Sunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that
we were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal
importance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C----, and the
latest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.
"I have the Lieutenant's permission?" said Sergeant Chatelain,
beginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from
their wrappings.
I acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle.
de C----'s letter.
"When this reaches you," was the gist of this charming being's letter,
"mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country. If, in
your distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored
here as you possibly can be, make the most of it. The Grand Prix is
over. I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost.
Last night we dined with the Martials de la Touche. Elias Chatrian was
there, always amazingly young. I am sending you his last book, which
has made quite a sensation. It seems that the Martials de la Touche
are depicted there without disguise. I will add to it Bourget's last,
and Loti's, and France's, and two or three of the latest music hall
hits. In the political word, they say the law about congregations will
meet with strenuous opposition. Nothing much in the theatres. I have
taken out a summer subscription for _l'Illustration_. Would you care
for it? In the country no one knows what to do. Always the same lot of
idiots ready for tennis. I shall deserve no credit for writing to you
often. Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale. I am less
than nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me
that I am pretty, in yourself in particular. But indeed, I grow wild
at the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one
of our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails.... Enough of
that, it is too unpleasant an idea."
I had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman
when a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.
"Lieutenant!"
"Yes?"
"They are up to something at the Ministry. See for yourself."
He handed me the Official. I read:
"By a decision of the first of May, 1903, Captain de Saint-Avit
(André), unattached, is assigned to the Third Spahis, and appointed
Commandant of the Post of Hassi-Inifel."
Chatelain's displeasure became fairly exuberant.
"Captain de Saint-Avit, Commandant of the Post. A post which has never
had a slur upon it. They must take us for a dumping ground."
My surprise was as great as the Sergeant's. But just then I saw the
evil, weasel-like face of Gourrut, the convict we used as clerk. He
had stopped his scrawling and was listening with a sly interest.
"Sergeant, Captain de Saint-Avit is my ranking classmate," I answered
dryly.
Chatelain saluted, and left the room. I followed.
"There, there," I said, clapping him on the back, "no hard feelings.
Remember that in an hour we are starting for the oasis. Have the
cartridges ready. It is of the utmost importance to restock the
larder."
I went back to the office and motioned Gourrut to go. Left alone, I
finished Mlle. de C----'s letter very quickly, and then reread the
decision of the Ministry giving the post a new chief.
It was now five months that I had enjoyed that distinction, and on my
word, I had accepted the responsibility well enough, and been very
well pleased with the independence. I can even affirm, without taking
too much credit for myself, that under my command discipline had been
better maintained than under Captain Dieulivol, Saint-Avit's
predecessor. A brave man, this Captain Dieulivol, a non-commissioned
officer under Dodds and Duchesne, but subject to a terrible propensity
for strong liquors, and too much inclined, when he had drunk, to
confuse his dialects, and to talk to a Houassa in Sakalave. No one was
ever more sparing of the post water supply. One morning when he was
preparing his absinthe in the presence of the Sergeant, Chatelain,
noticing the Captain's glass, saw with amazement that the green liquor
was blanched by a far stronger admixture of water than usual. He
looked up, aware that something abnormal had just occurred. Rigid, the
carafe inverted in his hand, Captain Dieulivol was spilling the water
which was running over on the sugar. He was dead.
For six months, since the disappearance of this sympathetic old
tippler, the Powers had not seemed to interest themselves in finding
his successor. I had even hoped at times that a decision might be
reached investing me with the rights that I was in fact exercising....
And today this surprising appointment.
Captain de Saint-Avit. He was of my class at St. Cyr. I had lost track
of him. Then my attention had been attracted to him by his rapid
advancement, his decoration, the well-deserved recognition of three
particularly daring expeditions of exploration to Tebesti and the Air;
and suddenly, the mysterious drama of his fourth expedition, that
famous mission undertaken with Captain Morhange, from which only one
of the explorers came back. Everything is forgotten quickly in France.
That was at least six years ago. I had not heard Saint-Avit mentioned
since. I had even supposed that he had left the army. And now, I was
to have him as my chief.
"After all, what's the difference," I mused, "he or another! At school
he was charming, and we have had only the most pleasant relationships.
Besides, I haven't enough yearly income to afford the rank of
Captain."
And I left the office, whistling as I went.
* * * * *
We were now, Chatelain and I, our guns resting on the already cooling
earth, beside the pool that forms the center of the meager oasis,
hidden behind a kind of hedge of alfa. The setting sun was reddening
the stagnant ditches which irrigate the poor garden plots of the
sedentary blacks.
Not a word during the approach. Not a word during the shoot. Chatelain
was obviously sulking.
In silence we knocked down, one after the other, several of the
miserable doves which came on dragging wings, heavy with the heat of
the day, to quench their thirst at the thick green water. When a
half-dozen slaughtered little bodies were lined up at our feet I put
my hand on the Sergeant's shoulder.
"Chatelain!"
He trembled.
"Chatelain, I was rude to you a little while ago. Don't be angry. It
was the bad time before the siesta. The bad time of midday."
"The Lieutenant is master here," he answered in a tone that was meant
to be gruff, but which was only strained.
"Chatelain, don't be angry. You have something to say to me. You know
what I mean."
"I don't know really. No, I don't know."
"Chatelain, Chatelain, why not be sensible? Tell me something about
Captain de Saint-Avit."
"I know nothing." He spoke sharply.
"Nothing? Then what were you saying a little while ago?"
"Captain de Saint-Avit is a brave man." He muttered the words with his
head still obstinately bent. "He went alone to Bilma, to the Air,
quite alone to those places where no one had ever been. He is a brave
man."
"He is a brave man, undoubtedly," I answered with great restraint.
"But he murdered his companion, Captain Morhange, did he not?"
The old Sergeant trembled.
"He is a brave man," he persisted.
"Chatelain, you are a child. Are you afraid that I am going to repeat
what you say to your new Captain?"