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Updated: June 3, 2025
Alone among those shadowing, dripping banana-plants, with no human companionship, he had made his study of the moods of the stream a worship. "Bacchus," I saw repeated on the dates July 13, 14, 15. "Another god on the altar then?" I asked. "Mais, oui," he answered in his rusty voice. "The Fall of the Bastile. Le Vergose sent me a bottle of rum to honor the Republic."
Stirred by the memories of home, these melodies awakened, Le Vergose remembered a countryman who lived nearby. "There is a hermit who lives a thousand feet up the valley," said he. "We might take him half a litre of rum. He is a Breton of Brest who has been here many years. He eats nothing but bananas, for he lives in a banana grove, and he is able only to totter to the river for water.
She said nothing more, but stood watching our progress, her tall figure absolutely motionless in its dark tunic, her eyes curiously intent upon us. I felt relief when the thick curtains of leaves shut us from her view. "That is Mohuto," said Le Vergose. "She is a solitary, too. All her people have died, and she has become hard and bitter. That is a strange thing, for an islander.
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.
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.
He was like a two-days' old corpse. He rose to his feet, staggered, and lay down on the heap of soggy leaves. The mosquitos circled in swarms above him. They were devouring us, but the hermit they never lighted on. Le Vergose and I fled from the hut and the grove. "He is an example like those in Balzac or the religious books," said the Breton, crossing himself.
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