She had none the less an hour of weakness the night that the
_Bon-Pêcheur_ went to sea again, after more than a month in the
ship-yard. Newly rigged and freshly painted for her cruise, she had
returned three days before from Treport and lay alongside the quay
ready to make sail for the autumn fishing. It was the longest cruise of
the year and they hoped on it to make up for the losses of the summer.
It was the second week of August. The sea stretched away like a cloth
of gold with silvery lights under a rosy sky crossed with ribbons of
blue. Nothing was so beautiful as this great, grand calm, flooded with
a wealth of sunlight, and the _Bon-Pêcheur_ seemed as if about to start
toward regions of peace and rest. But the sky troubled Florimond. There
were indications of rough weather toward the north. What should he do?
After losing so many weeks should he waste more days? This was the time
of the year for bad weather. He who follows the sea has a rough trade.
So the _Bon-Pêcheur_ set out, gliding over the tranquil sea so quietly
that she seemed not to have waited for night to go to sleep. Florimond
was at the helm, always imposing with his great figure, always
impressive as he gave out his orders in his deep voice.
From the height of the dune, Elise, broken-hearted, watched the boat.
She remembered when the _Bon-Pêcheur_ had sailed before, and how full
of hope she had been, and how in those days Cousin Florimond had been
good to her. If everything had changed it was because of bad luck. That
alone had made him unjust.
Then the night enveloped with its healthful peace men and things alike.
The _Bon-Pêcheur_ was still in the channel. There was so little breeze
that she moved slowly as if to show those on shore her grief at leaving
them behind.
They are off, without Firmin or without me, thought Elise, and they do
not regret us.
She was mistaken. As he stood at the helm, steering, Florimond was
thinking of her. He said to himself that he should not now have
an excuse for any further lack of success, that the sky was not
over-promising, and that after all he owed his bad luck to the weather
and not to Elise. At the bottom of his heart he was really ashamed to
have been so hard and not to have at least given this innocent girl the
pleasure of a farewell. And as it was now too late to do anything, he
grew remorseful and, after the fashion of sailors, who expect always to
be punished for their faults, was attacked by vague terrors.
Then night came. It wrapped him about--a night without a moon, of a
deep blue, broken only by the glare of the lighthouses which protected
the bay. A lantern was lighted in the bow of the _Bon-Pêcheur_.
One could see it occasionally as the boat tacked, then, it too
disappeared. When she could see it no longer Elise burst into tears.
Her loneliness seemed more lonely than ever, her lot more sad.
Henceforth she would have hard work to live, for the _Bon-Pêcheur_ had
carried off her last dependence--her part of the nets.
It had not been difficult for Florimond to obtain from the owner of
the _flambart_ a sum large enough to allow him to buy back for the
men and himself a complete outfit of nets. He had appropriated the
part he should have accounted for to Elise. He claimed that they were
due him as indemnity for the losses for which he held the poor child
responsible.
Elise had nothing else in the world except her house. But if she had
had the chance to sell that, she would have refused. The house had been
built by her grandfather, and lived in by her father. She destined it
for Firmin, the last of the name, for Firmin, for whose return she was
waiting and watching.
In an open boat, alone, exposed to storms, how could this weak boy have
resisted seas which engulf the strongest? Without doubt he had gone
down, with a last cry to his sister, into some frightful abyss where he
would be tossed about for all eternity. If the boy was with his father
why should Elise still remain in this world of trouble, unhappy, always
alone, with death in her heart?
Was it so difficult to die? It would take only a few seconds to descend
the dune. One had only to run to the sea, to close the eyes and walk
into the waves, persisting until there came the final oblivion.
Every one in the village would rejoice; perhaps then Florimond would
forgive her.
[Illustration: SHE WOULD SEE AGAIN THOSE SHE LOVED.
Chap. 16.]
