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Thereupon the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant. He saw his confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he gave orders to the housekeeper in these words: "Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Cesaire." The servant cast on the man an angry glance and went away grumbling. The clergyman went on: "Come, now, tell your story."
It seemed that where Mr. Travis was a big, bulky opener of doors, Mr. Raffin was a sleek and cultured Chesterfield a musician an artist. Where Mr. Travis could not dance without stepping on everybody in the room, Mr. Raffin was a veritable Mordkin. Where Mr. Travis hung out with a bunch of no-good crap-shooting black buck niggers, Mr.
The Abbe Raffin, who knew his man, and who never lost his temper, burst out laughing. "Well, yes, I'll tell your father my little story; but you, my lad, you'll go there to the sermon." Houlbrèque extended his hand in order to give a solemn assurance: "On the word of a poor man, if you do this for me, I promise that I will." "Come, that's all right. When do you wish me to go and find your father?"
Swaying unsteadily, the mulatto looked around him through eyes closed to snakelike slits. "Raffin," said Ambrose, "you-all has on yo' back de Eye ob Voodoo. Dese gennlemen hyar thinks yo' is a Voodoo. Ah know yo' ain't!" "I am a Voodoo! An' you, you sacré cochon," hissed Raffin, "I'll make you wish you had nevaire been born!"
He held out his mammoth hands before Miss Aphrodite and warned her that with them, at the first provocation, he would jest take and bust Mr. Raffin in two. This done, he would throw the shuddering fragments into the street, and with his feet Exhibit B would kick them the entire length and breadth of the neighbourhood.
Thereupon, the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant. He saw his confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he gave orders to the housekeeper in these words: "Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Césaire." The servant cast on the man an angry glance, and went away grumbling. The clergyman went on: "Come, now, spin out your yarn."
At last, when he felt the tune was ripe, Ambrose pleaded urgent business for two evenings and shook down the Social Club dice fanciers for the price of the ring. Then Mr. Dominique Raffin loomed dark on the horizon. Mr. Raffin did not loom as dark as he might have loomed, however, because he was half white. He hailed from Haiti, and was the son of a French sailor and a transplanted Congo wench.
However, he had made up his mind, and he proceeded toward the presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case. The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen fire. As soon as he saw the peasant entering he asked, merely turning his head: "Well, Cesaire, what do you want?"
Raffin by the collar of his coat, and swung him round and round and over his head. Mr. Raffin streamed almost straight out, like the imitation airplanes that whirl dizzily about the tower in an amusement park. Suddenly there was a rending of cloth, and Dominique shot through the air to encounter the wall with a soul-satisfying thump.
Hitherto Iona had received the last remains of the Lords of Duart; but Sir John Maclean was not carried to the resting-place of his forefathers. He was buried in the church of Raffin in Bamffshire, in the family vault of the Gordons of Buckie. In Iona, that former "light of the western world," are the tombs of the brave and unfortunate Macleans.
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