"He has given us trouble enough. Who can tell
what comes next? Those damned noises in his room, eh--eh?"
Then they whispered together, and presently I caught a fragment,
by which I understood that, as we walked near the edge of the
cliff, I should be pushed over, and they would make it appear
that I had drowned myself.
They talked in low tones again, but soon got louder, and presently
I knew that they were speaking of La Jongleuse; and Bamboir--the
fat Bamboir, who the surgeon had said would some day die of
apoplexy--was rash enough to say that he had seen her. He
described her accurately, with the spirit of the born raconteur:
"Hair so black as the feather in the Governor's hat, and green
eyes that flash fire, and a brown face with skin all scales. Oh,
my saints of Heaven, when she pass I hide my head, and I go cold
like stone. She is all covered with long reeds and lilies about her
head and shoulders, and blue-red sparks fly up at every step. Flames
go round her, and she burns not her robe--not at all. And as she go,
I hear cries that make me sick, for it is, I said, some poor man
in torture, and I think, perhaps it is Jacques Villon, perhaps Jean
Rivas, perhaps Angele Damgoche.
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