MARIE
AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF THE LATE ALLAN QUATERMAIN
by
H. RIDER HAGGARD
DEDICATION
Ditchingham, 1912.
My dear Sir Henry,--
Nearly thirty-seven years have gone by, more than a generation, since
first we saw the shores of Southern Africa rising from the sea. Since
then how much has happened: the Annexation of the Transvaal, the Zulu
War, the first Boer War, the discovery of the Rand, the taking of
Rhodesia, the second Boer War, and many other matters which in these
quick-moving times are now reckoned as ancient history.
Alas! I fear that were we to re-visit that country we should find but
few faces which we knew. Yet of one thing we may be glad. Those
historical events, in some of which you, as the ruler of Natal, played a
great part, and I, as it chanced, a smaller one, so far as we can
foresee, have at length brought a period of peace to Southern Africa.
To-day the flag of England flies from the Zambesi to the Cape. Beneath
its shadow may all ancient feuds and blood jealousies be forgotten. May
the natives prosper also and be justly ruled, for after all in the
beginning the land was theirs. Such, I know, are your hopes, as they
are mine.
It is, however, with an earlier Africa that this story deals. In 1836,
hate and suspicion ran high between the Home Government and its Dutch
subjects. Owing to the freeing of the slaves and mutual
misunderstandings, the Cape Colony was then in tumult, almost in
rebellion, and the Boers, by thousands, sought new homes in the unknown,
savage-peopled North. Of this blood-stained time I have tried to tell;
of the Great Trek and its tragedies, such as the massacre of the
true-hearted Retief and his companions at the hands of the Zulu king,
Dingaan.
But you have read the tale and know its substance. What, then, remains
for me to say? Only that in memory of long-past days I dedicate it to
you whose image ever springs to mind when I strive to picture an English
gentleman as he should be. Your kindness I never shall forget; in
memory of it, I offer you this book.
Ever sincerely yours,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To Sir Henry Bulwer, G.C.M.G.
PREFACE
The Author hopes that the reader may find some historical interest in
the tale set out in these pages of the massacre of the Boer general,
Retief, and his companions at the hands of the Zulu king, Dingaan. Save
for some added circumstances, he believes it to be accurate in its
details.
The same may be said of the account given of the hideous sufferings of
the trek-Boers who wandered into the fever veld, there to perish in the
neighbourhood of Delagoa Bay. Of these sufferings, especially those
that were endured by Triechard and his companions, a few brief
contemporary records still exist, buried in scarce works of reference.
It may be mentioned, also, that it was a common belief among the Boers
of that generation that the cruel death of Retief and his companions,
and other misfortunes which befell them, were due to the treacherous
plottings of an Englishman, or of Englishmen, with the despot, Dingaan.
EDITOR'S NOTE
The following extract explains how the manuscript of "Marie," and with
it some others, one of which is named "Child of Storm," came into the
hands of the Editor.
It is from a letter, dated January 17th, 1909, and written by Mr. George
Curtis, the brother of Sir Henry Curtis, Bart., who, it will be
remembered, was one of the late Mr. Allan Quatermain's friends and
companions in adventure when he discovered King Solomon's Mines, and who
afterwards disappeared with him in Central Africa.
This extract runs as follows:--
"You may recall that our mutual and dear friend, old Allan Quatermain,
left me the sole executor of his will, which he signed before he set out
with my brother Henry for Zuvendis, where he was killed. The Court,
however, not being satisfied that there was any legal proof of his
death, invested the capital funds in trustee securities, and by my
advice let his place in Yorkshire to a tenant who has remained in
occupation of it during the last two decades. Now that tenant is dead,
and at the earnest prayer of the Charities which benefit under
Quatermain's will, and of myself--for in my uncertain state of health I
have for long been most anxious to wind up this executorship--about
eight months ago the Court at last consented to the distribution of this
large fund in accordance with the terms of the will.
"This, of course, involved the sale of the real property, and before it
was put up to auction I went over the house in company of the solicitor
appointed by the Court. On the top landing, in the room Quatermain used
to occupy, we found a sealed cupboard that I opened. It proved to be
full of various articles which evidently he had prized because of their
associations with his earthy life. These I need not enumerate here,
especially as I have reserved them as his residuary legatee and, in the
event of my death, they will pass to you under my will.
