Elise had made her toilet, and Barbet was beautiful to see as they
entered the village together. But as they passed along the good people
drew aside, and mothers made haste to call their children into the
house. When they reached the Grand Place they saw groups of sailors and
coast guards talking loudly, and heard the noise of wrangling in the
sailors’ tavern.
Florimond’s voice was above all others. “She is a sorceress! She is
possessed!”
Just then a man ran into the tavern, and immediately the sailors came
out on the doorsteps, Florimond in their midst, crying:
“Look, Barnabé; do you still persist that I am a liar? Look at the
captain’s ghost walking with Elise.”
The sailors of the _Bon-Pêcheur_ were all there, except the four who
had been lost in the small boat. They had spent the day before in
drinking, had tramped during the night, and had arrived that morning,
crossing the bay at low tide. They had heard at once the reports in
the village, that Elise, since the death of her father, was possessed,
that she could cast a spell, and that she would be freed only when her
father’s body was recovered.
Mother Pilote was the cause of all this. Since dawn she had gone
from house to house telling of the visit which Elise had paid her at
midnight, the hour when the dead return to earth again. She had stopped
at one door after another, and had repeated the same story. If her
father had appeared to demand help, it was without doubt because he had
a sin to expiate. She remembered that once, on a night in March, her
husband had heard in the neighborhood of the Vergoyer, the groanings of
an old corsair of Berck, who was drowned a few days before, and whose
soul could not rest.
She was full of laments that her son was betrothed to Elise. It was too
late now to forestall ill-luck, because Silvere was at sea. Doubtless
she would never see him again. She had done her best to prevent his
sailing. Nothing would keep him back. And such a fine young fellow,
and so good! He was just twenty-four years old. He could have passed
the examination at Saint-Valery, and become a pilot, as his father was
before him. He need not have quitted the bay. But young people will not
listen to reason.
And Silvere’s old mother wept as if her son were lost to her forever.
She was just finishing her doleful journey through the village, and had
appeared on one side of the Place at the very moment when Elise, with
Barbet, arrived on the other.
At a glance, Elise had seen that the sailors were not favorably
disposed toward her. Their eyes were distrustful, and even threatening.
She could not imagine why. On their part, they had no doubt that the
reports were true. Could this Lison have been able to handle the boat
all alone, if she had been like other women? Surely, she was possessed.
This was the reason that the small boat had been lost, with the four
men. Their relatives ought to put on mourning for the whole four. The
idea had gained such credence that Chrétien’s mother, the wives of the
two big fellows, and the children of the old sailor had not dared to go
out without wearing black.
Nothing could have now destroyed the widespread belief in the evil
influence of Elise. The poor child, at the ill-natured looks which
greeted her on all sides, was stirred to her very soul. Just then she
saw Mother Pilote. She ran to her, sure of a friend and protector. The
old woman recoiled in fright.
“Alas, my daughter! You have destroyed my son, do not destroy me, too.”
The groups of sailors and coast guards had come close to her. Their
noisy talking and their loud jeers had drawn the people from the
neighboring streets. The whole square was suddenly overrun. Elise
stopped. She did not dare to go on. On the right were Florimond and his
sailors, behind them groups no less ill-disposed. On the left was the
harbor and the sea; the sea even more treacherous than men.
Elise shivered from the soles of her feet to the roots of her hair.
Without knowing why, she saw that she stood alone, that she was not
only abandoned but repudiated, disgraced, and cast adrift. This was
Florimond’s revenge.
What could have made the captain so spiteful? He was gesticulating
triumphantly. They knew now why he had failed in his fishing, lost
his nets, and injured his boat. Could the most skilful captain have
succeeded against the wiles of a sorceress?
As if to support his charges, Barbet, who had been walking with ears
down and tail between his legs, suddenly waked up. He made the rounds
of the Place, smelled of the groups, and returned to Elise with
plaintive whines, trying to show his devotion by licking her hand
and by affectionate leaps. She did not repulse him. Having only one
friend, she could not discourage the expression of his frank and strong
sympathy. She accepted his caresses, and returned them.
Encouraged by this, Barbet began to act excitedly. He ran from group to
group, growling and snarling; then he returned to Elise, good-natured
and full of affection. It was his fashion of showing these perverse
Christians that they were not worth as much as a dog in divining the
tortures of a suffering soul. One would have said that he took pleasure
in his own performance, for becoming more and more excited, he went
through it a hundred times, more and more feverishly, contorting
himself until he leaped about like a crazy dog.
From different sides of the Place came the same shouts.
“They are possessed, both of them! Let us kill them!”
“They will bring sickness on the village!”
“They will shipwreck our boats!”
“They must die!” Some of the most drunken sailors began to throw
stones. Barbet was struck first. He ran to Elise without a cry. He
raised himself on his hind legs, and laid against her breast his
wounded foot.
The violence of the assailants was increased by the quiet of the
victims. The people of the village, full of senseless superstitions,
began also to throw stones as if to quiet their fears by the punishment
of these two innocent creatures, whom they foolishly suspected of
possessing evil power.
Elise wept and made no attempt to defend herself. She was self-accused.
It seemed to her that she was expiating the filial neglect for which
her father’s spectre had reproached her. She believed now that she
understood why all these people were against her; they punished her
as an impious daughter, who had no thought for her father’s eternal
welfare.
But why were they so furious at her only, when so many besides her
had, without disquiet, left the souls of their shipwrecked relatives
in pain. She recognized many of them among those most furious toward
her. There was the sister of the lame man, the sons of friend Joseph,
the mother of Amadée. They had taken no steps to find their bodies.
