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A Pagan Of The South
by
“Well spoken,” said M. Barre. “Have some more champagne. I make the most of the pleasure of your company, and so I break another bottle. Besides, it may be the last I shall get for a time. There is trouble brewing at Bompari–a native insurrection–and we may have to move at any moment. However this Gabrielle affair turns out, you have your business to do. You want to see the country, to study our life-well, come with us. We will house you, feed you as we feed, and you shall have your tobacco at army prices.”
Much as Blake Shorland was moved by the events of the last few hours he was enough the soldier and the man of the world to face possible troubles without the loss of appetite, sleep, or nerve. He had cultivated a habit of deliberation which saved his digestion and preserved his mental poise; and he had a faculty for doing the right thing at the right time. From his stand-point, his late adventure in the Cafe Voisin was the right thing, serious as the results might have been or might yet be. He now promptly met the French officer’s exuberance of spirits with a hearty gaiety, and drank his wine with genial compliment and happy anecdote. It was late when they parted; the Frenchman excited, beaming, joyous, the Englishman responsive, but cool in mind still.
III
After breakfast next morning Shorland expressed to M. Barre his intention of going to see Gabrielle Rouget. He was told that he must not go alone; a guard would be too conspicuous and might invite trouble; he himself would bear him company.
The hot January day was reflected from the red streets, white houses, and waxen leaves of the tropical foliage with enervating force. An occasional ex-convict sullenly lounged by, touching his cap as he was required by law; a native here and there leaned idly against a house-wall or a magnolia tree; ill-looking men and women loitered in the shade. A Government officer went languidly by in full uniform–even the Governor wore uniform at all times to encourage respect–and the cafes were filling. Every hour was “absinthe-hour” in Noumea, which had improved on Paris in this particular. A knot of men stood at the door of the Cafe Voisin gesticulating nervously. One was pointing to a notice posted on the bulletin-board of the cafe announcing that all citizens must hold themselves in readiness to bear arms in case the rumoured insurrection among the natives proved serious. It was an evil-looking company who thus discussed Governor Rapont’s commands. As the two passed in, Shorland noticed that one of the group made a menacing action towards Alencon Barre.
Gabrielle was talking to an ex-convict as they entered. Her face looked worn; there was a hectic spot on each cheek and dark circles round the eyes. There was something animal-like about the poise of the head and neck, something intense and daring about the woman altogether. Her companion muttered between his teeth: “The cursed English spy!”
But she turned on him sharply: “Go away, Gaspard, I have business. So have you–go.” The ex-convict slowly left the cafe still muttering.
“Well, Gabrielle, how are your children this morning? They look gloomy enough for the guillotine, eh?” said M. Barre.
“They are much trouble, sometimes–my children.”
“Last night, for instance.”
“Last night. But monsieur was unwise. We do not love the English here. They do not find it comfortable on English soil, in Australia–my children! Not so comfortable as Louis Philippe and Louis Napoleon. Criminal kings with gold are welcome; criminal subjects without gold–ah, that is another matter, monsieur. It is just the same. They may be gentlemen–many are; if they escape to Australia or go as liberes, they are hunted down. That is English, and they hate the English–my children.”
Gabrielle’s voice was directed to M. Barre, but her eyes were on Shorland.
“Well, Gabrielle, all English are not inhospitable. My friend here, we must be hospitable to him. The coals of fire, you know, Gabrielle. We owe him some thing for yesterday. He wishes to speak to you. Be careful, Gabrielle. No communist justice, Citizen Gabrielle.” M. Barre smiled gaily.