"And so you have come to get your allowance, too Madame Quéméneur?"
"And you, too, Madame Kerdoncuff?"
"And where is your husband now, Madam Quéméneur?"
"In China, Madame Kerdoncuff, on the _Kerguelen_."
"And mine, too, you know, Madame Quéméneur; he is there, too, on the
_Vénus_."
It is in the Rue des Voutes, in Brest, with a fine rain falling, that
this dialogue of strangely shrill, falsetto voices takes place.
The street is full of women who have been waiting there since the
morning, outside an ugly granite building: the sailors' pay office.
Women of Brest, deterred in no wise by the cold rain, they are talking
querulously, their feet in water, hugging the walls of the mournful
little street, in the grey mist.
It is the first day of the quarter. They form a queue to get their money
and none too soon, for money is wanting in all the dark dwellings of the
town.
Wives of sailors far away at sea, they are waiting to draw their
allowances, the pay which those sailors have allotted them.
And when they have drawn it they will spend it on drink. There is,
opposite, a tavern which has been established specially for their
convenience. It is called _À la mère de famille_ and the proprietress
is one Madame Pétavin. It is known in Brest as _le cabaret de la
délégue_ (the tavern of the allowance).
Madame Quéméneur, pug-faced, square-jawed, big-bellied, wears a
waterproof and a bonnet of black tulle trimmed with blue shells.
Madame Kerdoncuff, sickly, greenish, with a look of a blue-bottle, shows
a mean, sly-looking face under a hat trimmed with two roses with their
foliage.
As the hour approaches the crowd of inebriates increases. The paying
office is besieged; there are disputes at the doors. The cashier's desk
is about to open.
And Marie, the wife of Yves, is there too, in this unclean
promiscuousness, holding little Pierre by the hand. Timid, depressed,
filled with a vague fear of all these women, she allows the more
impatient to pass and waits against the wall on the side sheltered from
the rain.
"Come in, my good woman, instead of letting the dear little fellow get
wet like this."
It is Madame Pétavin who speaks. She has just appeared at her door, her
face wreathed in smiles.
"Can I get you anything? A little of the best?"
"No, thank you; I do not drink," replies Marie, who, however, seeing
that the tavern is empty, enters for fear lest her little Pierre should
catch cold. "But if I am in your way. . . ."
Surely not, she was not in Madame Pétavin's way at all. Madame Pétavin
had a kind heart and made her sit down.
Presently Madame Quéméneur and Madame Kerdoncuff, among the first to
be paid, enter, shut up their umbrellas, and sit down.
"Madame! Madame! Bring us half a pint in two glasses."
No need to ask half a pint of what. Brandy, and raw brandy at that, is
what they crave.
These good ladies begin to talk:
"What did you say your husband was, on the _Kerguelen_, Madame
Quéméneur?"
"He's a leading seaman, Madame Kerdoncuff."
"And mine, too, you know, is a leading seaman, Madame Quéméneur! Wives
of leading seamen ought to be friends! Here's to you, Victoire-Yvonne!"
The women were already addressing each other by their Christian names.
The glasses were emptied.
Marie turned upon them big, serious eyes, examining them suddenly with
much curiosity, as one might animals in a menagerie. And she had an
impulse to leave, to get away. But, outside, it was raining heavily, and
there was a crowd still at the door of the paying office.
"Your health, Victoire-Yvonne!"
"Your health, Françoise!"
Glasses are replenished again.
The women now begin to talk of their domestic affairs: it is difficult
enough to make ends meet! But it can't be helped! The baker, this time,
will have to wait until next quarter day. The butcher will have to be
satisfied with something on account. To-day, pay day, may not one have a
little enjoyment?
"But I, you know," says Madame Kerdoncuff, with a coquettish smile full
of suggestion, "I am not too badly off, because, you see, I let a
furnished room to an old sailor, who is a petty officer in the port."
There is no need to be more explicit. The face of Madame Quéméneur
wears a smile of comprehension.
"And I, too, I have a quartermaster. . . . Here's to you,
Françoise! . . ." (The women whisper to each other.) "He's a gay dog, my
quartermaster, I can tell you! . . ."
And the chapter of intimate confidences begins.
Marie Kermadec gets up. Has she heard aright? Many of the words used are
unknown to her, it is true, but the meaning of them is transparent and
gestures make it doubly clear. Are there really women who can bring
themselves to say such things? And she goes out, without looking back,
without a word of thanks, red, conscious of her burning cheeks.
"Did you see her? We have shocked her!"
"Oh well, you know, she's from the country; she still wears the coif of
Bannalec; she's green yet."
"Here's to you, Victoire-Yvonne!"
The tavern is filling. At the door, umbrellas are closed, old
waterproofs are shaken; many more women come in, liquor flows.
And, at home, are little mites puling with the voices of jackals in
distress; emaciated children whimpering from cold and hunger. So much
the worse, here's to you, for is it not pay day!
When Marie got outside, she saw a group of women in large coifs who were
standing aside to make way for the press of the brazen ones; and she
went quickly and took her place amongst them so that she might once more
be in honest company. Amongst them were dear old women from the villages
who had come to draw the allowance of their sons, and who were waiting
under their cotton umbrellas, with the dignified, prim faces, which
peasant women assume in the town.
As she was waiting her turn, she entered into conversation with an old
woman from Kermézeau, who told her the history of her son, a gunner on
the _Astrée._ It appeared that in his early youth he had had bouts
similar to those of Yves, but afterwards, as he got older, he had quite
settled down; one need never despair of a sailor. . . .
Nevertheless in her indignation against these women of Brest, Marie had
come to a momentous decision: to return to Toulven at whatever cost, and
to-morrow if possible.
As soon as she got back to her room, she began to write a long letter to
Yves giving the reasons for her decision. It was true, their tenancy of
the lodgings at Récouvrance had still three months to run and that the
little house at Toulven would not be finished for a long time yet; but
she would make up for all that by working and strict economy; she would
take in mending for the neighbours, and would goffer the large native
collarettes, work of some difficulty, which she knew how to do very
perfectly by the skilful use of very fine reeds.
And she went on to tell him all the new things which little Pierre had
learnt to say and do; in very naïve terms, she told of her great love
for the absent one; she enclosed a curl, cut from a certain little brown
and very restless head; and put the whole in an envelope of thin paper
which she superscribed thus:
"To Monsieur Kermadec, Yves, Leading Seaman on board the _Primauguet_,
in the southern seas, c/o the French Consul at Panama, to be forwarded."
Poor little letter! Will it ever be delivered? Who can tell? It is not
impossible, more unlikely things have happened. In five months, six
months, travel-stained and covered with American postmarks, it will be
delivered, perhaps, faithfully to Yves, and bring him the deep love of
his wife and the brown curl of his son.