Pierre tried to explain, to protest, to give reasons, to prove that he could not have done otherwise; the Pole, enraged by his desertion, would not listen to him, and he ended by saying, with an allusion no doubt to political events:
“You French—you never keep your word!”
At this Pierre rose, offended on his part, and taking rather a high tone he said:
“You are unjust, pere Marowsko; a man must have very strong motives to act as I have done and you ought to understand that. Au revoir—I hope I may find you more reasonable.” And he went away.
“Well, well,” he thought, “not a soul will feel a sincere regret for me.”
His mind sought through all the people he knew or had known, and among the faces which crossed his memory he saw that of the girl at the tavern who had led him to doubt his mother.
He hesitated, having still an instinctive grudge against her, then suddenly reflected on the other hand: “After all, she was right.” And he looked about him to find the turning.
The beer-shop, as it happened, was full of people, and also full of smoke. The customers, tradesmen, and labourers, for it was a holiday, were shouting, calling, laughing, and the master himself was waiting on them, running from table to table, carrying away empty glasses and returning them crowned with froth.
When Pierre had found a seat not far from the desk he waited, hoping that the girl would see him and recognise him. But she passed him again and again as she went to and fro, pattering her feet under her skirts with a smart little strut. At last he rapped a coin on the table, and she hurried up.
“What will you take, sir?”
She did not look at him; her mind was absorbed in calculations of the liquor she had served.
“Well,” said he, “this is a pretty way of greeting a friend.”
She fixed her eyes on his face. “Ah!” said she hurriedly. “Is it you? You are pretty well? But I have not a minute today. A bock did you wish for?”
“Yes, a bock!”
When she brought it he said:
“I have come to say good-bye. I am going away.”
And she replied indifferently:
“Indeed. Where are you going?”
“To America.”
“A very find country, they say.”
And that was all!
Really, he was very ill-advised to address her on such a busy day; there were too many people in the cafe.
Pierre went down to the sea. As he reached the jetty he descried the Pearl; his father and Beausire were coming in. Papagris was pulling, and the two men, seated in the stern, smoked their pipes with a look of perfect happiness. As they went past the doctor said to himself: “Blessed are the simple-minded!” And he sat down on one of the benches on the breakwater, to try to lull himself in animal drowsiness.
When he went home in the evening his mother said, without daring to lift her eyes to his face:
“You will want a heap of things to take with you. I have ordered your under-linen, and I went into the tailor’s shop about cloth clothes; but is there nothing else you need—things which I, perhaps, know nothing about?”
His lips parted to say, “No, nothing.” But he reflected that he must accept the means of getting a decent outfit, and he replied in a very calm voice: “I hardly know myself, yet. I will make inquiries at the office.”
He inquired, and they gave him a list of indispensable necessaries. His mother, as she took it from his hand, looked up at him for the first time for very long, and in the depths of her eyes there was the humble expression, gentle, sad, and beseeching, of a dog that has been beaten and begs forgiveness.
On the 1st of October the Lorraine from Saint-Nazaire, came into the harbour of Havre to sail on the 7th, bound for New York, and Pierre Roland was to take possession of the little floating cabin in which henceforth his life was to be confined.
Next day as he was going out, he met his mother on the stairs waiting for him, to murmur in an almost inaudible voice:
“You would not like me to help you to put things to rights on board?”
“No, thank you. Everything is done.”
Then she said:
“I should have liked to see your cabin.”
“There is nothing to see. It is very small and very ugly.”
And he went downstairs, leaving her stricken, leaning against the wall with a wan face.
Now Roland, who had gone over the Lorraine that very day, could talk of nothing all dinnertime but this splendid vessel, and wondered that his wife should not care to see it as their son was to sail on board.
Pierre had scarcely any intercourse with his family during the days which followed. He was nervous, irritable, hard, and his rough speech seemed to lash every one indiscriminately. But the day before he left he was suddenly quite changed, and much softened. As he embraced his parents before going to sleep on board for the first time he said:
“You will come to say good-bye to me on board, will you not?”
