Georges

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Monsieur Georges Munier!”

  If a thunderbolt had crashed down in the midst of the assembly, it would not have caused a greater stir than the pronouncement of that single name. All heads turned, wondering who was about to enter; although the surname was a well-known one on île de France, Georges had been away for so long that most people had forgotten he even existed.

  Now he made his entrance.

  The young mulatto was dressed simply but stylishly in a beautifully cut black coat, his medals dangling from a gold chain attached to the lapel. His close-fitting trousers showed off his trim, well-shaped legs, and another fine gold chain hung from the pocket of his white waistcoat. He wore a cravat of black silk, knotted with careless elegance, and the paleness of his handsome face was accentuated by his jet-black mustache and long, dark hair.

  Lord Murray was obviously delighted to see him. He went to him immediately and took him by the hand, presenting him first to the English officers and ladies in the room as a gentleman he had had the good fortune to meet on the voyage to île de France, whose company had made the trip a most agreeable one. He then turned to the rest of the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sure I need not introduce Monsieur Georges Munier to you. He is one of your fellow countrymen, and the return of such a distinguished compatriot to île de France is cause for celebration indeed.”

  Georges inclined his head, a gesture that was met with silence and a few murmurs, but Lord Murray appeared not to notice the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. One of his servants announced dinner, and he took Sara’s arm and led the way in to the banquet table.

  Knowing Georges as we do, it is perhaps not surprising that he had chosen to be the last guest to arrive. Preparing to battle the prejudice he was so firmly resolved to conquer, he had wanted to meet all of his enemies face-to-face. His announcement and introduction had produced exactly the effect he desired.

  Indeed, no one had been more affected by Georges’s appearance than Sara. Hoping to see the young hunter from the rivière Noire at the dinner party, and knowing he had arrived at Port Louis in the company of Lord Murray, she had chosen her ensemble carefully—eschewing the exaggerated luxury often found in the colonies for the lovely simplicity we have found so pleasing—and waited eagerly for the European stranger to arrive. As soon as she and her family arrived at the ball she had looked for his dark eyes everywhere but had not seen them; she could only hope he was delayed and that she would soon know more about him.

  Drawn into a circle of other ladies while Henri and M. de Malmédie went off to mingle with the men, Sara was finally rewarded with the announcement of M. Georges Munier. She shivered with a sort of premonitory thrill at finally hearing his name—a name well known on the island, indeed, but hardly expected at such a gathering. She could not keep her eyes off him; his manly bearing, noble brow, and cool smile drew her gaze like a magnet. He seemed to her even more dashing and handsome than he had been the other times she had encountered him. Her heart pounded when Lord Murray introduced Georges to the crowd, and ached when cold, bigoted silence greeted his words. Her eyes, when they met his just before Lord Murray took her arm, were filled with tears. She lowered her head to hide her blushes, fearful that others might notice them—but she needn’t have worried. No one except M. de Malmédie and Henri knew of the events that had so recently brought the two young people together; no one else would have thought to link Sara de Malmédie and Georges Munier in any way.

  Sara was seated on the new governor’s right; on his left was the wife of île de France’s garrison commander. The commander himself sat opposite her, placed between two of the most distinguished Creole ladies on the island, who in turn sat beside M. de Malmédie and Henri, respectively. Georges, either by chance or the good intentions of Lord Murray, sat between two English belles. Sara breathed a sigh of relief. She knew foreigners did not share the island prejudices that must have dogged Georges all his life, and that these visitors had not been in île de France for nearly the time required to absorb such negative racial feelings. Georges’s conversation with his fair neighbors was gallant and convivial. The women were obviously enchanted by him; he spoke their language as if he had been born to it. Glancing around, Sara saw that Henri’s eyes were fixed on her. She knew exactly what was going through his mind. Blushing furiously, she lowered her eyes to her plate.