"Among these relics, however, I found a stout box, made of some red
foreign wood, that contained various documents and letters and a bundle
of manuscripts. Under the tape which fastened these manuscripts
together, as you will see, is a scrap of paper on which is written, in
blue pencil, a direction signed 'Allan Quatermain,' that in the event of
anything happening to him, these MSS. are to be sent to you (for whom,
as you know, he had a high regard), and that at your sole discretion you
are to burn or publish them as you may see fit.
"So, after all these years, as we both remain alive, I carry out our old
friend's instructions and send you his bequest, which I trust may prove
of interest and value. I have read the MS. called 'Marie,' and
certainly am of the opinion that it ought to be published, for I think
it a strange and moving tale of a great love--full, moreover, of
forgotten history.
"That named 'Child of Storm' also seems very interesting as a study of
savage life, and the others may be the same; but my eyes are troubling
me so much that I have not been able to decipher them. I hope, however,
that I may be spared long enough to see them in print.
"Poor old Allan Quatermain. It is as though he had suddenly reappeared
from the dead! So at least I thought as I perused these stories of a
period of his life of which I do not remember his speaking to me.
"And now my responsibility in this matter is finished and yours begins.
Do what you like about the manuscripts."
"George Curtis."
As may be imagined, I, the Editor, was considerably astonished when I
received this letter and the accompanying bundle of closely-written MSS.
To me also it was as though my old friend had risen from the grave and
once more stood before me, telling some history of his stormy and tragic
past in that quiet, measured voice that I have never been able to
forget.
The first manuscript I read was that entitled "Marie." It deals with
Mr. Quatermain's strange experiences when as a very young man he
accompanied the ill-fated Pieter Retief and the Boer Commission on an
embassy to the Zulu despot, Dingaan. This, it will be remembered, ended
in their massacre, Quatermain himself and his Hottentot servant Hans
being the sole survivors of the slaughter. Also it deals with another
matter more personal to himself, namely, his courtship of and marriage
to his first wife, Marie Marais.
Of this Marie I never heard him speak, save once. I remember that on a
certain occasion--it was that of a garden fete for a local charity--I
was standing by Quatermain when someone introduced to him a young girl
who was staying in the neighborhood and had distinguished herself by
singing very prettily at the fete. Her surname I forget, but her
Christian name was Marie. He started when he heard it, and asked if she
were French. The young lady answered No, but only of French extraction
through her grandmother, who also was called Marie.
"Indeed?" he said. "Once I knew a maiden not unlike you who was also of
French extraction and called Marie. May you prove more fortunate in
life than she was, though better or nobler you can never be," and he
bowed to her in his simple, courtly fashion, then turned away.
Afterwards, when we were alone, I asked him who was this Marie of whom
he had spoken to the young lady. He paused a little, then answered:
"She was my first wife, but I beg you not to speak of her to me or to
anyone else, for I cannot bear to hear her name. Perhaps you will learn
all about her one day." Then, to my grief and astonishment, he broke
into something like a sob and abruptly left the room.
After reading the record of this Marie I can well understand why he was
so moved. I print it practically as it left his hands.
There are other MSS. also, one of which, headed "Child of Storm,"
relates the moving history of a beautiful and, I fear I must add, wicked
Zulu girl named Mameena who did much evil in her day and went
unrepentant from the world.
Another, amongst other things, tells the secret story of the causes of
the defeat of Cetewayo and his armies by the English in 1879, which
happened not long before Quatermain met Sir Henry Curtis and Captain
Good.
These three narratives are, indeed, more or less connected with each
other. At least, a certain aged dwarf, called Zikali, a witch-doctor
and an terrible man, has to do with all of them, although in the first,
"Marie," he is only vaguely mentioned in connection with the massacre of
Retief, whereof he was doubtless the primary instigator. As "Marie"
comes first in chronological order, and was placed on the top of the
pile by its author, I publish it first. With the others I hope to deal
later on, as I may find time and opportunity.
But the future must take care of itself. We cannot control it, and its
events are not in our hand. Meanwhile, I hope that those who in their
youth have read of King Solomon's Mines and Zuvendis, and perhaps some
others who are younger, may find as much of interest in these new
chapters of the autobiography of Allan Quatermain as I have done myself.
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. What have I done, I wonder, that to me should have
been decreed the love of two such women as Marie and that of Stella,
also now long dead, to whom alone in the world I told all her tale? I
remember I feared lest she should take it ill, but this was not so.