This ought to hinder them from attacking her, as if they had clear
consciences. Their dead, too, were not to be compared with her father.
Poor father! He was so honest. She ought to have tried to recover him,
if she had had to dig the Vergoyer all alone. And waiting in silence
her time of deliverance, she gave herself up to martyrdom.
But she was not able to keep back a cry of pain when a stone struck
her near the eye. Instantly there was an angry snarl, and Barbet flew
at the most active sailor, biting him in the leg. The fellow dropped
in terror, frightened for his life. The dog was surely possessed; his
bites would kill.
There was a wild panic over the whole Place. Barbet returned to the
attack, showing his teeth. The sailors abandoned their comrade,
tumbling over one another into the tavern, crushing against the
door-posts in spite of Florimond, who, to show his courage, shouted:
“You run like crabs before a dog.”
And he kicked at Barbet, who snarled at him most threateningly.
“Florimond, do not be so rash. It is foolish to brave the spirits of
the dead.”
And the man, who from the other side of the Place shouted this out,
took to flight with all his companions. Florimond had a little sense.
He did not believe in these ideas of the dead returning.
“Pack of old women, just wait and see how I send Barbet off. If he has
the devil in his mouth, I will make him swallow him.”
He strode forward to kick with his heavy boot this demon of a dog.
A fresh snarl, longer, sharper, harsher, stopped him--a snarl so
deep and unearthly that the last of the spectators took flight, and,
panic-stricken himself, Florimond bolted into the tavern.
Then, with the Place all to themselves, Elise and Barbet looked at each
other, half frightened at finding themselves alone.
* * * * *
The man who had been bitten lay still. The skin had not been broken,
but he imagined that he felt in his flesh the cold fangs of this dog of
hell. He lay at length, like a child who has been stunned by a fall.
Elise went over to him, and rousing him, by a light tap on the
shoulder, raised him up. On his face the traces of his fright were
still evident.
“You, Barnabé? Have you, too, turned against me?”
“It is the fault of drink, Mam’selle Elise. I had my little glass to
celebrate my return. The sailors have fuddled their brains with these
old wives’ stories. All the same one doesn’t know whether they are true
or not.”
Elise did not wish to hear, but Barnabé began at once to repeat them.
As clearly as he could he told how Mother Pilote’s gossip had made them
believe that the ghost of Father Hénin walked at night. She had accused
Elise of witchcraft, and of being supernaturally possessed.
But all was very confused in his mind. Nowadays such ideas are no
longer the fashion, and he was not familiar with them. He hastened to
say: “I do not believe them at all, Mam’selle Elise. Forgive me; it was
the fault of the drink.”
In token of forgiveness Elise held out her hand to Barnabé, but he was
still a little disquieted. Occasionally he would throw a glance toward
the tavern, as if at a place of refuge. She took pity on him.
“You are not afraid of me, I suppose, Barnabé? I never have done you
any harm, and never would.”
“I do not distrust you at all, Mam’selle Elise, but Barbet has sharp
teeth.”
As if to answer to his name, the dog stepped forward. He smelled of
Barnabé, scowled, wrinkled his nose disdainfully, and returning to
Elise hid his head in a fold of her dress.
“Barbet, I do not like dogs with bad manners. You will not regain in
that way the confidence which we have lost.”
She took with both hands his kind, hairy face, and made him bark his
excuses.
“Pat him, Barnabé; he will not bear you ill-will after this. He has as
much sense as men, but he is better than they are.” And a treaty of
peace was concluded then and there between Barbet and Barnabé.
In the bottom of his heart, Barnabé was much ashamed at having shown
himself a coward without any cause. While he was on the _Bon-Pêcheur_
he had lost his former free ways and his rough eloquence. Florimond had
intimidated him. He did not fancy facing the broad-shouldered captain.
Fortunately, on land Florimond was no longer his master, and Barnabé
only wanted an opportunity to recover his former position.
“Mam’selle Elise, if you do not bear ill-will, I will be your friend
again.”
“Why not? Ought I to feel harshly toward you because of other people’s
faults? You know that I do not bring bad luck.”
“Yes, Mam’selle Elise, I do not believe any of these stories about the
devil which they tell of you. They are old wives’ fables. If you will
let me, I will defend you against the sailors.”
Barbet interposed. He seemed to say that it was he who was her true
protector, and that he would not allow others to take his place, but
Elise quieted him with a caress, and turned to Barnabé.
“I shall be glad of your help. I must go to the officials at
Saint-Valery, and you can keep me company. A woman does not dare to
speak, and you are an orator.”
Then they agreed on the time for starting. The bay would be dry before
noon. They would have time to go and return before high tide. They were
turning to go home to make ready for the trip, when the door of the
tavern opened.
A sailor held it ajar to watch Elise. He had seen her talking with
Barnabé, and the fact had reassured him. Should a sailor be less
courageous than a landlubber? He came out at once, with his comrades at
his heels.
When they were sure that Barbet was harmless, as well as Elise, they
joked after the fashion of cowards, who think they can save their
dignity by jibes. Their coarse jests fell more thickly than their
stones had a little while before.
“She will be well protected, this Lison, by two strong jaws, Barbet’s
and Barnabé’s;” and they kept playing on these two names, and went
away exclaiming:
“Barbet and Barnabé; one as much a dog as the other. Barbet and
Barnabé! two barkers and two landlubbers!”