I
THE young scholar Dutrail, whose works on the head ornaments of the Carthaginians had already attracted attention, and Bouverie, his former tutor, now his friend, a corresponding-member of the Academy of Inscriptions, were working at some excavations on the western coast of Africa, in the French Congo, south of Myamba. It was a small expedition, fitted out by private means, and originally consisting of eight members. Most of them, however, had been unable to endure the deadly climate, and on one pretext or another had gone away. There remained only Dutrail, whose youthful enthusiasm conquered all difficulties, and the old Bouverie, who having all his life dreamed of taking part in important excavations where his special knowledge was concerned, had in his old age—thanks to the patronage of his young friend—obtained his desire. The excavations were extremely interesting; no one had supposed the Phœnician colony to have spread itself so far south on the West Coast of Africa, extending even beyond the Equator. Every day’s work enriched science and opened up new perspectives as to the position of Phœnicia and her commercial relations in the ninth century B.C.
The work was, however, extremely arduous. No European had remained with Dutrail and Bouverie except their servant Victor; all the workmen were negroes of the place. True, it had been decided that in place of those who had left other archæologists should come and bring with them not only some French workmen and a new store of necessary instruments, guns, and food supplies, but also the letters, books, and newspapers of which Dutrail and Bouverie had long been deprived. But day followed day, and the wished-for steamer did not appear. Their stores were decreasing, they were obliged to hunt for their food, and Dutrail was especially anxious about the exhaustion of their supply of cartridges; the natives were already sullen and insubordinate, and in the event of a riot among them their lack of arms might be dangerous. Besides this, the Frenchmen suffered greatly from the climate and from the intolerable heat, which was so great that in the daytime it was impossible to touch a stone without burning the hand. And now at last the bold archæologists seemed likely to be overcome by the malevolent local fever which had attacked several of the company before their departure.
Dutrail triumphed over everything. Day after day he subsisted on the flesh of seabirds tasting strongly of fish, and drank the warmish water from a neighbouring spring; he kept the mutinous crowd of negro-workmen in check and himself worked with them, and yet still found time at night to write his diary and to keep a detailed account of all the archæological treasures they had obtained. In the tiny hut which they had built under the shelter of a cliff he had already put in order a whole museum of wonderful things which had lain almost three centuries in the earth and now being restored to the world would soon bring about a revolution in Phœnician lore. Bouverie, on the contrary, though desiring with all his soul to remain with his young friend, was manifestly becoming weaker. It was more difficult for an old man to struggle against misfortunes and deprivation. Often, as he worked, his spade or his gun would simply drop from his hands and he himself would fall unconscious to the ground. Added to this he had begun to have attacks of the local fever. Dutrail tried to cure him with quinine and the other medicines which were in their travelling medicine-chest, but the old man’s strength was utterly giving way; his cheeks had fallen in, his eyes burned with an unhealthy glitter, and at night-time he was tortured by paroxysms of dry coughing, shivering fits, fever and delirium.
Dutrail had long ago made up his mind to compel his friend to return to Europe as soon as the steamer should come, but for a long while he had been afraid to speak about the matter. He felt that the old man would certainly refuse—would prefer, as a scholar, to die at his post, the more so as lately he had often spoken of death. To Dutrail’s astonishment, however, Bouverie himself began to speak of leaving, saying it was evident that they must part, and although it was bitter for him to abandon the work he had begun, his illness compelled him to go, so that he might die in his native land. In the depths of his soul Dutrail was almost offended by these last remarks of the old man, who could prefer his superstitious desire—to be in his native land at the moment of his death—before the high interest of scientific research, but explaining this by Bouverie’s illness he at length applauded his friend’s resolution, and said all that might be expected from him under the circumstances—that the fever was not so dangerous, that it would pass with the change of climate, that they would still do much work together, and so forth.
Two days later Bouverie astonished his friend still further. On that day the excavators had come upon a new and rich tomb. Dutrail was in ecstasy over such a discovery and he could neither speak nor think of anything else. But in the evening Bouverie called his former pupil to his side in his half of the little hut and begged him to witness his will.
“I’m much to blame,” said Bouverie, “not to have made my will before, but I’ve never had the time. All my life I’ve been entirely taken up with science, and I have never had time to think about my own affairs. But my health is getting so much worse that perhaps I shall never get away from here, so I must formulate my last desires. We are only three Europeans here, but you and Victor are enough to witness my will.”
So as not to agitate the old man, Dutrail agreed. The will was quite an ordinary one. Bouverie left the little money he had to dispose of to a niece, for he was unmarried and had no other relatives. He left small sums to his old servant, to the owner of the house in which he had lived for forty years, and to various other people. His collection of Phœnician and Carthaginian antiquities, gathered together during his long lifetime, the old man bequeathed to the Louvre, and some separate small things—to his friends, Dutrail among the number.
Coming at length to the last clause, Bouverie said, in an agitated manner:
“This, strictly speaking, ought not to be included in the will. It is simply—my request to you personally, Dutrail. But listen to it all the same.”
The request was that after his death Bouverie wanted his body to be sent to France and buried in his native town by the side of his mother. As he read this last clause of the will the old man could not restrain his tears. In a breaking voice he began to implore that whatever might happen his request should be fulfilled.
By a great effort Dutrail controlled his anger and answered as gently and tenderly as he could.
“Devil take it, dear friend! You see, I’m quite sure you’re not so ill as you think. If I agreed to witness your will, I did so for one reason, to please you, and for another, because it is never superfluous to put one’s affairs in order. But as I am strongly convinced that you will get better and will laugh at your present anxiety about yourself, I will permit myself to make some objections.”
With the greatest caution Dutrail pointed out to Bouverie that his request could hardly be fulfilled; there were no means at hand for embalming the body and no coffin which could be hermetically sealed. And he asked whether it were worse to be after death under African palms side by side with the dead of the great past than in some small provincial French cemetery. The only thing it was possible to promise in any case, under such circumstances, was that his body should be buried here in Africa at first and afterwards taken to France, though this would be difficult, troublesome, and, above all, useless.
“That’s what I was afraid of!” cried the old man despairingly. “I was afraid that you would say just that. But I beg of you, I conjure you, to fulfil my request, whatever it may cost you, even though ... even though you may have to give up the excavations for a time.”
Bouverie entreated, begged, wept. And at last, in order to pacify the old man, Dutrail was obliged to consent, to give his word of honour and even his oath. The will was signed.