Victor Sejour.
“The Mulatto.”
1817-1874.
The first rays of dawn were barely whitening the black tops of the mountains, when I left the Cape to get to Saint-Marc, a small town of St-Domingue, now the Republic of Haiti. I had seen so much beautiful countryside, so many high and deep forests, that I truly believed myself jaded by these majestic beauties of creation. But at the sight of that town, with its picturesque vegetation, its new and bizarre nature, I was surprised and confused by the sublime diversity of God’s work. As soon as I arrived, I was accosted by an old black man, already seventy years old; his steps were firm, his head high, his stature imposing and vigorous. Nothing betrayed his age, except the remarkable whiteness of his frizzy hair. According to the custom of the country, he was wearing a large straw hat, and dressed in wide gray linen pants and a kind of camisole of ecru batiste.
— Good day, Master, he said, raising his hat.
— Ah! There you are… and I held out my hand, which he pressed gratefully.
— Master, he says, what you are doing there is with a noble heart… but don’t you know a negro is as vile as a dog?… society rejects him; men hate him; the law curses him… Ah! He is a very unfortunate being, who does not even have the consolation of always being virtuous… if he is born noble, generous, if God gives him a large and loyal soul, even so, often he descends into the grave with hands stained with blood, and his heart still eager for revenge. For more than once he saw his youthful dreams destroyed, because experience has taught him that his good deeds were not counted, and that he should not love his wife or his son, for one day the first will be seduced by the master, and his blood sold off despite his despair. So what do you want him to become?… will he break his head against the pavement of the street?… Will he kill his tormentor?… Or do you believe that the human heart can be shaped to such misfortunes?…
The old negro paused as if waiting for my answer.
He’s a fool who thinks so, he continued warmly. If he lives, it’s for revenge, for soon he rises… and from the day he shakes his off servility, it would be better for the master to hear the hungry tiger growling at his side, than to meet him face to face… While the old man spoke, his brow lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his heart beat violently. I did not expect to find so much energy inside such an old envelope. Taking advantage of this sort of exaltation:
— Antoine, I said, you promised me the story of your friend Georges.
— Will you listen to me at this hour?
— Willingly… We sat down, him on my travel trunk, and me on my valise. Here’s what he told me:
«Do you see this building which rises so gracefully toward the sky, which seems to be reflected in the sea, this building that resembles, in its originality, a temple, and by its coquettishness, some palace? It is the Saint-M*** house. In one room of the building, meet every day the walkers, pensioners, and large planters. The first two play pool, or smoke a delicious Havana cigar, while the latter buy negroes, that is to say free men, torn by cunning or by force from their homeland, and became, by violence, the property, the property of their kind… Here, the husband is delivered without the wife, there, the sister without brother, later, the mother without children. You shudder? Yet these infamous sales infamous occur at all hours. But soon a young Senegalese woman is offered there, so beautiful that the same exclamation escape from every mouth…
«How pretty she is!» Everyone wants to make her their mistress, but no one dares to fight against the young Alfred, one of the richest planters of this country, then twenty-two years.
— How much do you ask this woman?
— Fifteen hundred piastres, said the seller.
— Fifteen hundred piastres, Alfred repeated mechanically.
— Yes, sir.
— exactly?
— exactly.
— It’s horribly expensive.
— Cher… replied the seller a sign of astonishment, but don’t you see how pretty she is, how shiny her skin is, how firm her flesh is? She has eighteen years at the most… While speaking, he ran his immodest hands over the powerful, half-naked forms of the beautiful African women.
— Is she guaranteed? said Alfred, after a moment’s reflection.
— As pure as the dew of heaven, said the salesman, but the rest, you can make her…
— No, no… there’s no need, said Alfred, interrupting him, I have confidence in you.
— I’ve never sold bad goods, replied the seller, raising his whiskers with a triumphant air. When the deed was signed and all formalities completed, the seller approached the young slave:
— This man is your master now, he said, pointing to Alfred.
— I know, replied the negress coldly.
— Are you satisfied with him?
— What does it matter to me?… him, or another…
— But still — the vendor stammered, looking for an answer.
— But still what? said the African angrily, and what if he does not suit me?
— Well, it would be a misfortune, for it is all over…
— So I keep my thoughts to myself.
