A charming retreat, one of a luxurious suite of apartments in the
Boulevard Malesherbes, the abode, evidently, of a woman both young
and of elegant tastes. One glance round the room sufficed to
establish the innate refinement of its owner—the couch covered with
pearl-grey brocaded satin, the timepiece of Dresden china, the
Venetian mirror, the crayons bearing the signature of Latour, the
tasteful what-nots filled with miniature figures, the Smyrna carpet,
the cushions adorned with antique lace, and the diminutive chairs, a
modern creation, which the Parisians have invented to enable them, on
the first approach of frost, to creep as closely as possible to the
genial warmth of a winter fire—everything, in short, bore the impress
of the owner's taste and refinement.
Nevertheless, however ardent might be the desire to meet the goddess
of this charming sanctum, the sight of the various articles with
which the furniture was laden could not fail to temper that
eagerness, if indeed a decided chill did not result from the
inspection. A feeling of astonishment, at all events, would
inevitably succeed, as, on a closer examination, the room, which at
first sight appeared to be a boudoir, was seen to be equally suitable
for the study of the most indefatigable of members of a modern
Geographical Society.
As a matter of fact, the couch was lost to view, almost entirely,
beneath a mass of books or pamphlets, published by Hachette, Arthur
Bertrand, Delegrave and Lassailly, bearing some such titles as: "Au
cœur de l'Afrique," "l'Albert Nyanza," "le Fleuve Blanc," "Ismailia,"
"Les Grandes Entreprises Géographiques," &c., &c. The corners of the
room were littered with numbers of the "Annales des Voyages," and the
slender frame of a gilded chair bent under the weight of Bouillet's
famous "Atlas d'Histoire et de Géographie."
Even the satin-flock, with which the walls were covered, had not been
respected, for, here and there, simply fastened by pins, appeared a
map by Stieler of Gotha, another by Brué, a survey by Emile Lavasseur
of the Institute, and sketches by Malte-Brun, Peterman and the
Viscount de Bizemont, all of them explanatory or illustrative of the
discoveries made by Burton, Speke, Grant, Livingstone and Dr. Cuny.
On a small ebony table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and of exquisite
design, was piled a perfect pyramid of the "Bulletin" of the
Geographical Society, whose remaining numbers found a resting-place
at the foot of the couch, on the Smyrna carpet. A view of the Albert
Nyanza, taken from the plans of Schweinfurth, the great German
traveller, rested on the mantelpiece, between the time-piece and the
mirror.
In the midst of all this furniture, which science had, as it were,
taken by assault and alienated from its original destiny, amid the
many seats which wore an air of astonishment at having been coverted
into book-shelves, one tiny chair alone remained unoccupied,
doubtless reserved for the particular use of the master or mistress
of the abode.
As the clock struck eight, a lady made her appearance in the room.
She might be from three and twenty to twenty-five years of age, and
her figure, albeit considerably above the average height, was
admirably proportioned. Her small, shapely head was gracefully poised
on a well-turned neck, and her drooping shoulders and full, though
not too full, bust prepared the beholder for the tiny foot which
peeped beneath a dress of some dark material—a foot though, small,
yet firm and evidently accustomed to being used.
She is fair, decidedly fair, and still there is plenty of decision in
the features. There is self-will and determination in the wide and
somewhat square forehead, and in the straight nose, with its clear-cut
nostrils; there is energy in the bluish-grey eyes, and the mouth,
with its resolute outline and the upper lip slightly shaded with
down, might well give utterance to soft nothings, but would be
equally at home with a word of command. The whole countenance is a
strange mixture of good-nature and firmness, of amiability and
resolution, of gaiety and sadness. She is a woman who has lived and
suffered—that is evident, and yet, now and then, the innocent
simplicity of her look, her child-like smile, and her movements would
almost lead to the idea that she is but on the threshold of life. She
might well be a widow who had not long been a wife.
She had scarcely entered her boudoir, when a servant brought her the
_Times_. She tore off the cover without a moment's delay, looked
carelessly over a column or two, and then, coming to a sudden stop,
she went quickly over to a lamp which stood upon a round table, and
ran her eye with great interest over the following lines, which she
read to herself in English, without the necessity of even a mental
translation into French:—
"The New York papers to hand to-day bring us lengthy details of the
meeting between the great traveller, Livingstone, and the American,
Henry Stanley. It is a well-known fact that whereas our Foreign
Office contented itself with requesting its Consular Agents to
furnish information as to the fate of our distinguished fellow
countryman, reported to have died on the way from Zanzibar to Lake
Tanganyika, the 'New York Herald' commissioned one of its
correspondents to proceed to Southern Africa for the purpose of
prosecuting an organised search after the missing explorer.