Indeed, during our brief married days, she thought and talked much of
Marie, and some of her last words to me were that she was going to seek
her, and that they would wait for me together in the land of love, pure
and immortal.
So with Stella's death all that side of life came to an end for me,
since during the long years which stretch between then and now I have
never said another tender word to woman. I admit, however, that once,
long afterwards, a certain little witch of a Zulu did say tender words
to me, and for an hour or so almost turned my head, an art in which she
had great skill. This I say because I wish to be quite honest, although
it--I mean my head, for there was no heart involved in the matter--came
straight again at once. Her name was Mameena, and I have set down her
remarkable story elsewhere.
To return. As I have already written in another book, I passed my youth
with my old father, a Church of England clergyman, in what is now the
Cradock district of the Cape Colony.
Then it was a wild place enough, with a very small white population.
Among our few neighbours was a Boer farmer of the name of Henri Marais,
who lived about fifteen miles from our station, on a fine farm called
Maraisfontein. I say he was a Boer, but, as may be guessed from both
his Christian and surname, his origin was Huguenot, his forefather, who
was also named Henri Marais--though I think the Marais was spelt rather
differently then--having been one of the first of that faith who
emigrated to South Africa to escape the cruelties of Louis XIV. at the
time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Unlike most Boers of similar descent, these particular Marais--for, of
course, there are many other families so called--never forgot their
origin. Indeed, from father to son, they kept up some knowledge of the
French tongue, and among themselves often spoke it after a fashion. At
any rate, it was the habit of Henri Marais, who was excessively
religious, to read his chapter of the Bible (which it is, or was, the
custom of the Boers to spell out every morning, should their learning
allow them to do so), not in the "taal" or patois Dutch, but in good old
French. I have the very book from which he used to read now, for,
curiously enough, in after years, when all these events had long been
gathered to the past, I chanced to buy it among a parcel of other works
at the weekly auction of odds and ends on the market square of
Maritzburg. I remember that when I opened the great tome, bound over
the original leather boards in buckskin, and discovered to whom it had
belonged, I burst into tears. There was no doubt about it, for, as was
customary in old days, this Bible had sundry fly-leaves sewn up with it
for the purpose of the recording of events important to its owner.
The first entries were made by the original Henri Marais, and record how
he and his compatriots were driven from France, his father having lost
his life in the religious persecutions. After this comes a long list of
births, marriages and deaths continued from generation to generation,
and amongst them a few notes telling of such matters as the change of
the dwelling-places of the family, always in French. Towards the end of
the list appears the entry of the birth of the Henri Marais whom I knew,
alas! too well, and of his only sister. Then is written his marriage to
Marie Labuschagne, also, be it noted, of the Huguenot stock. In the
next year follows the birth of Marie Marais, my Marie, and, after a long
interval, for no other children were born, the death of her mother.
Immediately below appears the following curious passage:
"Le 3 Janvier, 1836. Je quitte ce pays voulant me sauver du maudit
gouvernement Britannique comme mes ancetres se sont sauves de ce
diable--Louis XIV.
"A bas les rois et les ministres tyrannique! Vive la liberte!"
Which indicates very clearly the character and the opinions of Henri
Marais, and the feeling among the trek-Boers at that time.
Thus the record closes and the story of the Marais ends--that is, so far
as the writings in the Bible go, for that branch of the family is now
extinct.
Their last chapter I will tell in due course.
There was nothing remarkable about my introduction to Marie Marais. I
did not rescue her from any attack of a wild beast or pull her out of a
raging river in a fashion suited to romance. Indeed, we interchanged
our young ideas across a small and extremely massive table, which, in
fact, had once done duty as a block for the chopping up of meat. To
this hour I can see the hundreds of lines running criss-cross upon its
surface, especially those opposite to where I used to sit.
One day, several years after my father had emigrated to the Cape, the
Heer Marais arrived at our house in search, I think, of some lost oxen.
He was a thin, bearded man with rather wild, dark eyes set close
together, and a quick nervous manner, not in the least like that of a
Dutch Boer--or so I recall him. My father received him courteously and
asked him to stop to dine, which he did.
They talked together in French, a tongue that my father knew well,
although he had not used it for years; Dutch he could not, or, rather,
would not, speak if he could help it, and Mr. Marais preferred not to
talk English. To meet someone who could converse in French delighted
him, and although his version of the language was that of two centuries
before and my father's was largely derived from reading, they got on
very well together, if not too fast.
