Baudry meanwhile explored the Issa-Ber (already visited by Caron) in his barge, and proved the navigability of the river at high tide. I feel full of respectful gratitude to the military authorities of Timbuktu, especially Colonels Joffre and Ebener, for the almost affectionate consideration with which they treated me, and for being willing to employ us, for giving us something definite to do to relieve the monotony and _ennui_ of our detention. This was really an immense consolation to us, the best that any officer can hope for. In May 1895 I received orders to return to France. Baudry, who, I am happy to say, was worn out mentally rather than physically, had preceded me by two months. As already stated, our coolies had been disbanded—from motives of economy, said the order. Our stores, too, were dispersed. Our boat was still at Bafulabé, and, _mon Dieu_, in what a state! One might have sworn that its sections had been intentionally twisted out of shape with blows from a hammer. Our chronometers—little torpedo-boat watches, regular masterpieces of precise time-keeping, made by that true artist M. Thomas—were being used at Badumbé in the telegraph office. Our bales, of the charge of which I had never been relieved, had been sent to Mopti for the Destenave expedition, which had been allowed to start. My friends in France, to whom I had addressed despairing appeals, remained silent; even Baudry gave not a sign of life. Everything seemed finally lost. My expedition had not been superseded, it had been dissolved, destroyed. I confess that when I embarked once more in the winter to make my way, by slow stages, back to France, I did for the first time despair of my unlucky schemes, and as I dwelt upon them, I believed that they were at an end for ever. I had at least the consolation, as Davoust had had before me, of having struggled to the last. On July 20, when I was halting at Bafulabé, and gazing with inward rage though outward calm at the dented sections of my _Davoust_, a telegram was handed to me. It was from Colonel De Trentinian, who had—at last!—succeeded M. Grodet as Governor of the French Sudan. It said, “The Colonial Minister resumes the original project of your expedition.” I have had a few minutes of wild joy and happiness in my life. But not even on the day when, after I had been struggling nearly a month against fearful odds in the revolted district of Diena, I saw the column of succour approaching; nor again, last December, when, as we embarked at Marseilles, I thought all our difficulties were surmounted and all our dangers were left behind, did I experience such an immense sense of relief and delight as now. I could keep my oath after all! and by successful action put to confusion those who, either because they were badly advised or unscrupulous, had thrown obstacles in our way. This is what had happened.