A Passion in the Desert | Page 3

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Etext prepared by Dagny, [email protected] and John Bickers,
[email protected]

A PASSION IN THE DESERT
by HONORE DE BALZAC

Translated By Ernest Dowson

"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