Roland exclaimed:
“Why, yes, of course—of course, Louise?”
“Certainly, certainly,” she said in a low voice.
Pierre went on: “We sail at eleven precisely. You must be there by half-past nine at the latest.”
“Hah!” cried his father. “A good idea! As soon as we have bid you good-bye, we will make haste on board the Pearl, and look out for you beyond the jetty, so as to see you once more. What do you say, Louise?”
“Certainly.”
Roland went on: “And in that way you will not lose sight of us among the crowd which throngs the breakwater when the great liners sail. It is impossible to distinguish your own friends in the mob. Does that meet your views?”
“Yes, to be sure; that is settled.”
An hour later he was lying in his berth—a little crib as long and narrow as a coffin. There he remained with his eyes wide open for a long time, thinking over all that had happened during the last two months of his life, especially in his own soul. By dint of suffering and making others suffer, his aggressive and revengeful anguish had lost its edge, like a blunted sword. He scarcely had the heart left in him to owe any one or anything a grudge; he let his rebellious wrath float away down stream, as his life must. He was so weary of wrestling, weary of fighting, weary of hating, weary of everything, that he was quite worn out, and tried to stupefy his heart with forgetfulness as he dropped asleep. He heard vaguely, all about him, the unwonted noises of the ship, slight noises, and scarcely audible on this calm night in port; and he felt no more of the dreadful wound which had tortured him hitherto, but the discomfort and strain of its healing.
He had been sleeping soundly when the stir of the crew roused him. It was day; the tidal train had come down to the pier bringing the passengers from Paris. Then he wandered about the vessel among all these busy, bustling folks inquiring for their cabins, questioning and answering each other at random, in the scare and fuss of a voyage already begun. After greeting the Captain and shaking hands with his comrade the purser, he went into the saloon where some Englishmen were already asleep in the corners. The large low room, with its white marble panels framed in gilt beading, was furnished with looking-glasses, which prolonged, in endless perspective, the long tables, flanked by pivot-seats covered with red velvet. It was fit, indeed, to be the vast floating cosmopolitan dining-hall, where the rich natives of two continents might eat in common. Its magnificent luxury was that of great hotels, and theatres, and public rooms; the imposing and commonplace luxury which appeals to the eye of the millionaire.
The doctor was on the point of turning into the second-class saloon, when he remembered that a large cargo of emigrants had come on board the night before, and he went down to the lower deck. He was met by a sickening smell of dirty, poverty-stricken humanity, an atmosphere of naked flesh (far more revolting than the odour of fur or the skin of wild beasts). There, in a sort of basement, low and dark, like a gallery in a mine, Pierre could discern some hundreds of men, women, and
children, stretched on shelves fixed one above another, or lying on the floor in heaps. He could not see their faces, but could dimly make out this squalid, ragged crowd of wretches, beaten in the struggle for life, worn out and crushed, setting forth, each with a starving wife and weakly children, for an unknown land where they hoped, perhaps, not to die of hunger. And as he thought of their past labour—wasted labour, and barren effort—of the mortal struggle taken up afresh and in vain each day, of the energy expended by this tattered crew who were going to begin again, not knowing where, this life of hideous misery, he longed to cry out to them:
“Tumble yourselves overboard, rather, with your women and your little ones.” And his heart ached so with pity that he went away unable to endure the sight.
He found his father, his mother, Jean, and Mme. Rosemilly waiting for him in his cabin.
“So early!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Mme. Roland in a trembling voice. “We wanted to have a little time to see you.”
He looked at her. She was dressed all in black as if she were in mourning, and he noticed that her hair, which only a month ago had been gray, was now almost white. It was very difficult to find space for four persons to sit down in the little room, and he himself got on to his bed. The door was left open, and they could see a great crowd hurrying by, as if it were a street on a holiday, for all the friends of the passengers and a host of inquisitive visitors had invaded the huge vessel. They pervaded the passages, the saloons, every corner of the ship; and heads peered in at the doorway while a voice murmured outside: “That is the doctor’s cabin.”
