On the 26th October, 1872, M. de Pommerelle, on reaching his rooms at
3 a.m., found on his bedroom mantel-piece a letter, with the Cairo
post-mark.
"Those dear boys!" he exclaimed, gleefully. "They have not forgotten
me." And in spite of the late, or rather, early hour, and the fact
that he was tired, he lighted a couple of candles so that he might
more readily peruse his precious letter without losing a word of it.
He very soon saw, from the variations in the handwriting, that the
three travellers had worked together in his behalf. M. de Morin
opened the ball.
"Ah! my dear de Pommerelle," commenced this epistle, "what a voyage!
what an ecstatic voyage!"
M. de Pommerelle put the letter down and rubbed his hands. His
imagination went far ahead of his eyesight, and he revelled
beforehand in the landscapes about to be unfolded to his view, and
the descriptions of manners and customs into which he was to be
initiated. He took the letter up again, and found that it went on in
the following strain—
"Yes, a delicious voyage! Madame de Guéran is simply adorable. You
cannot have an idea of how quickly the time passes in her society. It
is now ten days since I left Paris, and it seems but yesterday. Her
charm! her exquisite refinement! her gaiety, tempered with an
irresistible shade of melancholy! her even temperament! her
conversation, at once full of wit and wisdom!"
"When will he have done with all this?" exclaimed M. de Pommerelle,
who was becoming impatient over this rhapsody. "The least possible
description of Africa would please me far more than any portrait of
Madame de Guéran. However, let us see, perhaps he has nearly done,
and will continue in another strain."
M. de Morin's letter went on thus—
"And how she exacts obedience from all! If you could only see her
ordering about these people whom we have already got together for the
expedition!"
"The expedition! Bravo!" said M. de Pommerelle. "Now we have it. It
was just about time, I think; but oh! these lovers!"
"The inhabitants of Cairo," resumed the letter, "would not admit that
Madame de Guéran is an European. She carries, so they say, her head
too high, her movements are too graceful, and her whole appearance
too independent. And, besides that, the fanciful garb, fashioned in
Paris, but now worn for the first time, becomes her figure so
marvellously! It is like nothing else. It is neither Parisian nor
Turkish, neither dress nor costume, stamped with an originality of
its own, and yet not in the least theatrical. However, when I have
said that she invented and designed it herself, I have said all. Add
to this that she speaks the true Arabic, and by that I mean high-class
Arabic, and you will readily understand that the country
people, or fellahs, as they are called, worship her and take her for
a sultana. So amongst ourselves we have dubbed her with that title.
'The sultana has come to such and such a conclusion,' Périères will
say. Or the Doctor will be heard to remark, 'The sultana is leaving
her room.' In my opinion this designation but imperfectly describes
her. There is something of the sultana about her, I admit, but there
is more of the Parisian. Her wit is keen and original, and there is a
certain piquancy about her countenance. And, moreover, there is not a
Turkish female in this world who possess the _chic_ you meet with in
a French woman. So, to please all parties, and to bring Europe and
Africa together, I proposed to style Madame de Guéran the 'Parisian
Sultana,' and the motion was carried.
"Miss Beatrice Poles, of whom I have already made mention to you,
would have preferred the 'Flame-Queen,' that being the _soubriquet_
bestowed on Mdlle. Alexina Tinne by the tribes of the Upper Nile,
when they saw the showers of sparks emitted from the funnel of her
steam-launch as she descended the river. But we are not quite sure of
the steamer, and, in addition to that, we have no idea of dressing
our beloved Baroness up in styles and titles borrowed from the Dutch
lady traveller. Madame de Guéran deserves a lavish expenditure of
imagination all to herself.
"_Apropos_ of Miss Beatrice Poles, I must tell you something that
will amuse you. But Madame de Guéran has sent for me—excuse me for a
moment—I shall not be long."
"He is quite welcome to stay away altogether," exclaimed M. de
Pommerelle in a rage. "What do I care for Miss Poles and Madame de
Guéran, and all their trivialities? Africa alone has any interest for
me, and Africa is conspicuous by its absence."
