# In the Shadow/Chapter 13

PART II
HAYTI

### CHAPTER XIII
#### MADAM FOUCHÈRE

THREE days later Dessalines sailed by the French line for New York. As he went aboard the steamer, followed by Jules, a rich voice accosted him in French and the conversation proceeded in that tongue.
"Holà, mon camarade! Aristide, mon brave! Oh, but I am charmed!" Dessalines turned quickly.
"Ah, mon cher docteur, it is really you! To my arms, comrade."
A tall man, tall as Dessalines, equally black but less massive in build, of a magnificent figure, rushed quickly toward him, clasped him in his arms, and kissed him on the lips.
"And we are to be companions on the voyage, my dear Fouchère?" cried Dessalines.
"Yes, my dear fellow; madam and I are returning early on account of the political situation." He glanced quickly at Dessalines. "You have heard the news?"
"Of the abdication? Yes, I received a cablegram, but that is all that I know; merely that the President has abdicated. Have you any further news?"
"But little; I learned further that President Sam has left the island, sailing on the steamship Olinde Rodriguez of the Campagnie Générale Transatlantique. The cable reached me but two days ago; hence, the im​mediate return of madam and myself. I feel that there will be much confusion in Hayti, and it is impossible to be at ease if one holds real estate. You know I own shops in Port au Prince, in Gonaīves; also, coffee plantations near Aux Cayes and cacao at Petit Goāves. It is most difficult to predict what will be the fate of our poor country." He glanced narrowly at Dessalines.
Dessalines, although emotional, was not without his full share of animal cunning. At sight of Dr. Fouchère, whom he knew for a clever man and suspected of being an intrigeur in Haytian affairs, his first instinct had been that of caution. His reason told him that Fouchère would guess the cause of his return in part, consequently he had promptly admitted his knowledge of the abdication.
"You are wise," said Dessalines. "I, too, have certain business interests to protect, hence my return. But tell me, my dear Tancrède, have you any knowledge of the political situation? Myself, I have been so deep in my law studies that I have quite lost sight of Haytian affairs."
Again Fouchère glanced at him swiftly, but with more confidence. He underrated the cunning of Dessalines.
"I know but little myself," said Fouchère. "In Paris I met Anthénor Firmin, ministre plénipotentiaire; he is a man of great intelligence, and it is my impression that Simon Sam sent him to Paris because he felt him to be a menace to the government. I think that he is ambitious and will enter the lists. Then there is S. M. Pierre, a very honest man and very sensible, if not particularly brilliant. He is from the south, from ​Anse-à-Veau. I think that he may be a candidate and he will have the support of the people; he has no white blood."
Fouchère, unlike Dessalines, was a marabout, pure negro but of a royal strain of African blood; a strain from which chiefs were chosen. Marabouts are famed for their physical beauty and preservation into advanced age. He continued, talking rapidly in beautiful Parisian French. "Then there is Calisthéne Fouchard, a mulatto but of good disposition, liberal toward progress and the white races; he is from Jeremie."
Fouchère rattled on volubly, and Dessalines, leaning on the rail, listened with interest if not entirely with belief. Personally he was fond of Fouchère; they had been acquainted from boyhood. Like Dessalines, Fouchere was a native Haytian of pure African blood, and like Dessalines he was the offspring, by placage, of a former president of Hayti. As a boy he had been sent from Hayti, and he and Dessalines had been companions in Paris, where Fouchère was at this time well known and received by many good Parisian families. Fouchere was a man of striking physical beauty—straight, tall, broad of shoulder, small of, waist, with fine, regular features and a skin like black satin. He was a Hermes carved in coal. His hair was almost straight. He was lacking in Dessalines' gorillalike strength, and also lacking in his clean and honest principles, but he was a man of higher polish and more active imagination.
Dessalines listened with pleasure to Fouchère's rapid flow of excellent French; interested, regardless of the curious stares of their white fellow passengers.
"You were in Hayti last October, were you not, Tancrède?" he asked presently.
​"Yes; it is necessary for me to return twice in the year, or I should never leave our dear Paris. Between ourselves, Aristide, Hayti is a frightful country; the people are animals."
"It is not their fault. What do you think will be the outcome now that Sam has abdicated?"
"It is impossible to say; there are the men whom I have mentioned, all ambitious; there is also Nord Alexis at Cape Haitien, a subtle man; and then there is that white devil, Admiral Killik, now in command of the Crête-à-Pierrot. It is impossible to say, there are so many cats in the bag. But come, dear friend, do not let us vex ourselves about these things which we cannot help; let us go to the smoking room and have a cigarette and a cognac."
