[The greatest of French novelists hardly needs an introduction.
Innumerable books of recent years have rendered him and his
peculiarities familiar to the world--his ponderous figure and his
face like Nero's, his early struggles as a Grub-street hack, his
garret in the Rue Lesdiguières, his meals of bread and milk at
twopence-halfpenny a day, his midnight draughts of coffee, his
everlasting dressing-gown, his eighteen hours of work to five of
sleep, his innumerable proof-sheets blackened with corrections, his
debts, his duns, his quarrels with his publishers, his gradual rise
to affluence and glory, his romantic passion for the Russian
Countess, his marriage with her after sixteen years of waiting, and
his death of heart disease just as the land of promise lay before
him. Balzac, who took all human nature for his theme, and who
pourtrayed above two thousand men and women, made but one study of
an animal--a circumstance which gives "A Passion in the Desert" an
interest all its own.]
"It is a terrible sight!" she exclaimed as we left the menagerie of
Monsieur Martin.
She had just been witnessing this daring showman "performing" in the
cage of his hyena.
"By what means," she went on, "can he have so tamed these animals as to
be secure of their affection?"
"What seems to you a problem," I responded, interrupting her, "is in
reality a fact of nature."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, with an incredulous smile.
"You think, then, that animals are devoid of passions?" I asked her.
"You must know that we can teach them all the qualities of civilised
existence."
She looked at me with an astonished air.
"But," I went on, "when I first saw Monsieur Martin, I confess that,
like yourself, I uttered an exclamation of surprise. I happened to be
standing by the side of an old soldier, whose right leg had been
amputated, and who had come in with me. I was struck by his appearance.
His was one of those intrepid heads, stamped with the seal of war, upon
whose brows are written the battles of Napoleon. About this old soldier
was a certain air of frankness and of gaiety which always gains my
favour. He was doubtless one of those old troopers whom nothing can
surprise; who find food for laughter in the dying spasms of a comrade,
who gaily bury and despoil him, who challenge bullets with
indifference--though their arguments are short enough--and who would
hob-nob with the devil. After keenly looking at the showman as he was
coming from the cage, my neighbour pursed his lips with that significant
expression of contempt which superior men assume to show their
difference from the dupes. At my exclamation of surprise at Monsieur
Martin's courage he smiled, and nodding with a knowing air, remarked, 'I
understand all that.'
"'How?' I answered. 'If you can explain this mystery to me you will
oblige me greatly.'
"In a few moments we had struck up an acquaintance, and went to dine at
the first restaurant at hand. At dessert a bottle of champagne
completely cleared the memory of this strange old soldier. He told his
story, and I saw he was right when he exclaimed, 'I understand all
that.'
[Illustration: "HE TOLD HIS STORY."]
When we got home, she teased me so, and yet so prettily, that I
consented to write out for her the soldier's reminiscences.
The next day she received this episode, from an epic that might be
called "The French in Egypt."
* * * * *
During the expedition undertaken in Upper Egypt by General Desaix, a
Provençal soldier, who had fallen into the hands of the Maugrabins, was
taken by these Arabs into the desert beyond the cataracts of the Nile.
In order to put between them and the French army a distance to assure
their safety, the Maugrabins made a forced march, and did not halt till
night. They then camped by the side of a well, surrounded by a clump of
palm trees, where they had before buried some provisions. Never dreaming
that their prisoner would think of flight, they merely bound his hands,
and all of them, after eating a few dates, and giving barley to their
horses, went to sleep. When the bold Provençal saw his enemies incapable
of watching him, he picked up a scimitar with his teeth, and then with
the blade fixed between his knees, cut the cords that lashed his wrists,
and found himself at liberty. He at once seized a carbine and a dagger;
provided himself with some dry dates and a small bag of barley, powder
and balls; girded on the scimitar, sprang on a horse, and pressed
forward in the direction where he fancied the French army must be found.
Impatient to regain the bivouac, he so urged the weary horse, that the
poor beast fell dead, its sides torn with the spurs, leaving the
Frenchman alone in the midst of the desert.
[Illustration: "HE CUT THE CORDS."]
