Some time afterwards her guests, on hearing the Marquise come out with such names as Oondokoro and Bahr-el-Ghazal, looked positively alarmed, and wondered what these outlandish, harsh-sounding names meant, and where those countries were situated, of whose existence nobody had ever dreamt. Consequently, Madame de Genevray made up her mind to be more reticent in future, at all events where geography was concerned.
In the club to which M. de Morin, Périères, and Delange belonged, several books on African travel, published by Hachette, lay on the library table for about three weeks, but these volumes, purchased simply as mementos of boon companions, were as a rule uncut, and were soon lost to view beneath the latest novels, the fortnightly reviews, and the evening papers. If, in October and November, a few members of the club in the afternoon or before betaking themselves to bouillotte or baccarat, mentioned the Parisian expedition, asking for news of it and appearing interested in its fate, in December and January it was forgotten. The last plays of Angier and Sardou, the exploits of Mdlle. X., the duel fought by Z., and the coming to grief of young D, with a slight sprinkling of politics, at that time were the sole topics of conversation.
Dr. Desrioux and the Count de Pommerelle alone had continued to follow, in thought and on the map, their African friends. But no news having been received from them since their departure from Khartoum, MM. de Pommerelle and Desrioux were perforce limited to the written programme of the expedition and the route therein laid down. It was merely on vague lines, by probabilities rather than assured facts, that they could accompany the travellers on the map, and with them travel towards the regions barely marked. To the friendly letters, in which the individuality of each of their former companions so clearly asserted itself, succeeded records of travel which any one might read. They studied Africa in books, instead of living in it, as they had up to this time done, in the society of those they held so dear.
The time, indeed, had come when the caravan having said adieu to the Monbuttoo country, they could not find any publication nor gain any information which could give them an idea even of the districts traversed. A large blank space, extending over hundreds of miles, was before them, and their imagination alone had to take the place of the reliable reports hitherto within their reach. So, calling to mind the regrets expressed by M. Périères, in his last letter from Khartoum, with regard to the route chosen, and remembering the possibly more direct route he had traced in a south-westerly direction, the two carpet travellers proposed to make a fresh start from Zanzibar, and go westwards, towards the great lakes to meet their friends. They had already got their pins ready, and were using their glasses to discover the points at which the expedition, according to their suppositions, was bound to halt.
These ideas and cares had not, however, entirely occupied MM. Desrioux and de Pommerelle. The former divided his time between his patients and his mother, whose health was daily becoming more precarious, and caused him serious anxiety. The latter lived on in his usual style, idle, ennuyé, and tired of Paris, where he remained only from the force of habit. Even this became too weak to hold him, and at last he made up his mind to go away, but, before doing so, he had to say good-bye to Dr. Desrioux, whom for a week or so he had rather neglected. He found him at home, in deep mourning, and looking pale, worn, and sad.
"What is the matter with you?" exclaimed M. de Pommerelle, "what has happened to you, my dear fellow?"
"I have just lost my mother," said M. Desrioux, in a broken voice.
"And you never sent for me? Why did you not let me know of her illness?"
"I had no time, and, indeed, I thought of nothing but striving to save her. I studied her complaint, consulted my confrères, tried everything, and, I fear, only tortured the poor woman in the hopes of restoring her. It would have been better to have left her alone, to have let her pass away in peace and quiet. Everybody told me so, but I could not believe them, and I went on, hoping against hope. I had wrought so many unexpected cures amongst strangers, but when it came to my mother's turn I could do nothing. And, now, she is dead—she whom I so fondly loved, whom I never left, and for whom I sacrificed everything. And I—I am alone."
"No," remonstrated the Count, "you have still faithful friends, and I am one of them. Come, rouse yourself and get away from this house. Come with me."