Chapter VII: Part III: I (1)

After Jean had thus rid himself of Fatou-gaye, he was conscious of a deep feeling of relief at having carried out this act of vengeance. When he had neatly arranged in his soldier’s wardrobe the small quantity of baggage he had brought with him from Samba-Hamet’s house, he felt freer and happier. He seemed to have advanced a step nearer to his departure, to that blissful, “final discharge” which was now only a few months away.

At the same time he was sorry for Fatou. He had intended to send her his pay once more, to enable her either to set up house anew or to leave the town.

But as he preferred not to see her again, he had entrusted the spahi Muller with this errand.

Muller had visited Samba-Hamet’s house and had seen the woman griot. But Fatou had gone.

“She was in great trouble,” said the little slave girls in Yolof, forming a circle round him and all talking at once. “In the evening she would not eat the _kouss-kouss_ we had made for her.”

“During the night,” said little Sam-Lélé, “I heard her talking aloud in her sleep, and even the Laobé dogs yapped, which is a very bad sign. But I could not understand what she was saying.”

She had undoubtedly gone away a little before sunrise, with her calabashes on her head.

A macauco woman, Bafoufalé-Diop by name, the woman griot’s chief slave, a person of a very inquisitive disposition, had followed her from a distance, and had seen her turn off by the wooden bridge, over the narrow arm of the river, in the direction of N’dar-toute.

“She had the look of knowing quite well where she was going.”

It was thought in the quarter that she must have sought a refuge in the house of a certain old and very rich Marabout in N’dar-toute, who admired her greatly. Christian or not, she was good-looking enough to be free from all anxiety as to her future.

For some time to come Jean avoided passing Coura n’diaye’s dwelling, and it was not long before he had dismissed the matter entirely from his thoughts.

It seemed to him, moreover, as if he had recovered his white man’s dignity, which had been sullied through contact with that black flesh.

Now, when he looked back, that feverishness of senses, abnormally excited by the African climate, inspired in him nothing but deep disgust. And he constructed for himself a new scheme of existence, based upon continence and integrity.

In future he meant to live in barracks, like a sensible man. He would save money in order to take back to Jeanne Méry a collection of souvenirs from Senegal—fine mats, which would some day adorn their home, the subject of his dreams; embroidered _pagnes_, whose rich colours would evoke the admiration of his countrymen, and which would serve for splendid tablecloths in their household; and above all, earrings and a cross in fine Galam gold, which he would order especially for her from the most skilful native craftsmen. She would wear them for ornament on Sunday when she went to church with the Peyrals, and certainly no other young woman in the village would possess such beautiful jewellery.

* * * * *

This tall spahi, poor fellow, who had so grave an air, was nursing in his uncultured brain a multitude of almost childish projects, simple dreams of happiness, of family life and tranquil goodness.

At this time, Jean was nearly twenty-six. He looked older than his years, as is usual with men who have led a hard life in the fields, on the sea, or in the army.

He had changed greatly during these five years in Senegal.

His features were more pronounced; he was swarthier and thinner, and had acquired a more soldierly bearing and more of the Arab look. His shoulders had expanded, while his waist had remained slender and supple. His manner of wearing his fez and turning up the ends of his long moustache had a soldierly smartness, which became him to admiration. His strength and remarkable physical beauty inspired in all who came in contact with him a kind of involuntary respect. They distinguished between him and his comrades in the manner in which they spoke to him.

A painter might have selected him for a consummate type of noble charm and manly perfection.

II

One day Jean received two letters in a single envelope, bearing the postmark of his village. One letter was from his dear old mother, the other from Jeanne.

Letter from Françoise Peyral to her son.

My dear son,—Since my last letter many things have happened
which will surprise you very much. But do not worry about them
yet. You must do as we do, pray to the good God, and hope for
the best.

I will begin by telling you that a new attorney has come into
these parts, a young man called M. Prosper Suirot, who is
not very much liked with us, being hard on poor people, and
underhand by nature. But he is a man with a fine position,
that cannot be denied. Well, this M. Suirot has asked your
Uncle Méry for Jeanne’s hand in marriage, and has been accepted
as his son-in-law. Now Méry came here one evening and made
a scene; he had applied to your colonels for information
about you without telling us, and it appears that he received
bad accounts of you. They said that you were living with a
negro woman out there; that you kept her, in spite of the
remonstrances of your commanding officers, and that it was this
that prevented you from becoming quartermaster, that there are
bad reports of you out there; many things, my dear son, that
I could never have believed, but it was written on a piece of
stamped paper, with your regimental crest on it.

Then Jeanne came running to us in tears, vowing that she would
never marry Suirot, or be wife to any one but you, my dear
Jean, and that she would rather go into a convent.

I enclose a letter which she has written to you, in which she
lets you know what you ought to do. She is of age, and very
level-headed. Do exactly as she tells you, and write by return
of post to your uncle, as she bids you. You will come back to
us in ten months’ time, my dear son. If you behave well till
you obtain your discharge, and pray constantly to the good
God, without doubt everything will come right. But we are much
worried, as you may imagine. We are afraid, too, that Méry may
forbid Jeanne to come and see us again, and that will be a
great pity.

Peyral joins me, my dear son, in embracing you, and in begging
you to write to us as soon as possible.

Your old mother, who will love you as long as she lives.

