“A thousand thanks, Monsieur Pittagol; all this is delicious.”
While she pecks away, Rara and Mémé introduce the goddess, indicating to the homage of all the image of Kroum that hangs on her arm. Men and women approach, gathering around and touching the fetish tentatively. From the coiffure of a female who sketches the magic sign on her forehead the young woman detaches a tiara and puts it in her own hair. A murmur of pleasure and joyful hand-clapping welcomes that grace.
Monsieur Le Guédec, increasingly satisfied, opines cheerfully: “In truth, Madame, I believe that your magic is even more efficacious in winning hearts than Monsieur Pittagol’s eloquence.”
Captain de Pionne is the object of the most flattering demonstrations on the part of a few rustic beauties. Their noses linger complacently on his wrist. Laurette laughs as she has not laughed for fifteen years.
“Look out, Hugues!”
Lancosme observes from the corner of his eye. “He’s on a lucky streak, the officer. Not so disgusting, the girlies!”
The sailors’ actions become bolder. The female savages are not restive, and their husbands feel honored by the familiarity of the gods.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Pittagol, vexed by a hint of mockery he perceives in Monsieur Le Guédec, has resumed his interrogations. He accompanies them with an increasingly vehement pantomime, furrowing his brows, pointing to the sea, striking the beach with his foot and imprinting footprints in the sand.
Monsieur Le Guédec, who is following him with his gaze, leans toward Dr. Boujade, and whispers: “I’m afraid...”
But he does not complete the sentence. An unexpected metallic clink is heard beneath the interpreter’s boot. One his orders, the docile savages begin frantically clearing away the sand. In a few minutes, a long sheet metal pipe is revealed. Even if it were not possible to read on one end, in Gothic characters, Wilhelmshafen, the experienced eyes of the mariners would not be deceived by it.
Faces light up.
“My God!” cries Lancosme. “I do believe the Boche has ended up sinking.”
The Oyas do not misinterpret the expressions of delight that the newcomers manifest. They are visibly pleased to have found one of the fetishes that the waters have expelled at the same time as the stinking gods. It is necessary to complete their pleasure. In a matter of minutes, various metal items are laid bare—among others, a piece of bulkhead on which the inscription U-37A is engraved.
There is no more doubt; the pirate has ended its career here. The recent tempest has pulverized it on the coral. But might some Boche have escaped? With a female savage on each arm, Patouillard, from Ménilmuche,17 has drawn some distance away toward the edge of the coconut grove. He is seen to stop, looking down at the ground.
“Captain!” he shouts. “Come and have a look at this print and clap me in irons if it’s local.”
A circle forms around the footprint, Blurred as it is, it is not that of a bare foot. And there are others, even clearer: the nails of boots remain graven in the hard sand. There were survivors of the shipwreck. What has become of them?
On Monsieur Le Guédec’s instruction, Manga-Yaponi is brought to the footprints. The officer shows them to him and squeezes his arm.
“Where are they?”
The old sage bows his head submissively. It is in order. Today’s gods are demanding the others. Whatever might come of it, it is necessary to satisfy them. The old man points to the forest and, beyond it, the invisible bluff where the unfortunate carnage was accomplished at the foot of the sacred sign. Seizing Monsieur Le Guédec by the hand, he indicates to him that he is ready to guide him.
All that is much clearer than it would have been had Monsieur Pittagol served as an intermediary. The Boches are on land; the savages only want to get rid of them. Monsieur Le Guédec is burning with the desire to run after them forthwith, but the orders are formal; he telegraphs the ship.
Wreckage attests indisputable destruction of submarine U-37A. Some Boches seem to have escaped. Indigenes, whose excellent disposition I confirm, appear to be offering to deliver them to us in interior of island. Can I go?
Immediate response: Wait for us.
On the flank of the Citoyen, activity is discernible in the commandant’s launch.
Laughing, Dr. Boujade says to Monsieur Le Guédec: “I’ll wager that the Delegate General won’t leave the responsibility of being the sole representative of France here to the Commandant.”
A few minutes later, the launch lands. Ordered aboard, Monsieur Le Guédec offers an account of events. The attitude of the natives is entirely amicable. The Boches, if any have escaped, are certainly devoid of any means of resistance. With twenty men, Monsieur Le Guédec is ready, if the Commandant will authorize it, to go an collect them.
Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans intervenes, however. “Let me claim the honor, Commandant, in my capacity as delegate of the government of the Republic, of taking part in this operation.”
“This vote-winning operation,” Monsieur Boujade completes, in a whisper.
The Commandant represses a smile. Indeed, in the député’s constituency, this adventure, appropriately presented...
Bah! The pirate’s end has put the chief in a good mood. “We’ll all go together!”
Preceded y a picket of marines, the Commandant and the Delegate General emerge on to the beach. At their approach, the indigenes multiply their genuflections and onomatopoeias of welcome.
Monsieur Le Guédec introduces them to the venerable Manga-Yaponi, who prorates himself. Then his extinct eyes go from one to another of his interlocutors. The metal shining on the Commandant’s garment seems to indicate a high rank. But the député, who has put on his frock-coat, unbuttons it. He is wearing his sash. On his torso blaze the same colors that, up there, have been so carefully maintained on the totem-flag. Manga-Yaponi touches his forehead with his fingers and places them piously on the relic.
A long murmur of admiration circulates among the savages, who flatten themselves on the ground, get up, and flatten themselves again. Faced with these testaments of loyalty, a pride that is simultaneously patriotic and personal fills the député. He proffers: “Does it not seem, Commandant, that these sympathetic populations have attained a degree of consciousness superior to the one you attributed to them? Before I express the sentiments of the government, Monsieur Pittagol, would you please tell them how touched we are by their respect for our national colors.”
Meekly, Monsieur Pittagol pronounces a few syllables. Amicable clucking welcomes them. Everything is going well. No divine thunderbolts are falling. It is simply a matter of continuing to obey their clearly-formulated wishes.
In a matter of minutes, orders are given, and the little expeditionary column sets out.
Ratoupé and Prao were the first to clear the wreckage of the submarine. Their mime in the presence of the Boche footprints was the most expressive. They serve as guides for the advance platoon led by Monsieur Le Guédec. Behind them, protected by a double cordon of sailors, come the Commandant, the Delegate General, Dr. Boujade and Monsieur Pittagol, next to whom march Manga-Yaoni and half a dozen white-haired dignitaries. Rara leads Madame de Vesnage by the hand, and Mémé’s hand is in the Captain’s. On either side of the procession, for which the machine-gunners form a rearguard, the Oyas dance joyfully.
In a matter of seconds they have crossed the glossy barrier of the coconut palms and plunged into the underwood, amid the velvets and satins of grasses and foliage. The prodigious flowers are exhaling all their perfumes. The streaming waters are twittering. Here is a little black pond where frogs and terrapins are playing. A host of insects is buzzing. The deafening racket of the parrots is unleashed from one treetop to the next. A hail of coconuts, hurled by a band of monkeys, amuses the sailors greatly. Flying squirrels, extending their parachutes, launch themselves from one acacia to another. Two deformed beasts flee with enormous bounds.
“Kangaroos!” cries the young woman.
Lancosme observes, with satis
faction: “Nice! It’s better than the Jardin des Plantes!”
Before this stunning vision, Madame de Vesnage becomes dizzy. Leaning on her cousin’s arm, her light tread brushes the moss, scarcely cracking a twig. Raramémé flutter around her, offering her crimson, sapphire-blue and golden flowers, marvelous fruits, and a golden beetle. Inexpressively suave and calming forces swell her bosom. She stammers once again: “Are we not mad, Hugues?”
He replies: “Let’s be mad, Laurette.”
The bushes are more widely spaced. Gradually, the ranks mingle. At her side, the young woman finds Monsieur Pittagol. Today, her benevolence is universal. She smiles at him, and asks him, gaily: “Where are we, Monsieur Interpreter?”
Charmed, the young man shakes his head. “A long way away, Madame!”
“Not at all!” Dr. Boujade interjects. His southern accent is vibrant with emotion. “We’re at home!”
Beyond the little bare heath, on the extremity of the bluff, the taboo sign now looms up. No matter how baroque and as bizarrely tattered the piece of cloth might be, and no matter how comical and imperfect the disposition of its colors has become, it is impossible not to recognize in that fluttering rag the simulacrum of the flag of the fatherland.