Ten minutes later, Alfred’s new slave got into a cart that took the wasps’ trail, a fairly convenient road that leads to the delightful countryside, clustered around Saint-Marc as young virgins at the foot of the altar. A deep melancholy enveloped her soul; she was crying. The driver understood too well what was passing within her to try to distract her, but when he saw the white house of Alfred emerge in the distance, he leaned toward the poor unfortunate woman, and with a voice full of tears, he said,
— Sister, what’s your name?
— Laïsa, she replied without looking up.
— At this name, the driver shuddered, but mastering his emotion, he continued:
— Your mother?
— She is dead…
— Your father?
— He died…
— Poor child, he murmured…
— What country are you from, Laïsa?
— From Senegal…
Tears came to his eyes; he had just met a fellow countryman.
— Sister, he said, wiping his eyes, you probably know old Chambo and his daughter…
— Why? answered the girl, raising her head quickly
— Why, the driver went on anxiously, old Chambo is my father, and…
— My God, cried the orphan, without giving him time to finish, are you?…
— Jacques Chambo.
— My brother!
— Laïsa!…
They threw themselves into each other’s arms. They were still entwined, when the cart entered the main part of Alfred’s house. The manager was there… What do I see? cried he, unrolling an immense whip, which he always wore hanging from his belt… Jacques kissing the newcomer before my eyes?… what impertinence!… With that, the lash fell on the unfortunate, and rivers of blood gushed from his face.
II.
Alfred may have been good, humane, loyal to his equals, but he certainly was a hard man, wicked to his slaves. I will not tell you all that he did have to Laïsa, for she was almost raped. For almost a year, she shared the bed of her master, but Alfred was already beginning to get tired of her; he found her offensive, cold, insolent. About this time, the poor woman gave birth to a son whom she named Georges. Alfred neglected him, chased the mother from his presence, and relegated him in the worst cabin of his habitation, though convinced, as far as he could be, that he was the father of the child.
Georges grew up without ever hearing his father’s name, and if he sometimes tried to solve the mystery that surrounded his birth, he found his mother and inflexible and mute to his questions. Only once she said:
— My son, you will not know his name until your twenty-fifth year, for then you will be a man. You will be more able to keep such a secret. Don’t you know that he has forbidden me to tell you about him, on pain of him hating you?… and you know, Georges… the hatred of this man is death.
— What’s it matter? Georges cried out impetuously, at least I could reproach him for his infamous conduct…
— Shut up… shut up, Georges… the walls have ears, and brush can speak, whispered the poor mother, trembling…
Some years later, this unfortunate woman died, leaving as her only inheritance for Georges, her only son, a small buckskin pouch, in which was the portrait of his father, but with the sole promise not to open it until his twenty-fifth year. Then she kissed him, and her head fell back on the pillow. She was dead… The cry of pain that the orphan uttered attracted the other slaves… They began to cry, beating their chests, tearing their hair in despair. After their first signs of sorrow, they washed the body of the deceased, and laid it on a kind of long table supported by trestles. The dead woman was lying on her back, her face turned toward the East, dressed in her best clothes, and her hands crossed on her chest. At her feet, a small cup full of holy water on which floats a branch of jasmine. Finally, around the four corners of the death bed, torches are raised.… Everyone, after blessing the remains of the deceased, kneels and prays because most Negro races, despite their religious fetishism, deeply believe in the existence of God. This first ceremony completed, another begins… no less remarkable are the cries, tears, songs, and funeral dances!…
III.
Georges had all the necessary temperament to become a very honest man, but he had one of those haughty and stubborn wills, one of those oriental temperaments, which, pushed away from the path of virtue, was not afraid to walk the road of crime. He would have given ten years of his life for the name of his father, but he dared not violate the solemn promise made to his dying mother. As if nature led him to Alfred, he loved him as much as one can love a man: while the latter esteemed him, but with that esteem which a squire has for the most beautiful and vigorous of his steeds. At that time, a horde of brigands brought desolation to these places; already more than one colonist had been their victim. One night, I do not know by what chance, Georges was informed of their project. They had sworn to kill Alfred. Immediately the slave ran to his master.
— Master, master, cried he… For heaven’s sake, follow me.
Alfred frowned.
— Oh! come, come, master, the mulatto continued intensely.
— By Heaven, said Alfred, I think you’re commanding me!
— Sorry, Master… sorry… I’m so confused… I do not know what I’m saying… but, Heaven’s sake, come, follow me… because…
— Explain yourself! said Alfred, in a tone of anger…
The mulatto hesitated.
— I want it, I order it, ’said Alfred, raising his voice menacingly.