  Lord Murray was a gentleman in every sense of the word, born to play the role of gracious host—so difficult to learn if one is not taught from infancy to assume it. He conversed with his guests easily, moving smoothly from one topic to another, speaking to the English officers of famous battles won and to the Creole merchants of promising business prospects. Now and then he chatted to Georges in a way that showed the two men to be so well educated as to be comfortable discussing any and every subject they wished. And so the dinner passed pleasantly. Georges, with a charming combination of intelligence and modesty, impressed the officers with his experience on the battlefield and the merchants with his knowledge of international commerce. Sprinkled familiarly throughout his conversation were the names of prominent French, English, and Spanish artists, aristocrats, and statesmen, indicating that this young man was very well connected indeed.

  Much of what Georges said passed well above the heads of most of the dinner guests, but there were a few among them knowledgeable enough to recognize the young man’s superior intellect. Their astonishment, and even envy, increased—but so did their repulsion at his mulatto birth. Henri de Malmédie, feeling that Sara had paid Georges more attention than was proper for a white woman, and an engaged one at that, did not trouble to hide his bitterness. The name of Munier brought with it unpleasant childhood memories; Henri recalled the day when he had tried to wrench the captured English flag from Georges’s hands, and Jacques Munier had struck him violently in the face. This long-ago humiliation lay, smoldering, in his heart, and the idea that Sara’s life had been saved the day before by a man he despised so much only increased Henri’s hatred.

  As for the elder M. de Malmédie, he had spent the majority of the evening engaged in a lively discussion with his neighbor about the latest method for refining sugar; if employed, it would increase his estate’s revenue by a full one-third. After his initial surprise at finding out that Georges Munier was his niece’s rescuer and the new governor’s intimate friend, he thought no more about the matter.

  Needless to say, this was not the case with Henri. He listened to every word that passed between Lord Murray and Georges; he had to admit that the mulatto was the more intelligent of the two. Studying the firm steadiness in Georges’s face, he realized that the sickly child he remembered was no more. Here was a dangerous opponent, ready, willing, and able to challenge him.

  If only, thought Henri, Georges had returned to île de France and resumed the submissive role his blood dictated in the eyes of the whites. If he had been content to settle into the obscurity of his boyhood once more, Henri would not have given him a second thought; their childhood altercation of fourteen years before, as well as Henri’s grudge against the mulatto, would have remained buried deep in his memory. But the man, with insufferable pride, had paraded himself around as a gentleman—had entered the governor’s house as if he were an aristocrat—had, by doing a service to Sara, involved himself with the Malmédie family! He had presumed to sit at the same table as Henri himself, acting as if they were equals in rank! This was too much; it was more than Henri could bear. From now on, he thought, he and Georges Munier were at war.

  As the guests left the table to mingle in the gardens, Henri looked for Sara. She was seated with several other ladies in a bower near which a group of gentlemen was taking coffee. She seemed to shiver a bit at his approach, as if fearing what her cousin might have to say to her.

  “Well, my fair cousin,” said Henri, leaning over the back of her bamboo chair, “what did you think of the dinner?”

  “I assume you’re not speaking of the food,” replied Sara, smilin
g.

  “No, indeed—though for those of us who do not live on dewdrops and floral perfumes as you do it was a magnificent feast indeed. No, my question tends in a more…social direction, as it were.”

  “Oh—I thought it in very good taste. Lord Murray is an admirable host, and everyone seemed quite at ease.”

  “Certainly, certainly; that makes it even more astonishing that a gentleman of such high breeding would be guilty of the sort of impropriety he has imposed on us.”

  “What do you mean?” Sara asked, though she knew perfectly well what her cousin was trying to say. Her heart beat strongly in her chest, and she looked steadfastly into Henri’s eyes with a strength even she did not understand.

  Henri ignored both the expression on Sara’s face and the nagging voice of his own conscience. “Why, he allowed Monsieur Georges Munier to sit at the same table with us.”

  Sara turned pale. “I find it much more shocking, cousin, that you would make such an observation—especially to me.”

