assured her; I was wondering if she really suspected his intention.
“No, he will not,” she said decidedly; “but,” she added, with an electric flash of the eyes, “he may come in time.”
I lighted another cigarette.
“Where did you meet him, Cecily?”
“He came to St. Pierre three, four years ago. He saw me one day standing at the door of my house in the Rue Peysette.”
“Do you know where he came from?”
“No; it mattered nothing to me.”
“He never talked about his past?”
“His past? No, no. What was it to us? We had a pretty, pretty place at Fond-Corré. Tambou! I wish I was there now!”
“You were happy there?”
“Yes—except for the times doudoux was in his black spells.”
“His black spells?”
“Yes—oh, then everyone ran from him—even I. He was terrible-raving and cursing Missié Johnson.”
“Johnson?” I repeated, with a sudden leap of the heart. “Who was he, Cecily?”
“He was doudoux’s zombi,” she anwered with conviction, and crossed herself.
“Then he didn’t live at Fond-Corré?”
“At Fond-Corré? Oh, no! He was a zombi—in the air, in the earth, everywhere. Doudoux would fight with him an hour at a time. Oh, it was terrible!”
