“Yes, it will take two years, as far as we can judge in advance about so long and dangerous a journey. I saw Commandant Jamy in Paris, and he introduced me to M. Moureau. It is arranged that we shall both take part in the mission with a couple of hundred Tirailleurs. It is being carefully organised. The Minister of War is interested in it. But I am afraid that we shall not go before next year.”
Marcel talked long, in a grave, distinct voice, about the reason, the aim, and the preparation for the little expedition which was being prepared to take the place of that which had ended so tragically under Colonel Flathers. He explained clearly, almost eloquently, so completely had he mastered his subject. He waxed enthusiastic over it. Nothing seemed to interest him now except this bold journey into the heart of Africa. He supplemented his words with expressive gestures as he dwelt on the theme of these vast unknown lands, mysterious and unfathomable as the ocean.
In listening to him Jean’s face took on an attentive and manly expression. This young man of supple movements, of delicate and handsome features, who smiled and joked unceasingly, who pleased women, and whom one would have pictured at first sight as completely in his element in a drawing-room flirting and making himself agreeable, revealed under the influence of a serious interest his really strong and virile character. Knowing him better, his friend Marcel Guibert had never judged him differently, and when he heard him spoken of as the lady’s man of the garrison, he was astonished and contented himself with answering, “You don’t know him.”
Madame Guibert now appeared on the steps.
“Not a word,” said the Captain, quickly putting his fingers to his lips.
“She knows nothing?” whispered Jean.
“No, she will know only too soon.”
Madame Guibert looked at the garden, but did not see the two young men. Thinking herself alone, she removed her spectacles which she had put on to do some fancy work, took out her handkerchief and passed it slowly over her eyes. Tired, she leaned on the wooden balustrade, which was covered with a sad mantle of withered branches of jasmine and wistaria. She let her eyes rest on the familiar landscape in mournful reverie.
The fading evening dyed the delicate sky with lilac and rose. The air was soft, but its freshness announced the advent of autumn. The countryside was smiling with the melancholy charm of a dying person who still hopes to live. It showed its bare fields and its stripped vines, with an air resembling that of a prodigal who has given away everything and still wishes to give more. All that was of any use was gone, only beauty was left. The woods but half hid their mysteries now, and their green and gold foliage seemed scarcely able to bear up against the rays of the sun. Round the walls of the house a few overblown roses let their heavy petals fall in the light wind. But at the top of a meadow on the hill, standing out blackly against the clear sky, two oxen majestically drew the plough which prepared for the coming harvests. In the peaceful decay of nature came the promise of new youth.
A chestnut falling at his feet made Marcel shiver. All at once he understood the sadness of the beauty to whose entrancing grace he had been yielding himself. He smelt the autumn and the dying day. And as he looked at her, above all others dear to him, his mother, leaning on the balcony and gathering together in her mind all her flock of scattered children, he realised the strength of his filial affection and felt at the same time that superstitious, piercing dread inspired in us at times by the insecurity of the lives of those we love. Jean saw his friend’s face become clouded and he pointed out to him the plough patiently fertilising the ground, as if thereby bidding him trust in Providence.