The _Jeune-Adolphine_ did not sail the next day. A good fellow, after
all, Poidevin had a tender heart. Immediately after the fight, of which
he had been a witness, he had gone to the tavern to drown his emotion,
and he had drowned it so effectively that his reasoning faculties had
gone with it.
Wandering through the town and tired of knocking at all the doors whose
bolts would not move for his key, he had ended by occupying a very
soft bed which he found in a damp ditch by the roadside. When the next
morning they lifted him up, muddy and with water-cress in his beard
and hair, he was helpless. His fat alone had saved him from a worse
fate. Howling with rheumatism, he kept his bed for a month, while the
_Jeune-Adolphine_ waited impatiently in the harbor.
Silvere wished to take advantage of this respite and be married. On his
recent trip he had recovered some important sums lent by his father to
his country relatives. He was in easy circumstances as far as money was
concerned. What was there to wait for.
They must wait for Barbet to get well. At least so Elise thought. She
would not have a happy wedding if her old friend did not assist.
“Hurry and get well, my poor Barbet. I want you for a witness.”
And a witness he was. Poidevin’s illness continued beyond the doctor’s
expectations; the days grew into weeks. The end of October was at hand
and the _Jeune-Adolphine_ could not hope to go fishing before the new
year. Already the sailors were dismantling her. They were not now
driven by the fear of having to sail, and Elise herself began to wish
for the long-announced marriage.
“Hurry to get well, Barbet. You will not put us off until winter, will
you?”
For a fortnight Barbet had moved about the room, dragging his hind legs
behind him. His strength came back very slowly.
“You will not be able to dance at the wedding, you poor old crippled
Barbet.”
He did not object to any remedies, salt baths, rubbings, tonics, but,
much as he wished it, he could not get well. At last, near All Saint’s
Day, after hours of attempts which cost him many a twinge, he managed
to stand on his four feet and walk. He tried it twenty times before
Elise.
“You walk well now, my old Barbet.”
And the wedding was fixed for the Saturday after Saint Martin’s Day. On
that day the sky was clear at the sun rising, with that blue of autumn
which pales as it nears the horizon. The south wind blew softly, while
the gray crows, the larks, the starlings, the green finches, and all
the birds of passage filled the air with joyous cries.
At daybreak Elise went with Silvere to the graveyard to invoke from
her parents the first of the benedictions she was to receive that
day. She slowly climbed the dune road, supported by him whom she was
so soon to accept before men and for eternity as her only master, her
protector, and her husband.
Half-way up she stopped. Below her the gulf hid beneath its
scintillations the deep abyss, but as she saw it from afar, so laughing
and so treacherous, Elise had not the tremors of other days. One is not
afraid of what one knows.
“Silvere,” she said simply, “one clings closer to happiness when one
has fought for it.”
Then she threw a last glance beyond the gulf toward England, and
her breast swelled with emotion at the remembrance. Her thoughts
flew to Firmin, the lad of her choice, whom she had loved so much.
Notwithstanding all, she reproached herself for leaving him. She said
to herself that soon other cares would take all her time, and some day,
perhaps, she would have children of her own who would awake in her new
inquietude and new duties.
Silvere watched her, lost in this far-off revery. She lifted her eyes
to his unconsciously, and seeing that he divined her thoughts tried to
hide them in a smile. But he quickly reassured her.
“You will always love your Firmin, will you not? Since he is your
brother he shall be mine, Lise. In a household all friendships should
be shared.”
* * * * *
After the blessings of the relations, comes that of the mayor. The
procession left the cottage, Silvere at its head, very handsome in
his new clothes, with his brown hat and his blue shirt with a heart
embroidered on it. Radiantly happy, Mother Pilote, hanging on the arm
of her great son, trotted gayly along in her holiday costume of red
skirt and green shawl.
Elise was married in white. That is the rule for young girls. She
marched second in the procession, and took no one’s arm in order that
she might have Barbet beside her.
He advanced gravely, as was due to the occasion. The night before, on
seeing them bring her white dress and crown of orange blossoms, he had
foreseen this holiday, and had given Elise no peace until she had taken
out from the chest his tarnished lace and chevrons. He had insisted on
her rubbing and polishing them for more than an hour, and attired to
his taste he yielded place to no one.
Then came Silvere’s relatives and Chrétien and Mother Loirat; finally
M. Emile, who half-disappeared under a huge bouquet of chrysanthemums
all tied up in white ribbons. It was the gift of the commissaire of
Saint-Valery, and M. Emile thought it so beautiful that he wanted to
carry it all day. It took both his arms to hold it, and he had to lean
his head back so far that twenty times he nearly lost his high hat,
which had been all newly polished.
The mayor received the company with his best smile. He pretended to
accept Barbet as witness, and the dog acted his part and responded to
each inquiry the same as the others. When asked, according to the usual
formula, “Do you agree to take Silvere Pollene here present for your
husband?” Elise answered softly in her sweet voice. Barbet, doubtless
judging the “Yes” not said with sufficient firmness and vigor, treated
it by his loudest bark.