  “And why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Georges Munier, whose presence here tonight is so distasteful to you, I would be dead—and you and my uncle would have spent today mourning me, rather than feasting at the governor’s table.”

  “Ahem—yes, yes, of course,” said Henri, coloring. “Yes. I am quite aware of the debt of gratitude we owe Monsieur Georges for saving a life so precious to us. You must remember yesterday, when he offered to buy those two Negroes from my father and I insisted on giving them to him instead.”

  “Ah!” cried Sara, her eyes narrowing. “And with the gift of two Negroes, you feel your debt to be entirely acquitted? Let me thank you then, my dear cousin, for placing the value of my life at a thousand piastres!”

  “Mon Dieu, my dear Sara, but you are interpreting things strangely today! Do you really think I would, for an instant, put a price on a life I value more than my own? I only meant to suggest that any white woman would be in an awkward position indeed if Monsieur Georges Munier were to ask her to dance!”

  “Am I to assume that you think this woman ought to refuse him?”

  “Yes, most assuredly.”

  “Even though, in refusing a man who has never given her the slightest offense—who has done her service on more than one occasion—she would be insulting him in such a serious manner that he would be justified in seeking an explanation from her father, or brother, or husband.”

  “I presume that in such a case, Monsieur Georges would remember who he is, and do us the justice of recognizing that a white woman does not lower herself to the level of a mulatto.”

  Sara’s eyes blazed. “Well!” she said. “I do beg your pardon, cousin, for daring to express my opinion on such a matter—perhaps I do not know Monsieur Georges very well—but it seems to me that if he sought to avenge his honor, a man such as he, who wears two croix de guerre on his chest, would hardly be cowed by the feeling of humiliation you are saying he must possess—quite without reason, I might add.”

  Henri’s face flushed with anger. “In any case, my dear Sara,” he said coldly, “I trust that the fear of exposing me or my father to the wrath of Monsieur Georges Munier will restrain you from dancing with him, even if he should have the temerity to ask you.”

  “I will dance with no one, monsieur,” said Sara icily. Rising, she walked away from him and sat down near a female friend who occupied a table beside Georges’s.

  Henri stood still for a moment, stunned by Sara’s behavior, then moved to seek out a group of Creole gentlemen he knew who would, in all likelihood, have more sympathy for his views than his cousin had. An hour passed, during which Sara and Henri remained pointedly distant from each other and Georges remained at the center of an admiring circle of English officers and businessmen who obviously harbored little or none of the prejudice found in his own countrymen. Eventually the doors were thrown open again, revealing the reception room now bare of furniture and blazing with light. The orchestra struck up a lively melody to signal the first dance. The ball had begun.

  It was a sore trial for Sara to sit quietly while her friends enjoyed the ball, for as we know, dancing was one of her favorite pastimes. She blamed the situation entirely on Henri and thought of him with bitterness, while her emotions regarding Georges tended in another direction entirely. She began to experience feelings for him that were deeper and more tender than any she had ever known. It is one of the noblest qualities possessed by women to feel compassion for the oppressed, as well as admiration for those who resist this oppression.

  Just then Henri, hoping that his cousin would be unable to resist the temptation of the music, asked her to dance the first with him, as usual. Sara looked at him coolly, and repeated that she had no intention of dancing that evening. Henri bit his lip until it bled and instinctively looked around the room for Georges, who was dancing with the young Englishwoman he had earlier escorted in to dinner.

  For reasons entirely different from her cousin’s, Sara’s eyes also sought out Georges. When she saw him, her heart twisted in her chest. He was dancing with another woman! Perhaps he was not thinking at all of Sara, who had made such a sacrifice that evening by refusing to dance for his sake—an act of selflessness that, until that night, she would never have believed herself capable of. The remaining moments of the dance were among the most painful that Sara had ever known.

  The music finally ended, and Sara could not tear her gaze away from Georges as he conducted his dancing partner to her seat and then went to stand next to Lord Murray. The two men exchanged a few words, and then both moved in Sara’s direction! All the blood in her body seemed to rush to her heart.