"And how is the health of madam?" asked Dessalines, as he followed his friend. "You know that I have never had the honor of meeting her."
"Ah, that is true! Madam will be delighted. At present she is resting, being quite worn out by the gayeties of our last week in Paris. Like myself I that she will welcome the quiet of Hayti." think
"Will you stop over in New York?" inquired Dessalines.
"No. It is necessary for me to return as quickly as possible, and between ourselves, comrade, I abominate New York … nor do they love us there! If we are on time we can the following day take the Prinz Wilhelm Fourth for Hayti. Will you not come with us?"
Dessalines pondered. "No; I regret that I must wait over one steamer. I have affairs in New York."
Again Fouchère glanced at him quickly. "It is a ​detestable place, New York, the United States! Bah! These Americans …!" He pushed the electric bell. "I loathe that country and its people; they are mad … they all have hysterics! They spent millions of dollars and thousands of lives to liberate their slaves and then sit down and wonder what they are to do with them next! The South fears her former slaves; the North spends money to educate them. They talk of their possibilities, their immortal souls, their rights! Diable! The drollery of talking of the possibilities, the souls, the rights of ten millions of mongrel, half-breed peasants! They take great trouble over this question in the United States of America. They debate it, have conferences over it, write about it, and my dear Aristide, there are many men in the United States to-day who pose as expounders of the policy to be pursued with their negro population whose only knowledge of the negro is of the American peasant, in most cases half white; who have actually never seen our race in any other country or under any other conditions! And while they are theorizing and preaching and declaiming, and varying this with occasional burning of some maniac, there is a constant breeding of mulattoes and thinning of blacks! It is to laugh—ha, ha, ha!"
Dessalines did not laugh; wit could not stir his crude sense of humor. It must be a clownish thing, less subtle than wit, which stirred his risibilities. The humor of Fouchère was that of a Frenchman, whereas Dessalines' was purely negroid. If the waiter, who at that moment responded to the bell, had thrust his head through the door and made a grimace Dessalines would have laughed.
"And what have you been doing to amuse yourself?" ​continued Dr. Fouchère. "How you can enjoy England is more than I can understand. Garçon! What will you have, Aristide, cognac? Si! Garçon, cognac and absinth frappé … and some Turkish cigarettes."
"I went to England to study," said Dessalines, "and I have been working."
Fouchère shrugged. "It sounds most fatiguing. But do you not miss the gayeties, the life, the ladies?"
Dessalines frowned. "My dear Tancrède I was never a gay fellow like yourself; but since I have been in England I have been led to the Light." Expressions which would have been cant to an Englishman were deeply impressive to the primitive nature of Dessalines. "Personally I prefer the English régime; decency, morality, religion, are the strongest buttresses of state. Before all else I am a Haytian, and I have seen too fully how the curse of our country has always been the pursuit of pleasure on the part of those in positions to indulge themselves." His voice gained weight as he began to forget himself in his words. "Hayti is a youthful republic … and an opéra bouffe. It is my ambition—" he glanced furtively at Fouchère who was watching him intently, "to make …. to set a different example," he ended sulkily.
Fouchère gave him a quick look and began to talk of other things. Dessalines listened, interested, diverted, presently amused. In answer to the inquiries of his friend he narrated his own doings of the past few weeks, dilating with negro vanity upon his intimacy with the Maltbys.
"Ah, there was a charming fellow there, an acquaintance of yours, my dear Tancrède—a naturalist."
​"It was not my friend Dr. Leyden!" cried Fouchère.
"But, yes; a delightful fellow."
"I knew him well!" cried Fouchère. "He is as you say a delightful fellow; I once had the pleasure of entertaining him at my villa at La Coupe." For some time they talked of Leyden and then Fouchère arose.
"It is time to dress for dinner," said he. "Madam will probably not appear this evening, but I will see you at dinner, my dear Aristide," and with a bow to his friend he left the smoking room.
Dessalines went below to find himself duly installed in his stateroom by Jules. As it was growing late he dressed for dinner. Madarn Fouchère did not appear and he spent the evening with his friend. The pair excited much interest among their fellow passengers.
When he awoke the following morning the sea was smooth as a lake. He rang for Jules who appeared with coffee and rolls.
"Good morning, Jules," said Dessalines lazily. He had rested ill, for the size of the bunk was ridiculously inadequate to contain his enormous frame.
"Merci, Monsieur le Comte," replied Jules, with a birdlike bob of the head. "I hope that you have rested well, but fear that this absurd bed has been too cramped for the comfort of one of the magnificent proportions of Monsieur le Comte."
