IN THE SHADOW
shortly. He threw open the colored supplement and almost the first thing to catch his eye was a full page of drawings representing himself in various guises: one as a student at Oxford; another of himself in evening clothes, entertained by royalty; still another showed him being dressed by Jules, and the last represented him in a gorgeous setting of tropical foliage, clothed in white and reclining in a hammock where he was being served by a galaxy of dusky damsels.
The headlines were garish. "A West-Indian Crœsus!" they read; "Count Aristide Dessalines, of Hayti, now in Boston." With sublines, "A Graduate of Oxford University;" "Entertained by British Nobility;" "Has a French Valet;" "A Hercules in Jet," and similar phrases.
Dessalines read the account through twice, his eyes sparkling with gratification. The account was exaggerated, flamboyant, highly colored, but flattering to a point which would have aroused the disgust of any but a negro.
"Get me a dozen—three dozen—of these papers!" he said to Jules, "and if any more of the reporters call do not fail to arrange an interview. To-morrow I will sit for my photograph." His black face was beaming with pleasure; indeed, the account had the result of making him a celebrity, and he noticed an increased deference in the menials about the hotel.
The following morning his mail was profuse; there were letters from people of all kinds, requesting interviews: from clergymen, societies for the amelioration of the negro, from negro lecturers and public men, from women. Dessalines was overcome, amazed, half-drunk
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