Nevertheless, impelled by curiosity, and relying on the promise made
to him, he resumed his reading.
"You knew Miss Beatrice Poles," continued M. de Morin. "I pointed
that female phenomenon out to you one day when we were smoking a
cigar in the balcony at the club. She was, you will remember,
plunging along the pavement right in front of you at a prodigious
rate, for all the world like an express train under full steam. She
banged through the various groups of people, however compact they
were, with a dig in the ribs to the right, and a resolute shove to
the left. She would inevitably have upset every obstacle in her path,
had not the children taken to flight, the women squeezed themselves
against the houses, and the men taken refuge in the gutter. As the
rapidity of her movements prevented your distinguishing her features,
I showed you her portrait, which was not overdone in the least
particular, I assure you. Nothing was due to any invention—neither
the leanness, nor the length, nor the arms, nor the hands, nor the
feet, nor the enormous blue spectacles.
"Well, just picture to yourself that this elegant creature believes
that Périères, Delange, and myself are in love, over head and ears in
love with her. And we are unmerciful enough (one must amuse oneself
on board ship) to humour her in that hallucination. I overwhelm her
with compliments, and all kinds of delicate attractions; Delange is
every moment bestowing on her the most amorous glances, and Périères
sighs to such an extent that he might very well pass for a love-sick
locomotive. The heart of Miss Beatrice Poles fluctuates between all
three of us, and we shall let it do so—to fix it on one of us would
be rather too dangerous.
"Apart from her delusion in believing herself young, lovely, and
ardently beloved, she is an excellent woman, intelligent, even
amusing where she herself is not concerned, an invaluable adviser,
courageous, untiring, and exemplary in every way.
"I am sorry to say that I cannot give my servant Joseph such a good
character. He is a regular stupid! Imagine his having, instead of
putting Joseph on his baggage, which was sent on in advance to Egypt,
labelled it Mohammed-Abd-el-Gazal, a fancy name of his own creation,
which he has thought proper to adopt. What was the result? At Suez a
real Mohammed, for the name is the commonest possible in these parts,
claimed Joseph's baggage as if it belonged to him. With that Egyptian
mixture of carelessness and knavery, of which we have already had
frequently to complain, the baggage was handed over to this claimant,
and no doubt by this time it is in the desert.
"Needless to say that it would have been absurd to pay any attention
to the lamentations of Joseph, or to make any representations to the
police. We called to mind the saying, now almost historical—'The day
which witnesses, in Egypt, the recovery of a stolen pocket-handkerchief
will see also the settlement of the Eastern Question.'
But I am conscious, my dear friend, that I am not carrying out your
instructions, for, instead of holding forth about Africa, as you
wished, I have simply talked of ourselves, and that you do not care
about. You will lose nothing by it. I yield the pen to Périères—he is
a literary man—he is! He excels in description. You shall be
satisfied."
"And high time, too," said M. de Pommerelle to himself. "Now I shall
hear something about Egypt, and something worth hearing into the
bargain. I know Périères—he is a remarkably descriptive writer—as
good as Gautier."
He hastened to take the second sheet, and this is what he found
there—
"Paris, departure, express, 7.15 p.m. Marseilles, arrival, 11.40 a.m.
Grand Hôtel, Noailles—luggage. Walk round town. Tuesday left 9 a.m.
steamer. Calm sea. Thursday, Naples, Pretty bay; Vesuvius not
smoking. Friday, Port Said, very ugly. Left railway. Arrived—Cairo.
Picturesque, but no Almehs. Arrange caravan. Kind regards."
"The wretch!" exclaimed M. de Pommerelle, indignantly, "and he calls
himself a writer! And this is what literature has come to now-a-days!
If you don't pay these gentlemen for their copy, they use the
telegraph wire for a pen. And I compared this fellow Périères with
that painter of the East, the great Gautier! I shall never forgive
myself for it."
