Let me hasten to assure you that Henriette, whose return to Port Louis I neglected to mention in the midst of the all the serious events I have been recounting, had been so terrified during the night of the hurricane that, despite still being shaken from the encounter with the shark, she had left the rivière Noire as soon as the wind had died down and had arrived in the city that day. Once she was reunited with Sara, the girl’s unusual preoccupation had begun to worry her very seriously indeed.
It is true that, during the last three days, a great change had taken place in Sara’s life. From the moment she had first laid eyes on Georges, his face and voice had been forever etched on her heart. Since that day she had heaved more than one involuntary sigh at the thought of her forthcoming marriage to Henri, a marriage that for ten years she had considered her unshakable destiny, and to which she had given her tacit consent—never dreaming that circumstances could ever arise that would turn the union into an obligation she could not fulfill. Now, though, and especially since the night of the governor’s ball, she knew that to take Henri as her husband would condemn her to a life of misery. Most importantly, as we have seen, she had solemnly committed herself to Georges and promised that she would belong to no one but him. All this would have weighed heavily on any woman’s heart, let alone a girl of sixteen. Little wonder, then, that everything that had seemed to be the most important things in her life before—dances, and parties, and fêtes—now appeared totally inconsequential.
The previous five or six days had not been free of anxiety for M. de Malmédie and his son, either. Sara’s refusal to dance with Henri—or with any man, once she was told she could not dance with Georges—at the governor’s ball; her early departure from that same ball; her obstinate silence whenever the subject of her marriage to Henri was brought up—all these things seemed strange, and father and son agreed that the rest of the preparations for the wedding should be made without the bride’s participation. They would tell her what she needed to know when everything was ready. It was easier to conduct the matter this way, since no exact date had ever been set for the marriage ceremony itself. Sara was sixteen, they reasoned; old enough, after all, to fulfill the destiny M. de Malmédie had always had in mind for her.
With each resident preoccupied in his or her own way, the atmosphere in the Malmédie house was a frosty one. It was their habit to gather four times a day: for breakfast in the morning, dinner at two o’clock, tea at five, and supper at nine. For the last three days, Sara had asked for and received permission to have breakfast in her own room. This spared her one hour of discomfort, but it could not save her from the other three. The girl knew she could not plead indisposition at every meal, and she was forced to endure dinner, tea, and supper in the usual manner.
At around five o’clock on the day following the aftermath of the storm, Sara sat near the drawing room window working on a piece of embroidery—an activity that gave her the opportunity to keep her eyes down—while Henriette prepared the tea with all the attention English ladies usually devote to this activity. M. de Malmédie and Henri stood before the fire, speaking in low voices. All at once the door opened and the servant Bijou announced the arrival of Lord William Murray and M. Georges Munier.
This double announcement produced a variety of strange reactions from the occupants of the drawing room. The messieurs de Malmédie, astonished and sure that they must have misheard Bijou, requested that the servant repeat himself. Sara, flushing scarlet, kept her eyes resolutely fixed on her embroidery. Henriette, gazing distractedly at everyone by turns, overfilled the teapot so that boiling water spilled on the table and dripped on the floor.
Bijou repeated the names of the new arrivals, smiling widely as he did so. M. de Malmédie and Henri stared at each other in consternation for a moment more before the father pulled himself together enough to stammer, “Show them in.”
Lord Murray and Georges entered the drawing room. Both were dressed formally in black, indicating a visit of some importance. M. de Malmédie moved forward to greet his guests; Sara, her cheeks still scarlet, managed to rise and nod before sinking back into her chair. Henriette, coming to herself, began to clean up the tea table.
At a signal from his master, Bijou brought in two more chairs—but Georges, bowing, indicated that he wished to remain standing. Lord Murray spoke first, breaking the awkward silence. “Sir,” he said to M. de Malmédie, “my friend, Monsieur Georges Munier, has asked me to accompany him to your home, to show my support for a proposal he wishes to make to you. It is my pleasure to see you again, and to express my sincere hopes that you will accept his request.”
