He would come along with the necessary implements, his sabots soaked in filth, and start work, whining all the time about his job. Then when asked why he did such repulsive work, he would reply resignedly: “Well, for my children; they must be fed. It pays better than anything else.” He had fourteen children and when anyone asked what had become of them, he would say indifferently: “There are still eight at home. One is in service, and five are married.” When asked whether they were happily married, he replied vivaciously: “I did not oppose their wishes. I have never opposed them in any way. They married as they pleased. You must never oppose the choice of others; evil is sure to follow. If I am a scavenger, it is because my parents were opposed to my inclinations. Otherwise I would have been a workman like the others.”
This is how his parents had thwarted him:
He was a soldier then, serving his time at Havre, not more stupid than the others, not sharper either, but rather simple-minded.
In his free time his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay where the bird-dealers congregated. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend from his own part of the country: he would pass slowly in front of the cages containing parrots with green backs and yellow heads from the Amazon, parrots with grey backs and red heads from Senegal, enormous macaws that looked like birds bred in hothouses with their gorgeous feathers, their plumes, and their tufts, parakeets of all sizes that looked as if they had been painted with great care by a heavenly miniaturist, then the little tiny birds that hopped about, red, yellow, blue, variegated; all these mingled their cries with the noise of the quay, adding to the din of vessels unloading, of passersby and of vehicles, the wild murmur, shrill and deafening, of a distant, ghost-ridden forest.
Boitelle would stop with astonishment in his eyes and wide-open mouth, laughing and delighted, showing his teeth to the cockatoo prisoners who greeted the bright red of his breeches and the copper buckle of his belt with their white or yellow crests. When he found a bird that could talk he asked it questions, and if it happened to be a day when the bird felt disposed to enter into conversation with him or answer his questions, the amount of fun and amusement he carried away from the interview lasted till evening. He got any amount of pleasure from looking at the monkeys and could imagine no greater luxury for a wealthy man than to keep these animals as one keeps cats and dogs. He had the love of the exotic in his blood, as one might have that of hunting, medicine or the Church. He could not help going back to the quay every time the gates of the barracks were opened, drawn towards it by an irresistible longing.
On one occasion, in a state approaching ecstasy, he stopped in front of an enormous macaw that was putting out its feathers, bending forward and holding itself erect as if it were curtsying at the court of Parrotland, when he saw the door of a little café joining the bird shop open and a young Negress appear with a red kerchief on her head, sweeping the corks and sand from the floor into the street.
Boitelle’s attention was immediately divided between the bird and the woman, and he could not have said which of the two caused him the greater astonishment or pleasure.
The Negress swept the dirt from the café into the street, raised her eyes and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier’s uniform. There she stood facing him with her broom in her hands as if she were presenting arms, while the macaw went on bowing.
After a few seconds the soldier began to feel embarrassed at the notice he was attracting and went off slowly to avoid any appearance of retreat.
But he came back. He passed the Café des Colonies nearly every day and through the window often saw the little dark-skinned servant handing beer or brandy to the sailors of the port. She often came out when she caught sight of him; indeed, they were soon smiling at each other like acquaintances although they had never spoken to each other; and Boitelle felt his heart stirred when he saw the dazzling row of teeth suddenly glittering between the girl’s dusky lips. One day he went in and was surprised when he realised that she spoke French just as everyone else did. The bottle of lemonade, of which she accepted a glass, remained a delightful memory to the soldier, and it soon became his custom to frequent the little tavern and drink all the syrupy mixtures he could afford.
It was a treat for him—a perpetual joy—to watch the black hand of the little serving-maid pour something into his glass while a smile showed her teeth—that were even brighter than her eyes.
After seeing each other in this way for two months they became fast friends and Boitelle having recovered from his surprise at finding that the ideals of this Negress were the same as those of the girls of his country—that she had a respect for thrift, work, religion and good manners—he loved her the more for it and was so infatuated that he wanted to marry her.
This suggestion made her dance for joy. Moreover, she had money left to her by a woman oyster-dealer who had sheltered her when abandoned by an American captain on the quay at Havre. The captain had found her when she was about six years old, huddled against the bales of cotton in the ship’s hold a few hours after leaving New York. On reaching Havre he abandoned the little black creature hidden
