THE NEWS FROM AFRICA
It took the better part of three evenings to answer her letter, and
the writing of it gave Sabron a vast amount of pleasure and some
tender sorrow. It made him feel at once so near to this lovely woman
and at once so far away. In truth there is a great difference
between a spahi on an African desert, and a young American heiress
dreaming in her chintz-covered bedroom in a château in the Midi of
France.
Notwithstanding, the young American heiress felt herself as much
alone in her chintz-covered bedroom and as desolate, perhaps more so,
than did Sabron in his tent. Julia Redmond felt, too, that she was
surrounded by people hostile to her friend.
Sabron's letter told her of Pitchouné and was written as only the
hand of a charming and imaginative Frenchman can write a letter.
Also, his pent-up heart and his reserve made what he did say stronger
than if perhaps he could have expressed it quite frankly.
Julia Redmond turned the sheets that told of Pitchouné's following
his master, and colored with joy and pleasure as she read. She wiped
away two tears at the end, where Sabron said:
"Think of it, Mademoiselle, a little dog following his master from
peace and plenty, from quiet and security, into the desert! And
think what it means to have this little friend!"
Julia Redmond reflected, was greatly touched and loved Pitchouné more
than ever. She would have changed places with him gladly. It was an
honor, a distinction to share a soldier's exile and to be his
companion. Then Sabron wrote, in closing words which she read and
reread many, many times.
"Mademoiselle, in this life many things follow us; certain of these
follow us whether we will or not. Some things we are strong enough
to forbid, yet we do not forbid them! My little dog followed me; I
had nothing to do with that. It was a question of fate. Something
else has followed me as well. It is not a living thing, and yet it
has all the qualities of vitality. It is a tune. From the moment I
left the château the first night I had the joy of seeing you,
Mademoiselle, the tune you sang became a companion to me and has
followed me everywhere ... followed me to my barracks, followed me
across the sea, and here in my tent it keeps me company. I find that
when I wake at night the melody sings to me; I find that when I mount
my horse and ride with my men, when the desert's sands are shifted by
my horse's feet, something sings in the sun and in the heat,
something sings in the chase and in the pursuit, and in the nights,
under the stars, the same air haunts me still.
"I am glad you told me what the words mean, for I find them
beautiful; the music in it would not be the same without the strength
and form of the words. So it is, Mademoiselle, with life. Feelings
and sentiments, passions and emotions, are like music. They are
great and beautiful; they follow us, they are part of us, but they
would be nothing--music would be nothing without forms by which we
could make it audible--appealing not to our senses alone but to our
souls!
"And yet I must close my letter sending you only the tune; the words
I _can not_ send you, yet believe me, they form part of everything I
do or say.
"To-morrow, I understand from my men, we shall have some lively work
to do. Whatever that work is you will hear of it through the papers.
There is a little town near here called Dirbal, inhabited by a poor
tribe whose lives have been made miserable by robbers and
slave-dealers. It is the business of us watchers of the plains to
protect them, and I believe we shall have a lively skirmish with the
marauders. There is a congregation of tribes coming down from the
north. When I go out with my people to-morrow it may be into danger,
for in a wandering life like this, who can tell? I do not mean to be
either morbid or sentimental. I only mean to be serious,
Mademoiselle, and I find that I am becoming so serious that it will
be best to close.
"Adieu, Mademoiselle. When you look from your window on the Rhone
Valley and see the peaceful fields of Tarascon, when you look on your
peaceful gardens, perhaps your mind will travel farther and you will
think of Africa. Do so if you can, and perhaps to-night you will say
the words only of the song before you go to sleep.
"I am, Mademoiselle,
"Faithfully yours,
"CHARLES DE SABRON."
There was only one place for a letter such as that to rest, and it
rested on that gentle pillow for many days. It proved a heavy weight
against Julia Redmond's heart. She could, indeed, speak the words of
the song, and did, and they rose as a nightly prayer for a soldier on
the plains; but she could not keep her mind and thoughts at rest.
She was troubled and unhappy; she grew pale and thin; she pined more
than Pitchouné had pined, and she, alas! could not break her chains
and run away.
The Duc de Tremont was a constant guest at the house, but he found
the American heiress a very capricious and uncertain lady, and Madame
d'Esclignac was severe with her niece.
