The next night Elise saw her father again, and the next night, and many
nights after that.
“Father,” she cried in vain, “tell me where you lie. I can then let the
officials know. Help me, if you wish to be found.”
The nights passed, but no answer came. Only by sad looks did her father
plead his cause. He never spoke. It was a constant grief to Elise, and,
exhausted by waiting and watching, she, too, lost the power of sleep.
She hid her head under her pillows to escape the ghost, and made Barbet
sleep at her feet, hoping to gain a little rest from the presence of
this loving creature.
Always the same restlessness and the same sleeplessness, recalling to
mind the duty she could not perform, the undeserved punishment she
suffered, the insults which the men of the village offered her, and
above all, Firmin, who had not come home.
After many dispatches had passed, they had finally learned about
Firmin, and the _flambart_ which had carried him off.
She had tried at first to reach her port, but had to abandon the
attempt. Her hull had been badly damaged, and she had barely been able
to make a Scotch port, after throwing overboard everything--nets, salt,
and supplies. She had towed her boat in order to save it.
The sight of the boat had been too much for Firmin. With his usual
obstinacy, the boy had made up his mind that he would not submit to
this forced sojourn among strangers. And one night he had made his
escape nearly without provisions. He had slipped into the boat, and
cutting the rope, had gone adrift, one hardly knew with what in mind.
The crew had discovered his flight at daybreak only.
Since then there had been no news of him. What daring and what
resolution he had, to trust himself to a small boat on an unknown sea.
Elise wept at the very idea, but it was more from pride than despair.
She was proud to know that the boy was so courageous. She was sure he
would return. He was always present in her thoughts; she would surely
see him again when she had atoned for her neglect of her father.
She worked without stopping. Twenty days in succession she went to the
Bureau at Saint-Valery. During the few moments that she had spoken to
the under-commissaire she had detected under his gruffness an indulgent
and generous nature, and to this she resolved to appeal. But she had
not as yet made any headway.
At first she had had to face the mortification of the hunchback. When
by patience she had won him over, so as to be permitted to enter the
chief’s office, she met fresh difficulties.
She recounted to him the nightly apparition of her father and the
orders which he had given her. He heard her with the distrust which
one shows to lunatics. He did not speak harshly, on the contrary, he
bowed her out pleasantly so as not to excite the mental troubles with
which he supposed her afflicted. The next day she was back again with
the same fixed purpose, and as he sent her away he pitied her from the
bottom of his heart.
Each day it was the same. The commissaire had finally refused to
allow her entrance. He found Elise on the threshold. He shrugged his
shoulders pityingly. She attached herself to him, followed him through
the town, and held him a long time at the door of his house. He put her
off, as he best could, with evasive answers. At last he grew impatient,
was rude, and even pushed her aside.
Nothing discouraged her. Her indomitable resolution had won over the
little clerk, who perhaps was not angry to see his chief in the hands
of a petitioner with so much persistence.
“Return to-morrow,” he said to her every night, after a fresh failure.
“Keep on returning. He will yield in the end.”
She did return. She began to be well known on the Place of
Saint-Valery. The idlers watched for her coming and going. In the
sailors’ quarter there was great interest. Bets were made as to which
of the two, the girl or the commissaire, would carry the day.
He could not contain himself longer. He threatened to bring the
_gendarmes_ and to protect himself, if necessary, by the law. Elise was
only more active.
“Return to-morrow,” the little hunchback kept saying to her.
She did return. She found this daily walk across the bay, to which she
had become accustomed, a sort of healthful activity. She was not tired
herself, but she tired out the commissaire, who, to get rid of her,
finally consented to take the necessary first steps.
He demanded that she should draw up a petition to the minister.
Elise could write, but she felt that she knew too little for so
important a matter. She went to the schoolmaster, but he refused to
write of ghosts. Then she consulted the corporal of the coast guards,
and got from him a letter to her own mind, which with great delight she
carried to the commissaire. He refused to send it. The minister would
burst out laughing at these stories of phantoms.
She would not give up. She sought the aid of the notary, who drew up
for her a four page petition in beautiful style. She was not able to
understand the big words and pompous phrases. They were too grand for
simple ears. But four pages--that was certainly better than one, and
this time the commissaire would have nothing to say.
Cheered by this thought, Elise quickened her steps over the sands of
the bay. She had the new petition in her pocket, carefully wrapped in a
clean handkerchief, to keep the paper from being rubbed or spotted. At
intervals she touched it with the tips of her fingers, to be sure that
the four pages had not flown away in the wind.
Four pages! That alone gave her confidence. Certain of success she
entered the Bureau almost haughtily, and marched gayly to her friend,
the little hunchback:
“I am sure that your chief will be satisfied now.”
She untied the handkerchief and carefully drew out the petition,
asking him to read it. While he ran through the lines she watched him
anxiously, to judge of the impression it made. He nodded his head, and
his eyes, slanting over the paper, lightened with gleams which gave
them a malicious vivacity. Elise thought that she detected a kind of
satisfied approbation.