The député takes off his hat. All right hands are raised to the brims of képis or caps. Balissard opines in a low voice: “No matter what the old ones say, it does something to you, all the same.”
They have arrived on the promontory, at the foot of the mast. Letters and numbers have evidently been engraved in the wood, but time has erased them. A few paces away there is a kind of stone cairn. Monsieur Boujade examines it, and utters an exclamation. They surround him. Scarcely hesitating, he deciphers the inscription, reading aloud.
“I take possession, in the name of France, of this island, which the Oyas who inhabit it call Oaleya. I have named the island Amélie and have raised the flag of the Nation here. Dumont-d’Urville, 14 October 1843.”
Everyone falls silent. Heads are bared.
The Oyas perceive that the white gods are in communication with their ancestors. They crouch down and accompany their meditation with a muted chant:
This is the sign, the colored taboo
The gods have come from beyond the blue
May their will prevail and we be true!
This is the sign, the colored taboo.
The surprise cannot cause the principal objective of the reconnaissance to be forgotten.
“Nevertheless,” grumbles Monsieur Le Guédec, “I see no Boches!”
“Excuse me, Captain; it wouldn’t astonish me if I had one.”
Advancing on command, Fusilier Garcin displays a skull that he has just picked up, in the upper jaws of which there is a glint of gold.
“Unless the people hereabouts practice dentistry...”
Other bones are found, buttons and fragments of uniforms. The Oyas easily understand what is required of them. In a few minutes, they collect all the funereal debris in a heap. Monsieur Boujade has no difficulty identifying five European skeletons. Just now there were five sets of prints in the sand. It really is here that the Boches ended their career.
How did the drama unfold?
It is futile to lie to the gods. They know everything, and only feign ignorance in order to set traps.
Meekly, Manga-Yaponi tells the story of the adventure. The elders of the tribe accompany his voice with an expressive mime. The fetid gods attempted to put their hands on the taboo sign whose colors are fixed to the abdomen of the god with the voice of thunder. Rightly or wrongly, they were massacred.
With an appropriately grave emotion, the député signals that he has understood. Perhaps a few details remain obscure, but there is no doubt of the striking proof of the fidelity devoted to tutelary France by this population of supposed savages.
Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans collects himself, adjusts his cravat and puffs himself up. “Commandant,” he says, “I ask permission to address a few words to these worthy people, which Monsieur Pittagol will translate for them.” As a nuance of skepticism might perhaps be passing over the officer’s thin lips, the politician adds, emphatically: “In default of the detail of my allocution, they will grasp the general meaning, and I would like to believe that it would not displease your brave mariners to hear the representative of the Republic pronounce French words on French soil.”
Monsieur de Kerfaouët, who is in line for a promotion, is too polite, and attaches too high a value to the benevolence of the depute, to raise the slightest objection. In the midst of the respectful natives and the vaguely mocking “mariners” the pale god with the voice of thunder intones his chant:
“People of Oyas, Mariners of France…!”
In terrible modulations, with a pantomime that designates, by turns, the sacred mast, the skulls of the dead men, the sailors, the Oyas and his own breast, the Delegate General celebrates the loyalty of the tribe. Even in these distant regions, the luminous genius of France has made its imprint. It seemed to be almost effaced here, but it only required a sacrilegious threat to abolish it for the ineradicable fervor to reawaken in these primitive souls.
The pirate boat has come to grief on this faithful land. The survivors have paid with their lives for the impudent impulse that led them to attack the sign of liberty. France offers her thanks to her brothers the Oyas. She expected no less of them. She knows that their hearts, if not their lips, are similar to those of Frenchmen.
The depute raises his panama hat, turns toward the sailors and shouts: “Let us all unite, my friends, in the same cry: Vive la République! Vive la France!”
The mariners reply, in chorus: “Vive la République! Vive la France!”
And meekly, the Oyas stammer after them, clapping their hands: “Biba Ulica! Biba Francea!”
They are sincere. The god that thunders has the right. They accept his judgment. For their action, they will submit to the consequences that the voice rumbling within him demands.
