A PASSION IN THE DESERT
“The whole show is dreadful,” she cried coming out of the
menagerie of M. Martin. She had just been looking at that daring speculator
“working with his hyena,”—to speak in the style of the programme.
“By what means,” she continued, “can he have tamed these animals
to such a point as to be certain of their affection for——”
“What seems to you a problem,” said I, interrupting, “is really
quite natural.”
“Oh!” she cried, letting an incredulous smile wander over her
lips.
“You think that beasts are wholly without passions?” I asked her.
“Quite the reverse; we can communicate to them all the vices arising in our own
state of civilization.”
She looked at me with an air of astonishment.
“But,” I continued, “the first time I saw M. Martin, I admit, like
you, I did give vent to an exclamation of surprise. I found myself next to an
old soldier with the right leg amputated, who had come in with me. His face had
struck me. He had one of those heroic heads, stamped with the seal of warfare,
and on which the battles of Napoleon are written. Besides, he had that frank,
good-humored expression which always impresses me favorably. He was without
doubt one of those troopers who are surprised at nothing, who find matter for
laughter in the contortions of a dying comrade, who bury or plunder him quite
light-heartedly, who stand intrepidly in the way of bullets;—in fact, one of
those men who waste no time in deliberation, and would not hesitate to make
friends with the devil himself. After looking very attentively at the
proprietor of the menagerie getting out of his box, my companion pursed up his
lips with an air of mockery and contempt, with that peculiar and expressive
twist which superior people assume to show they are not taken in. Then, when I
was expatiating on the courage of M. Martin, he smiled, shook his head
knowingly, and said, ‘Well known.’
“‘How “well known”?’ I said. ‘If you would only explain me the
mystery, I should be vastly obliged.’
“After a few minutes, during which we made acquaintance, we went
to dine at the first restauranteur’s whose shop caught our eye. At dessert a
bottle of champagne completely refreshed and brightened up the memories of this
odd old soldier. He told me his story, and I saw that he was right when he
exclaimed, ‘Well known.’”
When she got home, she teased me to that extent, was so charming,
and made so many promises, that I consented to communicate to her the
confidences of the old soldier. Next day she received the following episode of
an epic which one might call “The French in Egypt.”
During the expedition in Upper Egypt under General Desaix, a
Provencal soldier fell into the hands of the Maugrabins, and was taken by these
Arabs into the deserts beyond the falls of the Nile.
In order to place a sufficient distance between themselves and the
French army, the Maugrabins made forced marches, and only halted when night was
upon them. They camped round a well overshadowed by palm trees under which they
had previously concealed a store of provisions. Not surmising that the notion
of flight would occur to their prisoner, they contented themselves with binding
his hands, and after eating a few dates, and giving provender to their horses,
went to sleep.
When the brave Provencal saw that his enemies were no longer
watching him, he made use of his teeth to steal a scimiter, fixed the blade
between his knees, and cut the cords which prevented him from using his hands;
in a moment he was free. He at once seized a rifle and a dagger, then taking
the precautions to provide himself with a sack of dried dates, oats, and powder
and shot, and to fasten a scimiter to his waist, he leaped on to a horse, and
spurred on vigorously in the direction where he thought to find the French
army. So impatient was he to see a bivouac again that he pressed on the already
tired courser at such speed, that its flanks were lacerated with his spurs, and
at last the poor animal died, leaving the Frenchman alone in the desert. After
walking some time in the sand with all the courage of an escaped convict, the
soldier was obliged to stop, as the day had already ended. In spite of the
beauty of an Oriental sky at night, he felt he had not strength enough to go
on. Fortunately he had been able to find a small hill, on the summit of which a
few palm trees shot up into the air; it was their verdure seen from afar which
had brought hope and consolation to his heart. His fatigue was so great that he
lay down upon a rock of granite, capriciously cut out like a camp-bed; there he
fell asleep without taking any precaution to defend himself while he slept. He
had made the sacrifice of his life. His last thought was one of regret. He
repented having left the Maugrabins, whose nomadic life seemed to smile upon
him now that he was far from them and without help. He was awakened by the sun,
whose pitiless rays fell with all their force on the granite and produced an
intolerable heat—for he had had the stupidity to place himself adversely to the
shadow thrown by the verdant majestic heads of the palm trees. He looked at the
solitary trees and shuddered—they reminded him of the graceful shafts crowned
with foliage which characterize the Saracen columns in the cathedral of Arles.
But when, after counting the palm trees, he cast his eyes around
him, the most horrible despair was infused into his soul. Before him stretched
an ocean without limit. The dark sand of the desert spread further than eye
could reach in every direction, and glittered like steel struck with bright
light. It might have been a sea of looking-glass, or lakes melted together in a
mirror. A fiery vapor carried up in surging waves made a perpetual whirlwind
over the quivering land. The sky was lit with an Oriental splendor of
insupportable purity, leaving naught for the imagination to desire. Heaven and
earth were on fire.
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