The Nantes Revolution--Régnier--Paimbœuf--Landlords and
travellers--Jacomety--The native of la Guadeloupe and his
wife--Gull shooting--Axiom for sea-bird shooting--The
captain of _la Pauline_--Woman and swallow--Lovers'
superstition--Getting under sail
Nantes, like Paris, had had its revolution; its Raguse, who had given
orders to fire upon the people; and its people, who had crushed Raguse.
They pointed out houses to me that were almost as much marked as the
Louvre or the Institut; the firing was so well maintained by the
Royal troops that a young man named Petit had from a single discharge
received three bullets in his arm, one in his chest and a gunshot wound
right down his face; the latter had been fired from a window by a
compatriot of his. The wounded man was recovering well; but one of his
friends who had only received a charge of buckshot was at the point of
death. If he died, he would make the eleventh who had lost his life in
that secondary affray.
Régnier--who was at that time a charming comedian and who later became
one of the main pillars of the Comédie-Française--happened to be at
Nantes at the time, giving a series of representations, that were much
run after.
I spent two or three days in the midst of old recollections of
the Revolution, renewed for me by M. Villenave, who, as we know,
nearly played the part of victim in the great drama composed by the
Convention, which was put into action by Carrier. If there is a name on
earth execrated by the public, it is that of Carrier!
I left Nantes for Paimbœuf. I had only seen the sea at Havre, where I
was told it scarcely deserved the name; so I was curious to behold a
real sea, a stormy sea, one which even sailors call _la mer sauvage._ I
do not know anything more melancholy on earth than that band of houses,
called Paimbœuf, which fringes the Loire for five or six hundred yards!
One seems to be a thousand miles from Paris, and outside the pale of
civilisation, confronted with these brave fellows who live by a river
as wide as a sea almost, and who seem occupied with nothing outside the
mending of their nets and going fishing. I wondered how the revolutions
of the Parisian crater could possibly matter to them, seeing that its
lava could not reach them, nor could they ever see even its flame or
smoke.
But that did not matter to them, for at Paimbœuf they were boldly
talking of another Vendean insurrection. Furthermore, the distance that
separates Paimbœuf from Paris makes the very essentials of life of such
a price as is beyond the conception of people in the central provinces
of France to realise. The traveller who has heard of the cheapness of
its fish; of lobsters being sold at six to eight sous, turbots at two
francs, and skates--which no one will eat--and shrimps being flung at
your feet, is labouring under a mythical delusion: for him, the prices
at inns are very nearly the same all over; north, south, east and west,
landlords adopt an even tariff which never lets the traveller come off
too well in the matter of expenses.
We dined at the _Philippe_ of the place, which was called Jacomety;
our table d'hôte dinner cost us fifty sous--only between ten to
twenty sous difference between other table-d'hôte tariffs all over
the kingdom. At this meal, near me, a young, sad-looking woman was
dining; or, rather, was not dining, for she ate nothing. Her husband,
on her right hand, was attending to her with the solicitude of a lover,
and yet, every few minutes, the breast of the lovely one in distress
would heave with sobs, tears would come to her eyelids and, in spite
of her efforts to restrain them, they rolled down her cheeks. I could
not refrain from listening to the conversation of my two neighbours;
I soon learnt that the young man was a native of Guadeloupe, and
had just married this charming young woman from the neighbourhood of
Tours, whom he was transplanting from the garden of France to that of
the Antilles. The poor child, apart from the confidence which she had
just placed in that blind side of life which we call the future, knew
nothing of the country to which she was going, and, until she could
have children who would suck her milk and dry her tears, she mourned
for the friends and relatives she was leaving behind in the old land
of Europe and, probably, for the old continent itself too. At the same
table was dining the captain of the vessel which was to take the young
married pair over seas; and it was from him that I learnt most of these
details. They were to set sail the next day. I asked his leave to go
on board and to stay till his ship sailed, which he readily granted
me. The boat was at anchor between Paimbœuf and Saint-Nazaire, and was
called _la Pauline._ She was a pretty three-masted trader with very
graceful lines, and of five or six hundred tons.
I did not say anything of my plan to my two neighbours, certain that,
indifferent to them as I was, the next day at the moment of leaving I
should become even more to them than a fellow-countryman--namely, a
friend! I spent the rest of that day by the river banks shooting at
ordinary gulls and blackheaded gulls, amazed that they did not fall.
