Читать книгу Black Ajax - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 8

Fact is, I don’t much care to remember. ’Deed, suh, you’d be astonished jus’ how good I can be at dis-rememberin’, specially when some ’quisitive stranger comes pokin’ his nose in my private affairs, wants to set it all down – for what? So you can lay an info’mation ’gainst me? Pouf! Not these days, mister, not in this town. La Senora Rossignol is re-spectable an’ respected, as my good friend the Alcalde can tell you. An’ I doubt he’d take kin’ly to any Paul Pry seekin’ scandal … to squeeze money out o’ prom’nent gennlemen, maybe? That ain’t your game? Well, then, I reckon you mus’ be one o’ those de-generates that get all tickled up havin’ a lady tell ’em the intimate de-tails of her past, from her own ruby lips. Brother, have I seen my fill o’ that sort! What some men’ll pay good dollars for … praise be. Not so, you say? Oh, my apologies. So, mister, jus’ what do you want?

Tom Molineaux? Me’ciful heavens! An’ what in cree-ation is he to you, may I ask? A subject of his-toric interest? My, my! Tom got called plenty in his time, but that’s a noo one. An’ why might you s’pose I know anythin’ of his-toric interest ’bout him, or would tell you if I did? Ah-h … you been talkin’ to Lucie de la Goddam Guise! Well, I trust you scrubbed real well with carbolic aft’wards. Pouf ! An’ you want my side o’ the story? Tom’s story, you mean? Well, perhaps I don’t choose to tell. Why should I?

Your pardon? You are prepared to make me a gen’rous onner … say it again, if you please … Honorarium? Suh, if that is some noo kind of European perversion, I’d be ’bliged if you’d tell me what it means, in simple American … Payment? For tellin’ you ’bout Tom Molineaux? Now, that I cannot believe! See here, my friend, if you have been overhearin’ loose talk an’ have called ’pon me for some pu’pose you are too bashful to confide straight out … well, I ’ppreciate the flatterin’ attention, but madam is not inclined these days, an’ if I was, believe me, you couldn’t afford it.

No, suh. I am not in need of capital, as you can see. Yonder coffee service is English sterlin’ silver, my gown is pure China silk, f’m Paris, France – well, I thank you for the charmin’ compliment – these fine furnishin’s an’ pictures an’ all is bought an’ paid for, as is the house; my maid, cook, an’ footman ain’t owed one red cent in wages, an’ there is a drivin’ carriage, with canopy, an’ two horses in my stable, which you are kin’ly welcome to view – on your way out. Unless you choose to state your real business. Jus’ so we und’stand one another.

My stars! You were not bammin’ jus’ now? You truly want to know ’bout that Tom? Well, that does beat all! Whatever for? I’d not ha’ thought he was o’ that much account. No one ever cared for him, hardly …’cept me, an’ I knew no better. He made a name in England? Now, you do s’prise me. Oh, prize-fightin’ … uh-huh, I guess he was good at that, if little besides. Well, it makes no neverminds what he did in England. He surely did hurt enough in America, him an’ that … No, I b’lieve I do not care to remember.

My recollections are of the first impo’tance to you? Well, now, I can’t think why they should be … oh, fo’give me if I smile, only I wonder do you know ’zackly what you are askin’? My recollections? La-la! My good suh, they are not what you are ’ccustomed to read in the ladies’ journals. You ’ppreciate that, you say? Well, I ’ppreciate your candour, I mus’ say! No, do not apologise. Like I said, we und’stand each other.

Well, now … I may not care to remember – but I do. ’Tis not the kind of thing a woman forgets, try how she may. Still, ’twill do no harm to tell now, I guess. I got over that mis’ry a long time ago, even if it did break my heart in pieces at the time … I had a heart in those days. So long ago … at Amplefo’th … when I was young in the sunshine … Oh, damn him! An’ damn that worm de la Guise! You wouldn’t b’lieve I could still feel the pain! Well, I don’t –’til some ’quisitive body plagues me to think on it!

