Biassou looked after us with blank astonishment, which was even perceptible through the respectful leave that he took of my companion.
CHAPTER XLI.
I was longing to be alone with Pierrot. His embarrassment when I had questioned him as to the fate of Marie, the ill-concealed tenderness with which he had dared to pronounce her name, had made those feelings of hatred and jealousy which had sprung up in my heart take far deeper root than at the time I saw him bearing away through the flames of Fort Galifet, her whom I could scarcely call my wife.
What did I care for the generous indignation with which he had reproved the cruelties of Biassou, the trouble which he had taken to preserve my life, and the curious manner which marked all his words and actions. What cared I for the mystery that appeared to envelop him, which brought him living before my eyes, when I thought to have witnessed his death. He proved to be a prisoner of the white troops when I believed that he lay buried in the depths of Grande-Riviere—the slave become a king, the prisoner a liberator. Of all these incomprehensible things one was clear—Marie had been carried off by him; and I had this crime to punish, this outrage to avenge.
However strange were the events that had passed under my eyes, they were not sufficient to shake my determination, and I had waited with impatience for the moment when I could compel my rival to explain all. That moment had at last arrived.
We had passed through crowds of negroes, who cast themselves on the ground as we pursued our way, exclaiming in tones of surprise, “Miraculo! ya no esta prisonero!” (“A miracle! he is no longer a prisoner!”), but whether they referred to Pierrot or to myself I neither knew nor cared. We had gained the outskirts of the camp, and rocks and trees concealed from our view the outposts of Biassou; Rask in high good humour was running in front of us, and Pierrot was following him with rapid strides, when I stopped him.
“Listen to me,” cried I; “it is useless to go any farther—the ears that you dreaded can no longer listen to us. What have you done with Marie? tell me!”
Concentrated emotion made my voice tremble. He gazed upon me kindly.
“Always the same question!” said he.
“Yes, always,” returned I, furiously; “always. I will put that question to you as you draw your last breath, or as I utter my last sigh. Where is Marie?”