The evening before, Angela had appeared to Croustillac in brilliant apparel, and disturbed by the strange confidences of Blue Beard and the buccaneer, the admiration of the chevalier was mixed with distrust, impatience and fear, and he had been more alarmed than touched by the beauty of Angela; but when he saw her in the morning so simply pretty, he experienced a profound emotion; he was moved; he forgot Devil's Cliff and the cannibal, and thought only of the beautiful creature before him. Love, yes, true love took possession suddenly of the chevalier's heart just before so little in love. Though the growth of this sudden passion was so rapid and instantaneous, it was none the less sincere.
Doubtless the evening before, Croustillac had suffered from too much agitation, too sudden astonishment, too strange preoccupations, to really appreciate Blue Beard; refreshed by a night's sleep, the past seemed like a dream and Angela appeared as if for the first time to him; admiring the supple figure outlined by the perfect fit of her white muslin robe, he forgot the brocaded dress studded with precious stones with which he was so impressed the preceding evening. He sought vainly to discover, in the ingenuous and charming features which he now beheld the diabolical smiles of the singular woman who had made such sinister pleasantries concerning her three deceased husbands. In fact, poor Croustillac was in love. Perhaps it was he and not Blue Beard who had changed; but with his new love came all kinds of cruel jealousy.
Seeing Angela and Youmäale walking together so familiarly, the adventurer experienced agony and new disquietude increased by an intense curiosity. Alas! what a sight for him. At times, Angela dropped the Caribbean's arm in order to pursue, with the ardent enjoyment of a child, the beautiful gold and blue insects, or to pick some lovely fragrant flower; then she would suddenly return to Youmäale, always calm, almost solemn, who seemed to have a feeling of grave and tender protection for the young woman.
At times the Caribbean gave his hand to the widow to kiss. Angela, happy and proud at this favor, carried the hand to her lips with an air at once respectful and passionate; she seemed a Caribbean woman accustomed to live a submissive and devoted slave to her master. Youmäale held a magnificent flower which the widow had given him. He let it fall to the earth. Angela bent quickly, and picking it up, handed it to him, while the savage made no gesture to prevent her, or to thank her for this attention.
"Stupid and gross animal!" cried Croustillac indignantly; "would one not think he was a sultan? How can that adorable creature bring herself to kiss the hand of a cannibal, who had no other way of sounding the praises of the good priest Simon than that he had eaten him! Yesterday a buccaneer, to-day a cannibal, to-morrow, without doubt, a filibuster. But she is a veritable Messalina!" continued Croustillac, at once despairing and feeling within himself a victim to a real passion.
The widow and the Caribbean approached nearer and nearer the window where Croustillac stood watching them, and he could hear their conversation. Youmäale spoke French with the slight guttural accent natural to his race; his words were few and brief. Croustillac overheard these words of the conversation:
"Youmäale," said the little widow, leaning on the arm of the Caribbean and looking tenderly at him, "Youmäale, you are my master, I will obey you; is it not my duty, my sweet duty, to obey you?"
"It is thy duty," said the Caribbean, who used that form, but which Angela did not. His dignity as the man demanded this.
"Youmäale, my life is your life, my thoughts are yours," returned Angela; "if you should tell me to put to my lips the deadly juice of this poisonous apple, I should do it, to show you that I belong to you, as your bow, your cabin, your canoe, belong to you."
Saying these words Angela showed the silent Caribbean a yellow fruit which she held in her hand, and which contained the most deadly and subtle poison. Youmäale, after subjecting Angela to the most piercing scrutiny, made an imperative gesture holding up the forefinger of his right hand. At this sign, the widow quickly raised the deadly fruit to her lips, and, had it not been for a movement still more rapid on the part of the Caribbean she would perhaps have given this fatal proof of passive obedience to the slightest caprice of her master. A movement of affright as fugitive as lightning, contracted the impassive features of the Caribbean as the widow lifted the apple to her lips; but he quickly recovered his coolness, lowering the hand of Angela, kissing the young woman gravely on the forehead, and saying to her in a sweet and sonorous tone, "It is well."