Two years in the French West Indies

LA MONTAGNE PELÉE ... Its slopes undulating against the north sky,—and the strange jagging of its ridges,... an extravaganza of lava-shapes overpitching and cascading into sea and plain.
Souvenir de not promenades,—de nos voyages,—de nos causeries,—des sympathies échangées,—de tout le charme d'une amitié inaltérable et inoubliable,—de tout ce qui parle à l'âme au doux Pays des Revenants.
CHAPTER
CA-ARMINE! Carmine!
Oui, madame!
Petit garçon, venez donc!
The high piping quaver of Madame Hardy's voice followed by the soft padding sound of bare feet on the tile flagging, the cooing of pigeons in the cote in the court below, the ever-present cool gurgling sound of the fountain splashing in the pool, are the only sounds that break the somnolence of midday in Le Grand Hotel de la Paix. The soft caress of the trade winds that careen the palm crests bears the breath of the vanilla blossoms and bougainvillea that festoon the rail of the balcony. A pair of lizards, flashes of green flame, chase each other in the white noon sunshine, or freeze into immobility in a moment of alarm. The shops are closed for siesta and the whole town dozes away the golden hours from eleven till two. There is no hurry. To-morrow will be time enough. Le bon Dieu is prodigal with his sunshine and rain. Food is to be had for the picking. A thatch is shelter enough and clothes are but a convention, not a necessity. Surely there is no hurry! Mais non, missie!
So we found life in Fort-de-France, Martinique. The same childlike, care-free, laughing spirit that so wholly captivated the artist soul of Hearn four decades since weaves its spell about the traveler of to-day.
Since those happy days a generation ago that he described with such lyric grace the world at large has changed, become smaller, more disillusioned, and in the island itself an occasional hurricane and the terrible disaster of St. Pierre in 1902 have wrought havoc unspeakable; yet the buoyant hearts of these Creole folk sing as of yore, among the flower-decked ruins of the city that Hearn loved so well, the new St. Pierre that lies under the brooding shadow of Mt. Pelée.