"Peste!" growled Dessalines, "one might as well try to sleep in a hat box. What is the weather, Jules?"
"Delightful … and the sea like the floor of a dance hall."
"And the temperature?"
"It is mild as a day in the spring."
​"Very well!" Dessalines threw out one great arm and yawned. Jules gazed fascinated at the gaping jaws set with their huge, strong, gleaming teeth. Jules had been three years in the service of the Haytian and had not yet reached the limit of his awed admiration for his master.
"You will lay out the light-gray Oxford, Jules, and one of the heliotrope negligee shirts. I will also wear the steamer shoes and the gray gaiters. But first shave me, Jules."
Dessalines was scrupulously tidy; also, he loved stylish clothes. His toilet completed he strolled on deck where he found Dr. Fouchère directing a steward who was arranging a steamer chair.
"Oh, good morning, comrade!" cried Fouchère. Then to the steward: "Diable! would you have the face of madam in the sun? Now fetch another pillow. Là, you have drawn the rug too low! The shoulders of madam will be exposed to the draught——"
"I trust that Madam Fouchère has quite recovered from her indisposition," said Dessalines.
"Thank you, dear Aristide, she is feeling almost herself again. I go now to bring her up. That will do," he said to the steward, and excusing himself to his friend, went below.
Dessalines waited in some curiosity. He had heard tales of the beauty of Madam Fouchère. He recollected that his friend had married in Paris several years previously; that his wife was of Haytian parentage, but born and educated in France; also, it seemed to him that he had heard it said that she was almost white.
Pleased at this prospective diversion for the voyage ​he waited for several minutes, but Fouchère did not come. Dessalines stepped into the smoking room to permit himself the gratification of another view of his costume which he was wearing that day for the first time and the taste of which had thrown Jules into ecstasies. As usual, such people as were near by had not eyes enough to sufficiently regard him, but to this scrutiny Dessalines was accustomed; would, in fact, have missed it had it been lacking.
The tailor who had cut the clothes had realized his opportunity; the coat, of fine, light-gray Oxford, hung without fold or wrinkle, brought out the sweeping curves of chest and back, minimized the abnormal size of the shoulders, called attention to the swelling contour of the torso, and accentuated the smallness of waist. The trousers cunningly disguised the slight outward arch of the legs and relative smallness of the calves; the light gaiters gave form and finish to the large expanse of shoe leather; a neat golf cap of the same material as the suit rested becomingly upon his massive head. His neck-tie was of a dark shade of green, in perfect harmony with the tint of his silk negligee shirt. Altogether he was the acme of taste, striking, remarkable, anomalous, yet in accord.
He surveyed his reflection for a minute of most profound satisfaction, a satisfaction which contained an almost exuberant delight at the perfection of his costume. People watching him did not smile; they wondered. Several French women whom he passed on the deck were unable to take their eyes from him as he passed them on his way to the chair prepared for Madam Fouchère. As he drew near he saw that the chair was ​occupied by a white woman of striking beauty, evidently a Parisienne, if one were to judge by the type, the costume, the chic. Dessalines, under the impression that an error had been made, drew near and bowed politely. As he did so the woman raised her eyes and he caught in their multicolored depths a quick expression as of recognition, of excitement; scarcely a flash, but a sudden deepening of tint, possibly a dilatation of the large pupils.
"Pardon," said Dessalines courteously, "but perhaps madam is not aware that this is the chair of Madam Fouchère." He paused, embarrassed, and stirred at something in the woman's face. As he looked her intense expression was swept magically away, the baffling eyes lost their fierceness, the delicate nostrils resumed their normal caliber, the parted lips rippled into a smile.
"You are a faithful guardian, Comte Dessalines, for of course you can be no one else!"
A quick intelligence shone in Dessalines' wide features.
"And you are Madam Fouchère!" he cried. "Imbecile that I am!"
"But how were you to know?"
"Because the fame of madam's charm has pervaded England as well as France and Hayti."
Again her weirdly tinted eyes grew lurid with the deep lights which caused Dessalines' great heart to strike its walls a mighty blow. He caught his breath and his blue-black eyes devoured the woman in front of him. She was reclining on the deck chair; the steamer rug enveloped her from head to foot, but failed to conceal ​the lithe luxuriance of her figure. Her face, oval, white as alabaster, yet with a fine, firm texture of skin which betokened health, was almost perfect in feature, but lavish in a fullness of expression almost startling. The lips, curved slightly upward at the corners, were of the color of red-hot iron; the nose, Grecian, alluringly retroussé, with delicate Eurasian nostrils aquiver at each passing emotion—but the eyes, of indescribable color, perhaps because they contained all shades, with pupils which swelled and shrank and oscillated like those of a bird which flies through the banded glare of a black, tropic forest! Her hair was fine as smoke, of the color of the smoke which eddies from a crucible of molten copper, and, in its changeless hue in even light, Dessalines saw with initiate eye the shadows of the Dark Continent.
