Chapter XXIII

Father Hénin had come back to earth with money in his pocket. His round purse was really like a great ball in the pocket of his jersey, just over the place where his heart once beat so warmly. After a slight refitting his boat was ready for use.

Elise had no thought of keeping all these riches for herself. Was it necessary for her to be so careful, now that she was to be married? She wished to lay away Firmin’s share simply, and to use the rest in making the last days of Mother Loirat more happy. The poor old woman was still ill; her exhausted forces would, perhaps, never recover from this last blow they had received. Money is most necessary in such cases.

Unfortunately, the authorities had seized everything, with a view of protecting the rights of the heirs, so that Elise’s plans were interfered with before she was able to carry them out.

Since the return of Silvere she had been very happy. She accepted help from her lover as if he were already her husband. When two people determine to marry, ought they not to share good and bad alike? Their wedding could not take place until after the end of the autumn cruise, because big Poidevin would not allow his men an hour more than he had promised, and the sailing of the _Jeune-Adolphine_ was announced for the night before the full moon, three days away.

At first Silvere had wanted to break his engagement with Poidevin, and remain at home until he could marry Elise. After that he would take the first boat for the Scotch seas and join Firmin. But Silvere was an excellent sailor, a hard worker, silent, sober, and prudent, and his captain had refused to release him.

“I cannot bear the idea of leaving you alone, Elise. You will go to live with Mother Pilote?”

“No, Silvere. You know that while I have accepted help from you as if you were my husband, I should not be willing to accept it from another. Mother Pilote would despise me if I were to ask her to support me. I am not afraid of work. I would rather sail with you. Big Poidevin would take me, I am sure.”

Since the time when she had led the funeral cortége in advance of the mayor, Elise was held in high respect in the village. Not only had they forgotten, as she herself had forgotten, the insults with which they had pursued her, but they now praised her as if she were the cause of all the bodies having come ashore. She had worked hard, and, if they adjudged her that honor, might she not fairly accept it? Nevertheless, she accepted only a small part of the praise they gave her. Her one desire was to make an engagement with Poidevin.

Without further delay she dragged Silvere to the wharf, near which she was sure to meet the big captain. Ordinarily he was loafing on the pier, or more likely was sitting in the sailors’ tavern. They looked for him first at the waterside. Two coast guards set them on his track.

“Poidevin? You need never look for him near water, his nose is always over the grog.”

He was drinking, as they soon found. As they entered the tavern door, Elise shivered. She recalled the scenes that had taken place there so little time before; the hatred of Florimond and his sailors; and Barnabé, buried only the night before among the twenty-three martyrs.

Barnabé, more vicious through his vanity than from real wickedness. Elise thought often of him, the latest victim of the Vergoyer. Fortunately he had left no family, and his death affected no one in the village. Elise was, perhaps, the only one who had not forgotten him.

It took Poidevin a long time to make up his mind--five rounds of grog, and an hour’s talk, and nothing definite yet.

“Have another drink, to wind up with, Poidevin. Lise will stand treat.”

“Thanks, Silvere,” said Elise. “You know that I am no hand at drinking.”

“Well then, for a joke, if the girl will drink I will engage her.”

“Your word is good, Poidevin. Lise will drink willingly.”

She drank in all frankness, and when she had given an account of herself he kept his word. They signed engagements over three fresh cups of liquor, on the greasy table in the smoky room. As she wrote her name at the bottom of the paper, she felt the pen run lightly. She was sure of the future, for everything in the past had gone as she wished.

As she thought of her approaching departure, which should bring her nearer Firmin, she let her eyes wander through the open door toward the boats anchored in the harbor.

She was so surprised on seeing before her the little hunchback, that she sat perfectly still. He stopped short in the doorway. His bony face was paler and longer, and more weak and sad than she had ever seen it. He did not enter, but made a sign to Elise to come to him. He felt that he could tell more easily out of doors what he had to say.

He had been discharged from the Bureau, as shortly as if he had been unfaithful. Immediately on his return his chief had summoned him, had recalled the grotesque spectacle he had made in full view of all on the quay of Saint-Valery, and emphasizing the discredit which this cast on the Bureau, had concluded in such a fashion that the clerk had remembered the words exactly.