I beg your pardon, suh. I fo’get myself. Quite in’scusable, what must you think? You have called ’pon me to make an inquiry, in genteel style, an’ my outbu’st was most unbecomin’. Would you have the kindness to pour me a glass of sherry f’m the cellarette yonder – an’ kindly help yourself to refreshment. There is French brandy, an’ aquavit’, an’ such. Jus’ the smallest trifle … I thank you. Now, let me collect my thoughts.

H’m, my recollections. Well, you shall have ’em plain, an’ if they offend your delicate feelin’s … why, you shouldn’t ha’ come.

First thing, Tom Molineaux was a born fool. Strong in the arm, weak in the head, denser’n Mississippi mud. Even when I was little, I could see he had no mo’ sense’n an ox. He was willin’ an’ kin’ly enough, an’ I guess I took to him ’cos he took to me. Used to follow me ’round like a great hound puppy, f’m as early as I can remember. He was older’n me, but we used to play together, an’ I had to show him how, at our games an’ ev’ythin’. The older slave-childer used to make game of him, ’til he got bigger – an’ then the boys took no more liberties with him, you bet, for he was prodigious strong an’ could whip ’em three, four at a time. Yes, suh, he was one big likely nigger buck, an’ ripe as a stud bull! Oh, my, I trust you will pardon the ’spression. Recollectin’, I fall back into the common way o’ speech. But that is what he was.

’Twas natural the gals all set their caps at him, an’ he was fool enough to pay ’em heed, an’ had his way with all o’ them, but it was me he cared for always. “You my own true love, li’l Mollybird,” he used to say. “True love!”, I declare! Where he learned such words, I cannot ’magine. But he meant it, so far’s he had sense to mean anythin’, an’ I b’lieved him.

One reason why he admired me to worship was I looked so different from the other wenches. They were common nigras, but I was what they called high yaller – yellow, you know, on ’ccount o’ my white blood, an’ fine-boned an’ dainty. Ah, I was the sweetest, neatest little gold fairy you ever did see – well, I am not ’zackly plain in my prime, would you say, so you can imagine. The master’s daddy, old Molineaux, used to call me Princess, never Mollybird, which is a real low plantation-wench name, if you like. Not my style at all, which is why I am Marguerite Rossignol, in case you wonderin’. Molly Nightingale, in French – Molly Bird.

So the older an’ prettier I grew, the more Tom mooned after me, an’ I dare say I used him somethin’ shameful, as gals will. He was so in awe of me, an’ the white people made me such a pet, he never dreamed to treat me like the nigra wenches. Once, when I’s ’bout twelve, an’ he was maybe sixteen, I teased him on to kiss me, an’ like the born fool he was, he bragged ’bout it, and when old Molineaux heard, he was in such a takin’ he had Tom triced up an’ lashed ’til he couldn’t walk. They told me I was never to even talk to him after, an’ kept me in the big house in a chamber of my own, with a bed an’ coverlet. Oh, I thought ’twas heaven! That was how precious I was.

Can you ’magine, it devoted Tom to me more than ever? An’ I cannot think why, now, but I do believe it was bein’ kept away f’m him that caused me to fall in love with him. I would see him starin’ at my window nights, an’ lookin’ so melancholy, an’ ev’yone knew he hadn’t made so much as a whimper when they whipped him. I yearned for him then, as only a young girl can, ugly as sin tho’ he was. Well, the other bucks were no better, or near so strong an’ fine-bodied as Tom, an’ what other men had I seen? It seems foolish now, but for three years I was in love with Tom Molineaux.

You think that hard to b’lieve? You see me here, the elegant lady of colour in her stylish salon, with her Paris gown an’ fine complexion an’ delicate airs, an’ conversin’ in that husky way the gennlemen so adore, ole-plantation-an’-la-m’dear – you s’pose I was this smart an’ wo’ldly when I was fifteen? Pouf! I had no mo’ sense’n a chicken. I was a simple little wench, an’ Tom Molineaux was big an’ strong an’ kin’ly and gentle to me as if I was a ewe lamb. An’ I loved him, strange an’ all as it seems now. I have had some ’sperience o’ the world since, and of men, an’ I am no longer simple, but I am here to tell you that when a strong, brave man is fit to be tied for love of you, he is powerful hard to resist … when you are fifteen.