At length, after a pause, Mr. Marais, pointing to myself, a small and
stubbly-haired youth with a sharp nose, asked my father whether he would
like me to be instructed in the French tongue. The answer was that
nothing would please him better.
"Although," he added severely, "to judge by my own experience where
Latin and Greek are concerned, I doubt his capacity to learn anything."
So an arrangement was made that I should go over for two days in each
week to Maraisfontein, sleeping there on the intervening night, and
acquire a knowledge of the French tongue from a tutor whom Mr. Marais
had hired to instruct his daughter in that language and other subjects.
I remember that my father agreed to pay a certain proportion of this
tutor's salary, a plan which suited the thrifty Boer very well indeed.
Thither, accordingly, I went in due course, nothing loth, for on the
veld between our station and Maraisfontein many pauw and koran--that is,
big and small bustards--were to be found, to say nothing of occasional
buck, and I was allowed to carry a gun, which even in those days I could
use fairly well. So to Maraisfontein I rode on the appointed day,
attended by a Hottentot after-rider, a certain Hans, of whom I shall
have a good deal to tell. I enjoyed very goof sport on the road,
arriving at the stead laden with one pauw, two koran, and a little
klipspringer buck which I had been lucky enough to shoot as it bounded
out of some rocks in front of me.
There was a peach orchard planted round Maraisfontein, which just then
was a mass of lovely pink blossom, and as I rode through it slowly, not
being sure of my way to the house, a lanky child appeared in front of
me, clad in a frock which exactly matched the colour of the peach bloom.
I can see her now, her dark hair hanging down her back, and her big,
shy eyes staring at me from the shadow of the Dutch "kappie" which she
wore. Indeed, she seemed to be all eyes, like a "dikkop" or
thick-headed plover; at any rate, I noted little else about her.
I pulled up my pony and stared at her, feeling very shy and not knowing
what to say. For a while she stared back at me, being afflicted,
presumably, with the same complaint, then spoke with an effort, in a
voice that was very soft and pleasant.
"Are you the little Allan Quatermain who is coming to learn French with
me?" she asked in Dutch.
"Of course," I answered in the same tongue, which I knew well; "but why
do you call me little, missie? I am taller than you," I added
indignantly, for when I was young my lack of height was always a sore
point with me.
"I think not," she replied. "But get off that horse, and we will
measure here against this wall."
So I dismounted, and, having assured herself that I had no heels to my
boots (I was wearing the kind of raw-hide slippers that the Boers call
"veld-shoon"), she took the writing slate which she was carrying--it had
no frame, I remember, being, in fact, but a piece of the material used
for roofing--and, pressing it down tight on my stubbly hair, which stuck
up then as now, made a deep mark in the soft sandstone of the wall with
the hard pointed pencil.
"There," she said, "that is justly done. Now, little Allan, it is your
turn to measure me."
So I measured her, and, behold! she was the taller by a whole half-inch.
"You are standing on tiptoe," I said in my vexation.
"Little Allan," she replied, "to stand on tiptoe would be to lie before
the good Lord, and when you come to know me better you will learn that,
though I have a dreadful temper and many other sins, I do not lie."
I suppose that I looked snubbed and mortified, for she went on in her
grave, grown-up way: "Why are you angry because God made me taller than
you? especially as I am whole months older, for my father told me so.
Come, let us write our names against these marks, so that in a year or
two you may see how you outgrow me." Then with the slate pencil she
scratched "Marie" against her mark very deeply, so that it might last,
she said; after which I wrote "Allan" against mine.
Alas! Within the last dozen years chance took me past Maraisfontein
once more. The house had long been rebuilt, but this particular wall
yet stood. I rode to it and looked, and there faintly could still be
seen the name Marie, against the little line, and by it the mark that I
had made. My own name and with it subsequent measurements were gone,
for in the intervening forty years or so the sandstone had flaked away
in places. Only her autograph remained, and when I saw it I think that
I felt even worse than I did on finding whose was the old Bible that I
had bought upon the market square at Maritzburg.
I know that I rode away hurriedly without even stopping to inquire into
whose hands the farm had passed. Through the peach orchard I rode,
where the trees--perhaps the same, perhaps others--were once more in
bloom, for the season of the year was that when Marie and I first met,
nor did I draw rein for half a score of miles.
But here I may state that Marie always stayed just half an inch the
taller in body, and how much taller in mind and spirit I cannot tell.
