From the moment when they started she surrendered herself completely, body and soul, to the soft, gliding motion over the waves. She was not thinking; her mind was not wandering through either memories or hopes; it seemed to her as though her heart, like her body, was floating on something soft and liquid and delicious which rocked and lulled it.
When their father gave the word to return, “Come, take your places at the oars!” she smiled to see her sons, her two great boys, take off their jackets and roll up their shirt-sleeves on their bare arms.
Pierre, who was nearest to the two women, took the stroke oar, Jean the other, and they sat waiting till the skipper should say: “Give way!” For he insisted on everything being done according to strict rule.
Simultaneously, as if by a single effort, they dipped the oars, and lying back, pulling with all their might, began a struggle to display their strength. They had come out easily, under sail, but the breeze had died away, and the masculine pride of the two brothers was suddenly aroused by the prospect of measuring their powers. When they went out alone with their father they plied the oars without any steering, for Roland would be busy getting the lines ready, while he kept a lookout in the boat’s course, guiding it by a sign or a word: “Easy, Jean, and you, Pierre, put your back into it.” Or he would say, “Now, then, number one; come, number two—a little elbow grease.” Then the one who had been dreaming pulled harder, the one who had got excited eased down, and the boat’s head came round.
But today they meant to display their biceps. Pierre’s arms were hairy, somewhat lean but sinewy; Jean’s were round and white and rosy, and the knot of muscles moved under the skin.
At first Pierre had the advantage. With his teeth set, his brow knit, his legs rigid, his hands clinched on the oar, he made it bend from end to end at every stroke, and the Pearl was veering landward. Father Roland, sitting in the bows, so as to leave the stern seat to the two women, wasted his breath shouting, “Easy, number one; pull harder, number two!” Pierre pulled harder in his frenzy, and “number two” could not keep time with his wild stroke.
At last the skipper cried: “Stop her!” The two oars were lifted simultaneously, and then by his father’s orders Jean pulled alone for a few minutes. But from that moment he had it all his own way; he grew eager and warmed to his work, while Pierre, out of breath and exhausted by his first vigorous spurt, was lax and panting. Four times running father Roland made them stop while the elder took breath, so as to get the boat into her right course again. Then the doctor, humiliated and fuming, his forehead dropping with sweat, his cheeks white, stammered out:
“I cannot think what has come over me; I have a stitch in my side. I started very well, but it has pulled me up.”
Jean asked: “Shall I pull alone with both oars for a time?”
“No, thanks, it will go off.”
And their mother, somewhat vexed, said:
“Why, Pierre, what rhyme or reason is there in getting into such a state. You are not a child.”
And he shrugged his shoulders and set to once more.
Mme. Rosemilly pretended not to see, not to understand, not to hear. Her fair head went back with an engaging little jerk every time the boat moved forward, making the fine wayward hairs flutter about her temples.
But father Roland presently called out:
“Look, the Prince Albert is catching us up!”
They all looked round. Long and low in the water, with her two raking funnels and two yellow paddle-boxes like two round cheeks, the Southampton packet came ploughing on at full steam, crowded with passengers under open parasols. Its hurrying, noisy paddle-wheels beating up the water which fell again in foam, gave it an appearance of haste as of a courier pressed for time, and the upright stem cut through the water, throwing up two thin translucent waves which glided off along the hull.
When it had come quite near the Pearl, father Roland lifted his hat, the ladies shook their handkerchiefs, and half a dozen parasols eagerly waved on board the steamboat responded to this salute as she went on her way, leaving behind her a few broad undulations on the still and glassy surface of the sea.
There were other vessels, each with its smoky cap, coming in from every part of the horizon towards the short white jetty, which swallowed them up, one after another, like a mouth. And the fishing barks and lighter craft with broad sails and slender masts, stealing across the sky in tow of inconspicuous tugs, were coming in, faster and slower, towards the devouring ogre, who from time to time seemed to have had a surfeit, and spewed out to the open sea another fleet of steamers, brigs, schooners, and three-masted vessels with their tangled mass of rigging. The hurrying steamships flew off to the right and left over the smooth bosom of the ocean, while sailing vessels, cast off by the pilot-tugs which had hauled them out, lay motionless, dressing themselves from the main-mast to the fore-tops in canvas, white or brown, and ruddy in the setting sun.
Mme. Roland, with her eyes half-shut, murmured: “Good heavens, how beautiful the sea is!”
And Mme. Rosemilly replied with a long sigh, which, however, had no sadness in it:
“Yes, but it is sometimes very cruel, all the same.”
Roland exclaimed:
“Look, there is the Normandie just going in. A big ship, isn’t she?”