Would you be so kind as to make a long arm for that brandy on the cellarette? I have a fancy to somethin’ mo’ strengthenin’ than sherry … deeply ’bliged.

Where was I? Ah, yes, it was when old Molineaux died that Master Richard made Tom a “fightin’ nigra” an’ began to match him ’gainst the bucks f’m other estates. I know nothin’ of such things, but all the talk was that Tom was the meanest fellow with his fists in the whole Dominion, an’ I was mighty proud of him, tho’ I never saw him fight until … that night in Awlins. I didn’t know what nigger-fightin’ was, hardly, but I was glad for Tom, an’ Master Richard makin’ much of him, pettin’ him an’ givin’ him fancy clothes an’ sayin’ he would be the mos’ famous slave in the Southland.

Mos’ nigras would ha’ put on airs ’bove theirselves to be so tret by their masters, but not Tom. Truth to tell, he didn’t have the gumption to get above hisself; he was jus’ quiet, dull Tom as ever, an’ I was the only thing could bring a light to his eye an’ a smile to that big, ugly nigra face. Young Master Richard saw how ’twas with us, and gave Tom the freedom o’ my company – an’ only my company. “You want to pleasure yo’self, they’s wenches a-plenty in the cabins,” says Master Richard. “Mollybird she pure, an’ stay that way. Maybe one o’ these days, I let you have her, when yo’ champeen nigra fighter of America. How you like that, Mollybird? You like this big go-alonger for yo’ man?”

He would laugh as he said it, and cuff Tom’s woolly head, and Tom would grin an’ shuffle an’ look on me like I was the Queen o’ Sheba. I was grown enough to toss my head and look sidelong an’ say nothin’, like the white misses on their verandas, tho’ I hardly knew what Master Richard meant ’bout Tom havin’ me, or bein’ my man. Oh, I knew what he an’ the other bucks did with the wenches in the cabins, but I was the li’l Princess an’ far above the doin’s of the common slaves. My love fo’ Tom was different; I yearned to have him with me, ’cos he was big an’ brave an’ would never let harm come to me, and if you’d asked me what I meant by lovin’ him, I couldn’t ha’ said more’n that. I was innocent an’ foolish an’ fifteen, an’ thought in fairytales. Nowadays I lay no claim to innocence or gi’lish folly, am three times as old, an’ the only fairytales I read come in yellow covers … but I still can explain no better what I felt for Tom, then. Maybe it was true love, like he said.

Heigh-ho … yes, I think jus’ a wee touch more brandy would be acceptable, when I come to think back on that night in Awlins. Master Richard had brought this little sailor-man to Amplefo’th, to brisk Tom up for ’nother fight, ’gainst a nigra called the Black Ghost. Ev’yone allowed it would be Tom’s sternest trial yet, an’ the sailor-man goaded him on to run an’ leap over rails an’ split kindlin’, with Master Richard fussin’ an’ runnin’ after them, an’ the sailor-man cryin’: “It’s his legs, guv’nor! Got to make them legs like mainmasts!” I remember he said that, over an’ over, in that cracky English voice. I didn’t know what a mainmast was, or what jumpin’ an’ splittin’ wood had to do with prize-fightin’. I jus’ found it all mighty amusin’, but Tom didn’t care for it. The sailor-man made him a big sack o’ corn-husks an’ bark, an’ Tom had to whale at it with his fists, an’ he liked that well. Master Richard had me down to the yard to watch him beat the sack, an’ when Tom flagged, Master would point to me an’ whisper in his ear, an’ Tom would lay into the sack till it bu’st wide open. Lord, what a lovin’ fool he was! An’ I would clap an’ cheer him on, an’ feel the butterflies inside me as I looked on those splendid limbs a-gleam in the sunlight.

