Part One

 

 

I. The Great Marshes

 

 

A remarkable fecundity reigned in the region through which we were traveling. Humans were scarce there. Around the vast marshes the silence was stagnant; animals, free to increase, had multiplied on land and in the waters. Birds filled the air all the way to the clouds, and the rivers were seething with copious life.

 The soul expanded to its full breadth there; I had a sensation of vastness and full life for months on end. My imagination flowed like a great river, and grew like the terrible forests; I witnessed considerable migrations of wolves, cranes, horses, bears and wood-pigeons. I was foolishly besotted with the wind, the glitter of the streams, the softness of the grass and the rustling of willows and reeds.

Then the marshes impeded us. An equivocal region extended to our left, punctuated by long promontories where thoughtful herons flocked and rails ran through the reeds. We waded through weed-infested lagoons and crossed one deep marsh on a raft made from an alder-tree felled by lightning. Then the black country broadened out, replete with subterranean forces, and feverish reptilian life. Giant toads roamed the shores; serpents plunged into the mud and the withered grass; insect swarms burrowed in the soft Earth to shelter their reproduction. The insipid and mortal gases, the mysterious stirrings of the mud and mire, the flickering flames that lit up by night, and—most especially—the exceedingly low and opaque cloud-layer overlying the strips of land lost in the sinister waters and the green algal scum, filled us with a sentiment of terrible grandeur.

We continued going forward, no longer having the courage to retreat, determined to find a way through.

It was toward the end of August. We had already been wandering at hazard for three weeks. We had lost our tents in some rapids; the men had become discouraged, but our leader remained committed. Endowed with a restless exploratory spirit and an obstinate, stern, implacable and almost cruel energy, armored against anxiety and tenderness, he was one of those men who knew how to fight hard, overcoming people and things, and to die heroically if he must, but whose inner life was morose and monotonous, almost non-existent. He kept us under the yoke of his determination.

Our Asiatic guide no longer had the slightest knowledge of the region; he replied to all our questions with the impassive sadness typical of Orientals: “Not know…land of wicked men…know nothing about it.”

Our men were beginning to show signs of rebellion. Personally, I was only anxious on behalf of the captain’s lovely daughter, Sabine Devreuse. How she had contrived to accompany us is incomprehensible. Doubtless the captain had thought that the expedition would be brief and not at all perilous, and the young woman’s pleading had done the rest. Then again, world-travelers end up becoming immeasurably optimistic, with a singular belief in their lucky stars.

Sabine Devreuse had become dearer to me with every passing day; thanks to her, a hint of grace and a superior joy accompanied the journey. Thanks to her, the evening halts were becoming an incomparable poem. In spite of her sensitive features and delicately soft lips, she was very resilient—never ill and rarely weary. Oh yes, she was the charm of our expedition, the exquisite wild rose on our rude masculine bush.

One morning, we thought we had reached a more hospitable territory. The commander was already triumphant as we crossed a kind of feverish plain, scarcely dotted with a few small pools.

“We’ll come out on the eastern side,” he said, “probably in grassland—as I expected.”

I did not share his optimism. With my eye fixed on the horizon, I anticipated more considerable perils. Soon, in fact, the waters returned, perfidious and pernicious. Furthermore, an interminable rain began to fall. The plain was stony in parts, covered in others by spongy mosses and slimy lichens. The marshes became more numerous; we lost days going around them, while all kinds of marsh animals slithered around us, frightening our horses. Our waterproof clothing had holes, and provided poor cover; we were soaked to the skin.

The halt of August 30, on a small rocky eminence devoid of shelter and combustible material, was among the most depressing of our journey. The commander, as rigid and stern as the Assyrian overseers leading captives on the bas-reliefs of Khorsabad, said nothing. An abominable twilight died away in the deluge. The implacable moisture, the funereal grayness and the indigent and feverish ground were soul-crushing. Only Sabine Devreuse found the strength to smile. The dear girl, symbol of hearth and home, and the familiar grace of Europe, was a silvery voice amid the rain-clouds. Oh, how serene I felt in listening to her, forgetting my anguish and lassitude!

Can you imagine how we bedded down on the viscous soil, in absolute darkness—for it was the dark of the Moon—beneath a sky triply covered in clouds from dusk to dawn? I slept, though, with intermittent dreams and frightful nightmares.

About an hour before dawn, our horses became agitated, snorting in terror. They would certainly have run away but for the sturdy tethers with which we were accustomed to hobble them.

The guide touched my arm, and said: “A man-eater!”

You cannot imagine the horror of these words, in the ink-black night, beneath the indefatigable cold deluge. However, getting up with a start, I had the presence of mind to load my rifle, which was protected by a sheath of oiled leather. I peered into the darkness, but I might as well have been trying to look through a wall.