FRANÇOISE PEYRAL.

Jeanne Méry to her cousin Jean.

My dear Jean,—I am so unhappy that I wish I could die on the
spot. It is a great grief to me that you have never returned,
and that you do not talk of coming back soon. And now my
parents, backed up by my godfather, want to marry me to that
horrid Suirot, of whom I have told you. People din into my ears
that he is rich, and that I ought to feel honoured because
he has made me an offer. I say no, you may be sure, and I am
crying my eyes out.

My dear Jean, I am very unhappy, because everyone is against
me. Olivette and Rose laugh when they see me always with red
eyes; I think they would be very glad to marry that big booby
Suirot, if he would only have them. As for me, the mere
thought of it makes me shudder; and I will positively never
marry him. If they drive me to it, I will run away from them
all, and go into the convent of St Bruno.

If only I could sometimes pay your people a visit, it would
cheer me up to have a talk with your mother, whom I love and
respect as if I were her daughter. But as it is, I am given
black looks, because I go there too often, and who knows if I
shall not soon be forbidden to go at all.

My dear Jean, you must do exactly what I am going to tell you.
I hear there are wicked rumours about you; I say to myself that
people spread them for the sole purpose of influencing me.
But I do not believe one word of all these stories. They are
impossible, and no one here knows you as well as I do. All the
same, I should be happy if you would say one little word on
this subject, and if you would tell me of your affection for
me; you know that it is always pleasant to hear about it, even
if one is sure of it. And then, write to my father immediately
and ask for my hand in marriage, and be sure to promise him
that when you are home and my husband, you will always behave
like a sensible, steady man, against whom nothing can be said.
And then I will beg him on my knees.

The good God pity us, my dear Jean!

Your betrothed for life,

JEANNE MÉRY.

In country places young people are not taught to express in any way the sentiments of the heart. Girls brought up on the land sometimes feel very deeply, but they have no words to utter their emotions and thoughts; the subtle diction of passion is unknown to them. They cannot explain their feelings, save by the help of simple unimpassioned phrases. Therein lies the whole difference.

Jeanne must have felt very keenly to have written such a letter, and Jean, who spoke the same, simple language, recognised all the firmness and love that underlay it. The fervent loyalty of his betrothed inspired him with confidence and hope; he put into his reply all the tenderness and gratitude that he was able to express. He addressed to his Uncle Méry a formal request for Jeanne’s hand, accompanied by very sincere promises of steadiness and good conduct, and then he awaited, without undue anxiety, the return mail from France....

M. Prosper Suirot was a young attorney, narrow-chested and round-shouldered; moreover, a rabid free-thinker, bespattering with atheistic nonsense all the holy things of old; a short-sighted scribbler, whose small, red eyes were protected by smoked glasses. This rival would have appeared an object of pity to Jean, who felt an instinctive repugnance for persons who were plain and of poor physique.

Attracted by Jeanne’s dowry and beauty, the little attorney imagined in his foolish conceit that he was doing the peasant girl an honour by the offer of his ugly person and infinitesimal social position. He had even made up his mind that after their marriage, in order to rise to his height, Jeanne, having become a lady, should wear a hat.

* * * * *

III

Six months had passed. The mails from France had brought poor Jean no very bad news, certainly, but on the other hand none that were very good.

Uncle Méry remained inflexible, but Jeanne no less so, and she always slipped into old Françoise’s letter a few loyal and loving words to her betrothed.

Jean himself was full of hope, and never doubted but that everything would be settled without difficulty as soon as he arrived home.

He lost himself more and more in delicious imaginings.... After these five years of exile his return to the village glowed with all the colours of an apotheosis. All the dreams of the poor, forlorn soldier centred around that radiant moment. He would take his seat in the village diligence, wearing the big burnoose of his spahi’s uniform, and watch the Cevennes coming into sight once more, the familiar skyline of his mountains, the well-known road, the dear old clock-tower, and at last his father’s cottage by the roadside. With what rapture would he embrace his beloved old parents!

Then the three of them would go together to see the Mérys. The good people of the village, all the girls, would come running out of their houses to watch him go past. They would admire him in his foreign dress, with the glamour of Africa upon him. He would show Uncle Méry his quartermaster’s stripes, which had at last been awarded him, and they would have an irresistible effect. After all, Uncle Méry was kind. True, he had often scolded Jean in former days, but he had been fond of him, too; Jean had a very plain recollection of this now; he was very sure of it. (To the exile, far away, those who remain at home are always painted in softer colours; they are remembered as affectionate and kind; their defects, their hardness and rancour, are forgotten.)

And so it seemed impossible that Uncle Méry should not suffer himself to be moved when he saw his two children pleading together. He would surely relent and place Jeanne’s trembling hand in Jean’s. And then, what happiness, what a life of joy and peace, what a Paradise on earth!...

At the same time, Jean did not find it so easy to picture himself in the dress worn by the men of his village. Especially he baulked at the unpretentious headgear of a peasant. This transformation was a subject on which he did not care to dwell. It seemed to him that he would no longer, by himself, be the proud spahi he had been, in the accoutrements of former days.

It was in this red uniform that he had learnt to know life. It was on African soil that he had become a man, and more of a man than he guessed. He had an affection for all this—for his Arab fez, his sabre, his horse—this vast, God-forsaken country, this desert of his.