The governor followed these words with a graceful bow, which was returned by both father and son. “We owe a great deal to Monsieur Munier, of course,” M. de Malmédie said. “We would be most pleased to be of service to him in any way we can.”
Now Georges spoke. “If you are alluding to my rescue of Mademoiselle de Malmédie from the shark, please permit me to say that only God deserves your thanks for that; it was he who led me to her. Any man in my place would have done the same. Besides,” he added, smiling, “you will soon see that my motives were not entirely unselfish.”
Henri stepped forward. “Pardon me, sir, but I don’t understand you.”
“I’m about to explain myself, monsieur; do not worry.”
“Should I leave, Uncle?” Sara asked, rising.
Georges bowed in her direction. “I hope, mademoiselle,” he said, “that if a desire of mine can have any influence on you, you will do me the pleasure of remaining.”
Sara sat down again. There was a moment of silence; then M. de Malmédie indicated, somewhat impatiently, that he was waiting for Georges to continue.
“Monsieur de Malmédie,” Georges began, his voice perfectly calm, “you know who I am. You are acquainted with my family and my fortune—nearly two million francs at present. I beg your pardon for going into such detail, but I believe it is necessary.”
“Monsieur,” interrupted Henri, “I fail to see why any of this can possibly interest us.”
“Ah, but you see, sir, I am not speaking to you, but to your father,” said Georges serenely.
The muscles in Henri’s jaw tightened. “I don’t see why my father needs to know these things any more than I do.”
“I am about to enlighten you,” replied Georges coldly. He turned back to M. de Malmédie. “I have come to request the hand of your niece, Mademoiselle Sara de Malmédie.”
M. de Malmédie looked stunned. “For whom, monsieur?”
“For myself.”
“For you?” exclaimed Henri. He started forward convulsively, but a look from Georges halted him in his tracks. Sara turned pale.
M. de Malmédie still appeared utterly baffled. “For…for you?”
“As I said, monsieur,” replied Georges, bowing.
“But—but surely you must be aware, monsieur, that my niece is intended to be my son’s bride!”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Georges, “but by whom?”
“By whom? By whom? Why, by me, of course!” spluttered M. de Malmédie.
“Allow me to remind you, sir,” said Georges imperturbably, “that Mademoiselle Sara is your niece, not your daughter; she does not owe you a daughter’s obedience in such matters.”
M. de Malmédie seemed almost unable to speak. “I must say, sir,” he managed, “that this discussion appears to me to be quite…extraordinary.”
“I disagree with you,” said Georges. “It is perfectly natural. I love Mademoiselle Sara, and I believe it is both my destiny and my duty to make her happy.”
“But my cousin does not love you, sir!” cried Henri shrilly.
“Once again, you are mistaken, sir,” said Georges. “Mademoiselle herself has authorized me to tell you that she does indeed love me in return.”
“Impossible!” cried M. de Malmédie.
“No, Uncle,” said Sara, rising. “Monsieur Munier has spoken the truth.”
“What?
How dare you—” His face white, Henri lunged in Sara’s direction as if he would strike her. Georges moved instinctively to intervene, but Lord Murray restrained him.
Sara looked at Henri with frank disdain. “I am not afraid to say it,” she said. “The life Monsieur Georges so bravely saved now belongs to him alone. I have sworn, and I swear again now, that I will never marry anyone but him.” With the utmost grace and dignity, she held out her hand to Georges. With a deep bow, he pressed a kiss upon her fingers.
“Really, this is too much!” Henri cried. He seized a walking stick and brandished it menacingly, but Lord Murray now took his arm, just as he had taken Georges’s a moment earlier.
Throwing a glance of complete scorn at Henri, Georges offered his arm to Sara and conducted her to the door, where he bowed low and she curtsied. Indicating that Henriette should follow her, Sara left the room.