After wandering for some time amidst the sand with the desperate courage
of an escaping convict, the soldier was forced to stop. Night was
closing in. Despite the beauty of the Eastern night he had not strength
sufficient to go on. Fortunately he had reached a height on the top of
which were palm trees, whose leaves, for some time visible far off, had
awakened in his heart a hope of safety. He was so weary that he lay down
on a granite stone, oddly shaped like a camp bed, and went to sleep,
without taking the precaution to protect himself in his slumber. He had
sacrificed his life, and his last thought was a regret for having left
the Maugrabins, whose wandering life began to please him, now that he
was far from them and from all hope of succour.
He was awakened by the sun, whose pitiless rays falling vertically upon
the granite made it intolerably hot. For the Provençal had been so
careless as to cast himself upon the ground in the direction opposite to
that on which the green majestic palm-tops threw their shadow. He looked
at these solitary trees and shuddered! They reminded him of the graceful
shafts surmounted by long foils that distinguish the Saracenic columns
of the Cathedral of Arles. He counted the few palms; and then looked
about him. A terrible despair seized upon his soul. He saw a boundless
ocean. The melancholy sands spread round him, glittering like a blade of
steel in a bright light, as far as eye could see. He knew not whether he
was gazing on an ocean, or a chain of lakes as lustrous as a mirror. A
fiery mist shimmered, in little ripples, above the tremulous landscape.
The sky possessed an Oriental blaze, the brilliancy which brings
despair, seeing that it leaves the imagination nothing to desire. Heaven
and earth alike were all aflame. The silence was terrible in its wild
and awful majesty. Infinity, immensity, oppressed the soul on all sides;
not a cloud was in the sky, not a breath was in the air, not a movement
on the bosom of the sand, which undulated into tiny waves. Far away, the
horizon was marked off, as on a summer day at sea, by a line of light as
bright and narrow as a sabre's edge.
The Provençal clasped his arms about a palm tree as if it had been the
body of a friend; then, sheltered by the straight and meagre shadow, he
sat down weeping on the granite, and looking with deep dread upon the
lonely scene spread out before his eyes. He cried aloud as if to tempt
the solitude. His voice, lost in the hollows of the height, gave forth
far-off a feeble sound that woke no echo; the echo was within his heart!
The Provençal was twenty-two years old. He loaded his carbine.
"Time enough for that!" he muttered to himself, placing the weapon of
deliverance on the ground.
[Illustration: "THE POOR BEAST FELL DEAD."]
Looking by turns at the melancholy waste of sand and at the blue expanse
of sky, the soldier dreamed of France. With delight he fancied that he
smelt the Paris gutters, and recalled the towns through which he had
passed, the faces of his comrades, and the slightest incidents of his
life. Then, his Southern imagination made him fancy in the play of heat
quivering above the plain, the pebbles of his own dear Provence. But
fearing all the dangers of this cruel mirage, he went down in the
direction opposite to that which he had taken when he had climbed the
hill the night before. Great was his joy on discovering a kind of
grotto, naturally cut out of the enormous fragments of granite that
formed the bottom of the hill. The remnants of a mat showed that this
retreat had once been inhabited. Then, a few steps further, he saw palm
trees with a load of dates. Again the instinct which attaches man to
life awoke within his heart. He now hoped to live until the passing of
some Maugrabin; or perhaps he would soon hear the boom of cannon, for at
that time Buonaparte was overrunning Egypt. Revived by this reflection,
the Frenchman cut down a few bunches of ripe fruit, beneath whose weight
the date trees seemed to bend, and felt sure, on tasting this
unhoped-for manna, that the inhabitant of this grotto had cultivated the
palm trees. The fresh and luscious substance of the date bore witness to
his predecessor's care.
The Provençal passed suddenly from dark despair to well-nigh insane
delight. He climbed the hill again; and spent the remainder of the day
in cutting down a barren palm tree, which the night before had served
him for shelter.
A vague remembrance made him think of the wild desert beasts; and,
foreseeing that they might come to seek the spring which bubbled through
the sand among the rocks, he resolved to secure himself against their
visits by placing a barrier at the door of his hermitage. In spite of
his exertions, in spite of the strength with which the fear of being
eaten during sleep endued him, it was impossible for him to cut the palm
to pieces in one day; but he contrived to bring it down. When, towards
evening, the monarch of the desert fell, the thunder of its crash
resounded far, as if the mighty Solitude had given forth a moan. The
soldier shuddered as if he had heard a voice that prophesied misfortune.
But like an heir who does not long bewail the death of a relation, he
stripped the tree of the broad, long, green leaves, and used them to
repair the mat on which he was about to lie. At length, wearied by the
heat and by his labours, he fell asleep beneath the red roof of his
murky grotto.