Yes, suh, indeed. You are f’miliar, I don’ doubt, with those Greek an’ Roman statues which are thought to show the ab-solute p’fection of the male form? I have viewed them, too, as well as – you may set this down – a great many livin’ examples also, an’ I am here to tell you that Tom Molineaux’s was the most beautiful human body I have ever seen. M’m-h’m! Oh, his features were homely, like I said – fact, I can’t recall many uglier – but that frame o’ his was fit to melt a gal’s legs f’m under. Talk ’bout heroic! Bein’ young an’ simple at the time, I did not rec’nise the feelin’ I was feelin’ then, tho’ I can put a name to it now … but I shan’t. Jus’ say that if I’d been Queen Cle-o-patra an’ seen him up fo’ auction, the other bidders would ha’ gone home dis’pointed.

It was that time Master Richard hinted ’bout Tom an’ me bein’ wed. Maybe he meant it, I can’t tell. Mos’ folks would say the reason he an’ old Molineaux had been at such pains to keep a beautiful high-yaller gal virgin, was so they could get a real fancy price fo’ her when she bloomed, ’round sixteen – seventeen, but I don’ know ’bout that. They looked down their V’ginia noses at nigra-traders, so I can’t be sure what they intended by me. All I know is what Master Richard said, an’ I was the happiest l’il chucklehead in the state.

An’ then the snake came wrigglin’ in. M’sieur Lucie d’Estrees de la Goddam Guise, with his silk coat an’ gold-topped cane an’ eye-glass, fingerin’ his dandy moustache an’ scented like a female. He was Master Richard’s cousin, an’ we stopped at his fine house out by Pontchartrain the day before Tom’s fight in Awlins. I was called to be shown off to him, an’ had to hide my laughter, for I had ne’er seen such a picture of a popinjay, so bedecked an’ ruffled an’ languid fit to die. He looked old to me, so I guess he was forty, maybe, an’ when he called me close to pet me I was still strugglin’ not to laugh right out.

Then I saw his eyes, an’ my laughter died inside me. They were sleepy and chill, an’ as they looked me over, with that mean smile on his pretty little mouth, I fell a-tremble with fear, an’ felt shamed and unclean somehow, to be so regarded. He stroked my cheek with his soft fingers all scented with rings on ’em, an’ it was as though a slimy critter was leavin’ its track on my skin. When he said, in that lispin’ voice, how pretty I was, an’ slipped a candy in my mouth, I near gagged it out, an’ when he asked Master Richard what my price was, an’ Master Richard said I wasn’t for sale, I near swooned with relief. I could think of nothin’ more horrible than to be owned by that mincin’ exquisite with his gentle voice an’ clammy touch and evil eyes. I didn’t know why he was wicked, or why his gaze defiled me; I just knew he was vile in ways I couldn’t understand.

You don’t need me, thank God, to describe Tom’s fight with the Black Ghost, an’ I would not if I could. To me, a child, it was a first glimpse into Hell, with a chorus of yellin’ fiends transpo’ted in cruel delight as they watched my love bein’ tortured an’ mangled by that monster. I stopped my ears an’ eyes, an’ thought I must go mad, an’ when I saw his poor body broke an’ dyin’ (as I thought) on the ground, I threw myself on him wishin’ only that I might die with him. Worst of all was to hear his own master, who I s’posed loved an’ cared for him, threaten to have him killed by inches, an’ to see Tom, all bloodied an’ beaten, drag himself up again to be sacrificed.

Then the serpent de la Guise came whisperin’ at my ear, lispin’ of freedom for Tom an’ me, an’ how I might put spirit in him. Between my crazy grief an’ wild hope I did as he bid me, with no thought of my fear an’ loathin’ of him. An’ Tom won, I can’t say how, for I could not bear to see it. Then I knew such joy – for he was free an’ would make me free also. I would have blessed de la Guise an’ kissed his foot in gratitude, but he went quickly away.

