On a hot, sunshiny day in January last I started from Saint-Paul and
wandered into the wild forests of Ile Bourbon to muse and dream. I
dreamed of you, my friend; those virgin forests had retained for me the
memory of your wanderings and your studies, the ground had kept the
imprint of your feet. I found everywhere the marvellous things with
which your magical tales charmed the tedium of my vigils in the old
days, and, in order that we might enjoy them together, I called upon old
Europe, where obscurity encompasses you with its modest advantages, to
send you to me. Happy man, whose intellect and merits no treacherous
friend has made known to the world!
I walked in the direction of a lonely spot in the highest part of the
island, called _Brulé de Saint-Paul._
A huge fragment of mountain, which was dislodged and fell during some
volcanic disturbance, has formed on the slope of the principal mountain
a sort of long arena studded with rocks arranged in the most magical
disorder, in the most extraordinary confusion. Here, a huge boulder
balances itself on a number of small fragments; there, rises a wall of
slender, light, porous rocks with dentilated edges and openwork
decoration like a Moorish building; farther on, an obelisk of basalt,
whose sides an artist seems to have carved and polished, stands upon a
crenelated bastion; in another place, a gothic fortress is crumbling to
decay beside a curious, shapeless pagoda. That spot is the rendezvous of
all the rough drafts of art, all the sketches of architecture; it would
seem that all the geniuses of all nations and of all ages went for their
inspiration to that vast work of hazard and demolition. There, doubtless
some magically elaborate design of chance gave birth to the Moorish
style of sculpture. In the heart of the forests, art found in the
palm-tree one of its most beautiful models. The _vacoa_ which anchors
itself in the ground and clings to it with a hundred arms branched from
its main stalk, evidently furnished the first suggestion of the plan of
a cathedral supported by its light flying buttresses. In the _Brulé de
Saint-Paul_ all shapes, all types of beauty, all humorous and bold
conceits were assembled, piled upon one another, arranged and
constructed in one tempestuous night. The spirits of air and fire
undoubtedly presided over this diabolical operation; they alone could
give to their productions that awe-inspiring, fanciful, incomplete
character which distinguishes their works from those of man; they alone
could have piled up those monstrous boulders, moved those gigantic
masses, toyed with mountains as with grains of sand, and strewn, amid
creations which man has tried to copy, those grand conceptions of art,
those sublime contrasts impossible of realization, which seem to defy
the audacity of the artist and to say to him derisively: "Try it again."
I halted at the foot of a crystallized basaltic monument, about sixty
feet high and cut with facets as if by a lapidary. At the top of this
strange object an inscription seemed to have been traced in bold
characters by an immortal hand. Those vulcanized rocks often present
that phenomenon; long ago, when their substance, softened by the action
of fire, was still warm and malleable, they received and retained the
imprint of the shells and climbing plants that clung to them. These
chance contacts have resulted in some strange freaks, curious
hieroglyphics, mysterious characters which seem to have been stamped
there like the seal of some supernatural being, written in cabalistic
letters.
I stood there a long time, detained by a foolish idea that I might find
a meaning for those ciphers. This profitless search caused me to fall
into a profound meditation, during which I forgot that time was flying.
Already the mists were gathering about the peaks of the mountains,
creeping down the sides and rapidly shutting out their outlines. Before
I had descended half way to the plateau, they reached the belt that I
was crossing and enveloped it in an impenetrable curtain. A moment later
a high wind came up and swept the mist away in a twinkling. Then it
fell; the mist settled down once more, to be once more driven away by a
terrific squall.
I sought shelter from the storm in a grotto which afforded me some
protection; but another scourge came to the assistance of the wind.
Torrents of rain swelled the streams, all of which flow from the summit
of the mountain. In an hour, everything was inundated and the sides of
the mountain, with water pouring down on every side, formed one vast
cascade which rushed madly down toward the lowlands.
After two days of most painful and dangerous travelling, I found myself,
guided by Providence, I doubt not, at the door of a house built in an
exceedingly wild locality. The simple but attractive cottage had
withstood the tempest, being sheltered by a rampart of cliffs which
leaned over it as if to act as an umbrella. A little lower, a waterfall
plunged madly down into a ravine and formed at the bottom a brimming
lake, above which, clumps of lovely trees still reared their
storm-tossed, tired heads.
I knocked vigorously; but the face that appeared in the doorway made me
recoil. Before I had opened my mouth to ask for shelter the master of
the house had welcomed me gravely and silently with a wave of his hand.
I entered and found myself alone with him, face to face with Sir Ralph
Brown.
In the year that had passed since the _Nahandove_ brought Sir Ralph and
his companion back to the colony, he had not been seen in the town three
times; and, as for Madame Delmare, her seclusion had been so absolute
that her existence was still a problematical matter to many of the
people. It was about the same time that I first landed at Bourbon, and
my present interview with Monsieur Brown was the second one I had had in
my life.
The first had left an ineradicable impression on me; it was at
Saint-Paul, on the seashore. His features and bearing had impressed me
only slightly at first; but when, through mere idle curiosity, I
questioned the colonists concerning him, their replies were so strange,
so contradictory, that I scrutinized the recluse of Bernica more
closely.
"He's a clown--a man of no education," said one; "an absolute nullity,
who has only one good quality--that of keeping his mouth shut."
