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Updated: May 10, 2025
"I have been here many years, and never before did I come here, and again. Jamais de la vie! I must begin to go to church again." We said nothing more as we slid and slipped downward on the wet trail, but when we came again to the straw hut hidden in the trees Mohuto was still on the paepae, watching us, and I paused to speak to her. "You knew Hemeury Francois when he was young?"
Hemeury Francois," said Le Vergose in the Breton dialect that recalled their childhood home, "I have brought an American to see you. You can talk your English to him." "By damn, yes," croaked the hermit, in the voice of a raven loosed from a deserted house. But he made no movement until Le Vergose held before his bone-like nose a pint of strong Tahiti rum.
It's got so I hate to see him come in here, looking like a death's head. He spoils my drink. I'd rather be in the Marquesas with old Hemeury François, who is dyin' by inches of the spell Mohuto 's put on him. They're alike, these Kanakas; they're afraid of God and the devil, their own and the dam' missionary outfit, too. They've got them coming and going.
Toiling up it, sliding and clutching the boughs that overhung and almost obliterated it, we passed a small native house of straw, almost hidden by the trees, and were hailed by the voice of a woman. "I hea? Where do you go?" The words were sharp, with a tone almost of anxiety, of fear. "We go to see Hemeury Francois," replied Le Vergose.
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