Whilst, in the centre of equatorial Africa, about five hundred
leagues from all the waters which lave the shores of the African
continent and communicate with Europe, the French expedition was
making ready to penetrate still farther into the interior of the
country, and to pass limits hitherto considered to be impassable, the
Parisians continued their usual manner of life, and, without caring
one jot for the intrepid travellers, applied themselves to their
business on a small, and their pleasures on a large scale.
The various Geographical Societies had, however, in their journals
published a few notes despatched from Khartoum, in January, 1873,
but, as these journals do not come under the head of ordinary current
literature, they receive little or no notice at the hands of society.
In the drawing-room of the Marquise de Genevray, the aunt of M. de
Morin, after discussing the last new play, the latest _cause
célébre_, and the coming fashions, a word or two might be said about
Egypt and the Red Sea, but there everybody stopped, for fear of
falling into some gross geographical blunder. One day, when Madame de
Genevray, to give a fillip to conversation, mentioned having received
news of her nephew from Souakim, everybody stared in astonishment,
but nobody dared say a word except a lady of a certain age, who,
nodding her head as if she knew all about it, hazarded the
observation that it was some distance from Paris, on which there was
a general chorus of—"Oh, yes, a considerable distance!"
Some time afterwards her guests, on hearing the Marquise come out
with such names as Oondokoro and Bahr-el-Ghazal, looked positively
alarmed, and wondered what these outlandish, harsh-sounding names
meant, and where those countries were situated, of whose existence
nobody had ever dreamt. Consequently, Madame de Genevray made up her
mind to be more reticent in future, at all events where geography was
concerned.
In the club to which M. de Morin, Périères, and Delange belonged,
several books on African travel, published by Hachette, lay on the
library table for about three weeks, but these volumes, purchased
simply as mementos of boon companions, were as a rule uncut, and were
soon lost to view beneath the latest novels, the fortnightly reviews,
and the evening papers. If, in October and November, a few members of
the club in the afternoon or before betaking themselves to bouillotte
or baccarat, mentioned the Parisian expedition, asking for news of it
and appearing interested in its fate, in December and January it was
forgotten. The last plays of Angier and Sardou, the exploits of
Mdlle. X., the duel fought by Z., and the coming to grief of young D,
with a slight sprinkling of politics, at that time were the sole
topics of conversation.
Dr. Desrioux and the Count de Pommerelle alone had continued to
follow, in thought and on the map, their African friends. But no news
having been received from them since their departure from Khartoum,
MM. de Pommerelle and Desrioux were perforce limited to the written
programme of the expedition and the route therein laid down. It was
merely on vague lines, by probabilities rather than assured facts,
that they could accompany the travellers on the map, and with them
travel towards the regions barely marked. To the friendly letters, in
which the individuality of each of their former companions so clearly
asserted itself, succeeded records of travel which any one might
read. They studied Africa in books, instead of living in it, as they
had up to this time done, in the society of those they held so dear.
The time, indeed, had come when the caravan having said adieu to the
Monbuttoo country, they could not find any publication nor gain any
information which could give them an idea even of the districts
traversed. A large blank space, extending over hundreds of miles, was
before them, and their imagination alone had to take the place of the
reliable reports hitherto within their reach. So, calling to mind the
regrets expressed by M. Périères, in his last letter from Khartoum,
with regard to the route chosen, and remembering the possibly more
direct route he had traced in a south-westerly direction, the two
carpet travellers proposed to make a fresh start from Zanzibar, and
go westwards, towards the great lakes to meet their friends. They had
already got their pins ready, and were using their glasses to
discover the points at which the expedition, according to their
suppositions, was bound to halt.
These ideas and cares had not, however, entirely occupied MM.
Desrioux and de Pommerelle. The former divided his time between his
patients and his mother, whose health was daily becoming more
precarious, and caused him serious anxiety. The latter lived on in
his usual style, idle, _ennuyé_, and tired of Paris, where he
remained only from the force of habit. Even this became too weak to
hold him, and at last he made up his mind to go away, but, before
doing so, he had to say good-bye to Dr. Desrioux, whom for a week or
so he had rather neglected. He found him at home, in deep mourning,
and looking pale, worn, and sad.
"What is the matter with you?" exclaimed M. de Pommerelle, "what has
happened to you, my dear fellow?"
"I have just lost my mother," said M. Desrioux, in a broken voice.
"And you never sent for me? Why did you not let me know of her
illness?"
"I had no time, and, indeed, I thought of nothing but striving to
save her. I studied her complaint, consulted my _confrères_, tried
everything, and, I fear, only tortured the poor woman in the hopes of
restoring her. It would have been better to have left her alone, to
have let her pass away in peace and quiet. Everybody told me so, but
I could not believe them, and I went on, hoping against hope. I had
wrought so many unexpected cures amongst strangers, but when it came
to my mother's turn I could do nothing. And, now, she is dead—she
whom I so fondly loved, whom I never left, and for whom I sacrificed
everything. And I—I am alone."
"No," remonstrated the Count, "you have still faithful friends, and I
am one of them. Come, rouse yourself and get away from this house.
Come with me."
"I cannot, I must watch still beside her. To-morrow she will be
buried, and I shall never see her more. Now I can see her and be with
her. To-morrow, after—you know what I mean—to-morrow take me away,
far away, I can never come back here. I could not bear it."
"I am yours," said the Count, "and I will go wherever you wish."