When we had finished our measuring match Marie turned to lead me to the
house, and, pretending to observe for the first time the beautiful
bustard and the two koran hanging from my saddle, also the klipspringer
buck that Hans the Hottentot carried behind him on his horse, asked:
"Did you shoot all these, Allan Quatermain?"
"Yes," I answered proudly; "I killed them in four shots, and the pauw
and koran were flying, not sitting, which is more than you could have
done, although you are taller, Miss Marie."
"I do not know," she answered reflectively. "I can shoot very well with
a rifle, for my father has taught me, but I never would shoot at living
things unless I must because I was hungry, for I think that to kill is
cruel. But, of course, it is different with men," she added hastily,
"and no doubt you will be a great hunter one day, Allan Quatermain,
since you can already aim so well."
"I hope so," I answered, blushing at the compliment, "for I love
hunting, and when there are so many wild things it does not matter if we
kill a few. I shot these for you and your father to eat."
"Come, then, and give them to him. He will thank you," and she led the
way through the gate in the sandstone wall into the yard, where the
outbuildings stood in which the riding horses and the best of the
breeding cattle were kept at night, and so past the end of the long,
one-storied house, that was stone-built and whitewashed, to the stoep or
veranda in front of it.
On the broad stoep, which commanded a pleasant view over rolling,
park-like country, where mimosa and other trees grew in clumps, two men
were seated, drinking strong coffee, although it was not yet ten o'clock
in the morning.
Hearing the sound of the horses, one of these, Mynheer Marais, whom I
already knew, rose from his hide-strung chair. He was, as I think I
have said, not in the least like one of the phlegmatic Boers, either in
person or in temperament, but, rather, a typical Frenchman, although no
member of his race had set foot in France for a hundred and fifty years.
At least so I discovered afterwards, for, of course, in those days I
knew nothing of Frenchmen.
His companion was also French, Leblanc by name, but of a very different
stamp. In person he was short and stout. His large head was bald
except for a fringe of curling, iron-grey hair which grew round it just
above the ears and fell upon his shoulders, giving him the appearance of
a tonsured but dishevelled priest. His eyes were blue and watery, his
mouth was rather weak, and his cheeks were pale, full and flabby. When
the Heer Marais rose, I, being an observant youth, noted that Monsieur
Leblanc took the opportunity to stretch out a rather shaky hand and fill
up his coffee cup out of a black bottle, which from the smell I judged
to contain peach brandy.
In fact, it may as well be said at once that the poor man was a
drunkard, which explains how he, with all his high education and great
ability, came to hold the humble post of tutor on a remote Boer farm.
Years before, when under the influence of drink, he had committed some
crime in France--I don't know what it was, and never inquired--and fled
to the Cape to avoid prosecution. Here he obtained a professorship at
one of the colleges, but after a while appeared in the lecture-room
quite drunk and lost his employment. The same thing happened in other
towns, till at last he drifted to distant Maraisfontein, where his
employer tolerated his weakness for the sake of the intellectual
companionship for which something in his own nature seemed to crave.
Also, he looked upon him as a compatriot in distress, and a great bond
of union between them was their mutual and virulent hatred of England
and the English, which in the case of Monsieur Leblanc, who in his youth
had fought at Waterloo and been acquainted with the great Emperor, was
not altogether unnatural.
Henri Marais's case was different, but of that I shall have more to say
later.
"Ah, Marie," said her father, speaking in Dutch, "so you have found him
at last," and he nodded towards me, adding: "You should be flattered,
little man. Look you, this missie has been sitting for two hours in the
sun waiting for you, although I told her you would not arrive much
before ten o'clock, as your father the predicant said you would
breakfast before you started. Well, it is natural, for she is lonely
here, and you are of an age, although of a different race"; and his face
darkened as he spoke the words.
"Father," answered Marie, whose blushes I could see even in the shadow
of her cap, "I was not sitting in the sun, but under the shade of a
peach tree. Also, I was working out the sums that Monsieur Leblanc set
me on my slate. See, here they are," and she held up the slate, which
was covered with figures, somewhat smudged, it is true, by the rubbing
of my stiff hair and of her cap.
Then Monsieur Leblanc broke in, speaking in French, of which, as it
chanced I understood the sense, for my father had grounded me in that
tongue, and I am naturally quick at modern languages. At any rate, I
made out that he was asking if I was the little "cochon d'anglais," or
English pig, whom for his sins he had to teach. He added that he judged
I must be, as my hair stuck up on my head--I had taken off my hat out of
politeness--as it naturally would do on a pig's back.
