“At a day’s notice is saying a great deal. I confess, in point of fact, that in order to strike their imagination from the outset, my chef had recourse to a little stratagem. He brought forward his dishes at first as a modification of their usual repasts. The truth is that he served up, prepared in his own way, slices of tunny fish.”
“Tunny fish?”
“Yes. A slice of pink tunny fish carefully cut up is wonderfully like human flesh properly boned. If you dress it like a ragout, and it is suitably flavoured, cannibals are deceived by it. That’s what did happen. They continually asked for this dish. After a fortnight the chef made a clean breast of his artifice. They were not offended with him. They clamoured for more tunny fish.”
The convoy had reached the first halt. Irene could watch the natives at their meal. She saw them, in fact, eating with decency various preliminary dishes, but the enthusiasm became general and their teeth gleamed in a broad smile, causing her some disquiet, when slices of preserved tunny fish sprinkled with a sort of mayonnaise were served up and devoured with immense relish. Then, as dessert, sweetmeats were brought in.
“You see, I have succeeded in getting them to like jam,” said Languequetrou.
Nevertheless, the undoubted taste which these worthy Botocudos still showed for cuts of tunny fish, so wonderfully like “human flesh properly boned,” filled Irene with a disgust which she was not sufficiently mistress of herself to shake off. She determined, at the first opportunity, to question the old man.
CHAPTER XVI
THE OLD MAN
AFTER LUNCH THE Botocudos were granted an hour for the siesta. Languequetrou, who seemed in no way inconvenienced by the blazing heat, retired to the rear-guard, if the term may be applied to a convoy none of whose members carried arms.
The old man slept with one eye closed and the other fixed on Irene. He yawned, stretched his limbs, emptied his gourd of the remainder of its rum, and drew near the litter.
His step was firm, but he held his head even more proudly than was his wont, like a man who has remained too long in a bar. Irene imagined that he was in the state when it was easy to forget how to disguise one’s thoughts.
The little company set out on the trail again. They plunged under the dusky colonnade formed by the branches of the gigantic palms. The old magician lighted his pipe without asking Irene’s permission, and the boy, unmindful of his duties, slept like a little cherub. As he smoked, the old fellow plaited a sun-hat and seemed greatly intent on his work.
“Senhor Languequetrou is a good master,” ventured Irene.
“The son of the forest knows no master,” he returned, looking up quickly and showing by the gleam in his eyes a flicker of the sombre fire which was like a reflection of his past adventurous life in the wilderness. And he added after a pause: “The Botocudos have no master but Tarou.” Then turning towards the little daylight that could be seen he called on the invisible sun: “Tarou! Tarou! before averting thine eyes from the earth which thou hast created, strike a blow at the mother of the waters and the son of the mermaid who has vomited forth her progeny on our shores. Shatter the charm of her voice which speaketh not truth and the Botocudos will be avenged!” And he added: “Languequetrou is a friend.”‘
After a silence he grunted again:
“Who shed the first blood? What manner of people are they who drove us before them like herds of swine?”
And he resumed the plaiting of his sun-hat.
While speaking he did not even in his religious fervour remove his pipe from between his teeth, for though it gave forth a horrible smell it kept the mosquitoes away.
Irene harked back to her first thought.
“Senhor Languequetrou has been very good to you?”
“He is a brother of the great land, a son of the wilderness like ourselves.”
“But he appreciates the benefits of civilization?” she said, seizing her opportunity.
No reply.
“And he has got you to share them,” she went on courageously.
No reply.
The old man finished the plaiting of his hat. He put it on his head, and allowed the litter to go in advance. And though Irene had lavished her sweetest smiles on him, he seemed oblivious of her charms. He was the first! She had the feeling of a hunter who takes aim at a wild beast and pulls the trigger, but whose gun hangs fire. Suddenly the old man came forward again.
“You tell me this,” he said, “because Languequetrou has deprived us of human flesh.”
“You mean that he has broken you of the habit.”
He took time to think and did not seem to grasp the difference in the meaning of the two phrases which Irene rightly considered important. Then he said, as if speaking to himself:
“Which is the better for a brave soldier — I do not mean the native soldiers or the captains of the forest — to be buried in the bowels of a warrior or devoured by vultures or jaguars?”
“Explain yourself,” said Irene.
“I mean, after an encounter between pale faces and Botocudos what sort of honour do you think your brothers pay to the remains of their enemies? Do you think they bury them? No; they leave them to the beasts of the field. I ask you, in truth, who is the worst barbarian, the Indian who offers his own bowels as a tomb for his enemies or the pale face who abandons the fallen warrior to the voracity of the vulture or jaguar?”
Horror and indignation were mingled in Celimene’s face.
“And so,” she cried, “you confess that the people of your tribe have not given up this loathsome practice.”
“I confess nothing,” he returned with his most majestic air, “except only that the pale faces are plunderers and thieves. Give us back the land of our ancestors from which we have been driven so that we may live in our own way as you live in yours.”
They had nothing more to say to each other, and each seemed wrapped in thought. Irene’s took a somewhat gloomy hue. She Tailed to understand how Languequetrou could display such confidence in these people. When he joined her again she told him of her anxiety.
