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The Dark Road: Further Adventures of Chéri-Bibi

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<h4>CHAPTER IX</h4> <h4>CHÉRI-BIBI AND THE NUT SAY GOOD-BYE</h4> When the steamer was in the roadstead and the time came for Chéri-Bibi and the Nut to say good-bye, no words were wasted by them. It was a moment of great simplicity, for though out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh—pectus est quod disertes facit—yet the heart may be too full for words. Chéri-Bibi, as may be imagined, after so many vicissitudes presented a very disordered appearance which was not, however, altogether unsuited to him. Hardly anything remained of his old clothes but his leather trousers and a worn-out scrap of coarse canvas with which he managed to conceal certain peculiar tattoo-marks which were not the work of any native of Guiana. Thus, as may be imagined, his appearance was the antithesis of the Nut's, who had just put on a new suit of clothes of the latest Parisian fashion which had come from Rio a few weeks earlier. When the Nut entered the room in which Chéri-Bibi was waiting for him in intense silence, the latter at first failed to recognize him. A man of fashion stood before him. Nevertheless, Chéri-Bibi had known men of fashion before, not only because he used to keep their company and help them on their passage from life to death, but because for a certain time he was a man of fashion himself. But the Nut took his breath away. By Jove, the Nut was a man of breeding! At the sight of such a remarkable transformation, Chéri-Bibi's heart, which was bursting with grief, was filled with pride; he was proud of his pal, so that the combination of these two feelings in a being who was accustomed to amazing ebullitions, excited him to such a degree that he could find expression only in tears; and it was many a long day since his weary eyes had shed tears. The Nut saw that the limbs of this Titan trembled under him when he stood up to receive him. Then he clasped him in his arms. And they held each other fast, and their hearts beat in unison at that moment of mutual grief. . . . A knock at the door told them that they must say good-bye. "As you are not coming with me," said the Nut, "I must at least hear from you. Let me have news of you. I know that you receive letters in secret. Tell me how I can write to you." Chéri-Bibi shook his head. "No, no," he returned. "This ends it all. I insist. . . . We shall no longer know each other. The Nut is dead." As a result of those terrible but necessary words a silence fell, short but deep as the chasms into which men who dread lest they be seized with giddiness dare not look. Then Chéri-Blbi said: "Listen to me. I believe you are safe forever. But we can never tell. I have a friend in France from whom you can ask anything, if you need a friend—the Dodger. He is a grocer in the Rue Saint-Roch, Paris, and his real name is Hilaire. He is one of the straightest of men. You can get your supplies from his place. If you want to be well dealt with you have but to say to him the one word 'Fatalitas.'" It was the last utterance, the supreme farewell, of Chéri-Bibi in taking leave of the Nut. . . . And the Nut allowed himself to be dragged away by Fernandez. * * * * * The small boats which brought the passengers from the estuary of the Oyapok had put off, and the Dordogne, commanded by Captain Lalouette, began to churn the sea with her propellers. Soon Cape Orange, and by degrees the entire coastline of Guiana, the land in which the Nut had so greatly suffered, disappeared from view. But to his honor be it said that notwithstanding his long martyrdom, he could not remove his eyes from the land, for he was leaving behind an unhappy man with a splendid heart without whom he would have long since died in despair. Suddenly a slight cry beside him made him turn his head. A charming young girl in a flutter of anxiety placed her hands to her hair. Her veil, caught by the wind, had become entangled in the rigging and was held fast. The Nut helped to release the handsome child, and their hands touched. The most trivial gesture, the most insignificant incident sometimes assumes a considerable importance. . . . A few minutes later the Nut learned the young girl's name. It was Mlle. Françoise de la Boulays, and she was returning with her father from the Upper Amazon, to which district he had been sent on an official mission. They were going back to France saddened beyond measure by the startling events which had followed one upon the other during the preceding month. The Nut did not venture to appear in the saloon at dinner time. To begin again, in this way without some intermediate stage, civilized life, after having been buried in the grave for more than ten years; to meet the frank look of that pure-souled girl when he was still shuddering from the "evil eye" of the warders; to help himself to well cooked food from a luxurious dish when he was still feeling the nausea of the service tubs which contained the convicts' skilly! . . . He was afraid. . . . He was afraid. And then a few minutes before as he stood in front of a glass, he took off his hat, and he saw his bare forehead, the bare forehead of a convict on which he seemed to read in letters of fire "Number 3213." He remained on deck. At that moment the wireless operator hurriedly passed him and entered the dining saloon, and almost immediately afterwards the Captain's voice was heard: "Ladies and Gentlemen . . . it's victory . . . victory for France. Joffre has defeated the Germans on the Marne." The thunders of applause which followed may be imagined. . . . When Mlle. de la Boulays mounted the deck again she found the Nut in tears; and she spoke to him and shook him by the hand. When she left him he remained behind. Her voice continued to ring in his ears during the night. He was still on deck after the other persons in the ship, except the watch, had gone to sleep. Then the sun appeared and lit up the Nut's radiant face, and leaning on the bulwarks he beheld the rise of a new dawn on the world. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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