This was too much for me, so, before either of the others could speak, I
answered in Dutch, for rage made me eloquent and bold:
"Yes, I am he; but, mynheer, if you are to be my master, I hope you will
not call the English pigs any more to me."
"Indeed, gamin" (that is, little scamp), "and pray, what will happen if
I am so bold as to repeat that truth?"
"I think, mynheer," I replied, growing white with rage at this new
insult, "the same that has happened to yonder buck," and I pointed to
the klipspringer behind Hans's saddle. "I mean that I shall shoot you."
"Peste! Au moins il a du courage, cet enfant" (At least the child is
plucky), exclaimed Monsieur Leblanc, astonished. From that moment, I
may add, he respected me, and never again insulted my country to my
face.
Then Marais broke out, speaking in Dutch that I might understand:
"It is you who should be called pig, Leblanc, not this boy, for, early
as it is, you have been drinking. Look! the brandy bottle is half
empty. Is that the example you set to the young? Speak so again and I
turn you out to starve on the veld. Allan Quatermain, although, as you
may have heard, I do not like the English, I beg your pardon. I hope
you will forgive the words this sot spoke, thinking that you did not
understand," and he took off his hat and bowed to me quite in a grand
manner, as his ancestors might have done to a king of France.
Leblanc's face fell. Then he rose and walked away rather unsteadily; as
I learned afterwards, to plunge his head in a tub of cold water and
swallow a pint of new milk, which were his favourite antidotes after too
much strong drink. At any rate, when he appeared again, half an hour
later, to begin out lesson, he was quite sober, and extremely polite.
When he had gone, my childish anger being appeased, I presented the Heer
Marais with my father's compliments, also with the buck and the birds,
whereof the latter seemed to please him more than the former. Then my
saddle-bags were taken to my room, a little cupboard of a place next to
that occupied by Monsieur Leblanc, and Hans was sent to turn the horses
out with the others belonging to the farm, having first knee-haltered
them tightly, so that they should not run away home.
This done, the Heer Marais showed me the room in which we were to have
our lessons, one of the "sitkammer", or sitting chambers, whereof,
unlike most Boer stead, this house boasted two. I remember that the
floor was made of "daga", that is, ant-heap earth mixed with cow-dung,
into which thousands of peach-stones had been thrown while it was still
soft, in order to resist footwear--a rude but fairly efficient
expedient, and one not unpleasing to the eye. For the rest, there was
one window opening on to the veranda, which, in that bright climate,
admitted a shaded but sufficient light, especially as it always stood
open; the ceiling was of unplastered reeds; a large bookcase stood in
the corner containing many French works, most of them the property of
Monsieur Leblanc, and in the centre of the room was the strong, rough
table made of native yellow-wood, that once had served as a butcher's
block. I recollect also a coloured print of the great Napoleon
commanding at some battle in which he was victorious, seated upon a
white horse and waving a field-marshal's baton over piles of dead and
wounded; and near the window, hanging to the reeds of the ceiling, the
nest of a pair of red-tailed swallows, pretty creatures that,
notwithstanding the mess they made, afforded to Marie and me endless
amusement in the intervals of our work.
When, on that day, I shuffled shyly into this homely place, and,
thinking myself alone there, fell to examining it, suddenly I was
brought to a standstill by a curious choking sound which seemed to
proceed from the shadows behind the bookcase. Wondering as to its
cause, I advanced cautiously to discover a pink-clad shape standing in
the corner like a naughty child, with her head resting against the wall,
and sobbing slowly.
"Marie Marais, why do you cry?" I asked.
She turned, tossing back the locks of long, black hair which hung about
her face, and answered:
"Allan Quatermain, I cry because of the shame which has been put upon
you and upon our house by that drunken Frenchman."
"What of that?" I asked. "He only called me a pig, but I think I have
shown him that even a pig has tusks."
"Yes," she replied, "but it was not you he meant; it was all the
English, whom he hates; and the worst of it is that my father is of his
mind. He, too, hates the English, and, oh! I am sure that trouble will
come of his hatred, trouble and death to many."
"Well, if so, we have nothing to do with it, have we?" I replied with
the cheerfulness of extreme youth.
"What makes you so sure?" she said solemnly. "Hush! here comes Monsieur
Leblanc."
