Something pricked his recollection, and he took me into the rectory and produced his portfolio.
“Here is the list; I must have read that author,” he said.
“You gave an abstract of the virtues of the trees and plants, Stevenson says in his volume.”
“Le voilà” replied the priest. “Stevenson? Do you mean perhaps Louis, who was a consumptive?”
He made a rapid movement of the hand to his face, and drew upon the air a mustache and imperial, a slender figure with a slight stoop—in a word, the very shadow of the master of romance.
“He was much with Stanislao, the king’s son. He was très distingué. He was here but a little time. However, I remember him well, because he was very sympathique, and a gentleman.
“I will tell you why he impressed me particularly. He was not French, but he spoke it as I do, and he was curious about the cannibalism which was then practically eradicated. There was another priest with me who was then very ill. He died in my arms. I remember the evening he told Stevenson of how he had saved the life of a foolish French governor. There had been rumors of a cannibal feast at Hatiheu, and the governor was incensed. He feared that the incident might be reported to Paris and injure his prestige. He blamed the chief, and sent him word that if it were proved he would personally blow out his brains.
“Soon word came that the Hatiheu people—I was pastor there for a quarter of a century—had killed several of their enemies, and were eating them and drinking namu enata. The governor started off in haste from Taiohae, for Hatiheu and the priest went with him, as also several gendarmes.
“Hundreds of natives were grouped in the public place, chanting, dancing, and drinking.
“‘Where is the chief?’ demanded the governor.