“You see now how it is, monsieur,” Georges said to M. de Malmédie, rejoining the other men. “You cannot possibly doubt Mademoiselle Sara’s feelings for me. I ask you again for your response to my proposal.”
“My response?” stammered M. de Malmédie, finding his voice at last. “My response? You—you have the audacity to hope that I will give you any response—other than the one you deserve, that is?”
“Whatever your answer may be, I await it, monsieur,” said Georges calmly.
“I hope you expect nothing other than a refusal!” Henri cried.
“I am addressing your father, not you,” said Georges coldly. “Let Monsieur de Malmédie give me his answer, and then you and I can speak of what concerns the two of us.”
“Well!” huffed M. de Malmédie. “My answer, Monsieur Munier, is most definitely a negative one, you may be sure!”
“Very well,” said Georges, inclining his head. “It is the reply I expected. Still, I have done my duty in formally asking you for Mademoiselle Sara’s hand.” He saluted M. de Malmédie as politely as if nothing untoward had passed between them, and then turned to Henri. “Now, sir,” he said, “we must settle our difference. This is the second time you have raised a hand against me, as you might remember, even though it has been fourteen years since the first. Then you used a saber”—here he swept back his hair with one hand to show the scar that still marked his forehead—“and today a cane.” He pointed to the walking stick Henri still held in his hand.
“Well?” demanded Henri.
“I demand satisfaction for both of these insults, sir,” Georges said coolly. “You are not a coward, I know, and I trust you will behave in this matter as a gentleman should.”
“I care nothing for your opinion of my conduct,” sneered Henri. “My reply to you is a simple one.”
“And what is this reply?”
“That I do not fight with mulattoes.”
Georges turned white. A strange smile hovered about his lips. “And that is your final answer?”
“It is.”
“Very well,” Georges said again. “I know what my course must be.”
Bowing to the Malmédies, he turned on his heel and departed, Lord Murray at his side.
“I see that I predicted rightly, I’m sorry to say,” said the governor once the two men were out in the street once more.
“Yes—but you predicted nothing I didn’t foresee myself,” replied Georges. “However, the fact is that I returned to île de France to fulfill my destiny, and I must see it through to the end. I have a prejudice to fight. Either it must destroy me, or I it. In the meantime, milord, please accept my sincere thanks.” He shook Lord Murray’s hand warmly and, bowing, walked away.
Lord Murray watched until Georges disappeared around the corner of the rue de la Rampe, then shook his head. “Doomed, to be sure,” he murmured to himself. “A great pity, really; such a waste of a noble heart.”
XVII
THE RACES
The Yamsé festival was set to begin on the Saturday following the storm, and by then the people of Port Louis had worked so energetically that it was impossible to tell that, only six days before, the city had barely escaped destruction.
Early in the morning the Lascars of both sea and land set out from the Malabar camp outside Port Louis, located between the stream of Pucelles and the Fanfaron creek. Accompanied by a chorus of tambourines, flutes, and mouth organs, they filed down the road to town in pursuit of what they call “the quest.” The two chiefs walked side by side at the head of the procession, dressed in their respective colors of green and white, each carrying an unsheathed saber with an orange impaled upon its point. Behind the chiefs marched two mullahs, bearing platters of sugar covered with Chinese rose petals, and behind them came the rest of the Indian phalanx.
Their quest began as soon as they reached the first dwelling on the outskirts of the city. The festival of Yamsé costs a great deal of money to produce, and it is customary for the revelers to stop at every house, whether large or small, and ask for a contribution to help defray the costs these poor people take upon themselves in order to render the ceremony as impressive as possible. Far from demeaning themselves, the “questors” conduct themselves with Oriental pride and touching dignity on these occasions. First the chiefs—who are always granted ready access to any dwelling—greet the master of the house by symbolically lowering the points of their sabers. Then the mullahs step forward to offer their dishes of sugar and rose petals, while other Indians pass plates to collect any money the home’s inhabitants are willing to give. Finally the questors withdraw, murmuring “Salaam” again and again, leaving the impression that, rather than begging for alms, they have allowed strangers the honor of participating in the sacred ritual of the festival of Yamsé.
