THE BAMBOULA
Madam was pensive, quiet, the quiet of the dozing cat who will prowl the night through; the air was fine but hot. She permitted Dessalines to fan her, watching him dreamily from beneath long, curving lashes. Swathed as she was in the silk kimono, each detail of a figure entirely voluptuous, was accentuated. Dessalines feared to look at her.
She said little, watching him chiefly; her smoky hair enveloping her pallid face in nebulous wisps; her many-colored eyes mere slits; bosoms aquiver with each long breath; lithe body, supple as a puma as she turned to ease her position. Dessalines forgot England; his mouth grew dry. He thought of Saint Anthony, a ridiculous legend told him in his boyhood by a Jesuit priest, but serious to him as such biblical folklore always is to a savage.
At last, to his relief, madam arose to dress for dinner. She slipped from the hammock, the kimono slid above her knees; her legs were bare, white as snow, rounded as are never the legs of negresses. Dessalines went also to dress.
At half past six Fouchère had not returned. Dessalines was troubled, but being told by his hostess that they would dine at seven, he went to the apartment placed at his disposal to change his costume. Dessalines was still dressing when La Fouchère, who was on the veranda, heard a horseman approaching the house by the road which led up the mountain from Port au Prince. A moment later a negro boy, riding the pony of Dr. Fouchère, dismounted at the gate.
"A letter for madam from M. le Docteur," he said. La Fouchère eagerly tore open the missive. It read:
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