to care for
any one else: officials, sailors, soldiers, destitute planters seemed
all to be in a state of detachment, all kindly human ties of man to man
broken. In fact, for a year the island had been so gorged with tragedy
that it no longer caused remark.

De Courval followed the men and women, presuming that they were going to
a cafe. If he learned nothing there, he would go back to the ship.

Pushing carelessly by a group of refugees on the outside of the
"Cocoanut," the party went in, and one, an official, as he seemed to be,
sat down at a table with the woman. De Courval, following, took the
nearest table, while the other companion of the woman went to the
counter to give an order. The woman sat still, humming a coarse Creole
love-song, and the vicomte looked about him. The room was dimly lighted,
and quite half of it was occupied by the same kind of unhappy people who
lay about on the streets, and may have paid for leave to sit in the
cafe. The unrestrained, noisy grief of these well-dressed women amazed
the young man, used to the courage and self-control of the women of his
own class. The few tables near by were occupied by small parties of
officers, in no way interested in the wretchedness about them. A servant
came to De Courval. What would he have? Fried fish there was, and baked
yams, but no other dish. He asked for wine, paid for it, and began to be
of a sudden curious about the party almost within touch. The woman was a
handsome quadroon. Pinned in her high masses of black hair were a dozen
of the large fireflies of the tropics, a common ornament of a certain
class of women. From moment to moment their flashing lanterns strangely
illuminated her hair and face. As he watched her in wonder, the man who
had gone to the counter came back and sat down, facing the crowd.

"Those _sacres enfants_," he said, "they should be turned out; one can
hardly hear a word for the bawling. I shall be glad to leave--"

"When do you go, Commissioner?" said the woman.

"In a day or two. I am to return to France as soon as possible and make
our report."

De Courval was startled by the voice, and stared at the speaker. The
face was no longer clean-shaven, and now wore the mustache, a recent
Jacobin fashion. The high-arched eyebrows of the man of the Midi, the
sharp voice, decided him. It was Carteaux. For a moment Rene had the
slight vertigo of a man to whose intense passion is forbidden the relief
of physical action. The