— Master, you are to be killed tonight.
— Holy Virgin, you lie…
— Master, they want to your life.
— Who?
— Bandits.
— Who told you?
— Master, it’s my secret… said the mulatto in a submissive voice.
— Are you armed? said Alfred, after a moment of silence.
The mulatto pushed some rags which covered him, revealing an axe and a pair of pistols.
— Well done, says Alfred, hastily arming himself.
— Master, are you ready?
— Let’s go!…
— Let’s go, repeated the mulatto, stepping to the door…
Alfred caught him by the arm.
— But where are we going?
— To your closest friend, Mr. Arthur.
They went out when the door creaked on its hinges.
— Hell, murmured the mulatto, it’s too late…
— What are you saying?
— They are there, Georges said, pointing to the door…
— Oh…
— Master, what do you have?
— Nothing… an illness…
— Don’t worry, master, before getting you, they will have to walk over my body, says the slave with a calm and resigned air.
This calm air, this noble devotion were likely to reassure the most cowardly mortal. However, at these words, Alfred trembled more, for a horrible idea overwhelmed him; he imagined that the generous Georges was the accomplice of his killers. Such are tyrants; they believe the rest of men incapable of a lofty sentiment, a boundless devotion, for their souls are narrow and treacherous… It’s a wasteland, where only grow bramble and ivy. The door shook violently… This time, Alfred could not control his cowardice, he had just seen the mulatto smile; was it of joy or anger? He did not ask himself this question.
— Wretch, cried he, rushing into the next room, you wanted to assassinate me, but your wait will be foiled, and he disappeared… Georges bit his lips with rage, but he had no time to think, as the door opened suddenly, and four men stood on the threshold. Quick as the lightning, the mulatto cocked his pistols, and leans himself against the wall, shouting in a stentorian voice:
— Wretches! What do you want?
— We want to talk to you face to face, said one of them, shooting Georges at close range.
— Good shot, he whispered convulsively.
The bullet had shattered his left arm. He fired. The robber turned three times on himself and fell dead. A second followed closely. Then, like a raging lion harassed by hunters, Georges, axe in hand and a dagger between his teeth, ran over to his opponents… A terrible struggle began… The combatants pressed forward… collided… intertwined… The axe gleamed… the blood flowed… the dagger, true to the hand that pushed it, plunged into the enemy’s chest… but not a cry… not a word… not a breath escaped the mouths of the men as they rushed between the bodies as if in the midst of an intoxicating orgy… To see them as well, pale and bloody, dumb and desperate, one imagined three ghosts clashing and tearing each other to pieces at the bottom of a tomb… Meanwhile Georges was covered with wounds; he could barely hold himself up… Oh! it is the end of the intrepid mulatto as a sharp axe rises over his head… Suddenly two shots are heard, and the two brigands fall, blaspheming God. Meanwhile, Alfred returned, followed by a young negro. He had the wounded Georges carried to his cabin, and ordered him to bring the doctor. Meanwhile, see how Georges was saved by the same man who accused him of treason! Alfred hears the sound of a firearm nearby, and the clinking of iron; blushing at his cowardice, he awakens his valet, and flies to the rescue of his liberator. —
I forgot to tell you that Georges had a wife named Zélie, whom he loved with all the power of his soul; she was a mulatto girl of eighteen to twenty years, with a rounded waist, black hair, and a look full of love and voluptuousness. Georges remained twelve days between life and death. Alfred went to see him often, prompted by some fatality; he fell in love with Zélie, but unfortunately for him, she was not one of those women who sell their love, or pay homage to their master. She rejected Alfred’s proposals with humble dignity; for she did not forget that it was the master who spoke to the slave. — Instead of being touched by that virtue so rare among women, especially among those who, like Zélie, are slaves, and who see their lewd companions each day as prostitutes to the colonists, and fuel their licentiousness. Instead of being touched, I say, Alfred got angry… What? He, the despot, the Bey, the Sultan of the Antilles, scorned by a slave?… What irony!… So he swore to possess her… A few days before Georges’ recovery, Alfred sent for Zélie to come to his room. So, listening only to his criminal desires, he grabs her arms, and plants on a hot kiss her cheek. The young slave prayed, begged, resisted, but in vain… He was already dragging her to his adulterous bed;… Then, the virtuous slave, full of noble indignation, pushed him back with a last effort, but so suddenly, but so powerfully, that Alfred lost balance and smashed his head falling. At this sight, Zélie tore her hair in despair, and wept with rage, because she understood, the poor woman, that death awaited her for shedding the blood of such a vile creature. When she had wept well, she went to her husband. — He was probably dreaming of her, for he had a smile on his lips.
