Before setting out on his expedition to the slave-merchant and the
Almehs, the Doctor asked M. de Morin to go with him, but the
invitation was declined with thanks. The young painter, as we have
before remarked, had not for some time past been in the humour to
partake of any pleasure that Khartoum could offer him. None of the
curious sights of the place had any charms for him, and he did not
take the slightest interest in unravelling those mysteries which M.
Delange, for the purpose of cheering him up and rousing him from his
apathy, from time to time described. On the evening when his friend
made this latest suggestion to him, he was less disposed than ever to
listen. For several days past he had had recourse to the favourite
device of lovers—avoiding the beloved one, abstaining from paying her
any visits, giving no sign of existence, waiting to be summoned. But
Madame de Guéran did not appear to notice his disappearance, and
pursued the even tenor of her way, just as if he had no existence so
far as she was concerned. How could she have become so completely
indifferent to what became of him? She was not bound to love him, he
was quite aware of that, and she had a perfect right to prefer
somebody else. But, at the same time, had she any right to carry to
such an extreme her indifference for the man who had sacrificed
everything to accompany her, and to share her fatigues and her
dangers? Surely, even as a mere travelling companion he was worth the
display of a little interest.
Nay, more, in defiance of all her promises she was already displaying
her preference for M. Périères! She had not even waited until the
journey should be more advanced, but at the very first stage of any
importance, in the first town where she had stayed for any time, she
threw aside all reserve, made no secret of her choice, and, whilst
opening her heart to one admirer, banished the other for ever and a
day! Ought she not, at all events, to have frankly sent for him, told
him how the case stood, and offered him his liberty?
Or did she think that on their present terms he was going with her to
the very heart of Africa, the end of the world, perhaps, to watch
over her and the man she loved, to shield them from every danger, to
save their precious lives, and with them to return to Paris to be
present at their marriage, after having been a witness to their
protracted love-making! No, a thousand times, no! he would leave her,
flee from her, return to France, to Paris, forget her, plunge into
the vortex of pleasure, stifle his passion, and harden his heart so
as never to suffer for another what he had gone through for her.
But, before he took himself off, he was anxious to put all these
thoughts into words, to reproach her with her want of candour towards
him, with having caused him to appear in a perfectly ridiculous
light, with having forgotten all the claims of friendship, with
having treated him as an ordinary acquaintance, or a too persistent
companion, with having sacrificed him entirely to the man who had won
her love, and all this without one kind word, without a single
expression of regret. The reproaches he would utter, the withering
words he would hurl at her, straight to her face! And not to her
alone would he speak! She was not the only one to blame, she was not
the only false friend, Périères, too, had deceived and betrayed him!
He did not reproach him for being beloved. But why had he not come
forward openly and said—"I have succeeded more quickly than I
anticipated. You are no longer in the betting. Banish all hope from
your heart. Drive away this love, against which you struggle now;
later on it would have killed you." But, no; like Madame de Guéran,
M. Périères preferred to keep by his side his companion, the friend
ready to do any deed of devotion. It was shameful to act thus in the
exceptional circumstances in which they were placed! If such want of
confidence, such caution, such hypocrisy, and such cowardice pass
muster in the world, in the drawing-rooms and boudoirs of Parisian
society, they ought not to exist between friends who have together
braved death and are ready to brave it again, between wanderers on a
savage Continent, in a deadly climate!
He went in search of his rival, so that he might cast on him all this
reproach and abase, and he was inclined to be the more violent,
because at the bottom of his heart he was conscious of a feeling that
he was both unjust and absurd. For was not M. Périères perfectly
right to be reticent about his success, out of respect to Madame de
Guéran? But what did M. de Morin care about respect, or truth, or
propriety? He was jealous, his mental vision was obscured, he had
lost his head.
Just as he was leaving the house he saw the interpreter Ali getting
off his horse, and he asked him if he knew whether M. Périères had
gone out since sunset, and, if so, in what direction.
"I have just met him on the quay," replied the interpreter. "He was
going along the road leading to Madame de Guéran's house."
"I might have known as much," said M. de Morin to himself. "I was a
fool to ask the question."
And, trembling with rage, he asked—
"How long ago is it since you saw him?"
"About ten minutes."
"On horseback?"
"No, he was on foot."
"I must speak with him. Lend me your horse, and I will try to
overtake him."
The interpreter obeyed, and M. de Morin set off at a hand-gallop in
the direction of the Blue River.
He overtook M. Périères just as that individual reached Madame de
Guéran's house, and was about to enter. Leaping from his horse he
joined his former friend, who, on seeing him, stopped and smiled
sarcastically.
"You are calling on the Baroness?" said the young painter, in an
unsteady voice.