Then he described the coast opposite, far, far away, on the other side of the mouth of the Seine—that mouth extended over twenty kilometres, said he. He pointed out Villerville, Trouville, Houlgate, Luc, Arromanches, the little river of Caen, and the rocks of Calvados which make the coast unsafe as far as Cherbourg. Then he enlarged on the question of the sand-banks in the Seine, which shift at every tide so that even the pilots of Quilleboeuf are at fault if they do not survey the channel every day. He bid them notice how the town of Havre divided Upper from Lower Normandy. In Lower Normandy the shore sloped down to the sea in pasture-lands, fields, and meadows. The coast of Upper Normandy, on the contrary, was steep, a high cliff, ravined, cleft and towering, forming an immense white rampart all the way to Dunkirk, while in each hollow a village or a port lay hidden: Etretat, Fecamp, Saint-Valery, Treport, Dieppe, and the rest.
The two women did not listen. Torpid with comfort and impressed by the sight of the ocean covered with vessels rushing to and fro like wild beasts about their den, they sat speechless, somewhat awed by the soothing and gorgeous sunset. Roland alone talked on without end; he was one of those whom nothing can disturb. Women, whose nerves are more sensitive, sometimes feel, without knowing why, that the sound of useless speech is as irritating as an insult.
Pierre and Jean, who had calmed down, were rowing slowly, and the Pearl was making for the harbour, a tiny thing among those huge vessels.
When they came alongside of the quay, Papagris, who was waiting there, gave his hand to the ladies to help them out, and they took the way into the town. A large crowd, the crowd which haunts the pier every day at high tide—was also drifting homeward. Mme. Roland and Mme. Rosemilly led the way, followed by the three men. As they went up the Rue de Paris they stopped now and then in front of a milliner’s or a jeweller’s shop, to look at a bonnet or an ornament; then after making their comments they went on again. In front of the Place de la Bourse Roland paused, as he did every day, to gaze at the docks full of vessels—the Bassin du Commerce, with other docks beyond, where the huge hulls lay side by side, closely packed in rows, four or five deep. And masts innumerable; along several kilometres of quays the endless masts, with their yards, poles, and rigging, gave this great gap in the heart of the town the look of a dead forest. Above this leafless forest the gulls were wheeling, and watching to pounce, like a falling stone, on any scraps flung overboard; a sailor boy, fixing a pulley to a cross-beam, looked as if he had gone up there bird’s-nesting.
“Will you dine with us without any sort of ceremony, just that we may end the day together?” said Mme. Roland to her friend.
“To be sure I will, with pleasure; I accept equally without ceremony. It would
be dismal to go home and be alone this evening.”
Pierre, who had heard, and who was beginning to be restless under the young woman’s indifference, muttered to himself: “Well, the widow is taking root now, it would seem.” For some days past he had spoken of her as “the widow.” The word, harmless in itself, irritated Jean merely by the tone given to it, which to him seemed spiteful and offensive.
The three men spoke not another word till they reached the threshold of their own house. It was a narrow one, consisting of a ground-floor and two floors above, in the Rue Belle-Normande. The maid, Josephine, a girl of nineteen, a rustic servant-of-all-work at low wages, gifted to excess with the startled animal expression of a peasant, opened the door, went up stairs at her master’s heels to the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, and then said:
“A gentleman called—three times.”
Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and swearing, cried out:
“Who do you say called, in the devil’s name?”
She never winced at her master’s roaring voice, and replied:
“A gentleman from the lawyer’s.”
“What lawyer?”
“Why, M’sieu ’Canu—who else?”
“And what did this gentleman say?”
“That M’sieu ’Canu will call in himself in the course of the evening.”
Maitre Lecanu was M. Roland’s lawyer, and in a way his friend, managing his business for him. For him to send word that he would call in the evening, something urgent and important must be in the wind; and the four Rolands looked at each other, disturbed by the announcement as folks of small fortune are wont to be at any intervention of a lawyer, with its suggestions of contracts, inheritance, lawsuits—all sorts of desirable or formidable contingencies. The father, after a few moments of silence, muttered:
“What on earth can it mean?”
Mme. Rosemilly began to laugh.
“Why, a legacy, of course. I am sure of it. I bring good luck.”
But they did not expect the death of any one who might leave them anything.
Mme. Roland, who had a good memory for relationships, began to think over all their connections on her husband’s side and on her own, to trace up pedigrees and the ramifications of cousin-ship.
Before even taking off her bonnet she said:
“I say, father” (she called her husband “father” at home, and sometimes “Monsieur Roland” before strangers), “tell me, do you remember who it was that Joseph Lebru married for the second time?”
“Yes—a little girl named Dumenil, a stationer’s daughter.”
“Had they any children?”
“I should think so! four or five at least.”
“Not from that quarter, then.”
She was quite eager already in her search; she caught at the hope of some added ease dropping from the sky. But Pierre, who was very fond of his mother, who knew her to be somewhat visionary and feared she might be disappointed, a little grieved, a little saddened if the news were bad instead of good, checked her:
“Do not get excited, mother; there is no rich American uncle. For my part, I should sooner fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean.”
Every one was surprised at the suggestion, and Jean was a little ruffled by his brother’s having spoken of it before Mme. Rosemilly.
“And why for me rather than for you? The hypothesis is very disputable. You are the elder; you, therefore, would be the first to be thought of. Besides, I do not wish to marry.”
Pierre smiled sneeringly:
“Are you in love, then?”
