But my sweetest memories of the journey are those of my afternoon walks along the shady roads over those undulating hills, from which one overlooks a vast russet-brown expanse of rolling country, stretching from the bluish sea to the mountain range of the Ouarsenis, crowned by the cedar forests of Teniet-el-Haad.
On the day I was speaking of, I had lost my way. I had just surmounted a crest from the top of which I could see, above a line of hills, the extensive plain of the Mitidja, and far in the background, on the summit of another range of mountains, almost invisible in the distance, that strange monument called the Christians’ Tomb, the burying-place, so they say, of a family of Mauritanian kings. I went down the other side, towards the South, while before me, stretching as far as the peaks upreared against the clear sky on the edge of the desert, there appeared a broken rocky country, tawny in colour as if all the hills were covered with lion skins sewn together. Here and there, higher than the rest, rose a yellowish, pointed hummock, like the hairy back of a camel.
I walked rapidly, lighthearted, as one feels when following the intricate windings of a mountain path. Life has no burdens during these vigorous tramps in the keen mountain air; body and soul, thoughts and cares alike, all cease to trouble. That day I was oblivious of all the cares that oppress and torture our lives, oblivious of everything but the joy of that descent. In the distance I discerned Arab encampments, brown pointed tents, clinging to the ground like shellfish to the rocks, or little cabins, mere huts made of branches, from which a grey smoke issued. White forms, men or women, wandered slowly about, and the bells of the herds sounded thinly in the evening air.
The strawberry-trees along my path drooped under their curious load, and spattered the road with their purple fruit. They looked like martyred trees from which a bloody sweat dripped, for at the end of each branch hung a red spot like a drop of blood.
The soil around them was covered with this scarlet rain, and the fruit trodden underfoot left gory stains on the ground. Now and again, springing upwards as I went along, I gathered some of the ripest and ate them.
Now all the valleys were filling with a white mist which rose slowly like the steam from a bull’s flanks, and above the mountains which rose on the horizon, bordering the Sahara, flamed a sunset like an illuminated missal. Long streaks of gold alternating with streaks of bloodred (more blood; the whole story of man is blood and gold!), while here and there, between the streaks, a narrow opening yielded a glimpse of a greenish-blue sky, far off as a dream.
Oh! how far I was from everything and everybody connected with a town-dweller’s life, even far from myself, a kind of wandering being, without consciousness or thought, merely seeing things as I went along and liking what I saw; far also from the road I had planned to follow and which I had forgotten about, for with the approach of night I realised that I was lost.
Darkness fell upon the land like a pall, and I could see nothing in front of me but the mountain looming in the distance. Seeing tents in a valley, I went down to them, and endeavoured to make the first Arab I met understand where I wanted to go. I cannot tell whether he guessed my meaning, but he replied at great length in a tongue of which I understood not a word. In despair, I had made up my mind to spend the night near the camp, wrapped in a rug, when amongst the strange words which came from his mouth, I thought I recognised the name of Bordj-Ebbaba.
“Bordj-Ebbaba?” I repeated, and he replied: “Yes, yes!”
I showed him two francs, a fortune to him, and he started off, I following him. Oh! for a long time in the darkness of the night, I followed this pale phantom who hurried barefooted before me over stony paths on which I continually stumbled.
Suddenly a light appeared. We came to the door of a white house, a kind of small fort, straight-walled and with no windows on the outside. I knocked, and the howling of dogs came from within. A Frenchman’s voice inquired: “Who is there?”
“Does M. Auballe live here?” I replied.
“Yes.”
The door opened, and I was face to face with M. Auballe himself, a tall, fair-haired fellow, down at heel, a pipe in his mouth, looking like a good-natured Hercules.
I introduced myself, and he held out both hands to me, saying: “Make yourself at home, sir.”
A quarter of an hour later I was dining exceedingly well opposite my host, who continued to smoke.
I knew his story. After having wasted a lot of money on women, he had invested all he had left in an Algerian estate, and had planted a vineyard. The vines were doing well; he was happy, and had the serene air of a contented man. I could not understand how this gay Parisian had been able to get used to this monotonous, solitary life, and I questioned him about it.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Nine years.”
“Don’t you get terrible fits of depression?”
“No, one gets reconciled to this country, and then ends by liking it. You would scarcely believe how it grips people by means of a host of trivial animal instincts that we are unconscious of in ourselves. At first we become attached to it by the subtle, inexplicable satisfaction of our senses. The air and the climate conquer our bodies, in spite of ourselves, and the cheerful sunlight which floods the country keeps the mind clear and peaceful without any trouble. Through our eyes it pours into us continuously, and you might truly