Half conscious only of what she was doing, and almost delirious,
Elise hurried where the voice of the waves called her, a voice that
dulled her reason. Lost in her frenzy, she struggled across the sand,
into which her feet sank as if it strove to hold her back in spite of
herself. With tottering steps she reached the water’s edge.
Since the land would have none of her she would trust herself to the
sea. She forgot the insults of the villagers; she would have liked to
have said farewell to the little hunchback, to Barnabé even, to Mother
Pilote, the poor woman who through ignorance had made her so much
trouble. She would have liked above all to have left a last message for
Florimond, that he should not revile her when she was gone. Had she not
a right, since she was dying innocent of any crime, to have her memory
at least left in peace?
She felt the water already about her knees. She would see again those
she loved--her father, Firmin, Silvere, the men in the boat, Chrétien,
the two big fellows, and the old sailor.
They were all there together in that bed of the tempest. She saw them,
she spoke to them, gasping and shivering. Her father, Firmin, Silvere,
Chrétien; they were all there. She stretched out her arms to them as
she ran into the waves.
“Father, come and take me--I cannot move. Father! Some one stops me--I
cannot move! I cannot move!”
In vain did Elise try to escape from the force which held her. She
tried to throw herself forward with all her might. She was pulled
backward firmly.
“Something has seized my dress! It is dragging me away from you.
Father, Firmin!”
She was drawn steadily back. She caught her feet in the folds of her
skirts. She fell. She was on the beach.
Do not weep, Elise, do not weep! You shall see them all again, Silvere,
your father, Chrétien, and your Firmin whom you so love. You shall see
them all, it is Barbet who tells you so.
You forgot him, Elise, your faithful Barbet, but he would not let you
die. It was he who followed you, sad and silent. When he realized what
you were about to do he dragged you back with all his strength. He is
your true friend, your guardian. You were ungrateful to forget him.
Do not weep any more, Elise. Barbet leaps joyfully around you. Do you
not recognize his signs of joy? He has consoled you in this way, when
you were as heartbroken as now. Look how he points to the horizon. He
turns as if to beg you to listen. He leaps again. Look! He is trying to
make you see a lantern just entering the channel. Hurry and climb the
dune so as to see better what boat this light, so like a far-off star,
announces. Barbet tells you. Forget your sorrows and listen. Two barks.
It is the _Jeune-Adolphine_, big Poidevin’s sloop.
“Is it really, Barbet? Is it really, really, big Poidevin’s sloop?”
Yes, it is true, really true. Just watch Barbet. He begins his foolish
frisking, barking wildly, but always two barks at a time. Have no fear,
it is big Poidevin’s sloop. It brings you Silvere, first of those whom
you wished. He is the first and will show the way to the others.
“Oh, thank you, Barbet! I shall see them all again, and I shall recover
my father.”
* * * * *
Elise waited a long time. The lantern hardly grew larger. The course of
the boat which it announced was so slow, that it would not reach the
port for an hour. An hour is often longer than a year to those who are
in suspense.
“Come, Barbet, quick! We shall meet him at the landing. Mother Pilote
will recover her senses. We must go and tell her the news. Quick,
Barbet!”
Elise passed quickly through the village and reached the house hidden
among the big trees on the edge of the stream. She knocked joyfully
with all her might.
“Mother Pilote, I have come for you to go and meet Silvere.”
“Who is there?”
“I, your Elise, Mother Pilote. Silvere will be here in an hour.”
“Go away! My poor Silvere is no more among the living. Your troubles
have made you walk o’ nights.”
“Open, Mother Pilote! I have seen the lantern of the
_Jeune-Adolphine_! It will reach the quay in an hour.”
“Go away! Do not bring trouble to my house!”
“No, I do not bring bad luck, for Silvere is not lost. I have never
injured any one.”
“Go away! It is foolishness. You cannot recognize a lantern! All boats
are alike!”
“It was not I who recognized it, it was Barbet. You know perfectly well
that he sees better than any one.”
