“But not another bird story, if you please, Monsieur Brierley. We want something deeper and stronger. We have touched upon a great subject to-night, and have only scraped the surface.”
Herbert leaned forward until he caught Lemois’ eye.
“Say the rest, Lemois. You have something to tell us.”
“I! No—I have nothing to tell you. My life has been too stupid. I am always either bowing to my guests or making sauces for them over Pierre’s fire. I could only tell you about things of which I have heard. You, Monsieur Herbert, can tell us of things with which you have lived. I want to listen now to something we will remember, like your story of the cannibal’s wife. Almost every night since you have been here I go to bed with a great song ringing in my ears. You, Monsieur Herbert, must yourself have seen such tragedies in men’s lives, when in the space of a lightning’s flash their souls were stripped clean and they left naked.”
Herbert played with his fork for a moment, threw it back upon the cloth, and then said in a decided tone:
“No—it is not my turn; I’ve talked enough to-night. Open up, Le Blanc, and give us something out of the old Latin Quartier—there were tragedies enough there.”
“Only what absinthe and starvation brought—and a ring now and then on the wrong girl’s finger—or none at all, as the case might have been. But you’ve got a story, Herbert, if you will tell it, which will send Lemois to bed with a whole orchestra sounding in his ears.”
Herbert looked up.
“Which one?”
“The fever camp at Bangala.”