The buccaneer obtained nothing by cajolery, he paid cash for everything, and his hands were as full of gold as his lips of oaths. So why was it so great a marvel that the governors opened their doors, and those who ought to have led them to the gallows invited them to their tables.
The governor of St. Christopher tried to drive Barthelemy out of his harbor—what did he gain by it? Barthelemy burned his ships and bombarded his city; the governor of St. Barthelemy was wiser, he introduced the corsair to his wife and became a rich man. There are as many customs as there are countries. We should think such proceedings very strange.
The governor's wife was a beautiful Creole, whose eyes fired men's hearts. Her face was pale, but when the sun of passion glowed upon it, her cheeks at first flushed faintly with the rose-hue of dawn, then deepened into crimson.
To watch the alternation of these tints was the school of madness.
Everyone was affected by the contagion of this frenzy, save her husband—and no one more than the pirate chief Barthelemy.
The husband, a stout, placid man, sat beside Barthelemy at the banquet, opposite to the fair Creole. Barthelemy was drunk with wine and love.
"Look at that woman," he said to the husband, extolling his wife: "What a face! What eyes! What a matchless figure! A goddess who has left her temple to come to West India! See those eyes! How they sparkle! What need have we of sun or stars so long as they shine upon us?"
The husband, on the contrary, paid no heed, but apparently deemed it wiser to shut his eyes and nod sleepily.
Barthelemy shook him by the collar.