"That is evident," replied the man of letters, calmer, but quite as
pale as his interlocutor, "and you are, doubtless, on the same errand
as myself?"
"Identically the same," replied M. de Morin. They looked at each
other. One word more, and these two men, who in reality esteemed each
other, who had conceived and still entertained a sincere affection
for each other—these two men, carried away by their passion,
forgetful of the past, feverish with anxiety, and madly in love, were
on the point of doing each other one of those mortal injuries which
it is impossible to pardon, or to forget.
Fortunately, M. Périères retained just enough self-control to say to
M. de Morin—
"Some explanation between us is necessary and desirable. Do you wish
it to take place in this house—in the presence of the lady who lives
here?"
"Certainly," said M. de Morin; "I will follow you."
On entering the garden they perceived one of the Nubians in the
service of Madame de Guéran, and M. Périères was about to commission
this woman to inform the Baroness of their presence, when M. de Morin
stopped him.
"No," he said, "I see Madame de Guéran down there by that clump of
trees, and I prefer going to her without giving her the opportunity
of declining to see me."
"Not very often the case, as far as you are concerned," said M.
Périères. "However, we will not be announced. Come along."
They were both of them actuated by precisely the same sentiments,
they were experiencing a similar fear, and partaking of an equal
amount of jealousy, but they remained utterly ignorant of the fact,
and each of them was secretly in his heart reproaching the other for
his duplicity, his cunning, and, above all, his victory.
Madame de Guéran rose as soon as she saw her visitors, and went
quickly to meet them. She seemed very much agitated, and deeply
affected.
"Ah!" she said, hurriedly. "You have done well to come, and to come
together. I had reckoned upon postponing my interview with you until
to-morrow, but I am anxious to have done with my irresolution. Chance
has brought about a meeting, and I will explain myself this evening."
"When you allude to chance," observed M. de Morin, "you, doubtless,
address yourself to me?"
"No," she said quietly, "I address myself to both of you. Why should
I address you in preference to M. Périères? But what is the matter
with you both? I declare I should not know you."
The sky was studded with stars of marvellous brightness, and Laura de
Guéran, who had just raised her eyes to look at her two companions,
was able to observe their pallor and their pained expression.
At the same time, she thought she could understand the meaning of the
change, and, candid and out-spoken as ever, she said sweetly and
kindly, but in a sad, broken voice—
"You are annoyed with me, are you not, for having remained so long
without seeing you; for having shut my door against you, and having
treated you as strangers—you, for whom I have so sincere a regard?
Ah! if you only knew what I have undergone. But you were the last
persons to whom I should have dared to confide my uncertainty, my
fears, my hopes. I could only impart to you the result of my
inquiries and my proceedings, and I have known that result but for a
few hours. I was nerving myself to tell you all—to summon you—when
you appeared. Now, I have no longer any right to be silent—I must
divulge my secret."
She stopped, and they dared not reply, so deeply had her sympathetic,
moving voice touched them, so strange was the emotion she aroused
within them. Already their suffering had decreased, already were they
reproaching themselves for their jealousy. She, who spoke to them and
looked at them as she was then doing, could not be guilty of treason,
either in love or friendship. They had accused her falsely, led away,
blinded, and rendered unjust and cruel by their passion. But what was
the secret she was about to entrust to their keeping? They longed in
trembling anxiety to hear it.
She resumed, and her uneasiness was now equal to their own. She
seemed to suffer from being compelled to speak as she was about to
do, and blamed herself for the trouble she knew she should bring upon
them. Her voice had lost its firmness, her countenance its composure,
and her look its candour.
"First of all," she said, "let me tell you how deeply I regret having
induced you to leave your country and enter on a life of adventure,
without any object, as far as you are concerned, and—without any
hope. My only idea, I assure you, was to undertake a journey, a
pilgrimage, if you will, but a pilgrimage to a tomb where I had the
right to kneel without wounding you. To-day the situation is changed,
and you can no longer accompany me. I must continue on my way alone,
and without your help go onwards towards the goal which I wish—which
I ought to reach. I thank you with all my heart for your devotion to
me, for the kindly affection you have ever displayed towards me. But,
my dear companions, my valued friends, I must leave you, and you must
forget me. My destiny is no longer my own to shape."
And as, pale, trembling, and unable to utter a word, they looked at
her with anxiously inquiring gaze, she added timidly, nervously,
without even stopping to take breath—
"I am not a widow. My husband, the victim of his devotion to science
and his own personal bravery, is still alive, a prisoner in a country
where no one had previously dared to penetrate. I must rescue him—I
must save him. I am determined to do it, and I must say farewell to
you."