* * * * *

Jean did not know what disillusion sometimes awaits young men—sailors, soldiers, spahis—when they return to the village which has so often inspired their dreams—left when they were children, and beheld from afar through magic prisms.

Alas! what sadness, what dreary monotony, often awaits these exiles on their return home.

Other unfortunate spahis, like himself acclimatised and enervated in this land of Africa, have sometimes regretted the desolate banks of the Senegal. The long expeditions on horseback, the freer life, the larger light, the boundless horizon—all these things are missed when, having grown accustomed to them, one is cut off from them. In the quiet of home life one feels as it were a craving for the devouring sun, the never-ending heat, a yearning for the desert, and a home sickness for the sand.

IV

In the meanwhile, Boubakar-Ségou, the great negro chief, was making trouble in Diambour and the country of Djiargabar. A rumour of an expedition was in the air; it was discussed at St Louis in the officers’ mess; debated and commented upon in a thousand aspects by the soldiers, spahis, riflemen, and marines. It was the talk of the day, and every man had his hope of distinguishing himself, of gaining some advantage, a medal or a step.

Jean, who was approaching the end of his service, resolved to avail himself of this opportunity to make amends for whatever might have been reprehensible in his past behaviour. He dreamed of fastening in his buttonhole the yellow ribbon of the Military Medal, the reward of valour. He longed to signalise his eternal farewell to the black country by some splendid deed of bravery which would immortalise his name in the spahis’ barracks in that corner of the world, where he had lived and suffered so intensely.

Each day there was a rapid interchange of correspondence between the barracks, the naval authorities, and Government. Large sealed covers were delivered at the spahis’ quarters, giving the red jackets food for thought. A long and important expedition was anticipated, and the moment was drawing near. The spahis sharpened their great fighting swords, and furbished up their accoutrements with much talk and bravado, much drinking of absinthe, and a great flow of cheerful comment.

V

It was the beginning of October. Jean, who had been on duty since early morning, going from place to place distributing official documents right and left, was on his way to Government House with a large official envelope to deliver as his final charge.

In the long straight street, empty and deserted as a street of Thebes or Memphis, he saw another man in red coming towards him in the sunshine, holding up a letter for him to see. He felt a mournful presentiment, a vague foreboding, and he hastened his step.

It was Sergeant Muller bringing the spahis the French mail, which had arrived from Dakar by caravan an hour ago.

“Here, Peyral, this is for you,” he said, handing Jean an envelope bearing the postmark of the humble village he loved.

VI

This letter, which Jean had been expecting for a month, burned in his hands, and he hesitated to read it. He resolved to wait until he had completed his errand before opening it.

He arrived at the railing surrounding Government House; the gate was open, and he entered.

The garden displayed the same lack of animation as the street. A large tame lioness was stretching herself in the sun with the airs of an amorous cat. Ostriches were sleeping on the ground near some stiff, bluish aloes. It was noon—not a soul visible—a silence like that of a necropolis. Yellow palm trees cast never-wavering shadows upon the great, white terraces.

Jean, in his search for someone to speak to, reached the office of the Governor himself, whom he found surrounded by the heads of the various departments of the colonial service.

There, strange to say, they were working strenuously. Serious matters seemed to be under discussion at this hour traditionally consecrated to the repose of the siesta.

In exchange for the cover he delivered, Jean received another addressed to the spahis’ commanding officer.

* * * * *

It contained definite marching orders, which were communicated officially that afternoon, to all the troops in St Louis.

VII

When Jean found himself once more in the deserted street he could restrain himself no longer, and with trembling hands he opened the envelope.

This time it contained only his mother’s handwriting—handwriting that was shakier than usual, and stained with tears.

He devoured the lines—dizziness seized him, poor fellow—clasping his head in his hands, he leaned against the wall.

* * * * *

The packet entrusted to him was very urgent, the Governor had said. He kissed old Françoise’s name piously, and went on his way like a drunken man.

* * * * *

Was this thing possible? It was over, over for ever. They had taken from him, the poor exile, the betrothed of his childish days, whom his old parents had chosen for him.

“The banns are published. The marriage will take place before the month is over. I had been fearing this, my dear son, even since last month; for Jeanne no longer came to see us. But I did not dare to tell you just then for fear of distressing you, since there was nothing that we could do in the matter.

“We are in deep despair. Now, my son, a thought struck Peyral yesterday which has alarmed us; it is that you may not wish to come home again now, but to remain in Africa.

“We are both very old. My good Jean, my dear son, your poor mother begs you on her knees not to let this prevent you from being sensible and from coming back to us soon, as we had expected. Otherwise I would rather die at once, and Peyral too.”

* * * * *

Incoherent, tumultuous thoughts rushed through Jean’s brain.

He made a rapid calculation of dates. No! It was not all over yet, it was not yet an accomplished fact. Telegraph! No! What possessed him? There was no telegraphic communication between France and Senegal. And after all, what could he have said? If he could have gone away, leaving everything behind, gone away on some very swift ship, and still have arrived in time, he might have thrown himself at their feet, with supplications and tears, and have yet succeeded in moving them to relent. But so far away! What futility! What impotence! All would be consummated before he could even reach them with his message of grief.

And he felt as if his head were crushed by iron hands, and his breast in the grip of a remorseless vice.

