Chapter XXX

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?”

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.