— Georges… Georges… she cried in anguish.
The mulatto opened his eyes; the first need he felt was to smile at his beloved. Zélie told him what just happened. He would not believe it, but soon he was convinced of his misfortune, for the men entered her hut and pinioned his crying wife… Georges made an effort to get up, but still too weak, he fell back onto the bed, his eyes haggard, his hands clenched, his mouth gasping.
IV.
Ten days later two small white Creoles were playing in the middle of the street.
— Charles, said one of them, it is said that the mulatto woman who wanted to kill her master will be hanged tomorrow?
— At eight o’clock, replied the other.
— Will you go?
— No doubt.
— It will be nice to see her pirouetting between heaven and earth resumed the first, and they walked away laughing.
Are you surprised to hear two ten year olds talk so merrily in the death of others? It is perhaps a fatal consequence of their education. From their infancy they are told that we are born to serve them, created for their whims, and they should consider us nothing more than a dog… Now, what do they care about our agony and sufferings? Don’t they often see their best horses die? They don’t mourn, because they are rich; tomorrow they will buy others… While these two children spoke, Georges was on his knees before his master.
— Master, mercy!… mercy!… cried he, weeping… Have mercy on her, master! Save her… Oh! so save her, because you can… oh!… you only have to speak one word… one… and she will live. Alfred did not answer.
— Oh! For pity’s sake… master… for pity’s sake tell me that you forgive her… Oh! Speak… answer me, Master… Don’t you forgive her? And the unfortunate man writhed in pain…
Alfred, still impassive, turned his head away…
— Oh! Georges continued, begging, answer me… just one word… but answer… Don’t you see that your silence is torturing my heart?… killing me…
— I can not do anything about it, Alfred finally answered in an icy tone.
The mulatto dried his tears, and rose to his full height.
— Master, he continued in a hollow voice, do you remember what you told me when I was writhing in agony on my bed?
— No…
— Well I remember!… The master said to the slave, you saved my life, what do you want for a reward? Do you want your freedom…? Master, the slave replied, I cannot be free, when my son and my wife are slaves. Then the master said: if you ever pray to me, I swear that your wishes will come true, and asked the slave, for he was happy to have saved the life of his master… but now he knows that in eighteen hours his wife will no longer be alive; he runs to jump to your feet, and cries, Master, in the name of God, save my wife. And the mulatto, hands clasped, pleading look, went back to his knees and wept floods of tears…
— Alfred turned his head away.
— Master!… Master!… For pity’s sake answer me… Oh! Say you want her to live… in the name of God’s…of your mother… mercy… and the mulatto kissed the dust of his feet.
Alfred remained silent.
— But at least speak to this poor man who is begging you, he sobbed.
Alfred did not answer.
— My God… my God! How unhappy I am… and he rolled on the floor, and tore his hair in despair.
Alfred finally decided to speak:
— I’ve already said it is no longer for me to forgive.
— Master murmured Georges still weeping, she will probably be convicted, because you and I alone know that she is innocent.
At this last word of the mulatto, red rose to the face of Alfred and anger rose in his heart…
Georges realized that it was no longer time to pray, for he had lifted the veil that concealed the crime of his master; now, he rose with a resolute air.
— Get out!… Go away! Alfred shouted at him.
Instead of leaving, the mulatto crossed his arms across his chest; with a fierce look, he looked his master’s up and down.
— Go away!… Go away, I tell you, said Alfred his anger growing.
— I will not leave, said Georges:
— You’re defying me, you wretch! He made a move to strike him, but his hand remained glued to his thigh, as there was pride and hatred in the eyes of Georges.
— What! You can let her be killed, slaughtrered, murdered? said the mulatto, When you know she’s innocent?… when you cowardly tried to seduce her?
— Insolent, what do you say?
— I say it would be a shame to let her die…
— Georges… Georges…
— I say you’re a scoundrel! yelled Georges, giving vent to his anger, and seizing Alfred by the arm. Ah! she will die!… She will die because she did not prostitute herself to you… To you because you are white… To you because you are her master… Infamous seducer!
— Georges, beware, said Alfred, trying to take a confident tone. Beware that instead of one victim tomorrow, the executioner finds two.
