Marie’s fingers tightened on the letter.
Then another voice replied, and it brought a flush to the cheek of the girl, a hint of trouble to her eyes. It said: “Is Miss Wyndham here still?”
“Yes, still here. My wife will be distressed when she leaves us.”
“She will not care to go, I should think. The Hotel du Gouverneur spoils us for all other places in New Caledonia.”
“You are too kind, monsieur; I fear that those who think as you are not many. After all, I am little more here than a gaoler—merely a gaoler, M. Tryon.”
“Yet, the Commandant of a military station and the Governor of a Colony.”
“The station is a penitentiary; the colony for liberes, ticket-of-leave men, and outcast Paris; with a sprinkling of gentlemen and officers dying of boredom. No, my friend, we French are not colonists. We emigrate, we do not colonise. This is no colony. We do no good here.”
“You forget the nickel mines.”
“Quarries for the convicts and for political prisoners of the lowest class.”
“The plantations?”