In the middle of the night he was disturbed by a strange noise. He sat
up; in the profound silence he could hear a creature breathing--a savage
respiration which resembled nothing human. Terror, intensified by
darkness, silence, and the fancies of one suddenly awakened, froze his
blood. He felt the sharp contraction of his scalp, when, as the pupils
of his eyes dilated, he saw in the shadow two faint and yellow lights.
At first he thought these lights were some reflection of his eyeballs,
but soon, the clear brightness of the night helping him to distinguish
objects in the grotto, he saw lying at two paces from him an enormous
beast!
Was it a lion?--a tiger?--a crocodile? The Provençal was not
sufficiently educated to know the species of his enemy, but his terror
was all the greater; since his ignorance assisted his imagination. He
bore the cruel torture of listening, of marking the caprices of this
awful breathing, without losing a sound of it, or venturing to make the
slightest movement. A smell as pungent as a fox's, but more penetrating,
filled the grotto; and when it entered his nostrils his terror passed
all bounds; he could no longer doubt the presence of the terrible
companion whose royal den was serving him for bivouac. Presently the
moon, now sinking, lighted up the den, and in the moon-rays gradually
shone out a panther's spotted skin.
The lion of Egypt was sleeping, curled up like a great dog who is the
peaceable possessor of a sumptuous kennel at a mansion door; its eyes,
which had been opened for one moment, were now closed again. Its face
was turned towards the Frenchman.
[Illustration: "HE CLASPED HIS ARMS ABOUT A PALM TREE."]
A thousand troubled thoughts passed through the mind of the panther's
prisoner. At first he thought of shooting it; but there was not enough
room between them to adjust his gun; the barrel would have reached
beyond the animal. And what if he awoke it! This supposition made him
motionless. Listening in the silence to the beating of his heart, he
cursed the loud pulsations, fearing to disturb the sleep that gave him
time to seek some means of safety. Twice he placed his hand upon his
scimitar, with the intention of cutting off the head of his enemy; but
the difficulty of cutting through the short, strong fur compelled him to
abandon the idea. To fail was certain death. He preferred the odds of
conflict, and determined to await the daybreak. And daylight was not
long in coming. The Frenchman was able to examine the panther. Its
muzzle was stained with blood.
"It has eaten plenty," he reflected, without conjecturing that the feast
might have been composed of human flesh; "it will not be hungry when it
wakes."
It was a female. The fur upon her breast and thighs shone with
whiteness. A number of little spots like velvet looked like charming
bracelets around her paws. The muscular tail was also white, but tipped
with black rings. The upper part of her coat, yellow as old gold, but
very soft and smooth, bore those characteristic marks, shaded into the
form of roses, which serve to distinguish the panther from the other
species of the genus _Felis_. This fearful visitor was snoring
tranquilly in an attitude as graceful as that of a kitten lying on the
cushions of an ottoman. Her sinewy, blood-stained paws, with powerful
claws, were spread beyond her head, which rested on them, and from which
stood out the thin, straight whiskers with a gleam like silver wires.
[Illustration: "THE BEAST BEGAN TO MOVE TOWARDS HIM."]
If she had been imprisoned in a cage, the Provençal would assuredly have
admired the creature's grace, and the vivid contrasts of colour that
gave her garment an imperial lustre; but at this moment he felt his
sight grow dim at her sinister aspect. The presence of the panther, even
sleeping, made him experience the effect which the magnetic eyes of the
serpent are said to exercise upon the nightingale.
In the presence of this danger the courage of the soldier faltered,
although without doubt it would have risen at the cannon's mouth. A
desperate thought, however, filled his mind, and dried up at its source
the chilly moisture which was rolling down his forehead. Acting as men
do who, driven to extremities, at last defy their fate, and nerve
themselves to meet their doom, he saw a tragedy in this adventure, and
resolved to play his part in it with honour to the last.
"Two days ago," he argued with himself, "the Arabs might have killed
me."
Considering himself as good as dead, he waited bravely, yet with
restless curiosity, for the awaking of his enemy.