That spontaneous ovation provides the delegate with a supreme exaltation. While Monsieur Pittagol translates his speech, he takes Dr. Boujade to one side. It is important that the memory of such a day should be materialized for the primitives. Monsieur Boujade detached from this breast the cross of the Légion d’honneur that is suspended there and hands it to him.
When Monsieur Pittagol falls silent, the god’s thunder rises up again. His hand brandishes the blood-colored ribbon, and he bellows:
“Oyas, the government of the Republic ought to reward you for your behavior. Certain that my gesture will be ratified by the Minister of War, who is my good friend, I desire to attach the star of bravery personally to the breast of whoever among you distinguished himself most valiantly in the defense of the national flag.”
He turns to his secretary. “I’m counting on you, Monsieur Pittagol, to explain to our friends the meaning of this symbol and the designation I expect of them.”
A sweat of anguish beads the brow of the unfortunate man. “I fear, Monsieur le délé...”
Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans closes his mouth authoritatively. “Go on, Monsieur.” And, speaking to Monsieur de Kerfaouët: “I don’t doubt, Commandant, that you will approve...”
With tremulous lips, Monsieur Pittagol awkwardly ejaculates a few questions. Saddening as the discovery might be, he is beginning to suspect that he does not understand the language of the Oyas at all and that they do not understand a single word of what he says to them. Proclaimed officially, however, that observation would be too humiliating to his self-respect and too prejudicial to his future for him not to struggle until the end.
He takes hold of the sign, waves it, places it on his breast and raises his index finger to mark that it is a matter of choosing a single recipient. Alas, distress strangles him. His hopes of being understood are, he imagines, slender...
He is wrong.
The Oyas have understood the imprecation of the thundering god, so ingeniously backed up by the little hairy clucking god, per
fectly. The meaning of the crimson ribbon has not escaped them. In exchange for the bloodshed, the gods are asking for blood, but their clemency will be satisfied with a single victim: the one whose action unleashed the carnage...
From the old man’s order, Rara cannot hide. Some distance away, on the spur of rock of which he is fond, near the place where he punished the murderer, Kouang is sitting pensively. His eyes are fixed on the immensity or distractedly turned away, for a few seconds, toward the unusual agitation of the humans...
In spite of his reluctance, when the child takes his hand, he allows himself to be led away. In front of him, the ranks of the Oyas part...
Monsieur Pittagol cannot believe his success. It is all working out. He stammers: “Monsieur le député, I believe that…the recipient...”
Monsieur Bedeau-Conflans deposits his hat on the grass, wipes his pince-nez, smoothes his hair. The elder Manga-Yaponi and the child of the crab advance toward him. Between them limps the postulant.
Monsieur le député raises an arm, and immediately lowers it again, disconcerted. Crazy laughter runs through the sailors. His Olympian smile darkens. Rudely, he asks his secretary: “What does this mean? You bring me…you bring me...”
If his exhaustion would permit it, Monsieur Pittagol would tear out his hair. He mumbles: “Be patient…a simple misunderstanding...”
“Which the simplicity of these people explains,” Monsieur Boujade interjects. “The fist that crushed the cervical vertebrae I’m holding wasn’t that of a man.”
The député deigns to accept the explanation. “Pittagol, clear up this misunderstanding.”
A misunderstanding that would make the bravest tremble, if anyone suspected the peril—for, at the sight of the white men, Kouang has felt his heart leap. His hair bristles. His nostrils dilate, sniffing. He grinds his teeth…but no, the odor is different. Besides which, the murder has left him with a kind of shame, a lassitude. He allows himself to be led away by the children, while Monsieur Pittagol resumes his calvary, gesticulating and speaking hoarsely.
Obscure as the will of the gods is, the subtle genius of Manga-Yaponi ends up glimpsing it. Undoubtedly, it is not exactly the death of the stinking ones that is blameworthy but the unworthy treatment inflicted on their remains. It was probably necessary to eat them or burn them. If Manga-Yaponi’s spirit had not been wandering in limbo, he would never have tolerated that lack of respect, for which the inconsiderate initiative of Mao is solely responsible. Now that the Great Hairy One is not the appropriate victim, it is the author of such profanation that celestial vengeance demands.
The Children of the Crab Page 10