“Never fear,” he said. “The old man is drivelling. He is always the same when he has had a drop of rum too much. Meanwhile he regales himself with the dishes provided by my chef.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE FAZENDA OF LOVE
THEY HAD BEEN marching forward for several hours over the dark trail in a damp, stifling atmosphere, and yet they had but skimmed the outskirts of the forest. Towards evening they emerged from it; the sky suddenly became clear, and they entered a verdant plain bordered on the east and south by wooded heights which from the distance seemed to possess a bluish tint. As they advanced, the slightly blurred outlines of the mountain slopes grew more perceptible in the luminous haze which had obscured them, and unfolded to the delighted eye their commanding proportions. The panorama assumed at every moment a more and more rugged and striking aspect; the landscape stood revealed in all its serene beauty.
Through the valley flowed the shimmering water of a river whose course seemed shaded by tall trees with bright red foliage. In the east the forest spread out to unseen depths.
In the presence of this luxuriant vegetation, this overflowing life, these trees, river, sky, and air through which sailed the amber gold of the parakeets, the turquoise blue of the cotingas, the triple-coloured brilliance of the tangaras, the tension of Irene’s mind relaxed; all the more so as fields of maize followed by other crops appeared to view and at a bend in the road loomed up the most alluring fazenda possible to conceive.
The house, whose appearance was that of a well-appointed villa, was painted in pink and stood in a spacious courtyard. Balconies and verandahs reached by broad staircases with colonnades encircled the house between the garden and lawns shaded by magnolia, orange, and cedar trees under whose branches three splendid peacocks inanely strutted. Around this luxurious abode could be seen the out-buildings, sheds, barns, and stables, together with the windmills which distributed water from the river for man
and beast to all parts of the plantation.
The sight of the house and its buildings, each possessing its own particular characteristic, and overspread with creepers and the brightest flowers of this enchanting land, brought forth a cry of delight from the oppressed heart of our beautiful Celimene, as may readily be imagined. In truth, civilized society had never offered her so attractive a welcome. She turned with a smile which forgave everything to the man who had created such a paradise in these solitudes, and, so to speak, rejoiced at the sweet violence he had done her in bringing her there.
“The fazenda of love,” he murmured simply.
Irene thought the name very pretty.
She did not know, the coquette, that in these remote fazendas, lost in the jungle, which is like a barrier round them, the proprietor exercises despotic power. Like a baron in the Middle Ages, he alone dispenses justice in his domain. His judgments are practically without appeal. In reality — the actual government is so far away — he disposes, at his will, of the honour and life of his people.
The only thing that she remembered about these fazendeiros of all that she had been told was that in their homes and among the sugar planters an open-handed hospitality was the rule, and moreover the poorest labourer or small farmer would consider himself disgraced were he to accept the slightest reward from the stranger accepting bed and board at his hands. This worthy pride is noticeable in its most pronounced form among the large proprietors. And she knew no prouder man than Languequetrou.
A crowd of retainers met them with shouts of welcome and strange music. Languequetrou thanked them with a lordly gesture, and as they displayed some curiosity as to the senhora in the litter, a second gesture, not less authoritative, dismissed them. Thus the convoy entered the fazenda courtyard. The litter halted before the main entrance, and Languequetrou offered his hand to Irene, assisting her to alight.
Mulatto women took her to her apartments, which were cool, simple, comfortable and in good taste. After providing a bath they massaged her, and dressed her in some light material, which she did not refuse to wear, and vanished. Not a word came from their lips.
Her curiosity aroused, Irene opened the door through which they had disappeared.... She came to a lobby, and facing her stood another door ajar. In the room beyond she beheld negresses engaged in needlework.... Among them were three white women, lying on mats, their heads resting on the knees of three mulatto women, three muscamos, or, as it were, favourite slaves. The three white women had little or nothing on, their hair was rumpled, and they lay in complete indolence. They had abandoned themselves at that moment, body and soul, to the tropical delight called gaffonè.
It is, it seems, a joy becoming more and more rare. It was very general in Brazil in the old slave days, and it is still in vogue in certain remote parts. During the seasons of great heat, when movement and even speech is a weariness to the flesh, the women retire to their private apartments, and lying back on the knees of their slaves, surrender their heads to them. The slaves pass and repass their deft fingers through the thick masses of hair spread out before them, working in every direction through the abundant strands, softly and skilfully scratching the roots and pinching the scalp. The exercise endlessly continued is a source of delight to the women. An exhilarating thrill creeps through their limbs at the touch of these caressing fingers. Overcome by the magnetic fluid diffused through their bodies they end by losing consciousness on the knees of their strange servants....
The three women seemed in no way surprised by the coming of a stranger, and explained the operation without interrupting the expert and delicate work of their women.
“Well, we have no conception of such a thing in France,” exclaimed Irene.
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the three women, who, moreover, were very handsome, leapt to their feet.
“What! Are you French?”
“Yes. I am Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française.”
“You don’t mean it! You are Irene de Troie?”
“Yes.”