“I am sorry on account of your family, sir, but I am obliged to discharge you. I should be weak if I were to overlook your offence. Go.”

As he repeated the words which struck her ear so dolorously, the little hunchback raised his dimmed and mournful eyes to Elise. Under his glance, the unspeakably sad glance of a sick man, she started, and her breast swelled with pity.

“Poor M. Emile. What have you done?”

What had he done? He had made his way through the streets of Saint-Valery to the outskirts where he lived. He had tried not to show his trouble, lest he should weep like a girl before all these people who would be only too happy at his disgrace.

Then his family had snubbed him, and had made him go the next day and offer apologies, which the commissaire had refused.

Elise made up her mind promptly. She would go at once and beg his forgiveness from the commissaire. After her recent success, she did not doubt that a little courage and plenty of resolution were all that was needed to make these mighty officials do what was right.

She took with her Silvere and Barbet, crossed the bay, and knocked resolutely at the door of the bureau. The little hunchback, who had followed her, step by step, pitifully, like a whipped dog, stopped a little way off and hid himself beyond a pile of joists. As she was about to go in Elise looked for him, and, finding him after a little search, scolded him gently.

“You must come, M. Emile. You will never gain anything without courage. It is poor people’s money. You must come.”

He went in, pushed by Elise rather than from any will of his own. Hardly had he crossed the sill than he dropped his head and disappeared behind her skirts. He had seen, behind the heap of boxes at his table, a shaggy head overtopping a large body. His place was filled. It was useless to do anything.

“We will go in since we are here, all the same,” said Elise. “It will cost nothing to try.”

But she could not keep the little hunchback, who glided to the door so quickly that she hardly had time to put out her two arms to stop him. He slipped through her hands and took to his heels, but, quick as he was, she was up with him in no time.

“Come, M. Emile. I give you a chance. You must show that you are worthy of it.”

On seeing all four enter, the commissaire assumed his dignity and his chair. He foresaw a vigorous attack, and took the most available position to withstand it. He glanced at Barbet and the little hunchback contemptuously, paid no attention to Silvere, and finished his scrutiny by addressing to Elise a smile of interrogation.

She replied by an exact statement of facts. M. Emile was not able to earn a living in any other way, and his old parents needed his help; places were scarce at Saint-Valery--he wished to come back, he acknowledged his fault.

“Is it not so, M. Emile? You will be more courteous to the sailors. He will give you back your place, if you will promise to behave properly.”

Without raising his eyes, which were fixed on the ground, the little hunchback stammered out unintelligible excuses.

“It is useless,” said the commissaire. “I have arranged to fill your place.”

Elise interposed quickly:

“Yes, we have seen the big, shaggy fellow. Men of that size are not made for such light work as writing. They should take other places than those fit for feeble folk.”

The commissaire laughed. He began to understand Elise. He forgot that he had thought her crazed. He found her instead clear-headed and decided, and actuated by a feeling of generous fairness. He felt the power of her strength, strong from its very simplicity, and for fear of proving weak before it, he tried to break off the interview abruptly.

“Do not urge me. I cannot send away a good clerk to take back a bad one.”

“That is not the point at issue at all, for the little man promises to mend his ways. We do not wish to take away his bread from the big fellow either. We will find a place for him more in keeping with his size.”

“It is not possible. Leave me.”

“No, we will not go until you promise. Silvere wishes it as much as I, and Barbet, too.”

Hearing his name pronounced, the dog wagged his tail, and gave little barks of assent.

“At least turn the dog out. It is the first time that any one has taken the liberty of bringing a dog into my office.”

“Barbet is much better than most people. Come, Barbet, make a beautiful bow to the commissaire.”

Barbet made his reverence as seriously as a dancing-master, and acquitted himself of his task with a complaisance so amusing that the chief broke out laughing.

“Your beast is too absurd. Come, don’t make me lose any more time with him.”

“He knows also sailors’ songs. Barbet, go aloft, and sing the sailor-boy’s farewell.”