A native sportsman, amused at my disappointment, whom I approached to
question as to whether the Loire, like the Styx, had the property of
rendering invulnerable the men and animals which bathed in its waters,
informed me, to my great surprise, that, for want of the knowledge of
measuring maritime distances, I was firing from double the ordinary
length of range. He laid down the following rules as essential:--
Never fire at a sea-bird unless you can distinctly see its eye; when
you see its eye, its body is within range of your lead.
I instantly applied this maxim to practice. I waited patiently; I let
a gull come near enough for me to see its eye distinctly like a little
black speck, then I fired, and; the bird fell. The purveyor of these
counsels bowed and continued his shooting, pleased with himself for
having taught something to a Parisian.
I reproduce the lesson just as it was given me; one cannot spread
abroad a truth too widely, no matter whether small or great.
I forget which philosopher it was who said that, if he had his hands
full of truths, he would have them surrounded by a circle of fire for
fear he should open them absent-mindedly and let the truths escape. I
should open both my hands and blow the truths abroad with all my might.
Nothing flies so slowly and haltingly as the real truth! But, as a
truth always costs something to somebody, the one I have just divulged
cost the life of three or four great gulls.
Upon my return to the hotel I did not see our bride and bridegroom;
they had retired into their own room.
After eight o'clock in the evening, at the end of September, there are
not many diversions in Paimbœuf, so I followed the example of the young
couple and retired to my room, giving orders that I was to be waked
in time to take advantage of the first ship's boat that was going out
to _la Pauline._ The captain himself knocked at my door. I think the
worthy man had, during the night, under the sweet and deceiving dew of
sleep, let the hope spring up in his heart of taking me on the voyage
with him. He extolled the delights of a long voyage on board a good
vessel, spoke of his cook, whom he rated far higher than Jacomety's,
and praised his table, which was unrivalled by any other than that of
the _Rocher de Cancale_ in Paris. The captain had dined once at the
_Rocher de Cancale_, and he never missed a chance of putting in a good
word as to the excellence of Borel's cuisine.
It was still lovely late summer weather, and, as I simply meant to pay
a short call on _la Pauline_, I was clad only in nankeen trousers, a
white piqué waistcoat and a velvet jacket. These details, as will soon
be seen, are not without their importance to those who have learnt to
their cost what it is to suffer from cold. This was the first time
I had seen at such close quarters a ship that was on the point of
sailing. I had indeed been over one or two steamers at Havre that
were bound for Boston or New Orleans; but the elegance of these boats,
which are fitted up for carrying passengers, makes them seem more like
hotels, like furnished apartments and like the corridors of theatres,
than like ships. But the _Pauline_, on the contrary, was a thoroughbred
three-master. I examined every little thing about her with a curiosity
that enabled me to hope that some day, if occasion offered itself, I
might be able to write novels connected with the sea, like Cooper's,
or, at any rate, like those of Eugène Sue. I was in the full flush
of my examination when the boat came alongside for the second time,
bringing the young couple and their luggage. The young wife made no
attempt to restrain her tears, but wept abundantly and openly. So she
did not see me come towards the starboard companion, and when I gave
her my hand to help her from the ladder to the bridge she uttered a
little cry of surprise.
"Ah! monsieur!" she said, "are you also going to Guadeloupe?"
"Alas! no, madame," I said; "greatly to my regret I am not; but it is
precisely because I am remaining behind that you find me here."
"I do not understand you, monsieur."
"I noticed your sadness, and know that you are leaving those who are
very dear to you. Therefore, as I am a fellow-countryman of yours, I
thought I would take your last messages to your friends."
"Oh, monsieur," she said, "how good of you!"
And she looked at her husband as if to ask him how far she might enter
into a conversation of this nature with a stranger.
He smiled, and held out his hand, and with one quick glance gave his
wife leave to do what she liked.
"Yes," he said, "be so good as to take my dear Pauline's last farewell
messages to her family; and tell her mother especially, if you see her,
that in less than three years' time we will come back and pay her a
visit."
"Three years!" murmured the young wife dubiously.
"And tell this foolish child, monsieur," he went on, kissing his
wife's forehead, "that it is easier to get to and from Guadeloupe now
than it was in old days to get to Saint-Cloud.... I am not yet thirty,
and I have already made a dozen voyages between Pointe-à-Pître and
Nantes."