He was not provoked, when, as they left the _mairie_, Elise took
Silvere’s arm. He kept through the whole walk his own company, instead
of going with Mother Pilote, whom they tried to make him take as
companion.
Mother Pilote herself was so full of smiles, so foolishly happy, that
she amused herself by trying to reconcile Barbet to his new companion.
“You will not make anything by changing, Barbet. What do you expect?
From youth to age; it is always so in life.”
It was worse still for Barbet at the church. He entered quietly, like a
person of importance. The beadle tried to drive him out; he showed his
teeth. Then Elise, without thinking of her white dress, took him boldly
up and carried him out to the Place. She made up, to console him, such
wheedling excuses and faithful promises, that he was content.
They met again happily after the ceremony. All the town was assembled
along the route and, under showers of flowers which the girls flung, in
the midst of the firing of guns and letting off of powder with which
the young men of the village deafened them, between the congratulations
of the old people and the cries of wondering children, the company
walked to Silvere’s house for the mid-day meal. Then, faithful to
custom, after it they set out again for the fields.
Animals were grazing in the meadows fresh from the autumn rains. Elise
recognized those through which she had run on that mournful night. They
were still green with the aftermath, while beyond them, in place of
ripening wheat and blossoming flowers, the new-ploughed ground awaited
the seed that was to bring a fresh crop.
The procession, led by two violins and a fife, who had asked the honor
of taking part, kept its ranks a long time.
Silvere overtopped by a head all his relatives and friends, and thus
overlooking all, he did not lack dignity. Besides, since he was assured
of Elise, he had gained in ease. His long arms and big hands, which
were so embarrassing to him before, assumed a fresh and nearly natural
grace.
He held Elise by the hand after the fashion of village lovers, and
did not speak. These simple souls knew how to love and be silent. He
marched along, looking about with the astonished gaze of the sailor, to
whom all rural things are strange. But in the pressure of Elise’s hand
he felt a delicious tremor which stirred his heart like a caress.
They reached the first village; some cottages half-hidden away among
trees. They were expected. On the steps of the tavern the young girls
in their Sunday dresses offered them cake and beer in exchange for
small silver. It is a tradition of the district. Elise was expected
to drink with Silvere. She just wet her lips and handed the glass to
her husband, who emptied it at a draught, as if he were drinking the
aroma of her he loved. Then they ate together of the cake, exchanging
a glance of infinite sweetness, a glance in which could be read the
thoughts of their hearts. Henceforth to them all was to be in common,
sorrow, joy, strength and weakness, good and evil, all the life of the
body and the life of the soul.
It was the same at tavern after tavern. According to the custom they
could not skip one. They stopped, drank, paid, and took up their march,
but the procession began to lose its first regularity. The young people
grew animated and kept step with the violins as they entered the
villages. Then Silvere and Elise led off the marriage march. But when,
overcome with delight at his happiness, he held her close or, leaning
toward her, brushed the hair on her forehead, she gently and delicately
disengaged herself and ran to the mothers, whose age made them fall far
behind. She embraced them and encouraged them, taking the occasion to
smile at M. Emile and Barbet.
These two shared the end of the procession with the old people, the
little clerk perspiring under his bouquet, the dog a little stiff in
his legs.
Chrétien alone of all did not seem happy. His steel-gray eye, as it
turned toward Elise, seemed full of a plaintive sorrow. One cannot cure
themselves of a heart wound in a day.
The supper, the real wedding feast, had been ordered at the sailor’s
tavern. Elise had not been willing that Mother Pilote should have the
fatigue of it. At the great table, where the mugs of beer and the white
dishes sparkled under the lamps, each one was seated according to his
merit and rank. The happy pair were midway, opposite the mayor, then
the witnesses and the relatives. The young people were at each end.
There was no fish served; they had enough of that every day. When they
were tired of the meat courses, bottles of old cider were emptied,
frothing, into the glasses. It was the happy moment when the satisfied
stomach sets the tongue free. Barbet himself, on his seat beside Elise,
notwithstanding the majesty of his dress, shared the general talk.
Suddenly the door opened, allowing the entrance of a noisy crowd, who
elbowed one another in their haste, as if pushed from behind. In the
front were Old Quarrelsome and the Stutterer, and the other sailor of
the _Bon-Pêcheur_--the three whom Elise had saved. They bore their
present, a little sloop, which they had made together. The first had
carved the hull, the second had put in the masts and the rigging, the
third had added the sails and painted it in bright colors. The name,
_Bon-Pêcheur_, was on its stern, with the date, as a souvenir.
A souvenir in which there was blended some sadness. The last survivor
of the _Bon-Pêcheur_, Florimond, was not there. But he was alive.
The blow of the knife which he had received would have killed twenty
ordinary men. Fighting hard for life, he had recovered, but he was
disfigured by a gash from his forehead to his chest. No longer able to
be the handsomest captain on that coast, he had left it, and become a
ship-owner at Calais.
The three advanced to offer their present. The Stutterer wished to
speak, Old Quarrelsome tried to prevent him, and it was the third man,
who, finding nothing to say, gave the boat to the bride, kissing her
hands as he did so.