— You talk of victim and executioner, you wretch, yelled Georges… This means that she will die…… my Zélie… but you do not know that your life is tied to hers.
— Georges!
— But don’t you know your head will stay on your shoulders only as long as she lives?
— Georges… Georges!
— But don’t you know that I will kill you?… That I will drink your blood if they ever touch a hair of her head?
And all the while the mulatto shook Alfred with all the strength of his arms.
— Let me go, cried Alfred.
— Ah! she dies… she dies, the delirious mulatto shouted.
— Georges, let me go!
— Shut up… shut up, you wretch… ah! she will die… well, let the executioner touch my wife’s life… he continued with a ghastly smile.
Alfred was so upset, he did not see Georges go out. The latter immediately went to his cabin, where, in a light cradle made of liana wood, a two-year-old toddler was sleeping; he took him and disappeared. To understand what follows, know that from Alfred’s house one had only to cross a small river to find oneself in the middle of a thick forest; which seem to cover the new world.
For six solid hours Georges walked without rest, finally stopping a few steps from a hut built in the thick of the forest. You will understand the kind of joy that shone in his eyes when you know that this tiny shack, all alone, was the camp of runaway slaves, in other words, slaves fleeing the tyranny of their masters. Right now the whole cabin was in an uproar; they had just heard the forest tremble, and the chief had sworn that the noise wasn’t caused by any animal, so he armed his rifle and went out… Suddenly the bushes shook before him, and he found himself face to face with a stranger.
— By my Liberté! cried he, aiming at the stranger; you know our hideout too well.
—Africa and Liberty! said Georges without moving, but pushing the gun barrel aside… I am one of you.
— Your name.
— Georges, slave of Alfred.
They shook hands and embraced.
The next day the crowd gathered around a gallows, on which hung the body of a young mulatto woman… When she was quite dead, the executioner put her body in a coffin of pine, and ten minutes after, they threw the body and coffin into a grave dug at the entrance to the forest.
So this woman died for being too virtuous, executed by this vicious man? Don’t you think that fact alone is enough to make the sweetest man ferocious and bloodthirsty?
V.
Three years had passed since the death of the virtuous Zélie. In the early days, Alfred was very troubled, by day he expected at any time to see an avenging hand descending on his brow, he trembled at night because it brought him fearful and terrible dreams, but soon chasing from his soul both the painful memory of the martyr and the terrible threat from Georges, he married, became a father… Oh! he was happy when he was told that his wishes were fulfilled; each night, he humbly kissed the floor of the temple, praying to the Holy Virgin to give him a son.
The entrance of this child in the world brought Georges his share of happiness as well; for he had endured three years of hope, refraining from striking the man who tormented his wife. If he had spent so many sleepless nights, with fury in his heart, or his hand on his dagger; it was because he was waiting for Alfred to have, like him, a wife and a son; it was because he only wanted to kill him at the moment when dear and precious bonds would hold him to this world… Georges had always maintained close relations with one of Alfred’s slaves; he even went to see him every week. Now, this slave was most eager to announce the existence of the newborn to him. Immediately, he flew towards Alfred’s dwelling, met a negress on his way who was carrying a cup of broth to Madame Alfred; he stopped her, said a few insignificant words to her, and moved away… After many difficulties, he managed to slip like a snake into Alfred's bedroom… there, hidden behind the bed alcove, he waited for his master… Alfred came back a moment later, singing, he opened his secretary, took a superb green diamond that he had promised his wife if she gave him a son, but overflowing with joy and happiness, he sat down, head in hands, like a man who can not believe in unexpected good fortune, but when he raised his head, he saw before him a kind of motionless, arms folded across his chest, and two burning eyes that had all the ferocity of the tiger about to tear its prey. Alfred made a movement to stand up, but a strong hand held him in his chair.
— What do you want? Alfred emphasized in a trembling voice.
— To congratulate you on the birth of your son, replied a voice which seemed to come from the grave.
Alfred shivered head to toe, his hair stood on end, and a cold sweat broke out over his limbs.
— I do not know you, Alfred murmured weakly…
— My name is Georges.
— YOU!!…
— You thought I was dead didn’t you? said the mulatto, with a convulsive laugh.
— Help! help! cried Alfred…
— Who will rescue you? replied the mulatto… Haven’t you returned to your home, closed all your doors, to be alone with your wife?… You know so that your screams are useless… now, recommend your soul to God.
Alfred had gradually risen from his chair, but at this last word, he fell back into it, pale and trembling.
