‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. ‘This is not love, Marthe. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. This is no place for me. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk. The chapel was situated in the old ballroom, and from there, down a few stairs, the vestry had taken the place of the pantry next to the kitchens. She removed the belt and drew down his zipper.
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