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 ture; he was drawn by the call of incompleteness; the need of a complementary entity.

On Sunday he received an answer to his letter. It was written in French and read:

Jules, who had fetched the letter, remained while his master read it. Dessalines meditated for a moment, then taking out his notebook scribbled upon a leaf:

He handed the paper to Jules. "Wire this at once." "Oui, monsieur. Will Monsieur le Comte be interested to see what the newspapers are saying of him?"

Jules offered his master a Sunday paper. Dessalines took it eagerly. He was ravenous for any notoriety of a creditable character; once or twice when he had been caricatured he had wept with shame and his savage heart had been filled with a murderous ferocity. His hand trembled as he reached for the paper.

"The pictures do not flatter Monsieur le Comte," ventured Jules, "but they are respectfully intended. The reporters called when Monsieur le Comte was taking his siesta; I ventured to supply them with an account of his magnificence."

"In future I wish to be called," said Dessalines 183