On île de France it is customary for the quest to include not just the houses in Port Louis but the vessels in the harbor as well. This task falls, naturally, to the Lascars of the sea. On this occasion, however, very little was asked of the beleaguered ship captains. The hurricane had inflicted horrific damages on them, and they were more in need of assistance than able to give it themselves.
Just as the Lascars reached the port, a new vessel that had signaled its arrival that morning arrived in the harbor between Labourdonnaie and Fort Blanc, flying the Dutch flag and firing a respectful salute, which the fort returned, as she glided across the water as gracefully as if guided by the hand of a goddess. It was immediately obvious that the ship had come from some location so far-flung that she had not been touched by the recent storm; not a sheet or a sail was out of place. With the aid of spyglasses, those on shore could see that the ship’s entire crew was assembled on deck, and all wore full-dress uniforms in the colors of the Dutch king William; indeed, it seemed as if they were arriving for the express purpose of attending some splendid ceremony. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, they drew the immediate and complete attention of the Lascar chiefs. The ship had scarcely dropped anchor when the chief of the Lascars of the sea, accompanied by his plate bearers, pushed off toward her in a skiff.
Up close, the foreign ship was even more impressive. The beautiful brigantine seemed a floating temple to the renowned Dutch cleanliness; her deck was scrubbed as white as snow, and would not have disgraced even the finest drawing room. Her copper fittings shone like gold, and the gleaming companionway ladders, carved from the finest Indian woods, were so lovely that they appeared to be more decorative than useful. The same was true of her showpiece guns; if they had not been mounted aboard a warship, they might have graced a museum of artillery somewhere.
Captain Van den Broek, for so the commander of this fine vessel called himself, now appeared on deck. When he caught sight of the Lascars approaching in the skiff, he immediately grasped their purpose. Stepping forward, he graciously received the chief on board and, having exchanged a few words with the man in his native tongue—proof that he was no newcomer to the Indian seas—he presented him with the astonishing gift of a diamond worth at least a hundred louis. He had no other money on his person just now, he explained, and he hoped the Lascars would b
e content with this small offering.
Such a prize, which both exceeded the hopes of the worthy Muslims and completely belied the reputation for parsimony held by countrymen of Jean de With, so shocked the Lascar chief that he stood in silence for a moment, wondering if this display of generosity could possibly be genuine. It was only after Captain Van den Broek had assured him several times that the diamond was indeed intended to enrich the coffers of the Shiites, in whose welfare he took a lively interest, that the chief roused himself enough to show his thanks by proffering the dish of sugar and rose petals with his own hands. The Dutch captain took a decorous amount of the sweet on his fingertips and pretended to eat it with relish, to the great appreciation of the Indians, who then disembarked from the ship with many enthusiastic salaams. Such a triumph induced them to make the rounds of the other vessels in the harbor—but they did so, as might be expected, with much less success.
The races were to be held the next morning. Races were always an important event on île de France, but this year, coinciding as they did with both the festival of Yamsé and the arrival of a new governor, they were sure to be spectacular indeed. As always, the parade grounds at champ de Mars were the designated site; every bit of public space was crowded with spectators by dawn. The day’s principal attraction was to be the gentlemen’s race, but it was by no means the only one. There were several other races that, since the common people were allowed to participate, often proved even more popular; these included a pig chase, a sack race, and a pony race. For each of these, just as for the main event, the governor handed out the prizes. The winner of the pony race received a magnificent double-barreled Menton hunting rifle, and the winner of the sack race a handsome umbrella; as for the winner of the pig chase, he was allowed to keep the animal itself as a trophy. The prize for the gentlemen’s race was a beautiful silver-gilt cup of surpassingly fine workmanship.
Georges Page 19