"Henry Stanley had spent two months in scouring the districts from
which the latest news had been received from Livingstone, when, on
arriving at Ujiji, he learnt that a white man, about 60 years of age,
was living in that very part. Thereupon he redoubled his efforts,
stirred up the enthusiasm of his escort, and, after much labour and
fatigue, he found himself face to face with the man for whom England
and the whole world were in mourning.
"'What were our first words?' writes Stanley. 'I declare I do not
know. Mutual enquiries, no doubt, such as: What route did you take?
Where have you been all this time? But I can neither remember his
answers nor mine. I was too absorbed. I caught myself with my eyes
fixed on this marvellous man, studying him, and learning him by
heart. Every hair in his grey beard, each one of his wrinkles, the
pallor of his countenance, his air of fatigue, mental and bodily—all
told me what I had so longed wished to know. What evidence did these
mute witnesses give? And of what absorbing interest was the study! At
the same time I hung upon his words. His lips, those lips that never
lied, gave me all sorts of details. He had so many things to say,
that he began at the end, forgetting that he had to account for five
or six years. But the tale gradually unfolded itself, ever increasing
until it became a marvellous history.'
"Then," continued the _Times_, Livingstone began to question Stanley.
'What has been going on in the world during these last six years?
Nothing, I suppose. Old Europe is wiser than Africa, and her people
know how to keep the peace. They do not swallow up each other, as do
the unhappy tribes amongst whom I have lived so long.' 'Alas! you are
mistaken, Doctor. Your wise Europe has just been bathed in the blood
of a murderous strife. A million Germans have invaded France, fearful
battles have been fought, and more than a hundred thousand men have
perished. Paris, after undergoing a siege for six months, has been
driven to surrender by famine.' He was silent for a long time, and
then said, 'Has war only ravaged France and Prussia?' 'No, Spain has
rebelled. Isabella has been driven from the throne; General Prim has
been assassinated, and the civil war continues.' 'And science, has
she not made any progress during these six years? Have you nothing to
tell me of those grand triumphs of peace which alone honour a nation
and give brilliancy to an age?' 'Yes, submarine cables have been
laid, the Suez Canal has been completed, and the Mediterranean and
the Indian Ocean now join hands. A railway also unites the Atlantic
and Pacific Oceans.'
"The countenance of Livingstone grew bright.
"Stanley remained four months with Livingstone. They explored
together the shores of the Tanganyika, and made fresh discoveries
invaluable to science. After this expedition, the American Envoy was
anxious to persuade his companion to return to Europe to recruit his
health, and see again his country, his family and his friends. 'No,
no,' said Livingstone. 'My task is not ended. My friends, of whom you
speak, want me to complete my work; my country expects a final effort
from me, and even my daughter has courage enough to write: "However I
may long to see you, I would rather you realised your projects in a
way satisfactory to yourself, than that you should return simply to
please me." Well said, my little girl!'
"Nothing would induce him. Ten years of discovery were not enough for
him; he only dreamt of fresh explorations. Livingstone is not a
traveller; he is a missionary, whom no amount of suffering can
dishearten. This man, at times a miracle of boldness and energy, but
always just and impartial, is adored by his small caravan of Arabs
and blacks.
"Stanley, in consequence of Livingstone's energetic resistance, was
obliged to depart alone, but all honour to him! He has nobly
fulfilled his mission, he has taken his revenge on those who dared to
doubt his veracity, and the Times thanks him in the name of England."
* * * * *
The paper which contained this article fell from the hands of the
fair reader. Upstanding, with one elbow resting on the mantel-piece,
and her head buried in her hands, she seemed to give herself up to
reflection.
Suddenly, however, she made up her mind, left her station at the
mantel-piece, seated herself before a small writing-table, and wrote
three letters, each couched in the same terms—
"My Dear Sir,—
"If an evening spent with me and two others of your friends has not
too many terrors for you, I shall be very pleased to give you a cup
of tea at about nine o'clock to-morrow.
"With kind regards,
"Yours very truly,
"Laura de Guéran."