Thanks to the kindness of the Commandant, we came away from Saïda with a pretty comprehensive idea of the perplexities and responsibilities of his high post, and of the working of the military system of government in Algeria.
Next day, the last day of the year, we returned to Mascara, and had, if anything, a more trying journey than before; the wind was colder, the sun was hotter, the clouds dustier, and every one prophesied rain.
We spent New Year’s day with some kind friends from Algiers, Monsieur D——, an army surgeon, and his wife. What a sumptuous breakfast we had! I do not mean sumptuous in the matter of dishes only, but in the matter of conversation, which was as piquant and full of flavour as the fare. Monsieur D—— and his wife were two of those happy mortals who are gifted with perpetual youth, coupled with a habit of quick and just observation. An hour’s talk with them was like reading a very witty and very wise novel. Throughout the shifting scenes of their African life, they had naturally fallen in with all sorts of characters and conditions, and they gave us a lively picture of French society in Oran, touching on the follies, errors, and good things of it, with kindly satire.
“I will take you to see Madame la Générale,” said our hostess, “for I don’t suppose in any of your travels you have been introduced to a Moorish lady married to a French commanding officer. Now, our General’s wife is one; and, though she does not speak French quite easily, you will find her in dress and manner quite a Parisian. They have four children, such little dark, handsome, wild things, and there is not one of them so fond of sweets as mamma! Moorish ladies, you know, almost live on sugar.”
Madame la Générale had a cold, however, and could see no one, so we had to leave Mascara without personal intercourse with a Moorish lady turned Parisian. It was certainly a disappointment.
It was quite a gay day at Mascara. New Year’s day is always gay in France, and so warmly were we received by Monsieur and Madame D—— that we did not feel as if we could be so far from home and in a spot so remote as Mascara! French hospitality, at least as far as my experience of it goes, is as genuine and gracious hospitality as any in the world; and we were quite touched by the way in which people thought of us and for us wherever we went.
To give one instance out of many:—On the eve of our departure from Mascara, I was disturbed in my packing by a gentle rap at the door, and on opening it saw Monsieur D—— followed by an Arab servant bearing a small basket heavily laden.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” he said, “I disturb you—but only for a little moment, and then I will wish you ‘bon voyage’ for the last time, and go. When you and Madame had left us to-day, we remembered that you praised my wife’s preserved peaches and apricots, and we thought you might like some to eat on the way.”
Then he helped his boy Hamed to unload the basket, which contained several tin cases of fruit hermetically sealed. I thanked him, said it was too bad of us to rob Madame when she had been at the trouble of preserving the fruit herself, that we should take the cases to England, that we should never forget the kind reception we had met at Mascara, &c.
“And we shall not forget,” he said, with a hearty shake of the hand, “what pretty things you have said about French ladies in your book of Algerian travel! Adieu, au revoir, Mademoiselle; if not in Africa, in Paris; if not in Paris, in England!” and then he went.