And the other, much put out, retorted: “Is it necessary that a man should be in love because he does not care to marry yet?”
“Ah, there you are! That ‘yet’ sets it right; you are waiting.”
“Granted that I am waiting, if you will have it so.”
But old Roland, who had been listening and cogitating, suddenly hit upon the most probable solution.
“Bless me! what fools we are to be racking our brains. Maitre Lecanu is our very good friend; he knows that Pierre is looking out for a medical partnership and Jean for a lawyer’s office, and he has found something to suit one of you.”
This was so obvious and likely that every one accepted it.
“Dinner is ready,” said the maid. And they all hurried off to their rooms to wash their hands before sitting down to table.
Ten minutes later they were at dinner in the little dining-room on the ground-floor.
At first they were silent; but presently Roland began again in amazement at this lawyer’s visit.
“For after all, why did he not write? Why should he have sent his clerk three times? Why is he coming himself?”
Pierre thought it quite natural.
“An immediate decision is required, no doubt; and perhaps there are certain confidential conditions which it does not do to put into writing.”
Still, they were all puzzled, and all four a little annoyed at having invited a stranger, who would be in the way of their discussing and deciding on what should be done.
They had just gone upstairs again when the lawyer was announced. Roland flew to meet him.
“Good-evening, my dear Maitre,” said he, giving his visitor the title which in France is the official prefix to the name of every lawyer.
Mme. Rosemilly rose.
“I am going,” she said. “I am very tired.”
A faint attempt was made to detain her; but she would not consent, and went home without either of the three men offering to escort her, as they always had done.
Mme. Roland did the honours eagerly to their visitor.
“A cup of coffee, monsieur?”
“No, thank you. I have just had dinner.”
“A cup of tea, then?”
“Thank you, I will accept one later. First we must attend to business.”
The deep silence which succeeded this remark was broken only by the regular ticking of the clock, and below stairs the clatter of saucepans which the girl was cleaning—too stupid even to listen at the door.
The lawyer went on:
“Did you, in Paris, know a certain M. Marechal—Leon Marechal?”
M. and Mme. Roland both exclaimed at once: “I should think so!”
“He was a friend of yours?”
Roland replied: “Our best friend, monsieur, but a fanatic for Paris; never to be got away from the boulevard. He was a head clerk in the exchequer office. I have never seen him since I left the capital, and latterly we had ceased writing to each other. When people are far apart you know—”
The lawyer gravely put in:
“M. Marechal is deceased.”
Both man and wife responded with the little movement of pained surprise, genuine or false, but always ready, with which such news is received.
Maitre Lecanu went on:
“My colleague in Paris has just communicated to me the main item of his will, by which he makes your son Jean—Monsieur Jean Roland—his sole legatee.”
They were all too much amazed to utter a single word. Mme. Roland was the first to control her emotion and stammered out:
“Good heavens! Poor Leon—our poor friend! Dear me! Dear me! Dead!”
The tears started to her eyes, a woman’s silent tears, drops of grief from her very soul, which trickle down her cheeks and seem so very sad, being so clear. But Roland was thinking less of the loss than of the prospect announced. Still, he dared not at once inquire into the clauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work round to these interesting facts he asked:
“And what did he die of, poor Marechal?”
Maitre Lecanu did not know in the least.
“All I know is,” said he, “that dying without any direct heirs, he has left the whole of his fortune—about twenty thousand francs a year ($3,840) in three per cents—to your second son, whom he has known from his birth up, and judges worthy of the legacy. If M. Jean should refuse the money, it is to
go to the foundling hospitals.”
Old Roland could not conceal his delight and exclaimed:
“Sacristi! It is the thought of a kind heart. And if I had had no heir I would not have forgotten him; he was a true friend.”
The lawyer smiled.
“I was very glad,” he said, “to announce the event to you myself. It is always a pleasure to be the bearer of good news.”
It had not struck him that this good news was that of the death of a friend, of Roland’s best friend; and the old man himself had suddenly forgotten the intimacy he had but just spoken of with so much conviction.
Only Mme. Roland and her sons still looked mournful. She, indeed, was still shedding a few tears, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which she then pressed to her lips to smother her deep sobs.
The doctor murmured:
“He was a good fellow, very affectionate. He often invited us to dine with him—my brother and me.”
Jean, with wide-open, glittering eyes, laid his hand on his handsome fair beard, a familiar gesture with him, and drew his fingers down it to the tip of the last hairs, as if to pull it longer and thinner. Twice his lips parted to utter some decent remark, but after long meditation he could only say this:
“Yes, he was certainly fond of me. He would always embrace me when I went to see him.”
But his father’s thoughts had set off at a gallop—galloping round this inheritance to come; nay, already in hand; this money lurking behind the door, which would walk in quite soon, tomorrow, at a word of consent.
“And there is no possible difficulty in the way?” he asked. “No lawsuit—no one to dispute it?”
Maitre Lecanu seemed quite easy.
“No; my Paris correspondent states that everything is quite clear. M. Jean has only to sign his acceptance.”
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack (R) Page 181