"Yes, my dear! You tell me that now, but eighteen hundred leagues is a
long way!"
"Six weeks' voyage ... that isn't much surely?"
I pointed out to the young wife a swallow which was skimming about the
masts.
"That bird takes just such a voyage twice a year, madame," I said to
her, "guided by its instinct alone."
"Yes, but it is a bird," she said, sighing.
I tried to give a fresh turn to the conversation.
"Monsieur," I said to the husband, "I heard you addressing madame
as Pauline... _La Pauline_ is the name of the boat on which we are
standing; is it a mere coincidence or by your own selection that the
names are the same?"
"It was my own choice, monsieur; there were three or four ships in
the river, and I decided on this one.... I thought that besides her
saintly patron I would give her one in addition.... Are you amused at
my superstition?"
"Not at all, monsieur, quite the reverse. I appreciate all
superstitions--particularly those which have love as their basis. It
has always seemed to me impossible to love sincerely without feeling
vague terrors on behalf of the beloved object, that make even the
stoutest hearted a prey to superstitious feelings."
The young wife listened to me for a little while.
"Oh, monsieur," she then began, holding out her hand, "what a kind idea
it was of yours to see us off!"
"I hope then, madame, that you will depute me to carry any last
messages to your family."
"I wrote to my mother this morning, monsieur, but if you happen to be
stopping at Tours, and have a little time to spare, be so good as to
inquire for the house of Madame M----, and tell her you met us and
saw us on the ship, and that you were witness" (she smiled rather
doubtfully) "that Léopold promised to bring me back to France in three
years' time."
"I will tell her, madame; and I will undertake to be surety for your
husband's word."
Meantime, operations were taking place on board preparatory to sailing.
The wind was east-south-east, just right for sailing out of the river;
they had only been waiting for the tide to turn before making a quick
start with the combined assistance of both wind and tide. Thus, all
of a sudden, the captain's voice made us start. The pilot had just
arrived from Saint-Nazaire, and the captain was issuing his first
order: "Heave short at the anchor!" At this unexpected order, the poor
traveller seemed as though she realised for the first time that she
must actually leave France. She uttered a little cry, and threw herself
on her husband's breast and burst into sobs. I took advantage of this
renewed outflow of tears to quit the newly-married pair, and to tell
the captain I was ready to return to shore at his convenience.
"Eh!" he said, "are you in such a hurry to leave us? I had counted on
keeping you to luncheon and to dinner--or at any rate to luncheon;
for," he added, looking at the sky, "I doubt there won't be many
passengers dining to-day."
"Good!" I replied; "but, when at sea, how did you propose to get rid of
me?"
"The easiest way imaginable: you would have returned to land with the
coasting pilot."
"Stop! Is that really possible?"
"Everything is possible that one wants very much."
"Well then, I will have luncheon with you."
"Then you will not leave us until we get to Piliers; you will return
with the pilot, to whom you can give a crown-piece, and you will pass
for an Englishman who wanted a taste of sea-sickness."
"Done! Arrange matters with him for me."
He called to the pilot, spoke a few words to him in a whisper, pointed
me out with a glance, and the pilot nodded in sign of acquiescence.
"There," said the captain, "that matter is fixed up all right!"
Then, addressing the sailors who had been heaving the anchor apeak, he
said--
"Up aloft with you and let go the top-sails and the courses, the jibs
and the spanker!"
"Ah, captain," I said, "do not go and serve me the trick that
Bougainville did to his friend the curé of Boulogne!"
"Oh, no fear of that! Besides, I am not going all round the world!"[1]
Lastly, turning to his men, he shouted--
"Get ready to hoist and haul in the top-sails!"
The story of Bougainville and the curé of Boulogne is a popular one
in the French navy, and, as you see, the captain answered me just
as a communicant answers a question on the Catechism. Now, as it is
quite possible that my reader may not be a sailor, and that ladies, in
particular, may be quite unacquainted with the legend to which I have
just referred, I will tell in as few words as possible the story of
Bougainville and the curé of Boulogne. Then we will return to our two
Paulines.
[1] See _le curé de Boulogne_, p. 59 of vol. ii. of _Bric-à-Brac._