CHAPTER I.ALLAN LEARNS FRENCH.
Although in my old age I, Allan Quatermain, have taken to writing--after a fashion--never yet have I set down a single word of the tale of my first love and of the adventures that are grouped around her beautiful and tragic history.

I suppose this is because it has always seemed to me too holy and far-off a matter--as holy and far-off as is that heaven which holds the splendid spirit of Marie Marais.

But now, in my age, that which was far-off draws near again; and at night, in the depths between the stars, sometimes I seem to see the opening doors through which I must pass, and leaning earthwards across their threshold, with outstretched arms and dark and dewy eyes, a shadow long forgotten by all save me--the shadow of Marie Marais.
An old man's dream, doubtless, no more.

Still, I will try to set down that history which ended in so great a sacrifice, and one so worthy of record, though I hope that no human eye will read it until I also am forgotten, or, at any rate, have grown dim in the gathering mists of oblivion.

And I am glad that I have waited to make this attempt, for it seems to me that only of late have I come to understand and appreciate at its true value the character of her of whom I tell, and the passionate affection which was her bounteous offering to one so utterly unworthy as myself.