He halted again and reread the letter, and then remembering that he was the bearer of urgent orders from the Governor, he folded up the letter and went on.

* * * * *

Around him all things were lapped in the profound stillness of noon. The old Moorish houses stood ranged in straight rows, milk-white beneath the intense blue of the sky. At times, behind their brick walls, the ear of the passer-by might catch some negress’s plaintive, drowsy song, or perhaps the eye might light on a small, coal-black negro asleep on a doorstep, lying on his back in the sun, quite naked, with a necklet of coral, forming a dark patch in the midst of universal radiance. On the smooth sand of the streets, the lizards were chasing one another with curious little swaying movements of the head, drawing their tails along the ground and tracing an infinity of fantastic zig-zags, complicated like an Arabic design. A distant noise of _kouss-kouss_ pounders, in its monotonous regularity almost a form of silence, came from Guet n’dar, deadened by the hot, heavy strata of the noontide atmosphere.

It seemed as if this tranquillity of prostrate nature were seeking to make mock of poor Jean’s emotion, and to intensify his sufferings. It oppressed him like a leaden winding sheet.

Of a sudden this country appeared to him as a vast tomb.

The spahi awoke as if from a heavy sleep that had lasted five years.

He felt himself in fierce revolt, revolt against everything and everyone. Why had they taken him from his village, from his mother, to bury him, in the prime of life, in this country of death?

By what right had they made of him that anomalous being called a spahi, a swashbuckler, half African, an outcast, forgotten of everyone, and at last disowned even by his betrothed.

He felt his heart possessed with frantic rage; he was conscious of a desire to wreak his wrath on some person or some object; a desire to torture, to seize, to crush in his mighty arms a fellow man.

And all around him there was nothing, nothing but silence, and heat, and sand.

* * * * *

Alas! he had not even one friend in this whole country, not one devoted comrade to whom he could confide his sorrow. Good God! he was indeed forsaken, indeed alone in the world.

VIII

Jean hastened to the barracks and threw the packet entrusted to him to the first person he met. Then he turned away and set off haphazard for a rapid, aimless walk—it was his own method of stifling his sorrow.

He passed the bridge leading to Guet n’dar and turned southwards in the direction of the Point of Barbary, just as he had done that night four years ago when he had fled from Cora’s house in despair....

But this time his despair was the deep, supreme despair of a man ... and his life was wrecked....

For a long time he went southwards, losing sight of St Louis and the negro villages. He sat down exhausted at the foot of a sandy mound overlooking the sea....

His ideas had no sequence. The day’s excessive sunshine had disordered his mind....

He noticed that he had never been in this place before, and he began to glance absently about him.

The whole mound bristled with tall posts of a grotesque appearance, bearing inscriptions in the language of the priests of Mahgreb. Bleached bones lay strewn pell-mell upon the ground, unearthed long ago by jackals. There were likewise a few sprays of greenery, lost, as it were, in the midst of absolute aridity. These were garlands of convolvulus, exquisitely fresh, opening here and there their large pink calyces, trailing among old skulls, old arm and leg bones.

At intervals other funereal mounds of grim aspect rose above the level plain.

Great flocks of pelicans, their white feathers tinged with pink, were stalking about the beaches. Seen in the distance through the evening mirage, their forms assumed weird and unnatural proportions....

Evening had come. The sun had sunk down into the ocean, and a cooler breeze had set in from the sea.

Jean took out his mother’s letter and began to read it again....

* * * * *

“Now, my son, a thought struck Peyral yesterday which has alarmed us. It is that you may not wish to come back again now, but to remain in Africa.

“We are both very old. My good Jean, my dear son, your poor mother begs you on her knees not to let this prevent you from being sensible and from coming back to us soon, as we had expected. Otherwise I would rather die at once, and Peyral too.”

* * * * *

Then poor Jean felt his heart break—sobs rent his bosom, and his spirit of revolt dissolved in tears.

IX

Two days later all the warships required for the expedition were assembled to the north of St Louis, in the bend of the river near Pop-n’kior.

The embarkation was carried out in the midst of a great throng of people and a tremendous hubbub. All the women and children of the black riflemen were massed on the banks, screaming to heaven, as if bereft of reason.

Moors who had come by caravan from the interior of the Soudan stood round in circles looking on, with their camels, leather sacks, piles of miscellaneous baggage, and their pretty young wives.

Towards three o’clock the whole flotilla, which was to proceed up the river as far as Dialdé in Galam, was groaning under its freight of men. It got under way in appalling heat.

X

St Louis was receding into the distance.... Its level outlines sank lower, fading away until they were mere bluish streaks upon the golden sand.... On either side of the river, stretching away until lost to sight, lay vast, unhealthy desert plains, everlastingly hot, everlastingly dreary....

And these tracts were but the approach to this great God-forsaken country—the vestibule of the immense solitudes of Africa....

Jean and the other spahis were embarked on the Falémé, which led the flotilla, and was presently a two days’ voyage ahead of the other vessels.

In the very moment of departure Jean had written a hurried reply to poor old Françoise. After consideration, he had decided that he would not deign to write to his betrothed, but in his letter to his mother he had put his whole soul into the task of comforting her, and restoring peace and hope to her mind.

