232 MYSTIC ISLES 



"You are late, my friend," the princess went on, with 

 a note of pity in her soft voice. "My mother remem- 

 bered the days Loti depicted in 'Rarahu' My grand- 

 mother knew little Tarahu of Bora-Bora of whom he 

 wrote. Viaud was then a midshipman. We did not 

 call him Loti, but Roti, our coined word for a rose, be- 

 cause he had rosy cheeks. But he could not call him- 

 self Roti in his novel, for in French, his language, that 

 meant roasted, and one might think of hoeuf a la roti. 

 We have no L in Tahitian. We also called him Mata 

 Reva or the Deep-Eyed One. Tarahu was not born on 

 Bora-Bora, but right here in Mataiea." 



She lay at full length, her uptilted face in her hands, 

 and her perfect feet raised now and then in unaware 

 accentuation of her words. 



"What Tahitian women there were then! Read the 

 old French writers! None was a pigmy. When they 

 stood under the waterfall the water ran off their skins as 

 off a marble table. Not a drop stayed on. They were 

 as smooth as glass." 



Fragrance of the Jasmine sighed. 



"Aue! Heasr 



I had it in my mouth to say that she was as beautiful 

 and as smooth-skinned as any of her forebears. She 

 was as enticing as imaginable, her languorous eyes alight 

 as she spoke, and her bare limbs moving in the vigor 

 of her thoughts. But I could not think of anything in 

 French or English not banal, and my Tahitian was yet 

 too limited to permit me to tutoyer her. She was an 

 islander, but she had seen the Midnight Follies and the 

 Bal Bulher, the carnival in Nice, and once. New Year's 



