his class, he was a good deal of a
gentleman, and he was accustomed to converse familiarly with emperors and
kings.

"No, it is not malaria," replied Adams, following the old man who was
leading the way into the office. "I never felt better in my life. It is
just the Congo. The place leaves an impression on one's mind, M.
Schaunard, a flavour that is not good."

He took the armchair which Schaunard kept for visitors. He was only a week
back--all he had seen out there was fresh to him and very vivid, but he
felt in Schaunard an antagonistic spirit, and he did not care to go deeper
into his experiences.

Schaunard took down that grim joke, Ledger D, placed it on the table and
opened it, but without turning the leaves.

"And how is Monsieur le Capitaine?" asked he.

"He has been very ill, but he is much better. I am staying with him in the
Avenue Malakoff as his medical attendant. We only arrived at Marseilles a
week ago."

"And Madame Berselius, how is she?"

"Madame Berselius is at Trouville."

"The best place this weather. _Ma foi_, you must find it warm here even
after Africa--well, tell me how you found the gun to answer."

Adams laughed. "The gun went off--in the hands of a savage. All your
beautiful guns, Monsieur Schaunard, are now matchwood and old iron, tents,
everything went, smashed to pieces, pounded to pulp by elephants."

He told of the great herd they had pursued and how in the dark it had
charged the camp. He told of how in the night, listening by the camp fire,
he had heard the mysterious boom of its coming, and of the marvellous
sight he had watched when Berselius, failing in his attempt to waken the
Zappo Zap, had fronted the oncoming army of destruction.

Schaunard's eyes lit up as he listened.

"Ah," said he, "that is a man!"

The remark brought Adams to a halt.

He had become strangely bound up in Berselius; he had developed an
affection for this man almost brotherly, and Schaunard's remark hit him
and made him wince. For Schaunard employed the present tense.

"Yes," said Adams at last, "it was very grand." Then he went on to tell of
Berselius's accident, but he said nothing of his brain injury, for a
physician does not speak of his patient's condition to strangers, except
in the vaguest and most general terms.

"And how did you like the Belgians?" asked the old man, when Adams had
finished.

"The Belgians!" Adams, suddenly taken off his guard, exploded; he had said
nothing as y