CHAPTER III.INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS.
Composed of mud and loose stones, and covered with a
thatch of turf and straw, known to the natives by the name
of “driss,” the gourbi, though a grade better than the
tents of the nomad Arabs, was yet far inferior to any
habitation built of brick or stone. Little more than a
hovel, the gourbi would have been quite inadequate to the
needs of its present inmates, if it had not adjoined an old
stone hostelry, previously occupied by a detachment of
engineers, and which now afforded shelter for Ben Zoof
and the two horses. It still contained a considerable
number of tools, such as mattocks, shovels, and pick-axes.
Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac
and his attendant made no complaints: neither of them
was dainty in the matter either of board or lodging.
“Give a man a little philosophy and a good digestion,
and he will thrive anywhere,” was a favourite speech of the
captain's. A true Gascon, he had his philosophy, like his
pocket-money, always at hand; and as for his digestion, it
may be doubted whether the weight of all the waters of
the Garonne would have caused it any inconvenience.
And in this respect Ben Zoof was quite a match for his
matter; the power of his gastric juices was enormous, and
to any believer in the theory of metempsychosis he would
appear to have had an anterior existence under the form
of an ostrich, digesting pebbles as easily as he would the
tenderest slice from the breast of a chicken.
The gourbi was stocked with a month's provisions,
water in abundance could be obtained from an adjacent
cistern, and a little foraging was sufficient to supply the
requirements of the stable, whilst all other necessities
could be satisfied by the marvellous fertility of the plain
between Tenes and Mostaganem, which fairly rivalled the
rich country of the Mitidja. Game was pretty plentiful,
and on condition that he did not allow his sport to interfere
with his proper duties, the captain, like other staff-officers,
was permitted to use a fowling-piece.
On his return to the gourbi, Servadac dined with an
appetite to which his long ride had given an extra sharpness.
Ben Zoof's culinary efforts were somewhat remarkable:
no tasteless or insipid dishes were ever the result of
his preparation; salt, pepper, vinegar, were all bestowed
with a lavish hand, and it was well for both him and his
master that their gastronomic powers were adequate to
absorb the most pungent of condiments.
After dinner, leaving his orderly to stow away the
remains of the repast in what he was pleased to term the
“cupboard of his stomach,” Captain Servadac turned out
into the open air to smoke his pipe upon the edge of the
cliff. The shades of night were drawing on. An hour
previously, veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk below
the horizon that bounded the plain beyond the Shelif. The
sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the
north, although the darkness rendered it impossible to see
beyond a quarter of a mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere
were suffused with a rosy glare. No well-defined
fringe of light, nor arch of luminous rays, betokened a
display of aurora borealis, even had such a phenomenon
been possible in these latitudes; and the most experienced
meteorologist would have been puzzled to explain the
cause of this striking illumination on this last evening of
the passing year.
But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is
to be doubted whether, since leaving school, he had ever
opened his “Course of Cosmography.” Besides, as he
strolled along, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind.
The prospect of the morrow offered serious matter for
consideration. The captain was actuated by no personal
animosity against the count; though rivals, the two men
regarded each other with sincere respect; they had simply
reached a crisis in which one of them was de trop; which
of them, fate must decide.
At eight o'clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the
gourbi, the single apartment of which contained his bed, a
small writing-table, and some trunks that served instead of
cupboards. The orderly performed his culinary operations
in the adjoining building, which he also used as a bedroom,
and where, extended on what he called his “good
oak mattress,” he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for
twelve hours at a stretch. Ben Zoof had not yet received
his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself in a corner of
the gourbi, he endeavoured to doze—a task which the
unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult.
Captain Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake
himself to rest, but seating himself at his table, with a pair
of compasses and a sheet of tracing-paper, he began to
draw, with red and blue crayons, a variety of coloured
lines, which could hardly be supposed to have much connection
with a topographical survey. In truth, his character
of staff-officer was now entirely absorbed into that of
the Gascon poet. Whether he imagined that the compasses
would bestow upon his verses the measure of a mathematical
accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-coloured
lines would lend variety to his rhythm, it is
impossible to determine; be that as it may, he was
devoting all his energies to the compilation of his rondo,
and supremely difficult he found the task.
“Hang it!” he ejaculated, “whatever induced me to
choose this metre? It is as hard to find rhymes as to
rally fugitives in a battle. But, by all the powers! it shan't
be said that a French officer cannot cope with a piece
of poetry. One battalion has shown fight—now for the
rest!”
Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one
red, the other blue, appeared upon the paper, and the
captain murmured—
“Words, mere words, cannot avail,
Telling true heart's tender tale.”
“What on earth ails my master?” muttered Ben Zoof,
“for the last hour he has been as fidgety as a bird returning
after its winter migration.”
Servadac suddenly started from his seat, and as he
paced the room with all the frenzy of poetic inspiration,
read out—
“Empty words cannot convey
All a lover's heart would say.”
“Well, to be sure, he is at his everlasting verses again!”
said Ben Zoof to himself, as he roused himself in his
corner. “Impossible to sleep in such a noise;” and he
gave vent to a loud groan.
“How now, Ben Zoof?” said the captain, sharply.
“What ails you?”
“Nothing, sir, only the nightmare.”
“Curse the fellow, he has quite interrupted me!”
ejaculated the captain. “Ben Zoof!” he called aloud.
“Here, sir!” was the prompt reply; and in an instant
the orderly was upon his feet, standing in a military attitude,
one hand to his forehead, the other closely pressed
to his trouser-seam.
“Stay where you are! don't move an inch!” shouted
Servadac; “I have just thought of the end of my rondo.”
And in a voice of inspiration, accompanying his words
with dramatic gestures, Servadac began to declaim:
“Listen, lady, to my vows—
O, consent to be my spouse;
Constant ever I will be,
Constant...”
No closing lines were uttered. All at once, with
unutterable violence, the captain and his orderly were
dashed, face downwards, to the ground.