When the sun shone out, the panther opened her eyes suddenly; then she
spread out her paws forcibly, as if to stretch them and get rid of
cramp. Then she yawned, showing an alarming set of teeth and an
indented, rasp-like tongue. "She is like a dainty lady!" thought the
Frenchman, as he saw her rolling over with a gentle and coquettish
movement. She licked off the blood that stained her paws and mouth, and
rubbed her head with movements full of charm. "That's it! Just beautify
yourself a little!" the Frenchman said, his gaiety returning with his
courage. "Then we must say good-morning." And he took up the short
dagger of which he had relieved the Maugrabins.
At this moment the panther turned her head towards the Frenchman, and
looked at him fixedly, without advancing. The rigidity of those metallic
eyes, and their insupportable brightness, made the Provençal shudder.
The beast began to move towards him. He looked at her caressingly, and
fixing her eyes as if to magnetise her, he let her come close up to him;
then, with a soft and gentle gesture, he passed his hand along her body,
from head to tail, scratching with his nails the flexible vertebræ that
divide a panther's yellow back. The beast put up her tail with pleasure;
her eyes grew softer; and when for the third time the Frenchman
accomplished this self-interested piece of flattery, she broke into a
purring like a cat. But this purr proceeded from a throat so deep and
powerful that it re-echoed through the grotto like the peals of a
cathedral organ. The Provençal, realising the success of his caresses,
redoubled them, until the imperious beauty was completely soothed and
lulled.
When he felt sure that he had perfectly subdued the ferocity of his
capricious companion, whose hunger had been satisfied so cruelly the
night before, he got up to leave the grotto. The panther let him go; but
when he had climbed the hill, she came bounding after him with the
lightness of a sparrow hopping from branch to branch, and rubbed herself
against the soldier's leg, arching her back after the fashion of a cat.
Then looking at her guest with eyes whose brightness had grown less
inflexible, she uttered that savage cry which naturalists have compared
to the sound of a saw.
"What an exacting beauty!" cried the Frenchman, smiling. He set himself
to play with her ears, to caress her body, and to scratch her head hard
with his nails. Then, growing bolder with success, he tickled her skull
with the point of his dagger, watching for the spot to strike her. But
the hardness of the bones made him afraid of failing.
The sultana of the desert approved the action of her slave by raising
her head, stretching her neck, and showing her delight by the quietness
of her attitude. The Frenchman suddenly reflected that in order to
assassinate this fierce princess with one blow he need only stab her in
the neck. He had just raised his knife for the attempt, when the
panther, with a graceful action, threw herself upon the ground before
his feet, casting him from time to time a look in which, in spite of its
ferocity of nature, there was a gleam of tenderness.
The poor Provençal, with his back against a palm tree, ate his dates,
while he cast inquiring glances, now towards the desert for deliverers,
now upon his terrible companion, to keep an eye upon her dubious
clemency. Every time he threw away a date-stone, the panther fixed her
eyes upon the spot with inconceivable mistrust. She scrutinised the
Frenchman with a business-like attention; but the examination seemed
favourable, for when he finished his poor meal, she licked his boots,
and with her rough, strong tongue removed the dust incrusted in their
creases.
"But when she becomes hungry?" thought the Provençal.
Despite the shudder this idea caused him, the soldier began examining
with curiosity the proportions of the panther, certainly one of the most
beautiful specimens of her kind. She was three feet high and four feet
long, without the tail. This powerful weapon, as round as a club, was
nearly three feet long. The head--large as that of a lioness--was
distinguished by an expression of rare delicacy; true, the cold cruelty
of the tiger dominated, but there was also a resemblance to the features
of a wily woman. In a word, the countenance of the solitary queen wore
at this moment an expression of fierce gaiety, like that of Nero flushed
with wine; she had quenched her thirst in blood, and now desired to
play.
The soldier tried to come and go, and the panther let him, content to
follow him with her eyes, but less after the manner of a faithful dog
than of a great Angora cat, suspicious even of the movements of its
master. When he turned round he saw beside the fountain the carcase of
his horse; the panther had dragged the body all that distance. About
two-thirds had been devoured. This sight reassured the Frenchman. He was
thus easily able to explain the absence of the panther, and the respect
which she had shown for him while he was sleeping.
