Fatou-gaye is here provisionally installed in a mulatto hut. She declares that she will never return to St Louis. There her plans end. She does not know what is to become of her, and Jean is equally ignorant. He has racked his brains in vain, poor fellow, without hitting upon the vestige of a plan. And he has no more money!... It is morning; the mailboat on which the spahis are to embark sails in a few hours. Fatou-gaye is crouching beside her four miserable calabashes, which represent her entire fortune, never uttering a word, not even in answer. Her eyes are fixed and immobile in a kind of dreary stupefaction of despair, a despair heart-rending in its sincerity and depth. And Jean is standing beside her, twisting his moustache, not knowing what to do. Suddenly the door is flung open noisily, and a tall spahi enters like the wind, in great excitement, with animation in his eyes, and an expression of agitation and anxiety. This is Pierre Boyer, who has been Jean’s comrade and room-mate at St Louis during the past two years. Both intensely reserved, they have seldom conversed, but they like each other, and when Boyer went away on service to Goree, they shook hands cordially. Removing his cap, Pierre Boyer murmured a hasty excuse for his wild intrusion, and then he seized Jean’s hands and said effusively, “Oh Peyral, I have been looking for you since before dawn.... Listen to me a moment. I want to talk to you. I have a great favour to ask. Listen first to what I have to say, and do not be in a hurry to reply.... “You, lucky fellow, are going to Algiers.... I alas! together with several others from Goree am leaving to-morrow for the outpost of Gadiangué in Ouankarah. There is fighting in those parts. About three months to be spent there, and there’s promotion to be won, no doubt, or else a medal. “We have the same amount of service to put in; we are both of the same age. It would make no difference to your return.... Peyral, will you exchange with me?” Jean had already understood; he had divined his purpose with the first words uttered. He gazed into vacancy with his eyes wide open, dilated as if with the torment he was inwardly enduring. A tumult of hesitating, contradictory thoughts surged in his head; with folded arms and bowed head he went on thinking—and Fatou, who had likewise grasped the situation, had straightened herself and sat with heaving breast, awaiting what verdict might fall from Jean’s lips. Then the other spahi continued, speaking volubly, as if to prevent Jean from uttering that word “No!” which he dreaded to hear. “Listen, Peyral, it will be to your advantage, I assure you.” “What about the others, Boyer?... Did you ask them?”