“After all,” he had written, “she was too rich for us. We shall have no difficulty in finding some other girl at home who will have me. We will arrange to live in our old house, and then we shall be nearer to you than ever. My dear parents, I think of nothing all day long but the joy of seeing you once more, and I swear that I will never, never leave you again....”

Such, to be sure, was his intention, and it was true that he thought of his dear old parents every day. But the idea of sharing his life with a woman other than Jeanne took the brightness out of everything. It was a terrible thought, which cast a dense, mourning veil upon the joy of his return....

Do what he would to regain his courage, it seemed that he had no longer an object in life, and that the future was a blank wall to him for ever and ever.

Beside him on the bridge of the Falémé was seated the gigantic Nyaor-fall, the black spahi, to whom, as his most faithful friend, Jean had confided his troubles.

Nyaor did not attempt to understand these sentiments—Nyaor, whom no one had ever loved, whose thatched roof harboured three purchased wives, whom he intended to sell as soon as they ceased to please him.

Nevertheless he realised that his friend Jean was unhappy. He smiled at him kindly, and to distract him told him negro stories irresistibly soporific.

XI

The flotilla sailed up the river with all possible speed, making fast at sunset and getting under way again at dawn.

At Richard-Toll, the first French outpost, more men, negresses, and material were taken on board.

At Dagana, a two days halt was made, and the Falémé received orders to continue her voyage alone as far as Podor, the last outpost before reaching Galam, where several companies of riflemen had already been concentrated.

XII

The Falémé continued on her way through the vast desert; she plunged swiftly into the interior, sailing up the yellow waters of the narrow river which separates Moorish Sahara from the great mysterious continent with its black population.

Jean, in melancholy mood, saw one desolate region succeeding another. His eyes followed the ever-receding horizon—the winding ribbon of the Senegal lost in the infinite distance that lay behind him. These accursed plains, unfolding themselves endlessly before his gaze, made a painful impression upon him. He felt a tightening of the heart, as if all the time this whole country were closing in upon him, and he were never to return.

Here and there on the desolate banks great, black vultures stalked solemnly, or bald-headed marabouts, with a suggestion of something human in their profiles.

Sometimes an inquisitive monkey would spring out from the mangrove thicket to watch the ship glide past—or a splendid white heron would rise from the reeds, or a kingfisher in its sheen of emerald and lapis lazuli, disturbing in its flight a sluggish crocodile asleep on the mud.

On the south bank—the bank pertaining to the sons of Ham—an occasional village would appear, lost in the midst of this vast region of desolation.

The existence of these human habitations were advertised from a great distance by two or three gigantic palm trees, with fan-shaped leaves, huge fetish trees, as it were, keeping watch over the towns.

In the midst of the great bare plain, these palm trees had the appearance of giants lying in wait in the desert. Their perfectly straight, highly polished, greyish pink trunks were thickened like Byzantine columns, and displayed at the top scanty bunches of leaves, as stiff as if cut from iron plate.

Presently, as one drew nearer, one could discern a negro anthill, huts with peaked roofs, grouped in compact masses at the foot of the palm trees, producing a general effect of greyness against the unvarying yellow of the sands.

Some of these African cities had a large population; all were surrounded by thick, gloomy _tatas_—walls made of earth and wood, and erected as a protection against enemies and wild beasts. A tattered piece of white cloth, floating from a roof loftier than the rest, marked the dwelling of the chief.

At the gates of their ramparts sombre figures showed themselves, aged chiefs, aged priests covered with amulets, their long, black arms contrasting with the whiteness of their flowing robes. They watched the Falémé pass, her rifles and guns ready to open fire at the slightest sign of hostile intention.

One might well ask what means of subsistence these men possessed, what lives they led, what occupations they pursued behind those grey walls—these beings who knew nothing of the outer world, nothing beyond the solitudes and the merciless sun.

On the north bank—where the Sahara lies—there was more sand, more desolation, but of a different aspect.

In the distance, very far away, shone out great fires of grass kindled by the Moors, with columns of smoke rising straight up in the still air to an incredible height. On the horizon, chains of hills showed up, intensely red, like burning coals, resembling, amid these columns of smoke, an unlimited succession of furnaces.

And there, where there was nothing but arid ground and scorching sand, a perpetual mirage produced the semblance of great lakes, wherein the whole conflagration was reflected and reversed. Little wisps of quivering vapour, such as rise from a furnace, wove above all this a shifting web. The delusive landscapes shimmered and vibrated in the intense heat, and then could be seen changing shape and dissolving like visions. The eyes were dazzled and wearied by the sight of them.

From time to time on this bank appeared groups of men of pure white race—wild-looking and bronzed indeed, but with features of regular beauty, and with long curling hair, which gave them a look of Biblical prophets. They went bare-headed under that terrible sun, arrayed in flowing robes of dark blue. These were Moors of the tribe of Braknas or Tzarzas, bandits to a man, plunderers, robbers of caravans—the most lawless of all the tribes of Africa.

XIII

The east wind, which is like the mighty respiration of the Sahara, had sprung up, gaining strength by degrees as the distance from the sea increased.

This parching wind, hot like a blast from a forge, now blew across the desert. It covered all things with a fine sandy dust, and brought with it the burning thirst of _Bled-el-Ateuch_. The awnings that sheltered the spahis had to be continually watered by a negro, whose hosepipe traced rapid arabesques which disappeared as quickly as they were made, evaporating almost immediately in the parched atmosphere.

