breaking her. And even in my anger I saw a better way of hurting her — always Flashy's forte, as Tom Hughes has testified.
'Well, now,' says I, holding myself in, 'I don't think the word 'mongrel' is one that comes at all well from a Creole lady.' I let it sink in and added: '
It was quite false, of course; I don't suppose she had a drop of black blood in her. But it struck her like a blow; she stood glaring, her face chalk-white, unable to speak, so I carried on, amiably:
'You whipped those girls because I was bedding them, and no doubt you'll be prepared to go on whipping until you've halfkilled every wench on the plantation. Well, see if I care — they ain't my property. See if your husband cares, though; he mayn't like having his investment wasted. He'll maybe ask you why you did it. 'Because your overseer's covering 'em,' you'll say — using a lady-like term, I'm sure. 'And why not?' he'll say, 'what's that to you?' Why, he may even wonder —'
And there I stopped, for there, and only there, the light dawned. As I say, I'm over-modest; she had been so damned uncivil to me, you see, that it honestly hadn't crossed my mind that she fancied me. Usually, of course, I'm ready to accept that every woman does — well, they do — but she was such a shrew-faced pip-squeak, and so unpleasant …
I stared at her now, and noted with interest that from white her witch-face had turned flushed, and her breathing was slow and thick. Well, well, thinks I, what have we here; let's see if our manly charms have truly captivated this unlikely creature after all. And purely by way of scientific experiment I leaned forward, picked her up with my hands at her waist — it was like lifting a puppet — and kissed her.
She didn't struggle or kick or cry out, so I kept at it, and very slowly her mouth opened, and she gave a little sob, and then she took my lip in her teeth and began to bite, harder and harder, until I pulled her free, holding her at arm's length. Her eyes were shut, and her face tight set; then she motioned me to set her down, and she stood against me. Her head touched my top weskit button.
'Wait,' said she, in a little whisper, and quickly closing the door she vanished into her dressing-room. I could have laughed, but instead I began peeling off my coat, reflecting that the road to fornication is truly often paved with misunderstanding. I was sitting on the bed, removing my boots, when she re-entered, and she was a startling sight, for she was stark naked except for her riding boots. That took me aback, for it ain't usual among amateurs; something to do with her French upbringing, no doubt. But it was the rest of her that took the eye; I'd known she was well-shaped, but in the buff she was an undoubted little nymph. Scientific research be damned, says I, reaching out for her, and she came with her mouth open and her eyes shut, straining at me.
'You silly little popsy,' says I. 'Why didn't you let me know before?' And so to work, which proved none too bad, bar one unexpected and painful surprise. I was settling into my stride when I discovered why she had kept her boots on, for she suddenly clapped her legs round me, and so help me, those boots Were spurred. Hair brushes (that was dear Lola) I was used to, but being stabbed in the buttocks is an arse of a different colour, if you'll forgive the pun, and it was fortunate the bed was a wide one or we'd have flown off it. There was no untangling her, for she clung like a limpet, and I could only wrestle away, yelping from time to time, until we were done. I was stuck like a Derby winner.
Then she pushed me away, slipped off the bed, and picked up a robe. She put it on, without looking at me, and then she said:
'Now get out.'
And without another word she went into her dressing-room and bolted the door.
Well, I'm not used to this kind of treatment, and in other circumstances I'd have kicked the door in and taught her manners, but in a house full of niggers you can't conduct an affair as though you were man and wife. So I dressed, staunching my wounds and muttering curses, and presently limped away, vowing that she'd had the last of me.
But of course she hadn't. Mandeville returned next day, and I kept well clear of the house, but come the end of the week he was off to Helena again, to meet some fellows on business. With only a week of my time left I should have gone about my business, ignoring Madame Annette, but human nature being what it is, I didn't. No woman tells me to get out with impunity, especially a haughty dwarf who was no great shakes in bed anyway. This is illogical, of course, but those of us who study immoral philosophy are guided by some contrary rules. At all events, I came sniffing round the day after he left — well, she was white, and interesting, and apart from her face she was a well-set-up piece in a miniature way.
