-- "Of course I do", replied Father Ralibera. "I even knew its founder, Father de Villèle, when I was a kid. A saint man, Joseph de Villèle, a saint man".

-- "Well, my grand-mother, Yvonne Bablon, was the manager of the orphanage for many years. I remember a spanking she gave me on the front steps of the orphanage, when I was four, because I had uttered some swear word while looking squarely at her. But I digress. Here is the reason I mentioned this.

There was a young orphan boy at the institution. He must have been your age, Father, born perhaps in 1930, six years before me. His relatives had left him at the door of Bel-Air when he was an infant. Years later, when he was a teenager, Grand-Mère hired him as a cook. So he came to live with us. His daily chores were to go to the Zoma market buy meat and veggies, and cook dinner. His room was next to mine. The wall between us was made of wooden planks barely jointed, and our beds were against them. We could speak easily without raising our voices, and we frequently spoke before falling asleep. I just wish now that we spoke in Malagasy rather than French: what a lost opportunity!

Anyway, something bizarre happened in early 1947, and I wanted your opinion on it. One day, Raphael went to the police and turned himself in, claiming he had committed some crime. The police made an inquiry, found that there was no crime of any kind, and released him. A short while later, again he went to the police..."

-- "Ah!" said Father Ralibera, raising an interrupting palm. "I know why. I know exactly what happened and why. But I will tell you after you finish your story. Continue."

-- "... again the police released him. By then, Grand-Père and Grand-Mère had concluded that Raphael was going mad. A few days later, as we were in bed getting ready to sleep, Raphael told me: "Jean-Marie, I am not well at all. I must leave. Here, take this money and give it to Grand-Mère to say Masses for me." With this, he pushed between the planks a couple of bills, and I promised him to do as he asked. That night, he disappeared.

Several years passed before I saw Raphael again. One day, our boy-scout troop was marching through a village, somewhere south-east of Antananarivo, not far from Alasora, I think. A man came marching alongside me, pinched my forearm: it was Raphael! "How are you doing, Jean-Marie?" We chatted a bit while marching. I was too disciplined to dare leave the ranks of the troop and spend time with Raphael. So we chatted a little more, then waived good-bye. He never explained what had happened. I never saw him again."

-- "Now I will tell you what happened", said Father Ralibera. "It was in 1947. The revolt of the Malagasy against the French started on March 29, 1947. Raphael your cook, like many cooks in Madagascar, had been secretly ordered to poison his masters on that night. But he loved your family and could not do commit the deed. So he went to the police hoping to be locked up and have a solid excuse to disobey the order. That ploy failed. His last recourse was to flee and hide somewhere."