In the meanwhile, Boubakar-Ségou, the great negro chief, was making trouble in Diambour and the country of Djiargabar. A rumour of an expedition was in the air; it was discussed at St Louis in the officers’ mess; debated and commented upon in a thousand aspects by the soldiers, spahis, riflemen, and marines. It was the talk of the day, and every man had his hope of distinguishing himself, of gaining some advantage, a medal or a step.
Jean, who was approaching the end of his service, resolved to avail himself of this opportunity to make amends for whatever might have been reprehensible in his past behaviour. He dreamed of fastening in his buttonhole the yellow ribbon of the Military Medal, the reward of valour. He longed to signalise his eternal farewell to the black country by some splendid deed of bravery which would immortalise his name in the spahis’ barracks in that corner of the world, where he had lived and suffered so intensely.
Each day there was a rapid interchange of correspondence between the barracks, the naval authorities, and Government. Large sealed covers were delivered at the spahis’ quarters, giving the red jackets food for thought. A long and important expedition was anticipated, and the moment was drawing near. The spahis sharpened their great fighting swords, and furbished up their accoutrements with much talk and bravado, much drinking of absinthe, and a great flow of cheerful comment.
It was the beginning of October. Jean, who had been on duty since early morning, going from place to place distributing official documents right and left, was on his way to Government House with a large official envelope to deliver as his final charge.
In the long straight street, empty and deserted as a street of Thebes or Memphis, he saw another man in red coming towards him in the sunshine, holding up a letter for him to see. He felt a mournful presentiment, a vague foreboding, and he hastened his step.
It was Sergeant Muller bringing the spahis the French mail, which had arrived from Dakar by caravan an hour ago.
“Here, Peyral, this is for you,” he said, handing Jean an envelope bearing the postmark of the humble village he loved.
This letter, which Jean had been expecting for a month, burned in his hands, and he hesitated to read it. He resolved to wait until he had completed his errand before opening it.