To my surprise, she didn't either rebuff me or welcome me with open arms. We discussed the piece of plantation business which I'd made my pretext for coming, and when I assailed her she fell to with a will — but never a word, or a smile, or anything but a fierce, cold passion that almost scared me. It was damned spooky, when I think of it now, and afterwards, when I tried to engage her in sociable chat, she sat moody and withdrawn, hardly saying a word. And not a stitch on, mark you — not even her boots. I'd taken good care of that.
I gave up, half-puzzled and half-annoyed; I couldn't fathom her at all, and I still can't. My experience with women has been, I dare say, considerable and varied; I've had them fighting to get at me and running for dear life to escape, all ages, shapes and colours, in beds, haylofts, thickets, drawing-rooms, palaces, hovels, snowdrifts (that was in Russia, in the cold spell), baths, billiard rooms, cellars, camps, covered wagons, and even in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, which is probably a record of some sort. I've sometimes regretted that the flying machine was invented so late in my life, but things move so fast nowadays it's difficult to keep pace.
Anyway, my point is that only three women that I can recall out of that darling multitude have refused to be sociable afterwards, provided there was time, of course. My Afghan lotusblossom, Narreeman, was one, but she had been constrained, as they say, and wanted to murder me anyway. Queen Ranavalona was another, but apart from being as mad as a hatter she had affairs of state to attend to, which is some excuse. Annette Mandeville was the third, and I believe she was neither mad nor murderous. But who's to say? I doubt if she'd have been an entertaining talker anyway; she didn't have much education, for all her careful upbringing.
She was avid enough, however, for pleasure itself, and since Mandevile seemed to be making a protracted stay in Helena I visited her on each of the next three days. This was foolishness, of course, for it increased the chances of detection, but when I voiced my doubts, remarking that I hoped none of the niggers would guess what brought me to the house, she laughed unpleasantly and said:
'Who cares if the whole plantation knows? Not one of these black animals would dare breathe a word — they know what would happen to them.'
I didn't like to think what that would be, knowing Madame Annette, but since she seemed so unconcerned I saw no reason why I should fret, and consequently grew careless. I had been in the habit of opening one of her bedroom windows, so that we might hear if anyone approached the house from the road, but on the third day I forgot, so that we never heard the pad of hooves across the turf.
We had just finished a bout; Annette was lying face down on the bed, silent and sullen as usual, and I was trying to win some Warmth out of her with my gay chat, and also by biting her on the buttocks. Suddenly she stiffened under me, and in the same instant feet were striding up the corridor towards the room, Mandeville's voice was shouting:
'Annie! Hullo, Annie honey, I'm home! I've brought —' and then the door was flung open and there he stood, the big grin on his red face changing to a stare of horror. My mouth was still open as I gazed across her rump, terror-stricken.
'My God!' he cries, 'Betrayed!'
Well, I'd heard the same sort of exclamation before, and I've heard it since, and there's no doubt it's unnerving. But I doubt if there's a man living who can move faster with his pants round his ankles than I can; I was off that bed and diving for the window before the last word had left his lips, and had the sash half up before I remembered it was a cool twenty-foot drop to the ground. I turned like a cornered rat just as he came for me, swinging his horse-whip and bawling with rage; I ducked the cut and slipped past him to the door, stumbing on the threshold. I glanced back in panic, but he was heading straight on for the bed, yelling:
'Filthy strumpet!' and raising his whip again, but Annette, who had sprung up into a kneeling position, just snapped:
'Don't you dare touch me! Drop that whip!'
And he did. He fell back before that tiny, naked figure, mouthing, and then he turned and hurled himself at me, with a face of apoplexy. I was afoot again by this time, dragging up my breeches and baring for the landing,
