CHAPTER XXIII

Mademoiselle N----.


The _Jeanne d'Arc_, a beautiful, long, curving craft manned by
twelve oarsmen, came like a white bird over the blue waters of the
Bay of Traitors one Saturday afternoon, bringing Père Victorien to
Atuona. He was from Hatiheu, on the island of Nuka-hiva, seventy
miles to the north. A day and a night he had spent on the open sea,
making a slow voyage by wind and oar, but like all these priests he
made nothing of the hardships. They come to the islands to stay
until they die, and death means a crown the brighter for martyrdom.

He looked a tortured man in his heavy and smothering vestments when
I met him before the mission walls next morning. His face and hands
were covered with pustules as if from smallpox.

"The _nonos_ (sand-flies) are so furious the last month," he said
with a patient smile. "I have not slept but an hour at a time. I was
afraid I would go mad."

News of his coming brought all the valley Catholics to eight o'clock
mass. The banana-shaded road and the roots of the old banian were
crowded with worshippers in all their finery, and when they poured
into the mission the few rude benches were well filled. I found a
chair in the rear, next to that of Baufré, the shaggy drunkard, and
as the chanting began, I observed an empty _prie-dieu_, specially
prepared and placed for some person of importance.