Ganymede, who was de la Guise’s yellow valet, put me in a carriage with Tom, to take us back to de la Guise’s house, for Master Richard was in such an ecstasy at his vict’ry that he must stay behind to celebrate, I s’pose, with his cronies an’ such. I didn’t care; I was with Tom, weepin’ for happiness as I kissed his awful wounds an’ comforted him, tellin’ him of de la Guise’s promise, an’ how we would be free together – I, who hardly knew what freedom meant. Even Tom, dull Tom, knew more of it than I, for he put his great strong arm, with its cruelly broken hand, ’bout me, an’ kept sayin’ over an’ over: “Free! Free! Free! Oh, li’l Mollybird, you my own woman now! My li’l princess, my true love!”

Yes, if there has been a moment in my life to call blessed, it was then, in that carriage rumblin’ home to Pontchartrain, an’ freedom.

They took Tom to the slave quarters to tend to his hurts, an’ Ganymede gave me in charge of a tall mulatto woman who I guess was chatelaine. She turned me this way an’ that, sniffed at my cotton dress an’ old shoes as unfittin’, and asked real cold when I’d bathed last. ’Twas only then, I think, that it came home to me that I was de la Guise’s slave now, an’ I shivered to think on’t, ’til I remembered how kind he’d been at that awful fight. I was more scared of the mulatto woman’s sour face an’ bony hands, an’ the big bunch of keys she carried like a jailer.

She gave me over to two black maids in dimitty dresses an’ caps, such as I’d never seen, an’ they took me upstairs to a room with a big bath on a tiled floor, an’ washed me all over with scented suds. I felt like a princess then, an’ thought I must be dreamin’, in that wondrous house with its great hall an’ sweepin’ staircase an’ lovely paintin’s an’ carpets an’ marble columns such as I’d never ’magined. Why, I’d never seen a bathroom before, let alone thought to use one. Amplefo’th had seemed a palace, but it was a shack to this place, with all its luxur’ous appointments an’ gilt furniture. It made me feel small an’ frightened, ’til I remembered Tom was free, an’ de la Guise would let him make me free, too.

After the maids had dried me I asked for my clothes, an’ they snickered into their aprons an’ said there was a fire in the room where I was to be taken.

“You ain’t goin’ need no clo’es tonight awhile, li’l honey gal,” says one. “Nor no night-rail, neether.”

“But don’ fret yo’self,” says t’other maid. “You’ll get plenny silk dresses by’n’by, an’ ribbons an’ fal-lals, sho’ ’nuff !”

When I saw the bed-chamber I was left speechless, it was so grand an’ tasteful, in the loveliest soft colours, peach an’ pink an’ ivory, with a mighty four-post bed hung in silks, and mirrors ev’ywhere, so that I was put out to see myself bare wherever I looked, an’ pulled the sheet from the bed ’round me. The mulatto woman came in, an’ slapped me for makin’ free with the sheet, an’ bid the maids put it back. Now I was real scared, an’ like to cry when she pulled me by the arm to a little window in the wall.

“Stand there,” says she, an’ slapped me again. “Keep yo’ eyes open an’ yo’ mouth shet, or ’twill be the wuss for you, ye heah?”

I shook like a willow, for fear an’ ’mazement as I looked through the window into another room that was set much lower in the house so that I was lookin’ down into it, an’ the folks in it were ’way beneath me. There was de la Guise layin’ at his ease in a silk dressin’-gown on a chaise longue, smokin’ his cigar, but what robbed me o’ breath was the two white ladies on a couch nearby. One was yellow-haired an’ t’other red, an’ they were painted an’ patched to admiration. I had never seen anythin’ in the world so grand an’ beautiful an’ stylish. I thought they mus’ be real princesses, or queens even, an’ couldn’t think why they didn’t wear hardly any clothes at all. I’d never seen white ladies near naked before, an’ was wonder-struck to see ’em so pretty an’ soft ’neath their clothes.