“It is splendid, is it not?”
“Splendid, no! It is a pity that you have been so poorly advised.”
Elise was discouraged, but went to the commissaire. He took the paper,
opened, and returned it.
“Four pages, my daughter, at least three too many. A half page was
enough, provided it was well done.”
He held out the paper. Elise had not the strength to take it. He saw
her become suddenly pale, and reproached himself for having been so
brusque. He spoke more pleasantly:
“Petitions, you know, are just like prayers. The shorter they are the
better.”
Then he waved his hand toward the door, politely but significantly.
Elise did not move from her chair. He looked at her. She was fainting.
He waited impatiently a moment, then rang with all his might for his
clerk.
“M. Emile, take the young girl away.”
The clerk had run in half frightened. His eyes moved from Elise to
the commissaire, as if to ask if one had really called him for such a
purpose.
“Make haste, M. Emile, take her away. Draw up her petition and let us
have an end of her.”
Then, as well as his feeble strength would permit, the little clerk
raised Elise and led her into his room. He moistened her forehead with
fresh water and brought her to herself by his delicate attentions and
his kind words. He was gentle and tender. One would have said that he
was delighted to assist a creature weaker than himself, to find at last
a chance to do something worthy of a man.
When Elise was herself again, he made her sit by his table, wrote out a
beautiful petition on a large sheet of paper, and guided her hand while
she signed her name in the right place.
He was not so ugly after all, this little clerk with his playful
hump. Elise was touched when, after wiping his damp fingers, he took
the paper by the corners, folded it delicately, and with much care
addressed it.
When she saw the name of the minister beautifully written on the back
of the envelope Elise was taken with a childish joy, as if at last she
held a talisman which would deliver her from her troubles.
“How beautiful it is, M. Emile. I am sure no one can write as you can.”
Under the charm of this flattery the little clerk became genial.
Whistling and thoroughly pleased with himself he held out his knotty
hand to Elise, who took it affectionately:
“Come again to-morrow, mademoiselle.”
Elise had returned, imagining that she would already find the reply to
her petition. She had no idea of the delays and formalities necessary
in government affairs.
She grew pale again, and was quite upset when the commissaire explained
to her the course which her petition must follow. First it must go to
the Commissaire of Marines at Dunkirk, then to the Minister at Paris,
then to the Maritime Prefect at Cherbourg, delayed, perhaps often,
between the three places.
She went away, more troubled and more discouraged than before her
petition was written.
If only Silvere were here. She would take him, and go even to Paris,
and would not fear to speak herself to the minister. But Silvere had
not returned.
He had gone for a cruise of four weeks, and now six weeks had passed.
As a matter of fact, a boat never comes as soon as those who watch for
her hope, for there are endless ways to lose time at sea. Captains have
often come in months after all hope of them had been given up.
The longer Silvere’s return was delayed, the more ill-natured were the
people of the village to Elise. They never came near her; she even had
trouble in persuading the baker to sell her bread. The children made
sport of her. They pushed one another against her, then made faces and
ran away as if from an evil thing. In old times they had hung about
her in a very different fashion. They were all friends of Firmin. She
had let them play in her father’s boat, had given them fish on the
return from each trip; they all loved her then. In memory of those days
she forgave them; but Barbet did not.
He had given up entirely his old habits and refused to take the
children to school. He had now a more lofty idea of duty and kept all
his time and all his devotion for his adopted mistress.
This caused new complaints against Elise. Was it to be borne that a
young girl should keep to herself a dog that belonged to the whole
village? Ought Barbet, who for thirty-five years had not failed for a
single day at his task, to now go back on all his old friends, in order
to trot behind the petticoats of a beggar? He was growing thin, and it
served him right.
For, although she denied herself, Elise was not able to feed Barbet as
he had been used. Like his mistress, he lived on bread and water only.
He did not complain; he preferred an approving heart to a full stomach.
But sometimes hunger made him a little cross, and the night before he
had not been able to restrain his injured feelings. When the mocking
children pushed themselves against Elise, he had seized one by the
throat and half strangled him. Until this time he had driven off the
most mischievous by snapping at them as a collie snaps at his sheep,
but now, to put an end once for all to these rude jests, he had bitten
in earnest.
By a strange coincidence the boy whom he had seized was named Silvere,
and all the village was in an uproar. Did any one need further proof
that Silvere had perished, a victim of Elise’s malign influence? Barbet
told the truth after his fashion. The big Silvere! Such a good fellow
he was, so kind to his mother. Poor Mother Pilote! Her head was always
full of fancies, and this last excitement had almost upset her mind.
Whenever she went out she carried a bottle of holy water, with which
she sprinkled the roads to drive away spirits from her path.
All these troubles were charged to Elise, but though the whole village
condemned her with one voice, she did not lose her faith in the future.