Chapter I

To-morrow at daybreak they will go aboard together, Elise Hénin and her little brother Firmin. They have put on their Sunday clothes to say farewell to their mother, who sleeps on the slope of the dune in a corner of the old graveyard. Nine years has the poor woman lain there in the peace of her last sleep--deaf forever to the noise of the tempests which roused her so often, of old, to the vigil of anxious nights.

She went from the cares of life a long time before her husband. He was swallowed up by the sea, which never gave back his body. One night, when the wind was not high--one hardly knows how it came about--he was caught in a fatal current and was lost, with his boat and six companions, in the wild eddies of the most dangerous shoal on that coast. In some shelter for shipwrecked sailors, beneath the wave, he is waiting for a day, perhaps not distant, when a mighty tempest shall stir the depths and, opening his prison of sand, return his body to earth again.

His death brought ruin to his family. Although he was a skipper, yet his boat was all he owned. Earning more or less at the risk of the tides, he was returning from a profitable cruise with a happy heart and a full purse, for he had sold his fish at a good price at the market of Boulogne. The sea had all in its grip--man, boat, and earnings.

From the road that climbed the dune one could see the spot beneath one on the horizon. The color of the sea was lighter there than over the depths, and the rays of the sun made it glisten with a silvery sheen. It seemed so smiling that one would have declared it harmless.

Elise stopped as her thoughts wandered to that accursed gulf. She pressed more closely the hand of her little brother, as a mother who fears for her child’s safety.

For it was she who had brought him up, this twelve-year-old brother, whom she loves for his sturdy figure and his robust health. She has had one idea only, that of making him a good sailor. It was she who sang him sailors’ songs to put him to sleep when little; it was she who carried him, hardly awake, along the dune crests to show him the far-off ships and to direct his first look to what was going on at sea. It was she, too, who took him to the harbor that he might play among the rigging.

Then, when they were old enough, they had gone with their father on his boat, learning to handle it. Elise knew as much about fishing as a sailor. Her father was very proud of her. He had her always aboard, and it was a miracle that she had not been lost with him. But that week she had been kept at home, because Firmin was ill. She wished to take care of him herself, and would not trust him to strange hands. And so they had become orphans, sister and brother, without protection and without bread.

But to-day their fortune seemed assured. They had been engaged on a sloop for the coming herring fishery. Elise had persuaded the skipper, her cousin and godfather, to take them on his boat notwithstanding the prejudice which sailors in petticoats generally inspire. She was as strong as a man and asked less wages, and this was so much in her favor.

For herself it was enough that she was to be with her brother, apart from whom she would have been too unhappy to live.

“I am proud of you,” she said gayly, “you will make a fine ship’s boy. I was afraid to remain at home alone. Come, make haste, we have still many things to arrange for our departure.”

And with a lengthened step she hurried the boy along the sandy dune road. It was high noon. The strong June sun, directly overhead, darted down its burning rays, but the young girl did not appear to feel them. Lithe and alert, she moved along, with figure erect and back slightly arched, in all the vigor of her nineteen years.

Her graceful contour stood out distinctly against the sky. It had little of that masculine strength that marks savage beauties, but under her brown corset and gray skirt one could divine the clear-cut outline which distinguishes the purer races.

Hurrying her brother along, she soon gained the crest of the dune; then she stopped abruptly, with an involuntary start, for at the turn of the road she saw before her the figure of a strapping young fellow, his arms swinging as he walked, and his face pale and a little sad.

“You have frightened us, Silvere. It is not the time for a stroll. Are you expecting any one?”

“Yes, you, Elise. I had an idea that you would come here, and I ventured, in order to have a last word with you. Is it decided that you are to sail to-morrow?”

“Certainly! we have to earn our bread.”

“If you would but consent, I would manage to earn enough for us both. Elise, it breaks my heart to see you injure yourself with men’s work.”

“What would you have? I know no other, nor have I a taste for any other.”

“If you would marry me, you would have only to keep the house. Will you make me wretched by refusing me again?”

“Silvere, I do not wish to give you pain, but it is not right of you to urge me always against my duty. I have told you my determination. I do not intend to marry until the day when my little Firmin shall be of an age to be a real sailor. It is my duty to help him, since I am the same as his mother.”

“We would aid him together.”

“No, he would not be at all happy if he knew that he was an expense to another. And then, I am ambitious that he should become a skipper as his father was. I could not give myself up to this if I married you. When one has a house one should devote one’s self to it.”

“Then you leave me no hope?”

“As I have told you, wait. Give me time to bring up the child. I will not refuse after that.”

“All the same, it is a long time to wait.”

Elise had not let go the hand of her brother, which she held pressed in her own. She felt it stirring, tugging.

“What do you wish, my little man, what troubles you?”

“Bend down, I wish to whisper to you.”

And his lips raised toward his sister’s ear, in a grumbling tone the lad told his trouble. He did not wish his sister’s marriage to be put off on his account. He was old enough to go to sea alone. He pressed his point with an energy one would not have expected in a lad of his years. As he spoke he put on a resolute air, and under his close-cut hair his strong features expressed so vigorous a will that Elise was much disturbed.

“You are a brave boy, but you are too young to go without me. Never mind. I shall not be unhappy as long as we are together and you love me.”

With her sweetest look she smiled at the lad, then, turning toward Silvere, she gave him her hand.

“Silvere, since our engagement is to be long, come with me to the graveyard. Let us exchange our vows over the grave of my mother.”

And pensively, without speaking further, she walked on, supported on one side by her lover while on the other she led her brother.

The graveyard was near at hand. Above its low wall could be seen, lost among dusty tamarisks and brambles already turning brown, some stone tombs and some crosses of worn-out wood, tottering and almost uprooted by the west wind. It was well called the field of the dead, for under the pitiless sun it seemed a desert indeed. Silvere stopped short at the melancholy sight. With an unconscious gesture, he held back the young girl.

“Elise, do not let us plight our troth here. It is too sad.”

“Nevertheless, come. Mother will not be happy if we fail in respect. I have no one but her to advise me, since my father is beneath the sea.”

Along the narrow footpaths she led the young man to the highest point of the cemetery, where there was the least shelter. There, in a forgotten corner, a slab, defaced and broken at the corners, alone marked the spot which the children knew to be their mother’s resting-place.

“Mother,” said Elise solemnly, “since our dead father’s soul is no more with us, it is thy wish which I would obey. Make thy soul pass into mine.”

And on her knees beside Silvere, their two hands joined, she waited for the mother’s blessing to penetrate her heart.

An alkaline vapor rose from the overheated soil, and came suffocatingly to their nostrils. Silvere had a feeling of faintness. He rose, trying to lift Elise, but for some time still she remained at prayer, invoking on her brother and herself the protection of the dead.