The room itself was sumptuous, with walls lined with gold satin, an’ furniture looked soft enough to sink into. There were paintin’s on the walls of more lovely white ladies, an’ near the fireplace smaller pictures of white men half-naked, standin’ in poses with their hands raised as I’d seen Tom stand when the sailor-man had been ’structin’ him. There was the sweetest smell of perfume, and I remember thinkin’ (God help me!) that Heaven must look somethin’ like that room, an’ angels like those painted ladies.

Then a door opened down there, an’ my heart leaped, for it was Tom, with that Ganymede. They had washed him clean of blood, an’ though there was a plaster on his cheek an’ on his brow that was swollen, an’ his right hand was bandaged, it was a joy to see him walk steady an’ like his old self. He was taken all aback to see the ladies there, an’ I could have blushed to see them sit up smilin’ on the couch, showin’ off their bosoms before a coloured man, so bold. Tom stood confused an’ put down his head, but I could see him givin’ them a shot of his eye sidelong. De la Guise rose, very languid, an’ looked at him, an’ poor Tom stood mum, but couldn’t keep from watchin’ the white ladies.

“Well, Tom Molineaux,” says de la Guise, “so you are a free man now. And right nobly you have earned your freedom. Who taught you this, eh?”

An’ he let drive his left hand an’ hit Tom smack on the mouth, an’ laughed. Tom made a mumble, an’ de la Guise said he had been well ’structed, but had much to learn.

“How will you live now that you are free?” asks he. “Will you be a prize-fighter?”

“Yes, mass’,” mutters Tom. I could hardly hear him.

“But here you may fight only black men like yourself,” says de la Guise. “Crude animals like the one you killed tonight.” ’Twas the first I’d heard of the Black Ghost bein’ killed, an’ I gave a little cry. The mulatto woman twisted my hair an’ hissed at me like a cat to quiet me. “If you aspire to be a true boxer, you must fight white men, and you can do that only in England, which is the home of the Noble Art.” I doubt Tom had heard of England, for he was dumb.

Then de la Guise showed him the little pictures on the wall, sayin’ that these were the great English champions. He called off their names, but I don’t recall them, except one that stayed in my mind because it didn’t sound English, but now bein’ f’miliar with Spanish names, I b’lieve it was one such.

“Why, that man is half your size and weight,” cries de la Guise. “But he could cut you to pieces in moments!” Tom looked at the picture an’ growled somethin’ I couldn’t hear, an’ de la Guise laughed an’ claps his shoulder.

“Wait until you face such a man, you’ll learn different. But do you know, Tom, whenever that man fights he makes one thousand dollars? Sometimes two thousand, five thousand, even. Why, in England they think more of him than of their King! You know what a king is, Tom?”

“Like in stories mammy tells,” grunts Tom.

“Exactly so! Tom, you could fight like that man. You are strong and brave and supple. But you could learn only in England. Would you care to go to England, Tom?”

I could tell, from the jeerin’ way he said it, an’ the smile on those plump lips, that he was makin’ game of him.

“If mass’ say,” mumbles Tom, an’ de la Guise laughed, mockin’.

“No, no, Tom, if you say! Why, you are free, and your own master. Would you like to live high, and do as you pleased, ride in a carriage, wear fine clothes, like this robe of mine – feel, Tom, how smooth it is.” Tom touched the robe like it was red hot, an’ de la Guise spoke soft. “You could have white ladies, Tom, like these.” He fluttered a hand, an’ the two ladies got up an’ walked over ever so lazy-like. One stood before Tom, smilin’ an’ poutin’, an’ t’other came beside him an’ put a hand on his shoulder, an’ they fairly did languish at him. I could not believe my eyes, white ladies with a coloured man.

“Do you like them, Tom?” says de la Guise. “I believe they like you very much. Eh, my dears?”

