The night was soft, moonlit, and silent. There was not a sound in the
village, not a breath of air to awaken the sleeping life. The cock,
turning on his rod at the top of the steeple, did not creak; there was
not the sound of a blind slamming against a wall; not even the furtive
step of a marauding cat. Nothing could be heard except the rhythmic
beating of the waves on the beach, and very far away on the heights,
in the direction of the graveyard, the plaintive howlings of a dog,
wailing to the dead.
It must be the captain’s dog. During the fifteen days that she had been
away, Elise had not thought of her good friend, the shaggy-coated and
brave fellow, who said so many sweet things to her with his thoughtful
eyes. She could hear him still. It was he, without doubt, but his voice
seemed a little deeper than usual. Why was he howling so dismally, and
so far away? Could he have lost his master? Elise had returned late the
night before.
She had not heard the news. Could the poor captain have died?
The captain enjoyed great consideration in the village, not only on
account of his merit, but on account of his rank. It is true that he
was only an officer of the coast guards, who had been for a long time
on the retired list, but he was better known than any of the officers
of those parts. Eating little and drinking less, he spent the greater
part of his pension in stuffing with dainties the village children, and
in feeding his dog Barbet, his only friend and the friend of his whole
life.
For twenty-five years he had lived in close comradeship with the same
dog, this dog who was now watching on his tomb. The same dog? It was
not possible, at least, to tell when he was changed. His history was
very simple. Like the greater part of the coast guards, the captain had
adopted a dog on entering the service. The first of the Barbets had
long, coarse hair. One day he had saved the captain from drowning, and
from that time he had treated him as a brother and faithful companion.
And this friendship had lasted fifteen years; fifteen years--the
life of a dog. Barbet, grown old, had gently come to his end, but he
had left a son as shaggy as himself, with long hair, always full of
thistle-heads, collected from the hedges. Gentle as his father, the
second of the family had the same intelligent and kind look, the same
affection for his master. The captain had fed him in the same way, had
taught him in the same way, and had raised him to the same rank. They
were both corporals, the Barbets, the son as well as the father. On the
days of inspection, before the superior officer who passed through the
town, Barbet advanced at the word of command, his chevron under his
chin, after the ancient fashion, and a stripe of silver on his legs.
He was proud of these honors, because he had earned them by force of
application. He knew the drill, but that he considered as nothing. He
was not proud, for all the dogs of the company knew as much. He had a
real cause for pride which no one could dispute. He had not an equal in
recognizing, at a distance, the boats of his friends.
From the coast-guard station on the height of the dune, he could see
them as they arrived from sea, and could distinguish them better than
any man or woman. He announced them after a fashion of his own, by
distinct barks. All the people of the village had learned to know
what the barks meant. During bad weather, when the women, awaiting
the return of their husbands, could just make out, lost in the white
foam of the sea, a bit of sail above a black hull, they would consult
Barbet. Three barks--it was the boat of Baptiste Hénin. Elise, while
still a child, on hearing him name her father in this way, had wept,
while her mother, with an eye from which the fire of anxiety had dried
the tears, watched the strife of the little boat against the heavy sea.
No; it is not Hénin’s boat. We can see two masts. It is the sloop of
big Poidevin. Look again, Barbet. The dog would dilate his nostrils
in the wind. Through his long hair his fawn-colored eyes would shine
like gleaming points. Three barks again. Yes, it is Hénin’s boat. She
comes as if she were flying; one mast only; Barbet is right. And when
the boat, pitching and rolling through the tumbling sea, drew near
enough to be recognized by all, then it was that Barbet was triumphant,
barking every time that the hull disappeared in the waves and
reappeared on their crest. When, after hours of anguish, that seemed
longer than a whole existence, the crowd, massed on the dune, finally
see the boat reach the harbor, and are all hurrying to assist at her
arrival, Barbet follows them in their joyful course. When they arrive
at the harbor, he tugs on the ropes that make her fast, then barks
joyfully, while all the dogs in the town re-echo his cries like a note
of victory.
All these recollections of her infancy, at the same time sweet and sad,
come back to Elise, while she stands listening to the howling of Barbet
on the dune. Poor Barbet! He was the third of his race, still young and
strong in proportion. Elise had known only two of them, but she could
not tell them apart any more than their master could.
But whether there were one or two, it was always the same Barbet,
simple as a tale, lasting as a tradition. What was the use of a
pedigree in a family where the descendant was as good as his ancestor,
and when from grandfather to grandson the same intelligent and kind
spirit animated them all under the same body?
Barbet ought to know thoroughly the history of the village. He had
brought up all the children, and it was he who took them to school. He
had learned the hour for going and coming, and he arrived punctually,
in order to watch over them on the route. He was a strong hand for
discipline. He detested an abuse of power or injustice. It was a bad
day for the older children if they struck the younger.
Barbet’s mission was to look after the children. He set himself to
discharge it, exactly as his master had taught him. Never would he have
permitted these little shavers, no higher than himself, to go to school
alone. He gathered them into a company from all sides, their books
under their arms, their tin forks tinkling against the iron plates in
their baskets. Barbet opened his ears at this sound, because his little
friends each kept for him a dainty morsel. It was the voluntary tithe
of the weak to the strong who protected them. He did not return to the
coast-guard station until after he had seen them safely home, one after
another, down to the last.
Elise had gone to school with him for a long time. She was his
favorite, and he displayed so much zeal in her defence that he would
show his teeth if any one even feigned to attack her. She had kept
for him always the most dainty part of her dinner, she had caressed
him with her little hand, she had looked into his eyes, bending her
little cunning head above him. The little girl and the dog were always
together at playtime. And on the dune they amused themselves chasing,
and playing tag, and rolling on the sand, or still more often they
looked out over the sea, and played at recognizing the barks, like two
corporals in service.
