It was the season of cherries.
They took a double stalk. At each end was a cherry. My cousin
put one into his mouth, Annette put the other in hers. Then
they drew the stalks in till their eyes met -- and alas, alas
that I should have to say it! -- they kissed. The game was a
pretty one, but it filled me with fury. The heroic blood of
my grandfather boiled up in me. I rushed into the kitchen.
I struck my cousin with the old man's crutch. He fell -- I had
slain him. Alas, I believe that I did slay him. Annette screamed.
The gendarmes came. I fled. I reached the harbour. I hid
aboard a vessel. The vessel put to sea. The captain found me
and beat me. He took an opportunity. He posted a letter from
a foreign port to the police. He did not put me ashore because
I cooked so well. I cooked for him all the way to Zanzibar.
When I asked for payment he kicked me. The blood of my heroic
grandfather boiled within me, and I shook my fist in his face
and vowed to have my revenge. He kicked me again. At Zanzibar
there was a telegram. I cursed the man who invented telegraphs.
Now I curse him again. I was to be arrested for desertion,
for murder, and que sais-je? I escaped from the prison. I fled,
I starved.
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