— Oh! Have pity, Georges… do not kill me today.
Georges shrugged his shoulders. — Master, isn’t it horrible to die when you’re happy; to lie down in your grave when you see your fondest dreams come true?… Oh! Isn’t it dreadful, said the mulatto, with an infernal laugh…
— Mercy, Georges!…
— However, he continued, such is your destiny… you will die today, at this hour, in a minute, without saying a last farewell to your wife…
— Pity… pity…
— Without embracing your newborn son a second time…
— Oh! Mercy! Mercy!….
— I think my revenge worthy of your crime… I would have sold my soul to Satan if he promised me this moment.
— Oh!… Mercy! Pity! said Alfred, throwing himself at the feet of mulatto.
Georges shrugged his shoulders and raised his ax.
— Oh… another hour of life!
— To hug your wife, no?
— One minute…
— To see your son, no?
— Oh!… For pity!
— It would be better to pray to the hungry tiger to let go its prey.
— In the name of God, Georges.
— I no longer believe.
— In the name of your father…
At that word, Georges’ wrath fell away. — My father!… my father! said the mulatto, a tear in his eye, you know… oh! tell me his name… what name is it… oh! say, tell me his name… I will bless you… I’ll forgive you.
And the mulatto was ready to kneel before his master. But suddenly shrill cries are heard…
— Good heavens… That’s my wife’s voice! cried Alfred, rushing towards the direction from which the screams were coming…
As if reminded of himself, the mulatto remembered that he had come to his master, not to know the name of his father, but has to ask his wife’s blood. Immediately detaining Alfred, he said with a horrible sneer,
— Stop, Master, it is nothing.
— Jesus and Mary, don’t you hear she calls for help?
— It is nothing, I tell you.
— Let me go… let me go… it’s the voice of my wife.
— No… it’s the death rattle of a dying woman.
— Wretch, you lie!
— I poisoned.
— Oh!…
— Do you hear these cries?… they are hers.
—Hell…
— Do you hear the cries?… they are hers.
— Damn it…
And all this time, Alfred had struggled to escape from the mulatto’s hands; but the latter held him tighter and tighter; for the mulatto’s own head was growing wild with excitement, his heart was pounding, and he was rising to his terrible rôle.
— Alfred… help… water… I ’m choking! cried a woman, rushing into the middle of the room. She was pale and dishevelled, her eyes bulging, her hair in disarray.
— Alfred, Alfred… for heaven’s sake, help me… a little water… a little water… my blood burns me… My heart’s in a vice, oh! water, water…
Alfred was making desperate efforts to save her, but Georges held him back with his iron grip, and cackling like a demon, he cried out to him: no, master… no… I want this woman to die… there… before your eyes… right in front of you… do you understand, master? right in front of you, begging for water, for air, without you being able to help her.
— O woe… woe to you, screaming Alfred, struggling like a madman.
— You can curse and blaspheme all you want, replied the mulatto, it has to be this way…
— Alfred, the dying woman murmured again, farewell… farewell… I die…
— Look, repeated the mulatto with a sneer… Look… she’s alive! Oh, good! But a single drop of this water would bring her back to life. He showed him a small vial.
— My whole fortune for this drop of water… cried Alfred.
— Are you crazy, Master?…
— Ah! the water… the water… don’t you see she is dying?… Give… Give therefore…
— Here… and the mulatto broke the bottle against the wall.
— Be cursed, howled Alfred, seizing Georges by the neck… oh! my life is yours, my blood is for your a dagger…
Georges freed himself from Alfred’s hands.
Strike, executioner… strike… after poisoning her, you might as well kill your fa-… The axe fell, and Alfred’s head rolled onto the floor, but as it rolled, the head distinctly murmured the last syllable «-ther…» Georges thought he had misheard, but the word «father» tolled in his ears like a funeral bell; now, to make sure, he opened the buckskin pouch; Ah! Ah! he cried; I am cursed… A shot rang out; and the next day, beside Alfred’s corpse, the body of the unfortunate Georges was found.
Victor Séjour
Text prepared by:
- Bruce R. Magee
Source
Séjour, Victor. “Le Mulâtre.” Trans. Bruce R. Magee. Revue des Colonies: Recueil Mensuel de la Politique, de l’Administration, de la Justice, de l’Instruction et des Mœurs Coloniales, 3 (1837): pp. 376-392. Gallica, https:// gallica. bnf.fr/ ark:/ 12148/ bpt6k5458256w/ f24.