THE SAILING OF LA BELLE ARLÉSIENNE
At three o’clock on the fateful Friday morning Gaspard was awakened
from sleep by a knock at his door.
It was his landlady, Man’m Faly. She had promised to wake him at three,
for _La Belle Arlésienne_ would cast her moorings and be away at four,
if there was wind enough. Mistrusting herself, the old lady had not
gone to bed.
When he was dressed she returned with a cup of coffee and a plate with
a corrossole on it. She had known many lodgers: mates, engineers from
the French steamers, men of all nationality, but she had never known
one to please her better than Gaspard. He never grumbled and he had
always a kind word. Besides, she knew, as half St. Pierre knew, that
Marie of Morne Rouge had found her man at last, and that the man was
Gaspard. The oldest woman on earth is not too old to take interest in a
love-affair, and Man’m Faly was only sixty.
She stood by whilst he drank his coffee. He had paid her the night
before, and his few belongings were packed in a canvas bag which she
had found for him.
“Ah! well, the _Bon Dié_ knows best, but we would none of us have you
go. But you will return, that is certain.”
“Oh, yes, I will return—one does not find such a city every day, or
such people. But there are storms and chances—”
He took a packet from his pocket. It contained all the money he had
left from the payment he had received at the shipping-office and
the dollars Sagesse had paid him for the gold coins. Though he had
remembered the prayers for Yves and paid for them, he had quite a
respectable sum left, for living at St. Pierre was very cheap, and
Marie had saved him from the vices on which foolish shipmen squander
their money.
“—and one never knows what may happen. See here; there is some money
in this packet. It is for the little one, should anything happen to me.
For Marie, she whom you saw with me yesterday.”
“I will keep it,” said Man’m Faly.
She took the packet and he took up his bag. He cast his eyes round the
room. It was bare and poorly furnished, but he had been happy there;
in all his wandering life he had never known such happiness; the pure,
simple, clean happiness of childhood.
A minute later, he was in the street.
The Rue du Morne framed with its houses a glimpse of the sea, and the
upper half of a great moon just sinking beyond the sea-line.
He had said good-bye to Marie on the evening before. His heart was
heavy in him; it seemed to him now, as he came down the steep street
to the harbour side, that he was leaving Paradise and leaving it
forever. The coloured city of St. Pierre, the pleasant people, the easy
life—where would he find a city like that in the whole wide world?
And Marie—
He was standing now on the quay-side by the steps. This was the steps
where he had told the boat to meet him at daybreak. It was almost due,
for the moon had sunk now completely, and in a moment Pelée would be
drawing his silhouette against the ice-blue sky of dawn. The wind
was faint, just a breathing of air. Out there, beyond the shelter of
the island, the southeast trades would be blowing, but here there was
scarcely wind enough to move a vessel through the water.
As he listened to the wash of the waves against the sea-steps, he heard
the steady creaking of oars. It was the boat from _La Belle Arlésienne_.
* * * * *
At four o’clock Marie left the house in the street of the Precipice.
This was not a working day with her. To-morrow, the day after, the day
after that—all time lay before her to work in. To-day, the saddest day
in her life, would be a holiday.
As she passed slowly uphill through the awakening city, she could hear
the heavy shutters being flung open, voices, the crowing of a cock from
far away somewhere towards the Rue Buonaparte.
This morning, away in the blue sky of dawn, the crest of Mont Pelée,
touched already by sun-rays, was an extraordinary sight. The cloud
turban, tormented by some wind of the higher air, was streaming upwards
in tongues of misty light; the great mountain seemed to fume—one might
have fancied it topped by a burning cresset, some signal-fire lit by
giants or gods.
She reached the Rue Vauclin. It was already nearly day, and the road
was filled with people going to work. From the Rue Victor Hugo below
the Creole cries of the street-vendors were already sounding; people
gave her good-day as she passed them, and she answered them, and kept
on.
Five minutes more brought her to the road to Morne Rouge. Here she
paused and, leaning on the wall on the seaward side of the road, looked
down.
She was looking at a sight that many people would have crossed the
world to see—the bay of St. Pierre unfolding to the most lovely
morning that ever came from heaven. She saw nothing but _La Belle
Arlésienne_.
The old barquentine had shaken out her canvas and on the strengthening
breeze was stealing out to sea like a thief. The bay was still in half
twilight, though beyond the bay the sea was alive with the sun.
One might have thought for a moment that _La Belle Arlésienne_ was not
moving; a moment more, and you would have seen the distance widening
between her and the steamer anchored to starboard of her.
The girl shaded her eyes with both her hands; then she cast her arms
out as if to clutch back some figure in the air that was leaving her;
then, leaning on the wall, she looked.
As the day grew stronger, the vision of _La Belle Arlésienne_ grew more
remote.
Infinite distance seemed drawing her away, slowly, almost
imperceptibly; now a ship, now a tiny boat, now a speck vanishing in
the sun-dazzle above the azure.