And now the ship was approaching Podor, one of the largest towns on the river, and the Sahara bank began to show signs of life.

This was the entrance to the country of the Douaïch, shepherds grown rich through cattle raids upon the negro territory.

These Moors used to swim their long caravans across the Senegal, driving before them the stolen cattle. Presently camps came into view, pitched upon the never-ending plain. The camelskin tents, stretched between wooden stakes, resembled huge bats’ wings spread out upon the sand; they formed weird patterns of an intense black in the midst of a country that was of a uniform, unvarying yellow. Everywhere there were somewhat increased signs of animation, of activity and life.

On the banks larger groups of people came running to see the ship. Moorish women, beautiful, copper-coloured creatures, half dressed, with frontlets of coral, trotted up, sitting astride their small, hump-backed cows; and often there were children scampering along behind them on tiny frisky calves; naked children, their heads shaven, except for great tufts of flowing mane, their bodies tawny and muscular as those of young satyrs.

* * * * *

XIV

Podor is an important French post on the southern bank of the Senegal, and is one of the hottest places in the world.

It is a strong fortress, fissured by the heat of the sun. A street, tolerably shady, runs alongside the river; it consists of a few houses that are old already and sombre of aspect. You may see there some French farmers of revenue, yellow with fever and anæmia; Moorish or negro pedlars squatting on the sand; all the costumes and amulets known to Africa; sacks of ground nuts, bales of ostrich feathers, and elsewhere ivory and gold dust.

Behind this semi-European street lies a large negro town built of thatch. The town is divided into sections like honeycomb, by wide straight streets. Each of its quarters is bounded by thick wooden palisades, and fortified like a citadel.

In the evening Jean wandered about the town, with his friend Nyaor for companion. The mournful songs that floated to his ears from behind those walls, those strange voices, that unfamiliar aspect of things, that hot wind, ceasing neither day nor night, inspired him with a kind of vague terror, an inexplicable anguish, compounded of home sickness and loneliness and hopelessness all in one.

Never, not even in the distant outposts of Diakhallémé had he felt so completely alone, so utterly forsaken.

Podor was surrounded by fields of millet; a few stunted trees grew there, some brushwood, some scanty grass.

On the Moorish bank opposite lay absolute desert. Yet at the entrance to a road, of which scarcely the beginnings existed, and which soon lost its identity in the sands to the north, stood a signpost with this prophetic inscription: “_To Algiers_.”

XV

It was five in the morning; the red lustreless sun was rising over the land of the Douaïch. Jean returned to the Falémé, which was preparing to resume its voyage. The negro women who were travelling by the Falémé were already lying on the deck, rolled in their variegated _pagnes_, packed together so tightly that nothing could be distinguished on the ground but a confused heap of drapery, gilded by the morning light, with here and there a black, heavily braceletted arm waving in the air.

Jean, who was making his way between them, suddenly felt himself seized by two supple arms that wound themselves like two serpents around his legs.

The woman was hiding her head and kissing his feet.

“Tjean! Tjean!” ... said a queer little voice, well known to him. “I have followed you for fear you should gain Paradise (be killed) in the war. Tjean, won’t you look at your son?”

And the two black arms lifted up a bronzed child and held him towards the spahi.

“My son? my son?” repeated Jean in his brusque soldier’s way, yet in a voice that trembled nevertheless, “my son? What nonsense are you talking, Fatou?”

* * * * *

“But it’s true all the same,” he added, strangely moved, bending down to look at the child, “It’s true all the same; he is nearly white.”

The child had none of his mother’s blood in his veins; he was Jean’s son entirely. He was bronzed, but essentially white like the spahi; he had the same deep eyes, the same beauty. He stretched out his hands and looked about him, knitting his little brows with an expression of precocious seriousness, as if wondering what fate had in store for him, and how, his Cevennes blood came to be mingled with that of this impure black race.

Jean felt himself vanquished by some strange inner force, a troubling and mysterious emotion; he bent down and kissed his son gently with silent tenderness. Sentiments hitherto unknown penetrated to the very depths of his soul.

The voice of Fatou-gaye, moreover, had awakened in his heart a host of sleeping echoes. The fever of the senses, the habit of possession had linked them together with those strong and enduring bonds which separation can scarcely destroy.

And then Fatou, at least, was faithful to him in her own way, and besides he was so abjectly forlorn, poor fellow....

So he let her hang an African amulet round his neck, and then shared his day’s ration with her.

* * * * *

XVI

The ship continued her voyage. The river flowed in a more southernly direction, and the aspect of the country began to change.

Shrubs now grew on both banks, slim gum trees, mimosas, tamarisks with delicate foliage, grass and green sward. There were no signs of tropical flora; one might have fancied it the less luxurious vegetation of northern latitudes.

Apart from this excessive heat and silence there was nothing now to suggest that it was the heart of Africa—one might have imagined oneself on some peaceful European stream.

However, from time to time some idyll of negro character could be witnessed. In groves that might have served as a setting for a Watteau pastoral, the eye would light upon an amorous negro pair, decked with grigris and bead necklaces, pasturing lean zebus or herds of goats.

Further on were other herds that no one shepherded, herds of grey crocodiles, hundreds of them asleep in the sun, submerged belly-deep in the warm waters.