This first piece of luck emboldened him about the future. He conceived
the mad idea of setting up a pleasant household life, together with the
panther, neglecting no means of pacifying her and of conciliating her
good graces. He returned to her, and saw, to his delight, that she moved
her tail with an almost imperceptible motion. Then he sat down beside
her without fear, and began to play with her; he grasped her paws, her
muzzle, pulled her ears, threw her over on her back, and vigorously
scratched her warm and silky sides. She let him have his way, and when
the soldier tried to smooth the fur upon her paws she carefully drew in
her claws, which had the curve of a Damascus blade. The Frenchman, who
kept one hand upon his dagger, was still thinking of plunging it into
the body of the too-confiding panther; but he feared lest she should
strangle him in her last convulsions. And besides, within his heart
there was a movement of remorse that warned him to respect an
inoffensive creature. It seemed to him that he had found a friend in
this vast desert. Involuntarily he called to mind a woman whom he once
had loved, whom he sarcastically had nicknamed "Mignonne," from her
jealousy, which was so fierce that during the whole time of their
acquaintance he went in fear that she would stab him. This memory of his
youth suggested the idea of calling the young panther by this name,
whose lithe agility and grace he now admired with less terror.
Towards evening he had become so far accustomed to his perilous
position, that he almost liked the hazard of it. At last his companion
had got into the habit of looking at him when he called in a falsetto
voice "Mignonne."
At sun-down Mignonne uttered several times a deep and melancholy cry.
"She has been properly brought up," thought the light-hearted soldier;
"she says her prayers!" But it was, no doubt, her peaceful attitude
which brought the jest into his mind.
"All right, my little pet; I will let you get to sleep first," he said,
relying on his legs to get away as soon as she was sleeping, and to seek
some other shelter for the night.
The soldier waited with patience for the hour of flight, and when it
came, set out full speed in the direction of the Nile. But he had only
gone a quarter of a league across the sand when he heard the panther
bounding after him, uttering at intervals that saw-like cry, more
terrible even than the thudding of her leaps.
[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO PLAY WITH HER."]
"Well!" he said to himself, "she must have taken a fancy to me. Perhaps
she has never yet met anyone. It is flattering to be her first love!" At
this moment the Frenchman fell into a shifting quicksand, so dangerous
to the traveller in the desert, escape from which is hopeless. He felt
that he was sinking; he gave a cry of terror. The panther seized him by
the collar with her teeth, and springing backwards with stupendous
vigour drew him from the gulf as if by magic.
"Ah! Mignonne!" cried the soldier, enthusiastically caressing her, "we
are friends now for life and death. But no tricks, eh?" and he retraced
his steps.
Henceforth the desert was as though it had been peopled. It contained a
being with whom he could converse, and whose ferocity had been softened
for him, without his being able to explain so strange a friendship.
[Illustration: "HE GAVE A CRY OF TERROR."]
However great was his desire to keep awake and on his guard, he fell
asleep. On awakening, Mignonne was no longer to be seen. He climbed the
hill, and then perceived her afar off, coming along by leaps and bounds,
according to the nature of these creatures, the extreme flexibility of
whose vertebræ prevents their running.
Mignonne came up, her jaws besmeared with blood. She received the
caresses of her companion with deep purrs of satisfaction. Her eyes, now
full of softness, were turned, with even greater tenderness than the
night before, to the Provençal, who spoke to her as to a pet.
"Ah! Beauty! you are a respectable young woman, are you not? You like
petting, don't you? Are you not ashamed of yourself? You have been
eating a Maugrabin! Well! they're animals, as you are. But don't you go
and gobble up a Frenchman. If you do, I shall not love you!"
She played as a young pup plays with its master, letting him roll her
over, beat and pet her; and sometimes she would coax him to caress her
with a movement of entreaty.
A few days passed thus. This companionship revealed to the Provençal the
sublime beauties of the desert. From the moment when he found within it
hours of fear and yet of calm, a sufficiency of food, and a living
creature who absorbed his thoughts, his soul was stirred by new
emotions. It was a life of contrasts. Solitude revealed to him her
secrets, and involved him in her charm. He discovered in the rising and
the setting of the sun a splendour hidden from the world of men. His
frame quivered when he heard above his head the soft whirr of a bird's
wings--rare wayfarer; or when he saw the clouds--those changeful,
many-coloured voyagers--mingle in the depth of heaven. In the dead of
night he studied the effects of the moon upon the sea of sand, which the
simoon drove in ever-changing undulations. He lived with the Oriental
day; he marvelled at its pomp and glory; and often, after having watched
the grandeur of a tempest in the plain, in which the sands were whirled
in dry red mists of deadly vapour, he beheld with ecstasy the coming on
of night, for then there fell upon him the benignant coolness of the
stars. He heard imaginary music in the sky. Solitude taught him all the
bliss of reverie. He spent whole hours in calling trifles to
remembrance, in comparing his past life with his strange present. To his
panther he grew passionately attached, for he required an object of
affection. Whether by a strong effort of his will he had really changed
the character of his companion, or whether, thanks to the constant
warfare of the deserts, she found sufficient food, she showed no
disposition to attack him, and at last, in her perfect tameness, he no
longer felt the slightest fear.
