She looked impatiently toward me. Perhaps her eyes expressed more to me than her words; for her mother was Spanish, and Cecile had her mother's great, black, saucer eyes, with their long fringe of jet lashes. Still, her look was not what I had expected to see. She wore sad-coloured draperies, but she was not in mourning. Her dress was rich, of Lyons silk, and this surprised me; for her people were poor, and a sailor's widow is not always too well off at Benevent. Seamen are, not uncommonly, judges of merchandise. Do we not trade with the Indies, and a thousand other outlandish places? In this way it came about that I involuntarily counted up the cost of Cecile's costly habit and rich lace. But this mental inventory took hardly a second--certainly, less time than it takes me to tell.

"Cecile," I said, "my poor girl, I wish that I could tell you good news.

Your husband sailed with me. It was his lot to be one of the less lucky ones. Marc--"

"Is dead!" said Cecile, calmly. "I knew it all along--these three years. I felt it. Something told me long ago Marc was dead!"

She said this so quietly that I was astonished--perhaps a little shocked. Sailors' widows in Benevent mourn their husbands' loss for years. My mother was a sailor's widow ever since I knew her. No offer of a new ring could ever tempt her to throw aside the old one. She was true as Love.

I replied, with something of choking in my throat, but with hardness in my face, "Marc _is_ dead, Cecile! He was drowned!"--for I could not bring myself to tell this beautiful woman, whom he had loved as only an honest sailor can love, the story of his fate, as I had told it to the comrades in the kitchen of "The Three Magpies" the night before. I desired to spare her this.

"So Marc _is_ dead!" Cecile repeated, impa.s.sively. "Dead--as I always thought and said he was dead! Drowned! You saw it, Pierre?"

"The good G.o.d forgive me!" I said, "I saw it!"

As I said before, I held a _levee_ that day in the parlour of my mother's cottage. It gladdened my eyes, who would have worked my finger-nails below the quicks to save her from wanting anything--to see that the good soul was surrounded by the signs of plenty. She had wanted for nothing. Old Jean had tilled her piece of garden-ground to some purpose, and had never taken a sou as recompense for his work.

Everybody had been kind to her. It brought tears into my eyes to hear of it. Her kitchen told a tale of plenty. From the smoke-blackened oak beams hung hams and flitches of bacon more than one would take the trouble to count. Bunches of garlic and strings of onions were there in plenty; and the great black kettle hanging always over the pine-wood fire, sent forth savoury steams, that made your heart leap into your mouth. The Widow Crepin's was a _pot-au-feu_ worth eating, I can tell you. Nor did we fail to wash down our food with draughts of good wine on every day of the week. I gave a supper that night to some of my friends. I had not quite forgotten the impression Cecile had made upon me in the morning. For Marc, the second officer, had been my friend ever since I could recollect sweetstuff. But we were merry together, talking of the old times, of my adventures in the desert island, of the good ship that had brought me safely back to Benevent, and of other things.

Presently the name of Cecile was mentioned.

I shuddered involuntarily.

I knew bad news was coming from the tone of the speakers.

I guessed what it would be, and blew angry clouds from my long wooden pipe.

"Pierre--Pierre Crepin, has Cecile Debois been here to see you?"

"She has. She was here this morning."

"She is well off!" said one.

"She has to want for nothing!" said another.

And they shook their heads wisely, as those do who know more than they say.

"What of Cecile?" I asked, with somewhat of anger in my tone.

"Do you not know?"

"Did she not tell you?"

"I know she is poor Marc's widow. She told me nothing."

"Ah, ah! She wanted the news of Marc's death! She will be married to M. Andre, the merchant! There has this long while been a talk of them in Benevent, and, for the matter of that, for miles round!"

"M. Andre!" I cried. "But he is elderly--old enough to be her father!"

"'Old men--old fools,' as the saying is!" put in Father Lancrac. He was old enough to know. I did not gainsay him. It is well to treat one's elders with respect. And old M. Lancrac, my mother's good friend and kinsman, was in his dotage. Besides, now others aimed their darts at her, I felt inclined to excuse Cecile.

"It is well," I said. "Women many again in Benevent, I suppose, as anywhere else in the world. Why not Cecile?"

Hearing me say this, and marking some sternness in my tone, they all said, "Ay, ay! Why not? She is a fine woman, and is to make a good match that we all ought to be proud of! Poor Marc is dead!" And so forth.

We puffed our pipes some time in silence, those of us who smoked. The others counted my mother's hams and flitches of bacon, and the strings of onions throwing flickering shadows in the lamplight. But old age will not be silent.

Father Lancrac said, for his part, he wished he was Merchant Andre. He would marry again. Who would have him? He was better than most of the young ones now.

And the women folk laughed.

Lawyers are adroit. After this, the notary, Gaspard, who had honoured us with his company he had known my father--turned the conversation. He asked me questions about my adventures in the island, my mode of life, how I counted time, my subsistence, and such things. In this way our evening pa.s.sed away, and we parted, as good friends should part--merry.

But it happened sooner than I had expected. Cecile and M. Andre were married a fortnight after. That was a scene, indeed, which will not soon be forgotten. The bride looked lovely, and M. Andre, worthy man, wore an appearance ten years younger than his real age, he was so happy.

Madame Andre! I thought of her as the wife of my old comrade, Marc. I recalled the humble nuptials of six years before. I seemed to see her as she stood before us then--girlish, beautiful, graceful, in her home-made bridal gown. Now her own friends were not grand enough to be bidden to the feast. But M. Andre's well supplied their place. We, however, were permitted to look on--to cheer, huzza, and wish them both joy.

Her mother's house was too small for her to be married from. She was taken to the Mairie by her second spouse from the house of one of his relatives; and, in her white dress and veil, she looked more dazzlingly lovely than any woman I had ever seen.

After the ceremonial at the church, there was a _dejeuner_, to which all the best people of Benevent were invited. The newly married pair were to spend their honeymoon at a chateau of M. Andre's, some three leagues from Benevent, in the hills, overlooking the sea. A carriage and pair of horses, with a postilion in a gay jacket, waited to take them there.

Bound the carriage, on the footway and in the road, was a crowd of people, curious to see all that there was to be seen, and desirous of giving bride and bridegroom "G.o.d-speed!" when they drove off.

I pa.s.sed the place by accident, for I had not intended to be there. I had taken my stout stick in my hand, meaning to try a walk up the hills, by the coach road.

By chance I had pa.s.sed the house where the bride and bridegroom were breakfasting. By chance I had found myself one of the crowd. A crowd impresses upon one its sympathies. I loitered among them--not long;-- long enough to see a man, with a beard and tanned face, hurriedly asking some questions. I could not get near him for the people. Then, as hurriedly, he strode away, with great, heavy strides.

The face I did not know--I had caught but a hurried glance of it; but the broad shoulders, the strong limbs, the walk of the man, I did know.

A terrible feeling came over me.

My knees trembled under me.

My face was white as paper.

I could have fallen to the ground.

For I knew the walk was the walk of Marc!

And these three years he had been dead!

With the emotions called forth by this untimely apparition, do you suppose that I remained in the crowd in the narrow street?--that I desired to "huzza!" as M. Andre and Cecile drove away? I was stifled.

I wanted air--to breathe--to breathe! I sought it, by turning my steps to the hills as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me.

It was the road he had taken.

Should I see him again?

I gathered strength. I walked fast--faster. I ran till I was out of breath. I stopped and sat down on a great moss-grown stone.