And Fatou-gaye would smile. Her eyes would light up with a strange joy, for she recognised the approach of Galam, her native land.

None the less there was one thing that kept her uneasy. When she passed great, grass-grown marshes, wide, gloomy pools, bordered with mangroves, she would shut her eyes for fear of seeing the black muzzle of a hippopotamus (n’gabou) emerging from the stagnant waters. For her and hers, such an apparition would have been an omen of death.

It would be impossible to describe the ruses, the importunity, the ingenuity she had brought to bear in order to secure a passage on this ship on which she knew Jean had embarked.

Where had she taken refuge when she left the house of the griot? In what lair had she hidden herself to bring the spahi’s child into the world?

Now, at any rate, she was happy. She was on her way back to Galam, and Jean was with her; her dream had come true.

* * * * *

XVII

Dialdé was situated at the confluence of the Senegal and a nameless stream, a tributary which flowed in from the south.

The post consisted of an unimportant negro village and a small protecting blockhouse of French construction, resembling the isolated forts of Upper Algeria.

It was the nearest point to the country of Boubakar-Ségou, and here in the midst of tribes that were still friendly, the French forces were to effect a junction, and to camp with the allied army of the Bambaras.

The flat country surrounding the village had the same monotony and aridity that characterised the banks of the lower Senegal.

None the less clumps of trees, or forests even, were already to be seen, indicating that this was the threshold of the land of Galam, the wooded regions of the interior.

XVIII

It is the first reconnaissance made in the tract of country to the east of the encampment of Dialdé, towards Djidiam, and it is carried out by Jean, Sergeant Muller, and tall Nyaor.

According to the report of timid old women of the friendly tribe, fresh tracks of a large body of foot soldiers and mounted men, who could be no other than the army of the great black chief, had been seen on the sand.

For two hours the three mounted spahis patrolled the plain in all directions, but discovered no human footprint, nor any trace of the passage of an army.

On the other hand, the ground was covered with the spoor of all the fauna of Africa—from the great round pit made by the heavy foot of the hippopotamus to the dainty little triangular hoofprint of the light-stepping gazelle. The sand, hardened by the last showers of the winter season, preserved faithfully all the impressions made upon it by the denizens of the wild. The paws of monkeys, the great straggling stride of giraffes, the tracks of lizards and serpents, the pads of tigers and lions were visible. One might have traced the stealthy comings and goings of jackals, the prodigious leaps of hunted deer. There were suggestions of all the terrible vitality which darkness unchains in these deserts—deserts that lie so silent under the burning eye of the sun. One could form a picture of the saturnalia of wild life bursting forth under cover of darkness.

All the wild fowl lurking in the brushwood rose up, startled by the three spahis’ horses. It was miraculous shooting country. Red partridges, guinea fowl, blue jays, pink jays, sheeny blackbirds, and huge bustards flew across the very muzzles of their rifles. But the spahis let them all go, still continuing their vain search for human tracks.

It was nearly evening, and dense vapours were gathering on the horizon. The sky had that heavy, torpid aspect, such as the imagination pictures at the setting of antediluvian suns—at the period when the atmosphere, more torrid, more heavily charged with vital essences, was maturing on primitive earth the monstrous germs of the mammoth and the pleiosaurus.

The sun sank slowly down among the strange veils; it grew lustreless, livid, rayless; distorted and disproportionately magnified; and then at last its light was quenched.

Nyaor, who until that moment had followed Muller and Jean with his customary insouciance, remarked that it would be imprudent to pursue the reconnaissance further, and that the two _toubabs_, his friends, would be unnecessarily rash if they persisted.

Actually there was a possibility of every kind of surprise attack, and danger might be lurking all around them. Moreover, there were everywhere fresh spoor of lions; the horses began to stop dead and to sniff at the five claw marks so clearly defined on the level sand, and to tremble with terror....

After consultation, Jean and Sergeant Muller decided to turn, and soon the three horses were racing like the wind in the direction of the blockhouse, the white burnooses of their riders floating behind them. In the distance, that awe-inspiring cavernous voice, which the Moors liken to thunder, began to make itself heard: the roar of the hunting lion.

They were brave men, these three, galloping there, yet they experienced that kind of vertigo which is produced by excessive speed; the contagion of that dread which was spurring on their maddened beasts. The reeds which bent under them, the branches that whipped their legs, seemed to them troops of lions of the desert, bounding in pursuit of them....

Soon they were within sight of the stream which separated them from the French tents, the inhabited world, and the little Arab blockhouse of the village of Dialdé, still glowing with the last red rays of sunset.

They swam their horses across and re-entered the camp.

XIX

It was the evening hour, with its atmosphere of intense melancholy. Sunset awakened this obscure village to a kind of animation all its own. The black herdsmen were driving home their flocks; the warriors of the tribe, busy with their preparations for battle, were sharpening their fighting knives, and furbishing up their prehistoric guns. The women were making _kouss-kouss_, to serve as provisions for the army, and were milking their ewes and lean zebu cows. A confused murmur of negro voices arose, mingled with the querulous bleating of goats and the plaintive yelping of Laobé dogs....

Fatou was there, seated at the door of the blockhouse with her child, in the humble, suppliant attitude she had continued to adopt since her return.

And Jean, his heart oppressed with solitude, came and sat beside her, and took the child on his knee with a feeling of tenderness towards his black family in its happiness, and of finding at Dialdé in Galam someone who loved him.