None but a negro could have recognized the stray corpuscles of negro blood; the popular fallacies of finger nails, faded tints of palm, lividity of mucous membranes all defied detection; only the blood cry of the race could have set in vibration the chords responding to the call of kind.
"Monsieur flatters!" Madam Fouchere's long lashes swept down to hide her chameleon eyes. Dessalines observed that they were darker than her hair and of a rich shade, deeper in tone than absolute black. Her skin was of the pallor of white objects just before a storm.
"Pardon, but that is impossible. In Paris one speaks of the Doctor and Madam Fouchere as Night and Morning; can one then flatter the dawn?"
Again the velvety curtains swept upward for an instant, the indescribable eyes sent him such a gleam as might flare from a furnace when the door was opened, ​and as swiftly closed, and again at the regard Dessalines felt the surging of powerful emotions.
He was in his element now—posing, perfectly clad, in the brilliant sunshine; idling, basking, admired; for this emotion, with others, he had read in the swift glances of the griffonne. Paying compliments was an art in which he was an adept, as in all arts requiring words rather than thought, and manner in the place of mental force. Then he was stared at; they were both stared at; and this was always stimulating to Dessalines. His personality was pitched to the key of the crowd. He could, with ease, harangue an assemblage; he found it difficult to converse with Leyden!
"Madam is no doubt vexed at being obliged to return so soon to Hayti—to leave Paris?" he ventured. She leaned back, rested her head in its cloud of smoky hair and glanced at him from under the long lashes, the eyes mere slits looking along the plane of her cheeks. Madam saved the full blaze of her wonderful eyes for climaxes. She clasped her small, perfectly shaped hands, the fingers of which were loaded with rings which might have aroused the covetousness of a king.
"Ah, does monsieur say 'vexed'? I—to return to Hayti?" She laughed a low, purring, passionate laugh. "Paris and—Hayti! Paris! Poor, decrepit Paris, with its population of emasculates; weak-kneed, senile, decadent Paris—and Hayti!" The lashes swirled upward; the great, changeful eyes gleamed with the glare of an ocelot's. "Hayti! Strong, savage, virile Hayti, with its huge-muscled men, its blazing sunlight, …" her voice sank, "and its black shadows!"—the lashes swept downward.
​"Then you love Hayti?" asked Dessalines, leaning toward her, powerfully moved.
"Ah, yes; I love Hayti! It is Fouchère who is fond of Paris—but then Fouchère has me!" She laughed, and he felt her eyes playing over him from the dark crevice between the lashes. "Monsieur resides in England. Why is that? Are the people not fatiguing? Do you find it amusing?"
"I have been studying," answered Dessalines slowly. "I did not go to be amused; my amusements are to come later." His black features grew thoughtful. Dessalines was unable to hide an emotion, although he could conceal a purpose.
"And has monsieur done nothing but study? Has he found no time for gayety? asked Madam Fouchère curiously.
"That is all," replied Dessalines, interpreting the remark as he knew it was intended. "I have been reading international law and political economy; also, certain works of Le Bon."
"But no diversion?" persisted madam.
"None, except to dine or spend a few hours of the day with my friends the Maltbys. Giles, the only son of Sir Henry Maltby, was my college mate at Oxford. It was there that I made the acquaintance of a mutual friend, Doctor Leyden."
Madam Fouchère sat suddenly upright; her sensitive face seemed to palpitate.
"Leyden! Then you have met Leyden?"
Dessalines bowed assent. The lips of Madam Fouchere quivered.
"He is now in England?"
​"Yes; it is possible that he may return to the Orinoco this autumn, in which case he said that he might stop at Hayti en route. He is a charming fellow, is he not? He made me almost die of laughter."
"He is a cold-blooded devil!" Madam Fouchère's voice was the snarl of a jaguar. "He is beautiful as Apollo, is he not?" she added, in an altered tone. "But he has no—no—ah, here comes Fouchère with my bouillon! He also is a handsome fellow, is he not? See how the women all look at him! It is always so; I assure you I would be quite jealous if it were not that—that the men look at me."