I.
IT is only half-past four o'clock: there is the faintest blue
light of beginning day,—and little Victoire already stands at
the bedside with my wakening cup of hot black fragrant coffee.
What! so early? … Then with a sudden heart-start I remember
this is my last West Indian morning. And the child—her large
timid eyes all gently luminous—is pressing something into my
hand.
Two vanilla beans wrapped in a morsel of banana-leaf,—her
poor little farewell gift! …
Other trifling souvenirs are already packed away. Almost
everybody that knows me has given me something. Manm-Robert
brought me a tiny packet of orange-seeds,—seeds of a "gift-orange":
so long as I can keep these in my vest-pocket I will
never be without money. Cyrillia brought me a package of bouts,
and a pretty box of French matches, warranted inextinguishable by
wind. Azaline, the blanchisseuse, sent me a little pocket
looking-glass. Cerbonnie, the màchanne, left a little cup of
guava jelly for me last night. Mimi—dear child!—brought me a
little paper dog! It is her best toy; but those gentle black
eyes would stream with tears if I dared to refuse it. … Oh,
Mimi! what am I to do with a little paper dog? And what am I to
do with the chocolate-sticks and the cocoanuts and all the sugar-
cane and all the cinnamon-apples? …
