XVIII
Dakar is a kind of colonial town roughly constructed on a foundation of sand and red rock, an improvised port of call for the mailboats bound for that western point of Africa called Cape Verde.
Great baobabs grow here and there on the desolate dunes; flights of fish-eagles and vultures swoop through the air overhead.
Fatou-gaye is here provisionally installed in a mulatto hut. She declares that she will never return to St Louis. There her plans end. She does not know what is to become of her, and Jean is equally ignorant. He has racked his brains in vain, poor fellow, without hitting upon the vestige of a plan. And he has no more money!...
It is morning; the mailboat on which the spahis are to embark sails in a few hours. Fatou-gaye is crouching beside her four miserable calabashes, which represent her entire fortune, never uttering a word, not even in answer. Her eyes are fixed and immobile in a kind of dreary stupefaction of despair, a despair heart-rending in its sincerity and depth.
And Jean is standing beside her, twisting his moustache, not knowing what to do.
Suddenly the door is flung open noisily, and a tall spahi enters like the wind, in great excitement, with animation in his eyes, and an expression of agitation and anxiety.
This is Pierre Boyer, who has been Jean’s comrade and room-mate at St Louis during the past two years. Both intensely reserved, they have seldom conversed, but they like each other, and when Boyer went away on service to Goree, they shook hands cordially.
Removing his cap, Pierre Boyer murmured a hasty excuse for his wild intrusion, and then he seized Jean’s hands and said effusively,
“Oh Peyral, I have been looking for you since before dawn.... Listen to me a moment. I want to talk to you. I have a great favour to ask. Listen first to what I have to say, and do not be in a hurry to reply....
“You, lucky fellow, are going to Algiers.... I alas! together with several others from Goree am leaving to-morrow for the outpost of Gadiangué in Ouankarah. There is fighting in those parts. About three months to be spent there, and there’s promotion to be won, no doubt, or else a medal.
“We have the same amount of service to put in; we are both of the same age. It would make no difference to your return.... Peyral, will you exchange with me?”
Jean had already understood; he had divined his purpose with the first words uttered. He gazed into vacancy with his eyes wide open, dilated as if with the torment he was inwardly enduring. A tumult of hesitating, contradictory thoughts surged in his head; with folded arms and bowed head he went on thinking—and Fatou, who had likewise grasped the situation, had straightened herself and sat with heaving breast, awaiting what verdict might fall from Jean’s lips.
Then the other spahi continued, speaking volubly, as if to prevent Jean from uttering that word “No!” which he dreaded to hear.
“Listen, Peyral, it will be to your advantage, I assure you.”
“What about the others, Boyer?... Did you ask them?”
“Yes, they refused. But I expected that. They, to be sure, have their reasons. It will be to your advantage, Peyral, you see. The Governor of Goree is interested in me, and he has promised you his protection, if you accept. We thought of you first” (with a look at Fatou), “because it is well known that you are fond of this country. On your return from Gadiangué, you would be sent to complete your service at St Louis; that has been arranged with the Governor. I swear to you that it would be so.”
... “In any case, we shall never have time,” interrupted Jean, who felt that he was lost, and was clutching at a straw.
“Oh yes,”... said Pierre Boyer, with a ray of joy already brightening his eyes. “We shall have plenty of time; there is all the afternoon before us. You will have nothing to bother about. Everything has been arranged with the Governor; the papers are ready. All that is required is your consent and your signature—and then I go back to Goree and return here in two hours’ time, and everything will be settled. Listen, Peyral, here are my savings, three hundred francs; they are yours. Perhaps the money may be useful to you when you return to St Louis and settle down, or on some other occasion. Do what you like with it.”
“Oh, thank you,” replied Jean. “I don’t take money for this sort of thing.”...
He turned away his head disdainfully, and Boyer, aware that he had made a false step, took his hand and said,
“Don’t be angry, Peyral.”
And he held Jean’s hand in his, and they both stood there, facing each other, troubled and silent.
Fatou, for her part, had realised that a word from her might ruin all. She had merely thrown herself on her knees again, softly muttering a negro prayer, and had wound her arms around the spahi’s legs, clinging to him.
Jean, vexed that another man should witness such a scene, said to her roughly,
“Come, Fatou, let me go, I beg you. Have you suddenly gone crazy?”
But to Pierre Boyer the pair did not seem ridiculous. On the contrary, he thought the scene touching.
A ray of morning sunshine glided across the yellow sand and slid in through the open door, casting a red light on the spahis’ uniforms, illuminating their pleasant, vigorous faces, clouded with anxiety and indecision, making the silver bracelets flash on Fatou’s supple arms, wound snake-like around Jean’s knees; emphasizing the dreary bareness of this African hut of wood and thatch where these three forlorn young creatures were deciding their own fate....
“Peyral,” continued the other spahi, speaking low, in a gentle voice.
“You see, Peyral, I am an Algerian. You know what that means. My good old parents live at Blidah, and they are waiting for me. They have no one but me. You, Peyral, will understand what it means to return to one’s home.”
“Very well, then, yes!” said Jean, pushing his red cap to the back of his head, and stamping on the ground, “Yes! I agree. I will exchange with you and stay.”
The spahi Boyer clasped him in his arms and embraced him. Fatou, still grovelling on the ground, uttered a cry of triumph, then hid her face against Jean’s knees, with a kind of wild animal’s roar, ending in a burst of hysterical laughter, followed by sobs.