silence, turned round and said:
“Well, has no one anything to say?”
“Give us time,” replied the old woman.
He went on: “Come! tell us the story of your hen’s eight eggs.”
This was one of the family’s funny stories. But as his mother still kept silent, paralysed by her feelings, he started to tell the tale himself, laughing all the time, of the never forgotten adventure. The father, who knew it by heart, cheered up at the very first words; the mother soon followed his example, and the Negress herself at the funniest part burst into a fit of laughter, such a noisy, rolling torrent of laughter that the excited horse broke into a gallop.
This broke the ice and they started to talk.
They had scarcely reached the house and had all got down from the cart when, after taking his sweetheart to her room to change her dress, which might get stained while cooking an appetising dish that was to win the old people’s affections through their stomachs, he led his parents out of doors and, with beating heart, asked:
“Well, what do you think?”
The father was silent. The mother, more courageous, exclaimed:
“She is too black! No, really, it is beyond a joke. It makes my blood curdle.”
“You will get used to it,” said Antoine.
“Possibly, but not just at first.”
They went into the house, where the good woman was upset at seeing the Negress busy in the kitchen. Then, tucking up her skirts, she started to help her.
The meal was very good, very long and very enjoyable. When they were wandering round afterwards Antoine took his father aside.
“Well, father, what do you think of her?”
The peasant never committed himself.
“I have no opinion about her. Ask your mother.”
So Antoine joined his mother and, keeping behind the others, said: “Well, mother, what do you think of her?”
“My poor lad, really, she is too black. Only the least little bit less and I would say nothing, but it is too much. She might be Satan himself!”
He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman was, but he felt a tempest of grief rage within him. He racked his brains for a solution of the difficulty, surprised that she had not taken their fancy at once as she had taken his. So the four of them strolled through the cornfields in silence. When they passed a fence, farmers appeared at the gate and little boys climbed the hedges, everyone rushed out to see the “blackie” that young Boitelle had brought home. In the distance people could be seen scampering across the fields as they do when the village crier makes some public announcement. Old Boitelle and his wife, scared at the curiosity aroused by their approach, quickened their pace, walking side by side, leaving far behind their son, who was being asked by his companion what his parents thought of her.
Hesitatingly he replied that they had not yet made up their minds.
But in the village square there was an excited rush from all the cottages, and at sight of the gathering crowd the old Boitelles fled home, while Antoine, furious with anger, his sweetheart holding his arm, advanced majestically under the astonished gaze of the crowd.
He understood that it was all over, that there was no hope, that he could never marry his Negress; she understood it too; and they both began to cry as they drew near to the farm. As soon as they got back she took off her dress to help the old woman; she followed her everywhere, to the dairy, the stables, the poultry run, taking upon herself the hardest work, and always saying: “Let me do it, Madame Boitelle,” so that in the evening the old woman, her heart softening but still inexorable, said to her son:
“All the same she is a good girl. It is a pity she is so black, but there, she really is too black. I could never get used to it, she must go back again, she is too black!”
And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:
“She won’t have it, she says you are too black. You must go back again. I will take you to the station. Never mind, don’t be miserable about it. I will talk to them when you are gone.”
He took her to the station, bidding her hope, and after embracing her, put her into the train, which he watched out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.
He appealed in vain to his parents, they would never give their consent.
When he had told this story, well known throughout the countryside, Antoine Boitelle always added:
“From that time, I have had no heart for anything, for anything whatever. I took no interest in any trade, and so I became what I am, a scavenger.”
People would say to him: “Yet you have married.”
“Yes, and I can’t say that my wife was objectionable, considering that I have had fourteen children, but she was not the other one, oh, no—certainly not! The other one, you see, my Negress, if she only looked at me, I felt I was in the seventh heaven …”
Allouma
I
One of my friends had told me that if, during my travels in Algeria, I happened to be in the neighbourhood of Bordj-Ebbaba, I was to be sure to visit his old friend Auballe, who had settled down there.
These names had passed from my mind, and the settler was far from my thoughts, when by pure chance I came across him.
For a month I had been roaming afoot over that magnificent country which stretches from Algiers to Cherchell, Orleansville and Tiaret, a region both barren and wooded, its scenery both imposing and friendly. Between the mountains dense forests of pines clothe the narrow valleys through which the winter torrents rush. Enormous trees fallen across the ravine serve as bridges for the Arabs, and support a mass of creepers which twine around their dead trunks and deck them anew with life. In the secluded folds of the mountains there
