“In just a moment,” Laïza said. He, too, rose and withdrew a shard of glass and a gourd filled with coconut oil from a hollow in the tree beneath which they had been sitting.
“What is that?” demanded Nazim.
Laïza turned to him. “If you’re lucky, you might reach Madagascar, or even the mainland, within eight or ten days,” he said. “But what if a sudden squall capsizes the canoe? Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, you might be driven back to this coast. Your description will spread like wildfire, and you will be hunted as a runaway. You will have to hide behind trees and rocks.”
Nazim started to protest. “My brother, I am the Stag of Anjouan, just as you are the Lion.”
“Yes, but, like a stag, you may fall into a trap. You must be able to slip easily from a captor’s grasp. Here is glass to cut your hair, and coconut oil to put on your body. We will oil your limbs, and shear off your hair. It is the toilette of the runaway slave.”
Nazim and Laïza went to a clearing, and by starlight Laïza began, with the aid of his glass shard, to cut his brother’s hair off as quickly and completely as if he were a skilled barber using the finest razor. This done, Nazim disrobed and his brother poured a portion of the coconut oil from the gourd onto his shoulders. The handsome black from Anjouan smeared it over every bit of his body. Thus anointed and shorn, the young man looked like a Grecian athlete prepared for competition.
Laïza would not rest easy until they had put their precautions to the test. Once, like Alcidamas, he had grabbed a horse by its back feet, and the horse had not been able to escape. Like Milo of Croton, he had taken a bull by the horns and tossed it over his shoulders and kicked it with his feet. He was incredibly strong, and if Nazim could escape his grip, he could escape anyone’s. Bracing himself, Laïza grabbed at his brother with all his strength—but Nazim’s arm slipped out of his iron grasp like a wriggling eel through a fisherman’s fingers. Laïza caught him again by the shoulder, this time bringing the other man tightly against his chest as Hercules did to Antaeus—but again, Nazim got away with ease, like a snake sliding between a lion’s fangs. Laïza knew his brother could run like the wind—once Nazim had raced the very animal from which he took his nickname, and had beaten it—and now he knew he could not be taken by surprise. He was satisfied.
Laïza pressed the three-quarters-full gourd of oil into Nazim’s hands, making him promise to guard it carefully, along with the manioc roots that would feed him and the water that would quench his thirst. Nazim attached the gourd firmly to his belt.
Then the two brothers looked at the sky. Judging by the position of the stars, it was past midnight. They took to the road leading to the rivière Noire and disappeared into the dark woods at the base of Trois-Mamelles. Behind them, around twenty feet from the bamboo grove they had just left and where all their secret conversation had taken place, the shadowy figure of a man who had heretofore been utterly still, so that he might have been taken for another of the tree trunks among which he hid, rose like a ghost from the underbrush, paused for an instant, threw a threatening gesture after the two brothers, and, as soon as they were out of sight, darted away in the direction of Port Louis.
It was Antonio the Malay, who had that very evening sworn to take revenge on both Laïza and Nazim. He would keep his word.
And now, as Antonio runs like the wind on his long legs, if my readers permit it, I will proceed ahead of him to the capital of île de France.
IX
THE ROSE OF THE RIVIÈRE NOIRE
After paying Miko-Miko for the Chinese fan whose price Georges had told her to her utter astonishment, the young woman we have so recently met standing at the threshold of her home was, while her Negro servant helped the Chinese merchant replace his wares in the bamboo baskets, proceeding inside, accompanied as always by her governess, and thrilled with the day’s purchase, which would inevitably be forgotten tomorrow.
Moving with the nonchalant, languid grace peculiar to Creole women, she settled herself upon a comfortable chaise longue in her boudoir that served as both bed and seat. This was placed in the center of a charming bedroom filled with rare and costly porcelains from China and Japan, and the tapestries covering the walls, which île de France natives referred to as patna, had been imported from India’s Coromandel coast. The tables and chairs were built of the cane so plentiful in warm climates, and the room’s two opposing windows opened upon a tree-filled courtyard and a vast shipyard, respectively. Sea breezes, redolent with floral perfume, drifted through the bamboo blinds.
