In France they say the absent are always in the wrong, and our story goes to prove it. Of all those who, when I left, had protested their devotion, had congratulated me in advance, who had even warmly embraced me, scarcely any—I had almost said not one—had taken our part or pleaded for us. In France, scientific societies, geographical and others, spring up like mushrooms, and form little cliques, hating each other like poison, and losing no opportunities of abusing each other in their speeches and declamations at their various banquets. Without running any risk themselves, or making any special exertion, their big-wigs—I was nearly saying their shareholders—get a lot of notoriety and patting on the back, through the work of a few members who are toiling far away from home. If you ask their help in your difficulties, or even their moral support, they take absolutely no notice of you; but later, when you return, and have extricated yourself from your troubles by your own unaided efforts, and if you are also very docile, they will make no end of noisy fuss over you. I have often thought of these scientific swells when I have watched negro chiefs marching along followed by their satellites. They strut about, playing on the flute or the fiddle, beating their drums and shouting out compliments in a deafening manner. Every epithet seems suitable to their chief; he is their sun, their moon, and all the rest of it. “Thou art my father, thou art my mother, I am thy captive!” they shout. But when adversity overtakes this flattered chief of theirs, when he is in trouble of any kind, gets the worst of it in some skirmish, for instance, what becomes of all the toad-eating satellites? They melt away, to go and offer their incense of flute and violin playing and bell-ringing to some more fortunate favourite of the hour. Oh, these self-interested sycophants, how well I know them! I have, however, a grateful pleasure in adding that there are exceptions to the rule. I will mention but one here. My dear and venerated friend, M. Gauthiot, chief secretary of the _Société de Géographie Commerciale_, was always ready to cheer us in our hours of discouragement, to aid us in our hopeful days; putting at our disposal all his influence, all his persuasive power, and exercising on our behalf the undoubted authority he possessed in all things geographical and colonial. Directly he reached Paris Baudry went to seek him, not of course without some _arrière pensée_. “Well, how goes the mission?” he asked at once. “Done for, unless you can save us,” was the reply. “I’ll see about it,” said M. Gauthiot at once. Then he went to my old friend Marchand, who was expected to do such great things on the Congo. “And Hourst and the descent of the Niger?” “You see what has come of that,” was the answer. “Well, perhaps something may yet be done.”