Had Bras-Coupe's eye quailed but once--just for one little instant--he would have got the lash; but, as it was-- "Get an interpreter," said Don Jose; then, more privately, "and come to an understanding.

I shall require it of you." Where might one find an interpreter--one not merely able to render a Jaloff's meaning into Creole French, or Spanish, but with such a turn for diplomatic correspondence as would bring about an "understanding" with this African buffalo?
The overseer was left standing and thinking, and Clemence, who had not forgotten who threw her into the draining-ditch, cunningly passed by.
"Ah, Clemence--" "_Mo pas capabe! Mo pas capabe!_ (I cannot, I cannot!) _Ya, ya, ya! 'oir Miche Agricol' Fusilier! ouala yune bon monture, oui!_"-- which was to signify that Agricola could interpret the very Papa Lebat.
"Agricola Fusilier! The last man on earth to make peace." But there seemed to be no choice, and to Agricola the overseer went.

It was but a little ride to the Grandissime place.
"I, Agricola Fusilier, stand as an interpreter to a negro?
H-sir!" "But I thought you might know of some person," said the weakening applicant, rubbing his ear with his hand.
"Ah!" replied Agricola, addressing the surrounding scenery, "if I did not--who would?
You may take Palmyre." The overseer softly smote his hands together at the happy thought.
"Yes," said Agricola, "take Palmyre; she has picked up as many negro dialects as I know European languages." And she went to the don's plantation as interpreter, followed by Agricola's prayer to Fate that she might in some way be overtaken by disaster.

The two hated each other with all the strength they had.

He knew not only her pride, but her passion for the absent Honore.