As the girl reclined on the settee, a plump green parakeet as big as a sparrow that was her especial pet fluttered onto her shoulder and nibbled curiously at the newly acquired ivory fan. She opened and closed the fan distractedly, gazing absently into space. Since it was obvious that it was not her fan—charming as it was—that occupied her thoughts, we know that some new desire did. Her eyes, seemingly fixed on some point in the room where there was no object remarkable enough to attract her attention, appeared to see instead some inner dream. What is more, this dream doubtlessly held for her the aura of reality; from time to time a small smile crossed her face and her lips moved, responding silently to a silent memory.
Such preoccupation was so alien to the usual habits of the young girl that her governess noticed it immediately and, after watching her charge’s mobile face for a moment, asked: “Why, Sara, what is the matter with you today?”
The girl started as if she had been wakened from a dream. “Oh! Nothing, dear Henriette. I was just—just amusing myself, as you see, with my parakeet and my new fan.”
“Yes, I see you doing that,” the governess said, smiling. “But I also see that you are thinking about something else entirely.”
“No, I—”
“Now, Sara,” the governess interrupted, but kindly. “You’ve never lied to me. Why begin today?”
The girl’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I was thinking of something quite different. The young man who was so helpful to us today—I was wondering who he is, and where he came from. I’ve never seen him before today—he must have arrived aboard the governor’s ship.” She hesitated. “Is it wrong for me to be curious about him?”
“Of course not,” said Henriette. “It would only have been wrong to tell a falsehood about it.”
“I’m sorry, dear Henriette,” said Sara sweetly, and offered her cheek for the governess to kiss. The two women remained in a somewhat awkward silence for a moment; then both started to speak at the same time. Both sought to find another topic of conversation, and each kept stopping to let the other speak. There was another moment of silence; then the girl spoke again. “What did you want to say, dear Henriette?”
“What were you saying, Sara?”
“I was going to say that I would like to know if our new governor is a young man.”
“Would it please you if he were?”
“Oh, yes! For then he would give dinners, and parties, and balls! That would make dull old Port Louis a bit more lively. I would give anything for a ball!”
“You love to dance, don’t you, my child?”
“Oh, so much!” cried Sara. Henriette smiled again, and the girl’s face fell. “Oh, dear—have I said something wrong again? There’s no harm in dancing, is there?”
“Not exactly,” said Henriette, “but you must learn to restrain yourself a bit. You are too passionate for your own good.”
Sara smiled with immense—and well-practiced—charm. “What would you have me do? It is my nature, dear Henriette. I love and I hate, and I can hide neither. You’ve told me yourself that dishonesty is worse than anything else.”
“Yes, I know—but there is a large difference between experiencing feelings and abandoning oneself constantly to one’s desires, or even one’s instincts, Sara,” Henriette replied seriously. The hasty reasoning of her charge was almost as troubling as the outbursts of her primitive nature, and these worried the governess more than she cared to
admit.
Sara tossed her head coquettishly. “Oh, I know that European ladies—those who are called ladies, at least—are fashionably diplomatic—neither honest nor dishonest, finding safety in remaining silent and unmoving—but you must not expect such restraint from me, dearest Henriette! I am not a civilized lady! I’m a little savage, brought up among wild forests and raging rivers! If I see something I like, I must have it, then and there. Everyone has spoiled me a bit, you see—even you! If I’m not given anything I desire, I take it for myself, and I’m always forgiven for it. I’m afraid I’m quite used to having my way.”
Henriette raised her eyebrows. “And just how will you manage this charming nature of yours when you are married to Monsieur Henri?”
“Oh, that’s all settled,” said Sara innocently. “Henri’s a good sort of fellow. I shall let him do whatever he pleases, and he’ll do the same for me. Isn’t that right, Henri?” She turned toward the door as she spoke, for just at that moment M. de Malmédie and his son had come into the room.