“I said to myself just now, here is a lady who is the very image of Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française. Well, really, we never expected to see you here.”
“I saw your portrait in the magazines,” said another.
“Oh, I am not jesting,” said the first. “I saw you in the ‘Marquis de Priola.’”
“But I have never played in the ‘Marquis de Priola,’” said Irene. “You have made a mistake.”
“How can you say that? I tell you I saw you in the Marquis de Priola.’ It was a matinée performance and a wet day. No need to tell us fibs! I come from the Rue Pigalle.”
“I guessed as much,” said Irene, slightly taken aback, “but you haven’t yet told me who you are and how you came here.”
“There’s nothing wonderful about it,” returned one. “We were apprentices at the shop ‘The King of the Patagonians,’ Rua do Ouvido in Rio. That’s an old tale. He invited us one after the other to visit his ranch. A trip into the country is very welcome. Believe me, his ranch is topping. And then the way we are treated! How jolly good-hearted the governor is! He does anything you ask him.”
“I am so comfortable here that I don’t want to leave,” said another.
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
“He has left us here. Languequetrou for ever!”
“You will see, Mademoiselle Irene de Troie of the Comédie Française, that you will do as we do. When you are here you can’t tear yourself away.”
“I beg your pardon, but I must leave here to-morrow.”
“You think so!... You won’t miss the dust-up of the theatre very long, I assure you. One doesn’t get the chance every day of living in a place like the fazenda of love.”
“And then there is gaffoné.”
“You’ll see! Wait till you have tried gaffoné.”
Irene left them. Obviously they had remained apprentices to the king too long....
CHAPTER XVIII
“WORDS, WORDS, WORDS”
“WORDS, WORDS, WORDS.” — Hamlet.
DINNER was served in a small private room marked by its costly wainscoting, but decorated only with the skins of wild beasts, splendid examples of Languequetrou’s prowess as a hunter. No other guests. The “butler,” like a well-trained servant, stood at the right of his master, and a “mulatto slave,” scantily clothed, but wearing a bright red rose in her hair, remained behind Irene, attentive to her least movement.
Irene did full justice to the repast. Her fears had been dissipated. She felt some regret that poor Antonio had never visited the fazenda of love. He would indeed have laughed could he have seen the victims of the terrible Languequetrou! These young women from Montmartre were in no way to be pitied if they enjoyed such good cheer every day of their lives. It was a great change from their hurried snacks with the birds in the public gardens of Paris. Irene understood now the swift conversion of the Botocudos in the question of diet, and laughingly told her host so.
“I congratulate your chef, prince. No witchdoctor could resist him.”
“You shall tell him so yourself, senhora. I admit that Casimir knew for whom he was catering to-night. He determined to surpass himself, not to mention that he will be glad to have news of Paris. I took him away from the proprietor of a famous restaurant, who wrote me many furious letters.”
“Is that so! Why, you stop at nothing. Ask him up.”
“To-morrow, if you don’t mind. This evening I want to keep you to myself.”
At a sign the butler and the mulatto woman withdrew from the room.
“But, my dear friend, to-morrow I must leave you.”
“Alas, yes, as you wish it,” he sighed. “My only consolation is that I shall take you on board Ma Casa, and we shall say farewell in Montevideo since it must be so.” A sad and tender look came into his eyes.
“Confess that you are not so very miserable here,” she said, laughing. “To begin with, you have some charming youn
g ladies to amuse you.”
“What! Have they dared to...”
“Don’t blame them. I took them by surprise as they were being gaffoné.”
“Well, I can’t keep anything from you! But I assure you they do not amuse me in the least. They amused me at one time. They stay here because it pleases them, and I haven’t the heart to get rid of them. They are very pretty little fillies.
“Girls from Paris, prince.... So that’s how you talk of girls from Paris!”
“I didn’t go after them,” he returned, shrugging his shoulders. “They came here.”
“What are you after then?”
“Love,” returned Sad Heart, looking her straight in the face.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, you frighten me.”
“Love is the most difficult thing in the world to meet — at least love as I see it: the union not only of two hearts, but of two minds. Would you have me at the feet of a woman who does not understand me?... Oh, to share the same ideal, to drive back the barriers of barbarism, to make men and the world better!... Yes, I have tried to discover this woman — eagerly searched for her. There is a Portuguese saying: A woman is sufficiently educated when she knows how to read a prayer and write a recipe for jam making. To know more is to endanger the peace of the household.”
“Molière said something of the same sort.”
“Molière was wrong. Molière ought to have been born in this country instead of living in the most refined society of his time. He would have met his ideal woman!... I haven’t done so. And I was in despair of ever finding what you call in your novels my twin soul, when I heard your wonderful lecture. With what enthusiasm you dwelt on the benefits of civilization! My dear Irene, it was a case, that evening, of love at first sight.... I shall love you for the rest of my life. At first I imagined in my misguided folly that you would give up everything to follow my star, and help me in the tremendous task which I am about to undertake. You have made me realize that other duties call you to your own dear country. Alas, my dream was a very brief one. Don’t let’s speak of it. But you forgive me for bringing you here?”
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 444