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."