In Port
I
Having left Havre on May 3, 1882, for a voyage in Chinese waters, the three-masted sailing-ship Notre-Dame-des-Vents re-entered Marseilles harbour on August 8, 1886, after a four years’ voyage. She had discharged her original cargo in the Chinese port to which she had been chartered, and had there and then picked up a new freight for Buenos Aires, and from thence had shipped cargo for Brazil.
Various other voyages, not to speak of damages, repairs, several months spent becalmed, storms that blew her out of her course, and all the accidents, adventures and misadventures of the sea, had detained far from her land this three-masted Norman boat now returned to Marseilles with a hold full of tin boxes containing American preserved foods.
At the beginning of the voyage she had on board, besides the captain and the mate, fourteen sailors, eight Normans and six Bretons. At the end only five Bretons and four Normans remained; the Breton had died at sea; the four Normans, who had disappeared in various circumstances, had been replaced by two Americans, a nigger and a Norwegian shanghaied one evening in a Singapore den.
The great ship, sails furled, yards forming a cross with mast stem, drawn by a Marseilles tug that panted along before her, rolled in a slight swell that died gently away in the calm waters behind her; she passed in front of the Château d’If, then under all the grey rocks of the roadstead over which the setting sun flung a reek of gold, and entered the old harbour where, ship lying by ship alongside the quays, were gathered ships from all corners of the globe, huddled together, large and small, of all shapes and riggings, like a fish-soup of boats in this too confined basin, full of foul water, where the hulls grazed and rubbed against each other, for all the world as if they were pickled in saltwater liquor.
Notre-Dame-des-Vents took her place between an Italian brig and an English schooner which drew apart to make way for their comrade; then, when all the formalities of customs and harbour had been complied with, the captain gave two-thirds of his crew shore leave for the evening.
It was already night. The lights of Marseilles were lit. In the warmth of the summer evening, an odour of garlic-flavoured cooking hung over the noisy city, alive with the sound of voices, rumblings, clatterings, all the gaiety of the South.
As soon as they felt land under them, the ten men who had been tossed for months on the sea, began to walk very carefully, with hesitant steps like creatures strayed out of their element, unaccustomed to cities, two by two in a procession.
They rolled along, taking their bearings, following the scent down the by-streets that opened on to the harbour, their blood on fire with a hunger for love that had grown stronger and stronger in their bodies throughout their last sixty-six days at sea. The Normans marched ahead, led by Célestin Duclos, a tall shrewd sturdy young fellow, who captained the others whenever they set foot on shore. He found out the best places, devised ways and means to his liking, and refrained from risking himself too readily in the brawls so common between sailors on shore. But when he did get involved in one, he was absolutely fearless.
After hesitating some little time between the obscure streets that ran down to the sea like sewers, from which rose a heavy smell, as it were the very breath of hovels, Célestin decided on a sort of winding passage where lighted lamps, bearing enormous numbers on their frosted coloured glass, were hung out above the doors. Under the narrow arch of the doorways, women in aprons, looking like servant-girls, and seated on rush-bottomed chairs, got up at their approach, made three steps to the edge of the stream that ran down the middle of the street and stood right across the path of the line of men that advanced slowly, singing and chuckling, excited already by the neighbourhood of these prostitutes’ cells.
Sometimes in the depths of a lobby a second door padded with brown leather opened abruptly and behind it appeared a stout half-naked woman, whose heavy thighs and plump arms were sharply outlined under a coarse tight-fitting shift of white cotton. Her short petticoat looked like a hooped girdle, and the soft flesh of her bosom, arms and shoulders made a rosy patch against a bodice of black velvet edged with gold lace. She called to them from far off: “Are you coming in, dearies?” and sometimes came out herself to clutch one of them, pulling him towards her doorway with all her might, clinging to him like a spider dragging in a body bigger than itself. The man, excited by her touch, resisted feebly, and the others halted to watch him, hesitating between their desire to go in without further delay and their desire to make this appetising stroll last a little longer. Then, when after the most exhausting effort the woman had dragged the sailor to the threshold of her abode, into which the whole company were about to plunge after him Célestin Duclos, who was a judge of such houses, would suddenly cry: “Don’t go in there, Marchand, it’s not the right one.”
Whereupon, obedient to this command, the man disengaged himself with brutal violence, and the friends fell again into line, pursued by the obscene abuse of the exasperated women while other women, all the way down the passage ahead of them, came out of their doors, attracted by the noise, and poured out hoarse-voiced enticing appeals. They went on their way, growing more and more excited, between the cajoling cries and seductive charms offered by the chorus of love’s doorkeepers down the length of the street before them, and the vile curses flung after them by the chorus behind, the despised chorus of disappointed women. Now and then they met other companies of men, soldiers marching along with swords clattering against their legs, more sailors, a solitary citizen or so, a few shop assistants. Everywhere opened other narrow streets, starred with evil beacon-lights. They walked steadily through this labyrinth of hovels on the greasy cobbled streets, oozing streams of foul water, between houses full of women’s flesh.
