Englishman struck a match to look at the time; then he replaced the watch in his pocket. All at once he spoke to me over his daughters’ heads, with the utmost seriousness:
“ ‘Sir, I wish you a happy new year.’
“It was midnight. I held out my hand, and he shook it; then he spoke a few words of English, and suddenly he and his daughters began to sing ‘God Save the King’; the sound rose in the darkness, in the silent air, and died in the vast gulf of space.
“For a moment I wanted to laugh; then a strange fierce emotion seized me.
“There was something at once menacing and superb in this song sung by these doomed and shipwrecked people; it was a prayer and it was magnificent, and worthy of that ancient glorious Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.
“When they had finished, I asked my neighbour to sing something alone, a song, a hymn, anything she liked, to help us forget our woes. She consented, and a moment later her clear young voice sounded out in the darkness. She sang what must have been a plaintive song, for the notes were long-drawn, fell slowly from her lips and fluttered like wounded birds above the waves.
“The sea was rising: it was flinging itself against the wreck now. But I was conscious of nothing but this voice. I thought of the sirens too. If a boat had passed close by us, what would the sailors have said? My troubled mind lost itself in a dream. A siren. Was she not in very truth a siren, this sea maiden, who had kept me on this worm-eaten ship and in a little time would plunge with me into the waters? …
“The whole five of us were flung violently across the bridge, for the Marie-Joseph had rolled over on her right side. The English girl fell on top of me; I had seized her in my arms and I pressed passionate kisses on her cheek, the hollow of her temple, her hair, madly, not knowing or realising what I was doing, thinking my last moment had come. The boat did not roll again; nor did we stir hand or foot.
“ ‘Kate,’ said her father. The girl in my arms answered, ‘Yes,’ and made a movement to draw away. I swear that at that moment I could have wished the boat to break in two, so that she and I fell into the water together.
“ ‘A little seesaw,’ the Englishman added. ‘It’s nothing. I have my three daughters safe.’
“Not seeing the eldest, he had at first believed her lost.
“I stood up slowly, and all at once I saw a light on the sea, quite near us. I shouted: there was an answering shout. It was a boat in search of us: the landlord of the hotel had foreseen our imprudence.
“We were saved. I was very sorry for it. They got us off our raft and took us back to Saint-Martin.
“The Englishman was rubbing his hands, and muttering:
“ ‘Now for a good supper! Now for a good supper!’
“We had supper. I was not happy. I was regretting the Marie-Joseph.
“Next day we had to go our separate ways, after many embraces and promises to write. They set off for Biarritz. For two pins I’d have followed them.
“I was a silly ass: I all but asked that young girl to marry me. I give you my word that if we had spent eight days together, I should have married her. How weak and incomprehensible man often is!
“Two years passed before I heard a word about them; then I received a letter from New York. She was married, and wrote to tell me so. And since then we have written every year, on the first of January. She tells me of her life, talks to me about her children, her sisters, never about her husband. Why? Ah, why? … As for me, I write to her of nothing but the Marie-Joseph. She is perhaps the only woman that I have loved … no … that I would have loved. … Ah, well … who knows? … Life hurries us on. … And then … and then … nothing is left. … She must be old now. … I shouldn’t recognise her. … Ah, the girl of those days … the girl of the wreck … what a woman … divine! She wrote to me that her hair is quite white. … My God … that hurts me intolerably. … Her hair white. … No, the girl I knew no longer exists. … How sad it is … all this! …”
Mademoiselle Pearl
I
It really was an odd notion of mine to choose Mademoiselle Pearl for queen that particular evening.
Every year I went to eat my Twelfth Night dinner at the house of my old friend Chantal. My father, whose most intimate friend he was, had taken me there when I was a child. I had continued the custom, and I shall doubtless continue it as long as I live, and as long as there is a Chantal left in the world.
The Chantals, moreover, lead a strange life; they live in Paris as if they were living in Grasse, Yvetot, or Pont-à-Mousson.
They owned a small house with a garden, near the Observatory. There they lived in true provincial fashion. Of Paris, of the real Paris, they knew nothing and suspected nothing; they were far, very far away. Sometimes, however, they made a journey, a long journey. Madame Chantal went to the big stores, as they called it among themselves. And this is the manner of an expedition to the big stores.
Mademoiselle Pearl, who keeps the keys of the kitchen cupboards—for the linen cupboards are in the mistress’s own charge—Mademoiselle Pearl perceives that the sugar is coming to an end, that the preserves are quite finished, and that there’s nothing worth talking about left in the coffee-bag.
Then, put on her guard against famine, Madame Chantal passes the rest of the stores in review, and makes notes in her memorandum book. Then, when she has written down