The dog, whom Elise had placed by a chair, put his feet about its legs and pretended to hoist himself up, as if it were a rope and he a monkey. Then sitting erect on the seat, he uttered a series of modulated barks, long or short, cheerful or melancholy, always in rhythm. He nodded his head, opened and closed his eyes, emphasized parts with good effect, and mimicked the play of words with most laughable contortions.

The chief laughed. The strangeness of this interview put him off his guard. Disconcerted by the _naïveté_ of these four intruders, who, without any sense of impropriety, had taken possession of his office, he offered only a weak resistance.

“Your beast is absurd. Make an end of this ridiculous exhibition.”

“Barbet knows how to handle a boat. Attention, Barbet.”

“Thanks, but do not give him so much trouble for nothing. I do not care for any more.”

“Oh, he loves to be admired. Come, Barbet, to the helm--starboard to the wind.”

Like a performer before some high personage, Barbet showed all his accomplishments, especially the drill, which he executed promptly in the most approved fashion, with a ruler for a musket; a ruler which Elise had boldly borrowed from the commissaire’s table. He was not happy when he had to show a visit of inspection, for he had not his chevrons and lace, and this infraction of rules did not seem proper to him. But he made it up to them by other tricks no less surprising, recognizing boats and taking children to school, and finally, on a sign from Elise, by dragging himself to the commissaire’s feet as if asking the offender’s pardon.

Chap. 23.]

“We will see. It is impossible in my office, I have filled his place; but I will find him another situation.”

“No, we want M. Emile to be with you. Your big, shaggy man can be a sailor. That is better than writing. Come, ask again, Barbet.”

“Go. Leave me. I will give him the place. This fashion of begging is intolerable.”

“Then you will keep him in your office! I promised him he should be there, and I do not want you to make me tell a falsehood.”

“Yes, yes. Go away with your dog.”

“But we must thank you first. Salute, Barbet. And you, too, M. Emile, you must kiss his hand.”

And pushing the dog and the hunchback toward the commissaire, Elise urged them to profuse thanks. And behind them, she said in her turn:

“I thank you for M. Emile. I was the cause of his losing his place, and it was right that I should secure his reinstallment. Silvere, offer your hand.”

“Enough! Enough! Leave me. If you do not all go at once, I shall have to take back my word. But it is all right. Have you finished at last? Adieu.”

All four went out, Barbet dignified, the hunchback joyful, Elise happy, and Silvere astounded at her energy.

“You work harder than a man.”

“Was it I who did it? No, it was Barbet, who gained the commissaire’s ear by his pleasant ways.”

It was not Barbet. What had gained the commissaire’s ear was the voice of pity; that same voice which, in the first place, had made him engage a man who was sickly, and, as Elise had said, unable to earn a living in any other way. Hunchbacks are doomed from birth to be either shopmen or clerks.

By his abrupt dismissal, his chief had meant simply to teach his impertinent clerk a lesson. He foresaw the usual attempts at reinstatement, and knew that the solicitations of the culprit himself, and his relatives and friends, would give an excuse to reinstate him. The big fellow, whom he had installed in the office experimentally, was for no other purpose than to make M. Emile think his dismissal final.

The commissaire had proposed to make his punishment longer, that it might produce a more lasting effect. He had meant it to extend over some weeks, if not months. He had yielded to the entreaties of Elise, in the belief that it would be a fresh humiliation for M. Emile to owe his pardon to simple sailors.

Besides, Elise and her dog, by their bold frankness, had touched him, and, when he shut the door behind his four visitors, he was no less happy than he supposed they were.

Hardly were they outside when the hunchback went to Elise. Great tears of joy ran down his face, and stopped hesitatingly on his knotted cheek-bones.

“I have only one more favor to ask of you, mademoiselle. Let me embrace you.”

“It was not I. It was Barbet,” she cried, stepping back.

“No, it was you whom the chief wished to please because you are so lovely. It would please me so much to thank you.”

“You must embrace Barbet, too.”

Then, moved by compassion, she leaned forward and presented him graciously her two cheeks. The little hunchback raised himself on tiptoe and pressed his pale lips, burning with fever, to them. Then, seizing the dog in his turn, he smothered him with caresses.

On the Place of Saint-Valery the scattered sailors, who saw him weeping and embracing in this singular fashion, burst into hearty guffaws. It was the only revenge they had.