my own cowardice, and escape from what would almost amount to dishonour. Let us be off, I say again, in both our interests. I will take you to the woman you love, and who is worthy of your love; you will take me from the one I hate, and love, and, above all, fear. It is not one bit too much to put France, the Mediterranean, and the greater portion of Africa between her and me, for by so doing I shall be putting away from myself all possibility of return or cowardice. I know that I shall, perhaps, lose my life where we are going, but that is very little in comparison with what I should certainly lose here. Africa, however cruel she may be, will have some consideration for me, and that is precisely what the fair lady in question has not. I prefer being physically eaten by the Niam-Niam to being morally devoured by that she-cannibal of the Boulevard Haussman. In a word, my dear fellow, just as a reformed rake, they say, makes a model husband, so a sedentary being like myself becomes, the very moment he turns wanderer, capable of any eccentricity, gives himself up to every extravagance, thinks no journey formidable enough, and would scale the moon, if she had not been for a considerable period placed out of reach of dilatory, and, for that, very reason, over bold travellers like your humble servant."

M. de Pommerelle stopped at last, and waited to see the effect of his long harangue.

M. Desrioux reflected for a moment or two, and then, holding out his hand, he said—

"When shall we start?"

"When you like," replied the Count, "the sooner the better for you, for me, and for our friends, too, in case they should be in danger and need our assistance."

"I agree with you, but we must make some preparations."

"We can do all that in Africa, at the port of disembarkation. If we take money, and plenty of it, we shall be able to smooth away every difficulty. Remember how Stanley, who was not at the time dreaming of Livingstone, made up his mind in twenty-four hours to join him. Let us show the Americans that, on occasion, we can be quite as expeditious and determined as they are."

"Very well. Only, it is not enough merely to go to Africa; we must go there to some purpose. What is to be our starting-point? Shall we follow the route taken by our friends?"

"That is just what we must avoid," replied M. de Pommerelle. "It would be the very way never to find them, seeing that they have six months' start of us. In their last letter, you will remember, they said, 'If instead of having received our information about M. de Guéran at Khartoum, we could have been furnished with it in France, our plan of action would have been altered considerably. In fact, if M. de Guéran has managed to cross the frontier of the Monbuttoos, we are destined simply to follow up his tracks without any chance of overtaking him. On the other hand, by setting foot in Africa at Zanzibar, and taking a north-westerly direction towards the Lakes Victoria and Albert, we should have undoubtedly met him, as he was travelling from a precisely opposite point. If we could start afresh, we should start from Zanzibar.' So, you see, we shall do what our friends could not, and we shall profit by their experience. Their argument about M. de Guéran is equally applicable to themselves, because they have adopted the same route that he did. At Cairo, at Khartoum, in the district watered by the White Nile and the Bahr-el-Gazal, they have been seen, but nobody would be able to tell us what has become of them. To all our questions we could get but one reply. They were going towards the south-east—and we know that already from their letters. At Zanzibar, on the contrary, we shall either find them ready to embark on their return to Europe, or, if they are not there, we can set out to meet them."

"Your reasoning is good," said M. Desrioux, "and I agree to your plan."

"Do you agree, also, to my making the necessary arrangements for our very speedy departure?"

"Certainly. I give you full power."

"Then I shall engage a couple of berths on board the first steamer leaving for the Indian ocean. I have travelled along the map with you so frequently during the last six months that I know exactly what to do."