He spent a great part of his time in sleeping, but ever, like a spider
in its web, with mind alert, that he might not let deliverance escape
him, should any chance to pass within the sphere described by the
horizon. He had sacrificed his shirt to make a flag, which he had
hoisted to the summit of a palm-tree stripped of leaves. Taught by
necessity, he had found the means to keep it spread by stretching it
with sticks, lest the wind should fail to wave it at the moment when
the hoped-for traveller might be travelling the waste of sand.
It was during the long hours when hope abandoned him that he amused
himself with his companion. He had learnt to understand the different
inflexions of her voice, and the expression of her glances; he had
studied the varying changes of the spots that starred her robe of gold.
Mignonne no longer growled, even when he seized her by the tuft with
which her terrible tail ended, to count the black and white rings which
adorned it, and which glittered in the sun like precious gems. It
delighted him to watch the delicate soft lines of her snowy breast and
graceful head. But above all when she was gambolling in her play he
watched her with delight, for the agility, the youthfulness of all her
movements filled him with an ever-fresh surprise. He admired her
suppleness in leaping, climbing, gliding, pressing close against him,
swaying, rolling over, crouching for a bound. But however swift her
spring, however slippery the block of granite, she would stop short,
without motion, at the sound of the word "Mignonne!"
One day, in the most dazzling sunshine, an enormous bird was hovering in
the air. The Provençal left his panther to examine this new visitor; but
after waiting for a moment the deserted sultana uttered a hoarse growl.
"Blessed if I don't believe that she is jealous!" he exclaimed,
perceiving that her eyes were once more hard and rigid. "A woman's soul
has passed into her body, that is certain!"
The eagle disappeared in air, while he admired afresh the rounded back
and graceful outlines of the panther. She was as pretty as a woman. The
blonde fur blended in its delicate gradations into the dull white colour
of the thighs. The brilliant sunshine made this vivid gold, with spots
of brown, take on a lustre indescribable. The Provençal and the panther
looked at one another understandingly; the beauty of the desert quivered
when she felt the nails of her admirer on her skull. Her eyes gave forth
a flash like lightning, and then she closed them hard.
"She _has_ a soul," he cried, as he beheld the desert queen in her
repose, golden as the sands, white as their blinding lustre, and, like
them, fiery and alone.
* * * * *
"Well?" she said to me, "I have read your pleading on behalf of animals.
But what was the end of these two persons so well made to understand
each other?"
[Illustration: "I PLUNGED MY DAGGER INTO HER NECK."]
"Ah! They ended as all great passions end--through a misunderstanding.
Each thinks the other guilty of a falsity, each is too proud for
explanation, and obstinacy brings about a rupture."
"And sometimes in the happiest moments," she said, "a look, an
exclamation, is enough! Well, what was the end of the story?"
"That is difficult to tell, but you will understand what the old fellow
had confided to me, when, finishing his bottle of champagne, he
exclaimed, 'I don't know how I hurt her, but she turned on me like mad,
and with her sharp teeth seized my thigh. The action was not savage; but
fancying that she meant to kill me I plunged my dagger into her neck.
She rolled over with a cry that froze my blood; she looked at me in her
last struggles without anger. I would have given everything on earth,
even my cross--which then I had not won--to bring her back to life. It
was as if I had slain a human being. And the soldiers who had seen my
flag, and who were hastening to my succour, found me bathed in tears.
"'Well, sir,' he went on, after a moment's silence, 'since then I have
been through the wars in Germany, Spain, Russia, France; I have dragged
my carcase round the world; but there is nothing like the desert in my
eyes! Ah! it is beautiful--superb.'
"'What did you feel there?' I inquired of him.
"'Oh! that I cannot tell you. Besides, I do not always regret my
panther, and my clump of palm-trees. I must be sad at heart for that.
But mark my words. In the desert, there is everything and there is
nothing.'
"'Explain yourself.'
"'Well!' he continued, with a gesture of impatience, 'it is God without
man.'"