CHAPTER XVII
THE SAVAGE ISLAND
DESSALINES, Rosenthal, and Jules were deep in consultation in the main saloon.
The valet de chambre had proved himself discreet and subtle. Since the beginning of his campaign Dessalines had confided in him without reserve; on all occasions he asked his counsel.
The two were honest friends. There is no doubt that the birdlike little Frenchman cherished for his black master a sincere liking as well as an unbounded admiration. True, he was very proud of Dessalines; proud of the sensation he produced wherever he went; proud to be in his service, and no doubt with something of the pride of the keeper of a wild animal supposed to be dangerous but known by the tamer to be quite docile. Deeper than this was Jules's real devotion to Dessalines, enhanced as it was by a sense of obligation and responsibility evoked by the Titan weaknesses of the great negro—the devotion of the mind to the body.
Dessalines was intensely fond of Jules. The little fellow flattered him; cheered him when depressed; called back his self-confidence; made him laugh. He was a great fellow for grimaces, was Jules. He could twist his birdlike features into contortions at the ludicrous effect of which Dessalines would throw himself on the floor and roll in a paroxysm of mirth. Then Jules could
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