"My dear Julia," she said to the beautiful girl, looking at her
through her lorgnon; "I don't understand you. Every one of your
family has married a title. We have not thought that we could do
better with our money than build up fortunes already started; than in
preserving noble races and noble names. There has never been a
divorce in our family. I am a marquise, your cousin is a countess,
your aunt is one of the peeresses of England, and as for you, my
dear..."
Miss Redmond was standing by the piano. She had lifted the cover and
was about to sit down to play. She smiled slightly at her aunt, and
seemed in the moment to be the older woman.
"There are titles and titles, _ma tante_: the only question is what
kind do you value the most?"
"The highest!" said her aunt without hesitation, "and the Duc de
Tremont is undoubtedly one of the most famous _partis_ in Europe."
"He will then find no difficulty in marrying," said the young girl,
"and I do not wish to marry a man I do not love."
She sat down at the piano and her hands touched the keys. Her aunt,
who was doing some dainty tapestry, whose fingers were creating
silken flowers and whose mind was busy with fancies and ambitions
very like the work she created, shrugged her shoulders.
"That seems to be," she said keenly, "the only tune you know, Julia."
"It's a pretty song, _ma tante_."
"I remember that you played and sang it the first night Sabron came
to dinner." The girl continued to finger among the chords. "And
since then never a day passes that sometime or other you do not play
it through."
"It has become a sort of _oraison, ma tante_."
"Sabron," said the marquise, "is a fine young man, my child, but he
has nothing but his officer's pay. Moreover, a soldier's life is a
precarious one."
Julia Redmond played the song softly through.
The old butler came in with the evening mail and the papers. The
Marquise d'Esclignac, with her embroidery scissors, opened _Le Temps_
from Paris and began to read with her usual interest. She approached
the little lamp on the table near her, unfolded the paper and looked
over at her niece, and after a few moments, said with a slightly
softened voice:
"Julia!" Miss Redmond stopped playing. "Julia!" The girl rose from
the piano-stool and stood with her hand on the instrument.
"My dear Julia!" Madame d'Esclignac spread _Le Temps_ out and put
her hand on it. "As I said to you, my child, the life of a soldier
is a precarious one."
"_Ma tante_," breathed Miss Redmond from where she stood. "Tell me
what the news is from Africa. I think I know what you mean."
She could not trust herself to walk across the floor, for Julia
Redmond in that moment of suspense found the room swimming.
"There has been an engagement," said the marquise gently, for in
spite of her ambitions she loved her niece. "There has been an
engagement, Julia, at Dirbal." She lifted the newspaper and held it
before her face and read:
"There has been some hard fighting in the desert, around about
Dirbal. The troops commanded by Captain de Sabron were routed by the
natives at noon on Thursday. They did not rally and were forced to
retreat. There was a great loss of life among the natives and
several of the regiment were also killed. There has been no late or
authentic news from Dirbal, but the last despatches give the
department of war to understand that Sabron himself is among the
missing."
The Marquise d'Esclignac slowly put down the paper, and rose quickly.
She went to the young girl's side and put her arm around her. Miss
Redmond covered her face with her hands:
"_Ma tante, ma tante!_" she murmured.
"My dear Julia," said the old lady, "there is nothing more uncertain
than newspaper reports, especially those that come from the African
seat of war. Sit down here, my child."
The two women sat together on the long piano-stool. The marquise
said:
"I followed the fortunes, my dear, of my husband's cousin through the
engagement in Tonkin. I know a little what it was." The girl was
immovable. Her aunt felt her rigid by her side. "I told you," she
murmured, "that a soldier's life was a precarious one."
Miss Redmond threw away all disguise.
"_Ma tante,_" she said in a hard voice. "I love him! You must have
known it and seen it. I love him! He is becoming my life."
As the marquise looked at the girl's face and saw her trembling lips
and her wide eyes, she renounced her ambitions for Julia Redmond.
She renounced them with a sigh, but she was a woman of the world, and
more than that to a woman. She remained for a moment in silence,
holding Julia's hands.
She had followed the campaign of her husband's cousin, a young man
with an insignificant title whom she had not married. In this moment
she relived again the arrival of the evening papers; the despatches,
her husband's news of his cousin. As she kissed Julia's cheeks a
moisture passed over her own eyes, which for many years had shed no
tears.
"Courage, my dear," she implored, "we will telegraph at once to the
minister of war for news."
The girl drew a convulsive breath and turned, and leaning both elbows
on the piano keys--perhaps in the very notes whose music in the
little song had charmed Sabron--she burst into tears. The marquise
rose and passed out of the room to send a man with a despatch to
Tarascon.