“What’s that, my dear?” Henri inquired, stepping to Sara’s side and kissing her hand.
“Isn’t it true that, when we are married, you’ll never deny me a thing?”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed M. de Malmédie. “Is the little wife-to-be making demands already?”
“You said you would take me to balls if I wished it,” continued Sara, “and let me stay as long as I liked—didn’t you? You won’t be one of those disagreeable husbands who insists on leaving after the seventh quadrille! And I may sing as much as I like, and go fishing, too, and you’ll buy me lovely hats from Paris, and shawls from India, and perhaps even an English or Arabian stallion.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Henri, smiling. “Odd that you should mention Arabian horses—we saw a handsome pair of them today. Probably for sale, too. Now that I think of it, it’s just as well you weren’t there, Sara. You might have asked for them, and I wouldn’t have been able to get them for you.”
“I saw them, too!” Sara cried. “They belong to a stranger, do they not? A dark young foreigner, about twenty-five years old, with beautiful hair and superb eyes?”
Henri chuckled. “Paid more attention to the man than the horses, did you?”
“Of course not, Henri. The young man approached and spoke to me—I only saw the horses from a distance, and they didn’t even whinny.”
Henri frowned, and so did his father. “He spoke to you? The rascal! On what pretext, Sara?”
“He isn’t a rascal, Henri,” protested Sara. “Henriette was with me, and she can vouch for him, too. There was really nothing improper in his speaking to me. Lord, it couldn’t have been simpler! I had just come from church, you see, and there was a Chinaman waiting for me at the door, with baskets full of the sweetest trinkets—fans and purses and all sorts of other lovely things! I simply had to have this fan—isn’t it a pretty one, Henri?”
“Look here,” interrupted M. de Malmédie, “this doesn’t explain how the young man came to speak to you.”
“I’m getting to that, Uncle,” said Sara. “I asked the price of the fan, but the man spoke only Chinese. We were very embarrassed, Henriette and I. We asked around among the other people who had gathered to see the pretty wares, in case any of them spoke Chinese and could act as an interpreter. Dear Henriette and I were quite at a loss—but then the young stranger happened upon us, and he was able to speak to the merchant in his own language! The fan was only eighty piastres; a good price, wasn’t it, Uncle?”
M. de Malmédie snorted. “That was the going rate for a Negro, before the English put a stop to the slave trade.”
“Wait, Sara,” interjected Henri, “am I to understand that the foreigner speaks Chinese?” The girl nodded, and he turned to M. de Malmédie with a laugh. “Well, what do you think of that, Father?”
“What’s so funny about that?” Sara inquired.
“Nothing, nothing,” Henri replied, still chuckling. “An impressive skill, indeed. The fellow can chat with—oh, let me see—teacups and lacquered screens!”
“Not much else to be done with a language as rare as that,” agreed M. de Malmédie.
“Yes, a very well-educated chap—a regular Mandarin,” Henri laughed sarcastically, for the memory of the dark stranger’s haughty glance still rankled.
“If he is a Mandarin, he’s an educated one,” said Sara. “He spoke Chinese to the merchant, then French to me, and finally English to dear Henriette!”
“Well, now,” said M. de Malmédie. “He speaks all those languages, does he? I could use a fellow like that, as a clerk in my countinghouse.”
“Alas, Uncle,” said Sara, shaking her head. “I believe he must already have a much more exciting position.”
“With whom, pray?”
“Why, with the king of France!” Sara exclaimed. “Didn’t you notice the ribbon of the Légion d’honneur in his buttonhole?”
“Bah! These days, one needn’t even be in the military to receive such a decoration,” said M. de Malmédie.
“Still, he must be distinguished in some way,” Sara persisted, feeling compelled to defend the stranger’s honor without knowing exactly why.
“Probably got the ribbon because he speaks Chinese,” said Henri dismissively.