The ladies began to pet Tom an’ caress him, an’ the yellow-haired one was strokin’ his arm, exclaimin’ how strong he was, an’ the other kissed his mouth an’ clung to him. I was sick to my stomach to see white ladies so demean themselves, but de la Guise laughed and said he must not fear them, for they admired him and yearned to give him pleasure. Tom began to shake an’ stare like a wild thing, an’ then they left plaguin’ him an’ de la Guise asked him again if he liked white ladies. Tom stood dumb, gaspin’ and all a-tremble, an’ de la Guise struck him in the face to make him answer.

“Reckon so, mass’,” says Tom, shakin’ fit to die.

“Better than your little Mollybird?” asks de la Guise, an’ my heart went cold as he glanced up at my window. Then he nodded to the ladies, an’ they came close to Tom again, pesterin’ an’ cooin’ like doves.

“Surely not?” says de la Guise. “She is waiting for you, Tom, in this house. Come with me now, and you may take her away, free, the two of you. I promised her you should have the money for her purchase.” Oh, that soft, lispin’ voice might have belonged to the fiend that tempted Jesus. “Or, if you please, you may stay here awhile with the white ladies. Choose, Tom. Which shall it be? One or the other. Sweet little Mollybird, or these loving white ladies?”

The mulatto woman had my hair in her grip, an’ a bony hand ’cross my mouth to stifle my cry. ’Twas like a nightmare as I heard de la Guise repeat that vile, evil offer, an’ through my tears I could only watch helpless as Tom, the poor mindless fool, went where his blind lust took him, an’ let those white harlots embrace him an’ draw him down unresistin’ on their couch.

Must I tell you what I suffered in that moment? I think not. To say my heart broke – what does it mean? Yet ’tis all there is to say. Mollybird began to die in that moment, Mollybird the simple, trustin’ little yellow gal. She’s been dead many, many years now, her an’ her broken heart, an’ Senora Marguerite Rossignol, who has no heart, can say: what use to blame Tom Molineaux for bein’ what he was? You’d as well blame a baby for crawlin’ to a shiny toy. ’Twas no real choice that temptin’ toad offered him, ’cos like a baby he didn’t have a mind to choose with. Only a body.

I remember crouchin’ by the bed, with the fire so hot to one side o’ me, an’ all cold on t’other, an’ then de la Guise was in the room, speakin’ to the mulatto woman.

“She saw and heard? Everything? Oh, excellent!” He went across to the little window, an’ stood lookin’ down, an’ gave a little yelp of laughter. Then he turned to the mulatto. “Presently, have Ganymede pay those two, and put that animal into the street. Now go. I am not to be disturbed.”

He came an’ stood over me, still smilin’ with those hateful snake’s eyes, an’ nibblin’ at his lip. I was too numb with mis’ry to think even, let alone wonder that any man could be so cruel as make me see what I had seen.

“Poor little golden nymph,” says he in that jeerin’ lispin’ voice. “So exquisite. So forlorn. Beauty, abandoned by the Beast. What would you? A brute has the appetites of a brute. But can she guess, I wonder, how great a favour the Beast has done to Beauty? What would freedom have brought her, with such a creature? What would her fate have been, eh?”

He bid me rise, an’ I was too broke in despair to disobey, or even to shrink when he began to stroke my lips an’ cheek with those soft slug fingers. Then he bid me walk ’cross to the door, an’ back again, watchin’ me with that gloatin’ smile. “Perfection,” says he, sighin’, an’ took my hands an’ kissed them, an’ at that I began to cry an’ shake with fear at last, an’ begged him to let me be, an’ he began to laugh.

That, I think, is as much as I care to remember for you. No more is necessary, for I have told you all that I know of Tom Molineaux. The transfo’mation of Mollybird into Senora Rossignol, by that scented vermin de la Guise an’ others, I am happy to leave to your ’magination. He was right, of course. I should be grateful to Tom. If he’d been true to Mollybird, there’d ha’ been no elegant coloured lady, with her fine house an’ servants an’ carriage an’ all, inquirin’ of a gennleman visitor if he would care to partake of a service of aft’noon tea an’ pastries … If you’d be so kind as to draw the bell-rope yonder … ?