"He's an extremely well educated and profound man," said another, "but
too strongly persuaded of his own superiority, contemptuous and
conceited--so much so that he considers any words wasted that he happens
to exchange with the common herd."
"He's a man who cares for nobody but himself," said a third; "a man of
inferior capacity, but not stupid; profoundly selfish and, they say,
hopelessly unsociable."
"Why, don't you know?" said a young man brought up in the colony and
thoroughly imbued with the characteristic narrow-mindedness of
provincials, "he's a knave, a villain who poisoned his friend in the
most dastardly way in order to marry his wife."
This assertion bewildered me so that I turned to another, older
colonist, whom I knew to be possessed of considerable common sense.
As my glance eagerly requested a solution of these enigmas, he answered:
"Sir Ralph was formerly an excellent man, who was not a favorite because
he was not communicative, but whom everybody esteemed. That is all I can
say about him; for, since his unfortunate experience, I have had no
relations with him."
"What experience?" I inquired.
He told me about Colonel Delmare's sudden death, his wife's flight
during the same night, and Monsieur Brown's departure and return. The
obscurity which surrounded all these circumstances had been in nowise
lessened by the investigations of the authorities; there was no evidence
that the fugitive had committed the crime. The king's attorney had
refused to prosecute; but the partiality of the magistrates for Monsieur
Brown was well known, and they had been severely criticised for not
having at least enlightened public opinion concerning an affair which
left the reputations of two persons marred by a hateful suspicion.
A fact that seemed to justify these suspicions was the furtive return of
the two accused persons and their mysterious establishment in the depths
of the ravine of Bernica. They had run away at first, so it was said, to
give the affair time to die out; but public opinion had been so cold in
France that they had been driven to return and take refuge in the
desert, to gratify their criminal attachment in peace.
But all these theories were set at naught by another fact which was
vouched for by persons who seemed better informed: Madame Delmare, I was
told, had always manifested a decided coolness, almost downright
aversion for her cousin Monsieur Brown.
I had thereupon scrutinized the hero of so many strange tales
carefully--conscientiously, if I may say so. He was sitting on a bale of
merchandise, awaiting the return of a sailor whom he had sent to make
some purchase or other for him. His eyes, blue as the sea, were gazing
pensively at the horizon, with such a placid and honest expression; all
the lines of his face were so perfectly in harmony with one another;
nerves, muscles, blood, all seemed so tranquil, so perfect, so
well-ordered in that robust and healthy individual, that I would have
sworn that all the tales were deadly insults, that he had no crime on
his conscience, that he had never had one in his mind, that his heart
and his hands were as pure as his brow.
But suddenly the baronet's distraught glance had fallen upon me, as I
was staring at him with eager and impertinent curiosity. Confused and
embarrassed as a thief caught in the act, I lowered my eyes, for Sir
Ralph's expression conveyed a stern rebuke. Since then I had often
thought of him, involuntarily; he had appeared in my dreams. I was
conscious, as I thought of him, of that vague feeling of uneasiness,
that indescribable emotion, which are like the magnetic fluid with which
an unusual destiny is encompassed.
My desire to know Sir Ralph was very real, therefore, and very keen; but
I should have preferred to watch him furtively, without being seen
myself. It seemed to me that I had wronged him. The crystalline
appearance of his eyes froze me with terror. It was so evident that he
was a man of towering superiority, either in virtue or in villainy, that
I felt very small and mean in his presence.
His hospitality was neither showy nor vulgar. He took me to his room,
lent me some clothes and clean linen; then led me to his companion, who
was awaiting us to take supper.
As I saw how young and lovely she still was--she seemed barely
eighteen--and admired her bloom, her grace, and her sweet voice, I felt
a thrill of painful emotion. I reflected that that woman was either very
guilty or very unfortunate: guilty of a detestable crime or dishonored
by a detestable accusation.
I was detained at Bernica for a week by the overflowing of the rivers,
the inundation of the plains, the rain and the wind; and then came the
sun, and it never occurred to me to leave my hosts.
Neither of them could be called brilliant. They had little wit, I should
say--perhaps indeed they had none at all; but they had that quality
which makes one's words impressive and pleasant to hear; they had
intellect of the heart. Indiana is ignorant, but not with that narrow,
vulgar ignorance which proceeds from indolence, from carelessness or
nullity of character. She is eager to learn what the engrossing
preoccupations of her life had prevented her from finding out; and then,
too, there may have been a little coquetry in the way she questioned Sir
Ralph, in order to bring into the light her friend's vast stores of
knowledge.
I found her playful, but without petulance; her manners have retained a
trace of the languor and melancholy natural to creoles, but in her they
seemed to me to have a more abiding charm; her eyes especially have an
incomparably soft expression and seem to tell the story of a life of
suffering; and when her mouth smiles, there is still a touch of
melancholy in those eyes, but the melancholy that seems to be the
contemplation of happiness or the emotion of gratitude.
One morning I said to them that at last I was going away.
"Already!" was their answer.
The accent of regret was so genuine, so touching, that I felt
encouraged. I had determined that I would not leave Sir Ralph without
asking him to tell me his story; but I felt an insurmountable timidity
because of the horrible suspicion that had been planted in my mind.