Then Pierre shut the door; but no sooner was he shut in with his own party than he longed to open it again, for the bustle outside covered their agitation and want of words.
Mme. Rosemilly at last felt she must speak.
“Very little air comes in through those little windows.”
“Port-holes,” said Pierre. He showed her how thick the glass was, to enable it to resist the most violent shocks, and took a long time explaining the fastening. Roland presently asked: “And you have your doctor’s shop here?”
The doctor opened a cupboard and displayed an array of phials ticketed with Latin names on white paper labels. He took one out and enumerated the properties of its contents; then a second and a third, a perfect lecture on therapeutics, to which they all listened with great attention. Roland, shaking his head, said again and again: “How very interesting!” There was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” said Pierre, and Captain Beausire appeared.
“I am late,” he said as he shook hands, “I did not want to be in the way.” He, too, sat down on the bed and silence fell once more.
Suddenly the Captain pricked his ears. He could hear the orders being given, and he said:
“It is time for us to be off if we mean to get on board the Pearl to see you once more outside, and bid you good-bye out on the open sea.”
Old Roland was very eager about this, to impress the voyagers on board the Lorraine, no doubt, and he rose in haste.
“Good-bye, my boy.” He kissed Pierre on the whiskers and then opened the door.
Mme. Roland had not stirred, but sat with downcast eyes, very pale. Her husband touched her arm.
“Come,” he said, “we must make haste, we have not a minute to spare.”
She pulled herself up, went to her son and offered him first one and then another cheek of white wax which he kissed without saying a word. Then he shook hands with Mme. Rosemilly and his brother, asking:
“And when is the wedding to be?”
“I do not know yet exactly. We will make it fit in with one of your return voyages.”
At last they were all out of the cabin, and up on deck among the crowd of visitors, porters, and sailors. The steam was snorting in the huge belly of the vessel, which seemed to quiver with impatience.
“Good-bye,” said Roland in a great bustle.
“Good-bye,” replied Pierre, standing on one of the landing-planks lying between the deck of the Lorraine and the quay. He shook hands all round once more, and they were gone.
“Make haste, jump into the carriage,” cried the father.
A fly was waiting for them and took them to the outer harbour, where Papagris had the Pearl in readiness to put out to sea.
There was not a breath of air; it was one of those crisp, still autumn days, when the sheeny sea looks as cold and hard as polished steel.
Jean took one oar, the sailor seized the other and they pulled off. On the breakwater, on the piers, even on the granite parapets, a crowd stood packed, hustling, and noisy, to see the Lorraine come out. The Pearl glided down between these two waves of humanity and was soon outside the mole.
Captain Beausire, seated between the two women, held the tiller, and he said:
“You will see, we shall be close in her way—close.”
And the two oarsmen pulled with all their might to get out as far as possible. Suddenly Roland cried out:
“Here she comes! I see her masts and her two funnels! She is coming out of the inner harbour.”
“Cheerily, lads!” cried Beausire.
Mme. Roland took out her handkerchief and held it to her eyes.
Roland stood up, clinging to the mast, and answered:
“At this moment she is working round in the outer harbour. She is standing still—now she moves again! She is taking the tow-rope on board no doubt. There she goes. Bravo! She is between the piers! Do you hear the crowd shouting? Bravo! The Neptune has her in tow. Now I see her bows—here she comes—here she is! Gracious Heavens, what a ship! Look! Look!”
Mme. Rosemilly and Beausire looked behind them, the oarsmen ceased pulling; only Mme. Roland did not stir.
The immense steamship, towed by a powerful tug, which, in front of her, looked like a caterpillar, came slowly and majestically out of the harbour. And the good people of Havre, who crowded the piers, the beach, and the windows, carried away by a burst of patriotic enthusiasm, cried: “Vive la Lorraine!” with acclamations and applause for this magnificent beginning, this birth of the beautiful daughter given to the sea by the great maritime town.