“How do you know?” I asked.

A muffled growl went up on the plain, dispelling all doubt. It was really Him, the largest wild beast in the world, the immense tiger of the North, which crosses frozen rivers to ravage the little towns of Amur, a successor, if not a descendant, of the formidable dominator of the Quaternary Era.

It was not the first time we had encountered one—but while we had a dozen good marksmen, well-armed, behind a blazing camp-fire, they had never alarmed us to the point of terror, whereas we were incapable of keeping track of the monster’s movements in that funereal night. We could only wait; the other could see in the darkness admirably.

“Form a square!” murmured the commander.

We were standing up, our horses increasingly restless. We should have been able to shield ourselves with their bodies, but they were panicking, and it would probably have been more dangerous close to them.

“Him coming…me hear him!” said the guide.

No one doubted the Asiatic’s prodigious hearing. Oh, that damp wall, that dark rain, that unspeakable mystery! Soon, I perceived the footfalls of the great beast myself, gliding, then stopping. The feeling that it could see us, that it was preparing itself, calculating its attack, and was about to pounce without warning, was enough to dishearten the bravest of men!

There was a pause. The beast must be hesitating over the choice of a victim. In this wilderness, where there is no contact with humans or horses, both are doubtless astonishing.

Eventually, the movement in the darkness resumed. We perceived that the tiger was to the left, closer to our square than the horses.

“Take a blind shot,” Devreuse instructed me. I was unquestionably the best marksman in the party; I could hit a target at 100 paces.

A roar followed the shot: we heard a heavy body land three times. The tiger was now very close. Its breath was harsh and jerky.

“Alcuin, Lacal—fire!” ordered the captain.

By the light of the muzzle-flashes we glimpsed the mighty silhouette, crouched for a final leap—then, before Devreuse was able to give any further order, the beast was upon us. An agonized scream rang out in the impenetrable darkness, followed by two seconds of infinite horror. No one dared fire! Then there was another scream, and a crunch of jaws. Finally, someone fired.

The flash of light showed us two of our men down, and the tiger rearing up, ready to fell a third. By the same token, the beast’s position was known. Rifle-shots rang out: four shots—and the beast uttered a frightful groan. A brief silence followed.

“Him wounded!” whispered the guide.

Scarcely had he spoken than a hoarse growl replied. I sensed the movement of a formidable mass; I was seized implacably and irresistibly, rolled over and shaken, then carried away like a sparrow by a lynx.

I’m doomed! I thought.

I was overwhelmed by an incredible resignation. I abandoned myself to death. I felt no pain; I was in a state of lucid delirium. I held on to my rifle, mechanically…

An interminable time went by; then there was an abrupt halt. I was lying on the ground. I felt strong fetid breath on my face…and suddenly, my resignation evaporated, changing into an immense terror and an immeasurable regret for the loss of life.

A taloned paw came down; I thought that I was about to be torn apart, pounded and devoured. “Adieu!” I cried, feebly—and yet, with a desperate instinct, I had raised my rifle. There was a flash, and a bang!

 The beast howled and leapt into the air—and leapt again.

I was still lying down, still expecting to die. I heard a colossal groan three paces away. A faint hope crept into my heart. What’s happening? Am I going to die, or to live? Why am I free? Why is the beast groaning without seeking vengeance? A movement! It’s getting up again—I’m going to die…no, it’s fallen back, no longer growling. Silence! A great silence!

How long did all that take?

Terror and horror give rise to infinity. I found myself standing up without knowing how, without any mortal injury. Human footsteps were approaching, and a voice—that of the Asiatic: “Him very dead!”

In the darkness, his hand had grabbed mine. I replied with a powerful grip—but the anguish remained: doubt as to whether the beast was really dead…or whether it would get up again and pounce.

It was certainly not moving, though, not breathing. Nothing could be heard but the monotonous fall of the rain and the tentative footfalls of my companions.

 The captain’s voice rang out: “Robert, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

I succeeded, after several attempts, in lighting a match under cover of my overcoat. In that faint gleam the apparition was gripping: the giant beast in the red mud, still beautiful in its attitude and menace, its mouth tightly closed over its immense carnivorous teeth, one paw advanced, showing its sharp talons. In truth, it was no longer moving, no longer palpitating! How had that come about? Was it possible that I was here, among the living, saved from the hideous peril? Was it me who was breathing? Oh, I had really thought that my last moment had come, and felt the icy breath of annihilation.

“Him very dead!” the Asiatic repeated.

Groping our way, we rejoined the captain and went back to the eminence. There, a soft and tremulous voice made my heart beat faster.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, Mademoiselle…not grievously, at any rate. The beast must have held me by the leather and rubber of my garments. How are the others?”

