For some seconds they stood and looked at one another in silence, grasping their hands hard again and again with intense emotion; then Felix repeated his question a second time: “Who are you, monsieur? and where do you come from?”
“Your name, surname, age, occupation?” the Frenchman repeated, bursting forth at last into national levity. “Ah, monsieur, what a joy to hear those well-known inquiries in my ear once more. I hasten to gratify your legitimate curiosity. Name: Peyron; Christian name: Jules; age: forty-one; occupation: convict, escaped from New Caledonia.”
Under any other circumstances that last qualification might possibly have been held an undesirable one in a new acquaintance. But on the island of Boupari, among so many heathen cannibals, prejudices pale before community of blood; even a New Caledonian convict is at least a Christian European. Felix received the strange announcement without the faintest shock of surprise or disgust. He would gladly have shaken hands then and there with M. Jules Peyron, indeed, had he introduced himself in even less equivocal language as a forger, a pickpocket, or an escaped house-breaker.
“And you, monsieur?” the ex-convict inquired, politely.
Felix told him in a few words the history of their accident and their arrival on the island.
“Comment?” the Frenchman exclaimed, with surprise and delight. “A lady as well; a charming English lady! What an acquisition to the society of Boupari! Quelle chance! Quel bonheur! Monsieur, you are welcome, and mademoiselle too! And in what quality do you live here? You are a god, I see; otherwise you would not have dared to transgress my taboo, nor would this young man—your Shadow, I suppose—have permitted you to do so. But which sort of god, pray? Korong—or Tula?”
“They call me Korong,” Felix answered, all tremulous, feeling himself now on the very verge of solving this profound mystery.
“And mademoiselle as well?” the Frenchman exclaimed, in a tone of dismay.
“And mademoiselle as well,” Felix replied. “At least, so I make out. We are both Korong. I have many times heard the natives call us so.”
His new acquaintance seized his hand with every appearance of genuine alarm and regret. “My poor friend,” he exclaimed, with a horrified face, “this is terrible, terrible! Tu-Kila-Kila is a very hard man. What can we do to save your life and mademoiselle’s! We are powerless! Powerless! I have only that much to say. I condole with you! I commiserate you!”