Near them the griots were rehearsing their warlike songs. They were chanting softly, in mournful, falsetto voices, accompanying themselves on small primitive guitars, consisting of two strings stretched upon serpent skin, producing a faint sound like the stridulation of crickets. They were singing these African airs that harmonise so well with the desolation of their country and have a charm of their own, with their elusive rhythm and their monotony....

Jean’s son was a delightful baby, but very solemn, and was seldom seen to smile. He was dressed in a blue bou-bou and a necklace, like a Yolof child, but his head was not shaved or ornamented with little tails of hair, as is usual with children of the country. As he was a little “white” boy, his mother had let his curly hair grow, and one lock fell across his forehead, as with Jean.

Jean remained there a long time, seated at the door of the blockhouse, playing with his son.

The last rays of daylight fell upon this singular picture; the child with his angel face, the spahi with his soldierly beauty, playing together alongside of those sinister dark minstrels.

Fatou-gaye was seated at their feet contemplating the pair with adoring eyes, crouching on the ground before them like a dog at its master’s feet.

Poor Jean had remained very much of a child, as is commonly the case with young men who have led a hard life, and whose precocious physical development has endowed them early with a mature and serious manner. He dandled his son on his knees with soldierly awkwardness, constantly bursting into peals of fresh, youthful laughter. But the child, the spahi’s son, did not laugh much; he put his chubby arms round his father’s neck and nestled close to his breast, looking about him with a very solemn air....

When night fell, Jean disposed of them both safely in the interior of the blockhouse; then he gave Fatou all the money he had left, three _khâliss_ (fifteen francs)....

“See,” he said, “to-morrow you will buy _kouss-kouss_ for yourself and good milk for him.”

* * * * *

XX

Then he made his way towards the camp, so that he, too, might lie down and sleep.

To reach the French tents, he had to pass through the camp of the allied Bambaras. The night was of a luminous transparency, and everywhere the whirring noises of insects were audible; one grew aware that there were thousands and thousands of crickets and cicadas under every blade of grass, in each little hole in the sand. Sometimes the concerted effect of all these whirring sounds was strident and deafening, as if the whole vast country were covered with an infinite number of tiny bells and rattles, and then momentarily the whole din would seem to die down, as if all these crickets had passed the word for silence, and there was a sudden hush.

Lost in thought, Jean went his way. He was very dreamy this evening.... And as he mused, without looking where he was going, he found himself engulfed suddenly in a great circle of men, who kept revolving around him in the rhythm of a dance. (The circular dance is the form specially favoured by the Bambaras.)

The dancers were men of lofty stature, wearing long white robes and high turbans, likewise white, with two black horns.

And in the transparent night the circle revolved almost noiselessly; the movement was slow, but light-footed as a spirit dance. The sweep of the draperies gave forth rustling sounds like the feathers of great birds.... And the dancers, all in unison, assumed various poses, poised on tiptoe, swaying backwards or forwards, flinging out in one simultaneous movement their long arms, and thus spreading out, like transparent wings, the innumerable folds of their muslin robes.

There was a soft accompaniment of tom-toms, as if muted; the wailing flutes and the ivory horns sounded muffled and remote. This monotonous music, which gave the tune to the circular dance of the Bambaras, resembled a magical incantation.

And all the dancers, as they passed the spahi, bent their heads towards him as a sign of recognition, and smiled as they said to him,

“Tjean, come into our dance.” ...

Jean also recognised most of them in their festal robes; they were black spahis or riflemen, who had donned the long white _bou-bou_ and the _temba-sembé_, the ceremonial headdress.

Jean smiled and greeted them as he made his way through,

“Good evening, Niodagal; good evening, Imobé-Fafandou; good evening, Dempa-Taco and Samba-Fall; good evening, big Nyaor,” for Nyaor was there, too, one of the tallest and handsomest....

But nonetheless Jean quickened his step, anxious to shake off these long coils of white-robed dancers, ever winding and unwinding themselves around him.

All this was affecting him—the night, the dance, and the music, which seemed to be that of another world.

* * * * *

And ever they repeated, “Tjean, come into our dance,” and they continued to flit around him like visions, sportively encircling him, purposely extending their winding chain to prevent him from making his escape....

XXI

As soon as Jean had lain down in his tent, he set himself to work out a whole host of new plans for the future.

He was certainly going back first of all to see his old father and mother. Nothing should induce him to postpone this visit. But after that he would undoubtedly have to return to Africa, now that he had a son. He realised clearly that he already loved this little child of his with all his heart, and that no consideration on earth could induce him to abandon him.

* * * * *

Without, in the Bambara encampment, could be heard at regular intervals the voices of the griots, chanting on three dismal notes the sacred war cry. They cast this owl-like chant over the slumbering tents, and lulled the black warriors into their first sleep with exhortations to be brave, and to load their carbines with several bullets at once on the day of battle.

Everyone was aware that the day was close at hand, and Boubakar-Ségou not far off.

* * * * *

What should he do at St Louis when he came back after his leave and reclaimed his little son? Should he re-enlist? Or would it be better to try his fortune in some independent adventure?...

He might perhaps become a farmer of revenue on the river. No, he felt an invincible repugnance to any other professions than those of agriculture and arms.