“In any case, we’ll soon know more about him,” said M. de Malmédie, ignoring Sara’s frown and Henri’s piqued expression. “He arrived aboard the governor’s ship, and I’m sure he’ll remain on île de France for some time. No doubt we’ll have the opportunity to see him again soon.”
Just then a servant knocked and entered the room, bearing a letter sealed with the governor’s signet. It was an invitation from William Murray to Sara and both of the Malmédies announcing dinner and a ball, to be held the following Monday. Sara was delighted; she had just taken delivery of some charming new artificial flowers from Paris with which to trim her gowns, and nothing seemed more pleasant than the prospect of spending a whole evening dancing and showing off her new finery.
Henri, despite the outward coolness with which he greeted the news, was pleased as well; he rightly considered himself one of the handsomest men in the colony, and such social gatherings always afforded the opportunity to meet attractive women. His marriage to his cousin had long been a foregone conclusion, but as the event had not yet actually taken place, and Sara had never manifested even the slightest bit of jealousy, he felt quite free to flirt with whomever he chose.
As for M. de Malmédie, he nearly burst with pride at the sight of his name on the invitation. He read it three times over, reveling in his own importance. The governor had not been on île de France more than three hours, and already he had invited the Malmédies to dine with him! The plump little man’s view of himself as one of the most illustrious personages on the island was most agreeably reinforced.
Of course, some of the family’s plans had to be altered. Henri had invited about a dozen of his friends for a stag hunt on the following Sunday and Monday, to begin at a charming country house he owned on the banks of the rivière Noire, one of the most picturesque areas of the island, and continue over an unpopulated, game-filled stretch of savanna that made up part of M. de Malmédie’s property. Now, since one of the days planned for the hunt was now occupied by the governor’s ball, the sport would have to take place on Saturday and Sunday instead—not only because the Malmédies were now otherwise engaged, but because some of their invited guests had, naturally, also been asked to accept the honor of dining with the governor. Accordingly, Henri hurried to his room to dash off a dozen notes, which the Negro Bijou was then charged with delivering to their respective addressees.
M. de Malmédie took his leave of Sara as well, saying he had business to attend to but, in reality, anxious to tell his neighbors that in three days he would be able to give them his opinion of the new governor, since he had been invited to dine with him the following Monday.
As for Sara, she declared that in such unexpected and import
ant circumstances, she had too much to do to leave with the men on Saturday morning, and that she would rejoin them Saturday night or early on Sunday. The rest of that day and all the next were spent—as Sara had said—making preparations for the soirée. Thanks to the unwavering calm of dear Henriette in making the arrangements, Sara was indeed ready to leave on Sunday morning as she had promised her uncle. The gown had been tried on and the seamstress, a skilled woman, had promised that it would be ready for Sara to wear by the next morning. The girl was quite content with this; if there were any corrections to be made, they would still have part of the day to make them.
The girl finally made her departure in the most joyous of moods. Next to a ball, Sara loved the countryside above anything else. There she could follow her own desires. In the country she could frolic to her passionate heart’s content, something she could never do in town. She recognized no authority at these times—not even dear Henriette’s, and the governess had more power over her than anyone else. If she felt languid, she could choose a bed of grass and lie for hours in the shade of the jambosa and grapefruit trees. At these moments she lived the life of a flower, drinking in the scents, the air and sunshine, through every pore, listening to the songs of the bluejays and the fondijalas and watching the monkeys swing among the branches and the green-spotted and red-striped lizards that were so common on île de France—one step could send three or four of them darting away in all directions—scurry through the verdant grass. She would stay there for hours, communing with nature, listening to its thousand sounds and soaking in its thousand harmonies. She often felt that she was no longer a young woman at all during these sojourns; rather, in her spirit she became a gazelle, a bird, a butterfly; fording rivers in pursuit of sparkling ruby-headed dragonflies, leaning over precipices to gather leaf-cups in which drops of dew trembled like living silver, and darting like a nymph beneath waterfalls whose sparkling curtains of spray concealed her form like so many veils of gauze.
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