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.