“Barbet is accursed like you. Go away, both of you.”
“Open, Mother Pilote! There is too much trouble in the village already
without my adding more. Open! Ask Barbet!”
“It is all the same. I have no fancy for night visits.”
“Open! Since Silvere is returning, why fear me any longer. Come,
Barbet, tell Mother Pilote.”
As if he had understood her words the dog gave the two barks, known all
through the town as the sign of Poidevin’s sloop.
“Do you hear, Mother Pilote? He is never deceived.”
The old woman had gained a little confidence. She did not open her
door, but through the window the sound of her voice came more clearly.
“Are you sure that it is not all fancy?”
Barbet barked again.
“If it is true, wait a little, my daughter.”
Elise heard her move from the inside of the door a perfect array of
defense, boards, chains, and bolts.
Barbet had stopped barking. He jumped against the door, which resounded
under the shock, and which at last opened a little way. He slipped
through the space in order to announce the good news to the old woman
by leaps and pirouettes after his fashion.
“Oh! my daughter, call off your dog. He will upset my pot of holy
water.”
Elise tried to enter, but the half-closed door prevented her.
“Wait a little. Call off your dog.”
“Come back, old Barbet, there is no reason for wearying every one
because we are happy. Come back.”
She was interrupted by a dash of water in her face which half
suffocated her. Barbet, who received it in his open mouth, retreated
sneezing.
The door opened its full width. The dog careered about the old woman
so wildly, and leaped so joyfully upon her, that she let fall her pot
of holy water, an old tin vessel, which was battered shapeless on the
stone.
“Alas! my daughter! Fortunately, I have no more need of it. Since the
holy water did not burn you, you are not accursed. It was all lies.
They were a lot of wicked people to take pleasure in troubling you.
Silvere will make them sing another song.”
The old woman hastily threw off her old dark skirt, ran to her
chest, drew out her gayest clothes, her holiday dress, a red skirt,
green waist, and flowered hood. While she was dressing she kept on
ejaculating:
“They will make a long face, these people in the village! They will
have to beg your pardon. Their heads were turned with their fancies
about the devil. You will not tell anything to Silvere. He will be
angry with me.”
“Oh no, Mother Pilote, Silvere is too good a son to reproach you. He
shall never do it on my account.”
The old woman was quickly dressed. In her haste she had tied her hood
crooked, had twisted her mantle in putting it on, had caught the skirts
of her basque under her belt. Carefully and with gentle attention and
tender respect Elise set the bonnet straight, laid the mantle smooth,
and arranged the basque.
“Mother Pilote, you must look as well as possible, so that your
son shall be proud at sight of you. He will be delighted at your
appearance.”
They went out together, calling out the news at each house, to tell the
wives of all the sailors who were on the _Jeune-Adolphine_.
Their band increased everywhere; mothers, sweethearts, daughters, they
were a goodly company as they reached the wharf. Barbet went before,
leaping and barking, like a fiddler at the head of a wedding procession.
Elise had not been so happy for a long time. They no longer feared
her in the village. Mother Pilote had treated her as if she were her
daughter, and the women spoke to her pleasantly.
When they reached the pier the lantern shone close at hand in the end
of the channel, nearly at the harbor mouth. There was no doubt about
it. It was Poidevin’s lantern. It was hoisted at the top of the mast,
and by its light they could distinguish, through the darkness, the
sailors they knew to belong to the _Jeune-Adolphine_. Two long barks
announced them.
“Ho! Poidevin!” shouted all the women together in an irresistible burst
of emotion.
“Home again!” repeated twenty voices through the night, twenty voices
with strong, well-known accents.
When the sloop came alongside the wharf, and its red lantern flooded
the deck, showing big Poidevin himself at the helm, and the black
forms of the sailors at work, there broke out from the women cries of
happiness and sobs of joy, and Mother Pilote drawing Elise to her lips,
held her fast in a long embrace. She had seen Silvere.