It was eight o’clock when the governor entered on the arm of the president of the Alliance, Dr. Cassiou.  He was in a white drill uniform, with deep cuffs of gold bullion, and a blazing row of orders on his breast.  The republique outdoes many monarchies in decorating with these baubles its heroes of politics.  The governor, a wholesome-looking diplomat, was the image of the famous host of the Old Poodle Dog restaurant in San Francisco, who himself would have had a hundred ribbons in a just democracy.

The band of native musicians played “The Marseillaise,” but nobody stood.  With all their embellishments, the French would not incommode themselves at the whim of a baton-wielder, who in America had only to wave his stick in “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and any one who did not humor his whim by getting on his feet was beaten by his neighbors, who would not suffer without him.

With the governor were the inspecteurs colonials, the bearded napkin-wearers of Lovaina’s.  They, too, had a line of gay ribbon from nipple to nipple.  These three and the boulevardier, the gay secretary, sat upon the stage beside a stack of gilded red books.  The band played “La Croix d’Honneur,” and the good Dr. Cassiou read from a manuscript his annual address in a low voice becoming a ministrant at sick-beds.  Another piece by the band, and the books were distributed to the pupils, who went tremulously upon the stage to receive them from the governor’s hand.  This was a lengthy process, but each child had a claque, which communicated enthusiasm to the others of the audience, and there was continuous clapping.

“Les Cadets de Russie” by the band preceded the allocution by the governor.  He also spoke sotto voce, as if to himself, and as no one heard his words, the fans of native straw and Chinese turkey feathers were plied incessantly.  The heat was oppressive.  A sigh of relief came with the entr’acte, when all the grown folk flocked to the attached saloon.  I joined the queen’s group for a few moments, and drank champagne with her and her daughters, and I was called over to have a glass of Perrier Jouet with the governor’s party.  Most of the natives drank bottled lemonade from the glacerie at five sous a bottle.  The queen wore a rose in her hair.  She was very large, with almost a man’s face, shrewd, heavy, determined, and yet lively, and without a shade of pretense.  Her walk was singularly majestic, and was often commented upon.

The Princess Tekau was beautiful, quite like a Spanish senorita in color and feature, her ivory skin gleaming against a pale-blue bodice, and her blue-black hair piled high.  We talked French or English, with many Tahitian words thrown in, according to the mood or need of the moment.  Every one was laughing.  After all, Tahiti was very simple, and even officialdom could not import aristocracy or stiffness into a climate where starch melted before one could impress a spectator.