Later on, when she had become larger, Elise had left school. Then
she had entrusted Firmin to Barbet. Unfortunately they were not on
good terms. Firmin did not wish to be looked after, and Barbet would
not relax his duty. So came about difficulties, which neither the
interposition of Elise, nor even that of the captain, were able to
prevent. Elise had been troubled by quarrels, which were renewed every
day more fiercely. The boy would box Barbet’s ears, would pull him by
the tail, put burrs on his head, and in his eyes. The dog, driving the
boy before him by barking and by pretended bites, would snap at his
calves, now right, now left, and oblige him to march at the end of the
company, like the naughty boy of a class. And when Barbet brought him
home, Elise always found her brother’s face streaked with tears.
She comforted the spoiled child, and felt unkindly toward Barbet for
the rough penance which he inflicted upon the little chap, who was so
beautiful even in his sulkiness. With a burst of maternal tenderness,
she dried his great moist eyes and brown cheeks, where the tears were
still running, and quieted the last gasp of the little sobbing heart.
“Do not weep any more, my little man, I will scold this naughty
Barbet.” But Barbet never was scolded, because he had only done his
duty.
All these details of the time when she had lived in careless happiness
came back to Elise as a consoling and refreshing thought. She walked
slowly under the soft light, lost in revery, recalling, one by one,
these times of her infancy, so sadly sweet and so far away. And, losing
herself in her memories of the past, she forgot the hard reality of the
present, and Barbet’s howlings, half heard, seemed like the echo of
forgotten sadness.
* * * * *
She was recalled to herself on finding that she was at the door of a
little house just out of the village, hidden among the trees on the
edge of a stream. She had some difficulty in recalling how and why she
had come there. She was at Silvere’s door.
But was this a proper time to present herself at her _fiancé’s_ house?
She waited some minutes, and listened to hear if the church clock would
strike, then impatient of the least delay, she looked at the moon, and
from her height in the heavens, knew that it was about midnight.
After all, why should she hesitate? Was not Silvere’s mother an
excellent woman, who would be happy to receive her in her trouble? All
came back to her. Could she have been so troubled as to forget already
the double task laid on her, that of finding Firmin and her father? Who
would aid her if not Silvere?
Again she heard Barbet, who was howling long and plaintively. It broke
her heart. She would have liked to go to him to protect and console him
in her turn. But if he were in the graveyard, how could she go there
without meeting the ghosts which dance about the graves?
And at this baleful thought Elise saw again before her her father’s
spectre, like the ghost of a remorse which would not leave her. Seized
by superstitious fears, she knocked nervously at the door.
She waited a long time and exchanged many words before she succeeded
in having it opened. At last the bolt clicked, the lock turned, the
door swung half open, and in the doorway stood Silvere’s mother, an old
woman with a sharp voice but a kind look. She was only half dressed,
and her chemise only partly concealed her strong shoulders and her old
wrinkled arms.
“Alas, my poor daughter, what has happened to bring you out at such an
hour? The living do not walk at night. You must go home.”
The old woman barred the door with her two arms, as Elise stood on the
sill.
“Return home, my poor daughter. You seem like a ghost.” The moon
shone fully in the old woman’s face, but Elise had never seen on her
kind features such an expression of distrust and disquiet. She was so
disturbed that she had hardly strength to speak.
“Mother Pilote, I need advice, and I come to ask it of Silvere. I
cannot wait.”
“Silvere has gone away, my daughter. Fishing from the beach he found
stupid work. The village was not to his taste after you had gone. He
signed papers with big Poidevin on the _Jeune-Adolphine_. He thought
that he should see you in the Scotch seas. He has taken a roundabout
way to meet you.”
When she heard that her lover was gone, the only one on whom she could
depend, Elise felt as if a gulf opened before her into which sank her
last hopes. Everything gave way at once, her courage and her strength.
She leaned on the upright of the door to keep herself from falling, but
the old woman, thinking that she wished to enter, pushed her firmly but
compassionately aside.
“You must go home, my daughter.”
[Illustration: THE OLD WOMAN BARRED THE DOOR WITH HER TWO ARMS AS ELISE
STOOD ON THE SILL.
Chap. 11.]
From the height of the dune came again Barbet’s howls. He had stopped
from exhaustion, but now took up again his lugubrious wail, making the
night sorrowful.
“You hear him,” said the old woman. “He is possessed. They buried the
captain two days ago. He cannot rest quietly, or Barbet would not
bewail him so loudly. You must go home, my daughter.”
“Mother Pilote, do not send me away. I do not dare to go to my house. I
have seen the ghost of my father.”
The face of the old woman contracted with a strange look, and her lips
moved feverishly. “Go away, my daughter, you bring bad luck to others.
Last night Florimond returned from his cruise. He has told everything.
You have ruined him. It is not your fault. Your father’s soul is in
torment. I am afraid for my poor Silvere.”
“Mother Pilote, listen to me. I have seen the ghost of my father.”
“Go away, you bring bad luck!”
And, as the old woman rudely closed the door, Elise sank upon the sill,
alone in the world, and overcome by her troubles.
At that moment Barbet broke the stillness. He had suddenly stopped
howling, and was uttering short barks that seemed like voices of
consolation and a summons to her to hope.
“The soul of his master has found repose,” thought Elise, and raising
herself, as if moved by some strange presentiment, she walked toward
the graveyard. The clock on the tower struck midnight.