Then four big fellows entered. They had been selected for their
strength; a sailor, a coast guard, a fisherman, and one of the
villagers, representing the different occupations of the town. Elbowing
one another, they arranged themselves behind Elise’s chair.
The mayor arose. He was not an orator, but a dealer in spirits, a good
fellow with red cheeks and close-cut gray hair. He spoke simply. The
whole town wished to make a festival for Elise, in order to make up to
her in one day for the injustice she had suffered so many weeks. He
made a sign. The four men had already seized the bride’s chair.
“Wait. I have not executed my commission.”
And making his way under the table, the little hunchback laid his
bouquet on Elise’s knees.
“Untie it, madame. I am too happy.”
When the ribbons were unfastened, the bouquet fell apart into two
clusters, in the center of each of which was pinned an envelope. The
first she opened was an appointment for Silvere as assistant pilot.
The shouts and stampings which greeted this news were repeated like a
happy echo on the stairs, then in the room below and on the Place.
Elise trembled as she opened the other envelope. She found in it
a letter, and when she had run through it her eyes shone, her
cheeks reddened, and, seeing before her the happy face of the little
hunchback, she seized him with both hands and embraced him with all her
heart.
It was a letter from Firmin. It announced that he had passed the first
of the steps that were to lead him to fortune. His good work and
his progress at the school on board had distinguished him. He was a
midshipman.
Then the mayor gave the signal again. The four big fellows carried
Elise out. Her husband and the guests followed.
The Place, so gloomy when the wedding party had passed through it
before the feast, had been transformed. It was in festal array. In the
centre a mast, wreathed with flowers and surrounded with three tiers of
lanterns, marked the place for the ball; the place where, many months
before, the assembled villagers had stoned her in whose honor they were
soon to dance.
Before opening the quadrille they drank to her health. The mayor,
who was generous as well as rich, had furnished the liquor without
charge. Each one had brought his glass and filled it at one of the
casks, broached at the four corners of the Place. It was arranged that
they should fall in line and pass before the bride and groom to clink
glasses and drink to their health, but country people do not know how
to do things. They did not fall in line. They pressed and crowded
one another so that the glasses were half-emptied on the dresses and
jackets. They had to go back and fill and empty them again, but this
time they emptied them standing by the cask.
And when they had drunk they danced. The night was cold, but they could
warm themselves at the casks.
Long before midnight the old people went to bed. Elise had left the
ball for more than an hour then, to accompany Mother Pilote, the poor
old woman whose only child she was taking.
“Do not weep, Mother Pilote. You have not lost a son: you have gained a
daughter.”
She had been happy all day, but on finding herself alone in her house,
the old woman was suddenly seized with sadness.
“Do not weep, Mother Pilote, you have two children to love you now,
instead of one.”
These outbursts of filial affection only made the separation more
painful, and when Elise returned to the dancers she was still a little
sober and quiet.
Toward morning the young people escorted the newly married pair
home. On the steps of the cottage Elise embraced all the girls, her
companions. After the farewells, Silvere wished her to enter first
through the wide-open door. She turned to see if Barbet had followed,
for in the noise of the dance they had forgotten him. But Barbet was
not there, and all who were waiting until the door closed on them set
out to hunt for him. Elise and Silvere found him on the step of the
house in which Chrétien lived.
“What are you doing there, old Barbet? Are you hurt at me for having
forgotten you?”
[Illustration: SHE WISHED TO CARRY HIM AWAY.
Chap. 30.]
He tried to answer with a look. Elise could not understand at all.
She wished to carry him away, and made him many excuses, prayers, and
caresses. But he was firm against all.
That which he wanted to say she understood later. Since henceforth she
had another one devoted to her service, since she was to be loved and
protected all her life, Barbet could no longer serve her. He would take
up his old life as a dog of the coast guard and the village. He would
signal the incoming boats and take the children to school.
“Lise, let us leave him. Without doubt he is jealous because you are
married.”
She raised her beautiful, thoughtful eyes to Silvere and saw him all
smiling with love. Then, hurt by this unspeakable trouble, yielding
half-consciously to this new call of her spirit and carried away by the
intoxication of this new happiness, she forgot her companion of evil
days, her always firm friend, and for the first time in her life was
unjust to Barbet. She thought him untrue and jealous.
But four years later, when she was the mother of two boys and the day
came for the elder, her little Baptiste, to go to school, Barbet became
his protector. Vigilant and faithful, the dog gave the son the same
tender care which formerly he had given the mother. Then only did Elise
understand Barbet. Devoted to the cause of the weak and afflicted, he
would have failed of his destiny if he had stayed with her. The new
master he had chosen, a master gentle and unhappy, Chrétien, sustained
by his friendship, found once more that life was sweet. He had become
a coast guard, and had taken the place in the eyes of the village of
Barbet’s first master, the dead captain.
But Barbet had not waited for this far-distant time to take up his old
work, and each night when he brought home her little Baptiste, well
kept and watched, Elise kissed on his nose this good friend.
“I am ashamed to have misunderstood you, Barbet. Are you not always
right?”
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.