She, as soon as she had passed beyond the narrow channel between the two granite walls, feeling herself free at last, cast off the tow-ropes and went off alone, like a monstrous creature walking on the waters.
“Here she is—here she comes, straight down on us!” Roland kept shouting; and Beausire, beaming, exclaimed: “What did I promise you! Heh! Do I know the way?”
Jean in a low tone said to his mother: “Look, mother, she is close upon us!” And Mme. Roland uncovered her eyes, blinded with tears.
The Lorraine came on, still under the impetus of her swift exit from the harbour, in the brilliant, calm weather. Beausire, with his glass to his eye, called out:
“Look out! M. Pierre is at the stern, all alone, plainly to be seen! Look out!”
The ship was almost touching the Pearl now, as tall as a mountain and as swift as a train. Mme. Roland, distraught and desperate, held out her arms towards it; and she saw her son, her Pierre, with his officer’s cap on, throwing kisses to her with both hands.
But he was going away, flying, vanishing, a tiny speck already, no more than an imperceptible spot on the enormous vessel. She tried still to distinguish him, but she could not.
Jean took her hand.
“You saw?” he said.
“Yes, I saw. How good he is!”
And they turned to go home.
“Cristi! How fast she goes!” exclaimed Roland with enthusiastic conviction.
The steamer, in fact, was shrinking every second, as though she were melting away in the ocean. Mme. Roland, turning back to look at her, watched her disappearing on the horizon, on her way to an unknown land at the other side of the world.
In that vessel which nothing could stay, that vessel which she soon would see no more, was her son, her poor son. And she felt as though half her heart had gone with him; she
felt, too, as if her life were ended; yes, and she felt as though she would never see the child again.
“Why are you crying?” asked her husband, “when you know he will be back again within a month.”
She stammered out: “I don’t know; I cry because I am hurt.”
When they had landed, Beausire at once took leave of them to go to breakfast with a friend. Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosemilly, and Roland said to his wife:
“A very fine fellow, all the same, is our Jean.”
“Yes,” replied the mother.
And her mind being too much bewildered to think of what she was saying, she went on:
“I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. Rosemilly.”
The worthy man was astounded.
“Heh? What? He is to marry Mme. Rosemilly?”
“Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it this very day.”
“Bless me! And has this engagement been long in the wind?”
“Oh, no, only a very few days. Jean wished to make sure that she would accept him before consulting you.”
Roland rubbed his hands.
“Very good. Very good. It is capital. I entirely approve.”
As they were about to turn off from the quay down the Boulevard Francois, his wife once more looked back to cast a last look at the high seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of gray smoke, so far away, so faint that it looked like a film of haze.
STRONG AS DEATH
PART I
CHAPTER I
A DUEL OF HEARTS
Broad daylight streamed down into the vast studio through a skylight in the ceiling, which showed a large square of dazzling blue, a bright vista of limitless heights of azure, across which passed flocks of birds in rapid flight. But the glad light of heaven hardly entered this severe room, with high ceilings and draped walls, before it began to grow soft and dim, to slumber among the hangings and die in the portieres, hardly penetrating to the dark corners where the gilded frames of portraits gleamed like flame. Peace and sleep seemed imprisoned there, the peace characteristic of an artist’s dwelling, where the human soul has toiled. Within these walls, where thought abides, struggles, and becomes exhausted in its violent efforts, everything appears weary and overcome as soon as the energy of action is abated; all seems dead after the great crises of life, and the furniture, the hangings, and the portraits of great personages still unfinished on the canvases, all seem to rest as if the whole place had suffered the master’s fatigue and had toiled with him, taking part in the daily renewal of his struggle. A vague, heavy odor of paint, turpentine, and tobacco was in the air, clinging to the rugs and chairs; and no sound broke the deep silence save the sharp short cries of the swallows that flitted above the open skylight, and the dull, ceaseless roar of Paris, hardly heard above the roofs. Nothing moved except a little cloud of smoke that rose intermittently toward the ceiling with every puff that Olivier Bertin, lying upon his divan, blew slowly from a cigarette between his lips.
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack (R) Page 193