  “Mademoiselle,” said Lord Murray, “here is my friend and traveling companion who, with perhaps too much attention to European etiquette, will not ask you to dance until he has been properly introduced to you. Allow me to present Monsieur Georges Munier, one of the most distinguished gentlemen it is my pleasure to know.”

  Sara fought to keep her voice steady, to appear almost calm. “Monsieur Georges and I are already old acquaintances, milord. He did me a small service on the day of his arrival, and later he did me a greater service still—he saved my life.”

  “What! Monsieur Georges was the young hunter who rescued you by shooting the shark that attacked you while you were bathing?”

  “None other, milord,” answered Sara, blushing deeply, for it had only just now occurred to her that Georges had seen her in her bathing costume. “I’m glad you’ve mentioned it, since yesterday I was too upset to thank Monsieur Georges as ardently as I would have wished to, and now I can say truly that it is to his skill and nerve that I owe the pleasure of my attendance at your ball tonight.”

  “Yes, let us add our thanks as well,” said Henri, who had joined the little group unseen. “We were also quite shaken—hardly able to express our thanks to Monsieur Georges at all.”

  Georges had not yet said a word. His penetrating gaze seemed to reach the depths of Sara’s soul. He bowed to her in acknowledgment, but ignored Henri completely. “In that case,” said Lord Murray, “I believe Monsieur Georges may make his request without fear of refusal. Go ahead, my friend.”

  Georges bowed again. “I hope Mademoiselle de Malmédie will grant me the honor of dancing the next with me.”

  “Oh! I am truly sorry, monsieur—I hope you will excuse me—but I have just refused my cousin the same request, as I don’t mean to dance tonight.”

  Georges gave Sara a smile that said he understood her perfectly. Drawing himself up to his full height, he gave Henri a glance of utter disdain, one returned by the younger M. de Malmédie, which left Lord Murray in no doubt as to the pure hatred that existed between the two men. The Englishman kept silent, however, and merely said to Sara: “I hope it isn’t yesterday’s fright, mademoiselle, that keeps you from dancing tonight.”

  “I’m afraid so, milord,” Sara said. “In fact, I feel so unwell that I was just about to ask Henri to
find my uncle and tell him I wish to go home.”

  Henri hurried off straightaway in search of M. de Malmédie, and Georges took the opportunity to lean close to Sara and murmur, in a voice audible only to her: “You have a noble heart, mademoiselle. I thank you.”

  Just then Lord Murray took Sara’s arm, and she could only meet Georges’s eyes briefly, trembling. “Are you really determined to leave us, mademoiselle?” asked the governor.

  “I’m sorry, yes,” said Sara. “I’d like to stay—but I really do feel quite ill.”

  “In that case,” said Lord Murray gallantly, “allow me to call for one of my own carriages to conduct you home.” He moved away to speak to one of his servants, and Georges and Sara were left standing alone.

  “Sara,” said Georges, his voice low. “When I left Europe to return to île de France, I could only hope I would find a heart like yours—but I hardly dared believe such happiness could truly exist.”

  Sara felt as if she might faint. “Monsieur,” she murmured, “I—don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, dear mademoiselle, that since I first saw you I have been living in a sort of dream that, if it ever comes true, will make me the happiest of men.” At that moment, M. de Malmédie and Henri came hurrying toward them. Georges bowed and walked away without another word.

  Lord Murray joined the family a few minutes later to tell them that the carriage was ready, and offered Sara his arm. As they reached the door, she cast a single glance of regret over her shoulder. She had had such high hopes for the evening, and it was ending in such a way! For the briefest instant her gaze again met that of Georges. He seemed to be following her with his eyes.

  The governor saw the Malmédies safely off in his carriage, then returned to the entry hall. Georges was there, preparing to leave in his turn. “What, are you going, too?” Lord Murray exclaimed.

  “Yes, milord—it is eight leagues to Moka, and I have a long ride ahead of me. I’m fortunate to have a horse like Antrim; that is sure.”