During a visit to the English sea-captains, we heard that a French ship, the Julie of Bordeaux, had just sailed in despair, without having completed her cargo, paid for in advance, after waiting nine months in the river, and that Pepel, thinking that we had come on that account, was shaking in his shoes.  But on making inquiries we could find no trace of any complaint, official or semi-official, having been made, and further, the Julie was accused of having tried to dabble in the slave trade.  Here was a puzzle for us.  What were we to do?  Say nothing to Pepel?  Then he would laugh us to scorn, for his conscience pricked him, we knew.  All his canoes had taken to flight when we arrived, and not a single negro had boarded us.  Threaten him?  But with what?  And why?  To tell how we got out of this hole would be to betray... a professional secret.  All I can say is, that the next morning, in a huge straw hat, and with a big striped parasol in my hand, I performed the functions of dragoman to his Excellency Commander Lahalle, full lieutenant, representing France and the French navy.

We began by crossing a swamp, covered with huge mangrove trees, through which small canals had been cut to allow of the canoes getting up to the houses.  Under the dark mangrove shadows the long canoes, full of fierce-looking stark-naked blacks, looked like huge crocodiles, ready to fly at us.  After a time we came alongside Pepel’s house, a sort of labyrinth of clay and straw-built huts.  I announced his Excellency the Commander to a negro who spoke Spanish.  We were invited to sit down, a crowd of blacks assembled, and the elders of the tribe arrived.  Lastly appeared a tall young man wearing a blue cotton shirt and trousers, with amulets strung round his neck, and a sceptre covered with a tigerskin in his hand.  This was Pepel himself.  He understood English and spoke it a little.  We had what is called in those parts a palaver with him.  I spoke very slowly, and the King answered me.  We went over a great many subjects.  We were severe—­but just!  Nothing concerning the result of this conference ever transpired, but the diplomatic action of France made itself felt.  Something else made itself felt as well, and that was the horrible smell in Pepel’s town, a filthy place, inhabited by a numerous and hideous population.

When I got outside it I stopped short before a striking sight—­a semi-circular clump of trees so huge that men looked like pigmies beneath them, giving me much the same impression as the mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople had formerly made on me.  The trunks of these trees were like the pillars of some strange cathedral, and it was as dark beneath them as in some ancient church.  The bare sandy soil swarmed with women, some naked, some clothed, and all tattooed and painted and striped in various colours, scraping up the earth to find fresh water, the rarest of all commodities on the African coast.  It was a picture worth painting.