He got up in despair, and was pacing up and down his room, when, on
passing the mantel-piece, where he had thrown down the letters, his
eye suddenly caught sight of another page, written in a small and
hurried hand. It was Dr. Delange's contribution.
"At last!" exclaimed he, "I am sure to find some pithy remarks about
Egypt here—those doctors are such intelligent observers!"
He read as follows:—
"You were a witness, my dear de Pommerelle, of my tortures during the
last month of my stay in Paris. Every night I went to the Club. I sat
down at the baccarat table, and, obedient to the promise I had given,
I contented myself with looking without touching, just as they do in
the Public Museums. But, what I suffered! Good Heavens, what I went
through! I had but one thought, one dream—to play with de Morin, in
accordance with the contract we told you about, and which you thought
so original. I won my first fifty louis at carté. De Morin, as the
loser, had, consequently, the right on the following day of naming
the game. He chose lansquenet, and made his fifty louis at a single
_coup_. To play for two seconds only when we had the whole day before
us! It was not right, and I had not reckoned on anything of that
sort, so I thought I would give my adversary a lesson. We were on
board the steamer, and, as I had lost on the previous evening, I was
master of the situation. 'This way, if you please,' said I to my
friend, and he had nothing to do but obey.
"I took him on deck, about amidships—a few paces from the funnel. The
heat was tremendous, and up the hatchway, by the engine-room, came
whiffs of stifling foul air, and the almost insupportable stench of
hot oil. Then I quietly took the cards out of my pocket, and said—
'Play away!'
"Morin made a grimace, but the treaty was all the more binding,
because we had burnt it and stood on our word of honour—so he had to
submit.
"We played at Chinese bezique, at a sou a point, for eight mortal
hours. I was regularly done, but so was my adversary, and, to pile up
his agony, he lost his thousand francs.
"On the following day the opportunity of taking his revenge was not
to be lost. I was walking on the poop, when he came up to me and said
smilingly, and in his most dulcet tones—
"'Our contract allows us, you know, to substitute a bet for cards.'
"'I know it,' said I, not seeing his drift.
"'Very well, then,' continued de Morin, in the same gracious tone, 'I
take advantage of the choice, and I'll bet you that you do not jump
into the sea now at once in my presence.'
"'I'll bet you I do,' I replied.
"'A thousand francs on it,' said de Morin.
"'Done!' said I.
"I lighted a cigar very quietly, and stretched myself on a seat.
"'Holloa!' cried my adversary, 'what are you doing?'
"'Resting, you perceive.'
"'And the bet?'
"'Well; I've lost it.'
"'Then why did you take it?'
"'To lose, and take my revenge to-morrow.'
"De Morin groaned, for he saw, by the look on my face, that I was to
be feared. The next day we entered the Bay of Naples, and the weather
was perfect. De Morin was standing up, leaning against one of the
shrouds, telescope in hand, and contemplating, with evident
enjoyment, the magnificent panorama which was unrolling itself before
his eyes. The unhappy man turned his head, changed colour, and, at
the given sign, followed me. But when he saw me wending my way
towards the companion-ladder, which led to between-decks, when it
became evident that, regardless of the lovely weather, the blue sky,
and the splendid view, I was going to make him descend into the
depths of the hold, to bury him in those submarine catacombs, he
begged for mercy, and proposed an arrangement.
"I condescended to listen to him, and it was there and then agreed
upon between us that if I did not insist on too prolonged _parties_,
he on his side, would not cut them too short. So we have agreed to
play for two hours each day.
"_Au revoir_, my dear fellow. De Morin is waiting for me to have a
real good game at piquet."
"Well!" exclaimed de Pommerelle, "these three letters have given me
an admirable idea of Africa!"
By way of calming his agitation, he took up a pen, and, in his turn,
indited the following telegram:—
"If you, false friends, do not keep your promise, I will not send any
more cigars, and you will die of despair for want of a smoke.
"POMMERELLE."