This eBook was produced by David Widger [widger@cecomet.net]
by Gilbert Parker
When Blake Shorland stepped from the steamer Belle Sauvage upon the quayat Noumea, he proceeded, with the alertness of the trained newspapercorrespondent, to take his bearings. So this was New Caledonia, the homeof outcast, criminal France, the recent refuge of Communist exiles, ofRochefort, Louise Michel, Felix Rastoul, and the rest! Over there to theleft was Ile Nou, the convict prison; on the hill was the Governor'sresidence; below, the Government establishments with their red-tiledroofs; and hidden away in a luxuriance of tropical vegetation lay thehouses of the citizens. He stroked his black moustache thoughtfully fora moment, and put his hand to his pocket to see that his letters ofintroduction from the French Consul at Sydney to Governor Rapont and hisjournalistic credentials were there. Then he remembered the advice ofthe captain of the Belle Sauvage as to the best hotel, and startedtowards it. He had not been shown the way, but his instincts directedhim. He knew where it ought to be, according to the outlines of theplace.
It proved to be where he thought, and, having engaged rooms, sent for hisluggage, and refreshed himself, he set out to explore the town. Hisprudent mind told him that he ought to proceed at once to Governor Rapontand present his letters of commendation, for he was in a country wherefeeling was running high against English interference with thedeportation of French convicts to New Caledonia, and the intention ofFrance to annex the New Hebrides. But he knew also that so soon as theseletters were presented, his freedom of action would be restricted, eitherby a courtesy which would be so constant as to become surveillance, or byan injunction having no such gloss. He had come to study Frenchgovernment in New Caledonia, to gauge the extent of the menace thatthe convict question bore towards Australia, and to tell his tale toAustralia, and to such other countries as would listen. The task was notpleasant, and it had its dangers, too, of a certain kind. But Shorlandhad had difficulty and peril often in his life, and he borrowed notrouble. Proceeding along the Rue de l'Alma, and listening to the babbleof French voices round him, he suddenly paused abstractedly, and said tohimself "Somehow it brings back Paris to me, and that last night there,when I bade Freeman good-bye. Poor old boy, I'm glad better days arecoming for him. Sure to be better, if he marries Clare. Why didn't hedo it seven years ago, and save all that other horrible business?"
Then he moved on, noticing that he was the object of remark, but as itwas daytime, and in the street he felt himself safe. Glancing up at adoorway he saw a familiar Paris name—Cafe Voisin. This was interesting.It was in the Cafe Voisin that he had touched a farewell glass with LukeFreeman, the one bosom friend of his life. He entered this Cafe Voisinwith the thought of how vague would be the society which he would meet insuch a reproduction of a famous Parisian haunt. He thought of a Cafechantant at Port Said, and said to himself, "It can't be worse thanthat." He was right then. The world had no shambles of ghastlyfrivolity and debauchery like those of Port Said.
The Cafe Voisin had many visitors, and Shorland saw at a glance who theywere—liberes, or ticket-of-leave men, a drunken soldier or two, and afew of that class who with an army are called camp-followers, in anEnglish town roughs, in a French convict settlement recidivistes. Hefel