“As for me,” said Alcuin, “I seem to have a nasty scratch on my chest. The tiger left me right away…”

A second voice, more muffled and more plaintive, said: “I’m wounded at the hip…but the shock was the most terrible thing…”

We were no longer paying any heed to fatigue or the rain; our escape from terrible peril filled us with an almost joyful excitement. A faint grayness was beginning to tint the eastern horizon. For some time, that light remained uncertain, scarcely allowing us to see one another. Finally, it increased, and there was daylight: a miserable daylight in a desolate region, where the rain was causing the marshes to overflow. The excitement died away in confrontation with the wretchedness of the landscape; a profound sadness penetrated our souls. Personally, I only had eyes for the brilliant Sabine, who illuminated my destiny as the pole star did for ancient mariners.

Our wounds were not serious enough to force a delay.

 

Another day went by in the horrid wilderness, beneath the implacable, energy-sapping rain. The men complained incessantly. They kept their distance, conferring in secret. When I approached them, they looked at me mistrustfully. It was not difficult to deduce that they were plotting—and although I, personally, was willing to follow the captain to the ends of the Earth, I understood their discontentment and felt sorry for them.

At about 4 p.m., Devreuse decided to call a halt. In addition to our excessive fatigue, and the care we had to give the wounded, the halt was determined by the unexpected discovery of shelter. In the midst of the plain there was a bizarre protrusion of rock almost 90 meters high. We climbed it by means of a large fissure that seemed to have been completed by human hands. The summit of the hill formed a plateau, in which there was a cave. The sloping floor of the cave was quite dry; the whole formed a large space, fairly well-lit.

After two days of downpour, the shelter seemed rather providential, so our men manifested the intention of spending the night there. The captain could not refuse such a reasonable request. Our little horses were brought up without difficulty, and we found ourselves lodged in unexpected comfort—unexpected in that, in addition to the cave, properly speaking, we found corridors and coverts where we could take care of a few hygienic concerns. There was no lack of water—a depression in the plateau formed a small pool, all the fresher because it was continually running.

An hour later, with our wounds well-dressed and some of our clothes hung up to dry, we finished eating the provisions remaining from our last hunt—a few slices of venison cooked in advance. It would have been nice to drink a cup of hot tea, though! Alas, we had no fire.

“It would be useful to go cut a few branches,” said one of the men.

“They wouldn’t have time to dry,” said the captain, morosely.

“Really!” the man replied. His tone disturbed me. At that moment I was standing on the threshold of the cave with Sabine. We were contemplating the country through the melancholy curtain of rain. I was savoring the delight of the moment. How graceful she was! In her gray mantle, her damp hair negligently braided and her complexion diaphanous, Sabine retained a palpitating sensation of life and sacred youth. All nostalgia and all anxiety vanished in the curve of her mouth, her mysterious smile… The man’s voice—it was Alcuin’s—caused me to turn around, though.

Devreuse had also been struck by the reply. “What did you say?” he snapped, with severity.

Alcuin, anxious at first, replied with respectful firmness: “It’s just that we’re very tired, captain. We need a few days’ rest…and Lefort’s wound requires care.”

His companions nodded their heads approvingly—which gave the captain pause for reflection. As usual, though, the obstinacy of his will prevailed. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning!”

“We can’t!” And Alcuin risked adding: “We need five days rest. The shelter’s sound—we can get our strength back.”

A shadow of indecision passed over the commander’s hard features—but the man was too inaccessible, absolutely resolute to the point of obsession, with a superstitious belief in his own prescience. He had decided, privately, that there was a way out to the south-east, and he did not want to lose a single day.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning!”

“And what if we can’t?” Alcuin asked, softly.

Devreuse’s expression hardened. “Are you refusing to obey my orders?”

“No, captain, we’re not refusing, but we can’t go on! The expedition was only supposed to last three months.”

Devreuse, who was agitated, evidently recognized that there was some justice in his subaltern’s claim, or he would not have delayed his response. I still hoped that he might yield to common sense and grant the respite—but no; it was impossible for him to give in.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I go on alone.” Then he turned to me. “Will you wait for me here for ten days?”

“No!” I cried. “If these men abandon you, I can’t blame them—but for myself, I swear that I won’t leave you until we reach civilization!”

The men remained impassive. Devreuse’s stern lips displayed an unaccustomed emotion. “Thank you, Robert!” he said, emphatically. Addressing the others, disdainfully, he said: “I shan’t hold your conduct against you, considering the length and fatigue of the journey, but I order you to wait for us here for a fortnight. Further disobedience, save in the case of force majeure, will be considered treason.”

“Until the evening of the 15th day, at least!” Alcuin replied, humbly. “And we regret…”

Devreuse cut him off with an imperious gesture. We remained in somber silence for some time.