At last Duclos made up his mind and, halting in front of a fairly decent-looking house, marshalled his company into it.
II
The entertainment lacked nothing! For four hours the ten sailors took their fill of love and wine. Six months’ pay vanished on it.
They were installed, lords of all they surveyed, in the big saloon, regarding with unfriendly eyes the ordinary clients who installed themselves at little tables in corners, where one of the women who were still disengaged, dressed like overgrown babies or music-hall singers, ran to attend on them, and then sat down beside them.
Each man had on arrival selected his companion whom he retained throughout the evening, for the lower orders are not promiscuous. Three tables had been dragged together, and after the first round of drinks, the procession, fallen into two ranks and increased by as many women as there were sailors, reformed on the staircase. The noise made by the four feet of each couple was heard for some time on the wooden steps, while this long file of lovers plunged through the narrow door that led to the bedrooms.
Then they came down again for more drinks; went up again, came down again.
Now, very nearly drunk, they began to bawl. Each man, with reddened eyes, his fancy on his knee, sang or shouted, hammering on the table with doubled fists, rolled the wine round his throat, giving full play to the beast in man. In the midst of them, Célestin Duclos, holding tight a tall red-cheeked wench, seated astride on his knee, regarded her ardently. Not so drunk as the others—not that he had drunk any less—he could still think of more than the one thing, and more human than the rest, he tried to talk to her. His thoughts were a little elusive, slipping from his grasp, returning and disappearing before he could remember just what he had wanted to say.
He laughed, repeating:
“Then, then … you’ve been here a long time.”
“Six months,” replied the girl.
He appeared pleased with her, as if that were a proof of good conduct, and went on:
“Do you like this life?”
She hesitated, then spoke resignedly:
“One gets through with it. It’s no worse than anything else. Being a servant or walking the streets, they’re both dirty jobs.”
He seemed to approve this truth too.
“You’re not from these parts?” said he.
She shook her head without speaking.
“Do you come from far?”
She nodded, still silent.
“Where from?”
She seemed to search her mind, trying to collect her memories, then she murmured:
“From Perpignan.”
Again he showed great satisfaction, and said:
“Oh, yes.”
In her turn she asked him:
“You’re a sailor, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my sweet.”
“Have you come a long way?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve seen countries, ports, and all that.”
“Isuppose you sailed round the world?”
“I dare say, more like twice than once.”
Again she seemed to hesitate, searching in her mind for something forgotten, then, in a rather altered, grave voice, she said:
“You have come across a good many ships in your voyages?”
“I have that, my sweet.”
“Perhaps you’ve even come across Notre-Dame-des-Vents?”
He chuckled.
“No later than a week ago.”
She turned pale, all the blood ebbing from her cheeks, and asked:
“Is that true, really true?”
“As true as I’m telling you.”
“You’re not telling me a lie?”
He lifted his hand.
“God’s truth I’m not,” said he.
“Then do you know whether Célestin Duclos is still with her?”
He was surprised, uneasy, and wanted to know more before replying.
“Do you know him?”
She became suspicious too.
“No, not me, it’s some woman who knows him.”
“One of the women here?”
“No, outside.”
“In the street?”
“No, another.”
“What woman?”
“Oh, just a woman, a woman like me.”
“What’s this woman want with him?”
“How should I know, what d’you think?”
They stared into each other’s eyes, trying to read the thoughts behind, guessing that something serious was going to come of this.
He went on:
“Can I see this woman?”
“What would you say to her?”
“I’d say … I’d say … that I have seen Célestin Duclos.”
“Is he all right?”
“As right as you or me, he’s a lad.”
She was silent again, collecting her thoughts, then, very slowly, asked:
“Where was she bound for, the Notre-Dame-des-Vents?”
“Well, to Marseilles.”
She could not repress a start.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Do you know Duclos?”
“Yes. I know him.”
She hesitated again, then said softly:
“Good. That’s a good thing.”
“What d’you want with him?”
“Listen, you can tell him … nothing!”
He continued to stare at her, more and more uneasy. He must know the whole now.
“Do you know him then?”
“No,” said she.
“Then what d’you want with him?”
She came to a sudden decision, got up, ran to the bar where the proprietress sat enthroned, seized a lemon, cut it open, pouring the juice into a glass, then filled up the glass with plain water and, bringing it to him, said:
“Drink this.”
“Why?”
“To sober you up. After that I’ll talk to you.”
He drank obediently, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and declared:
“That’s all right, I’m listening to you.”
“You must promise me not to tell him that you have seen me, nor who told you what I am just going to tell you. Swear it.”
He lifted his hand, with a knowing air.
“I swear it.”
“On the good God himself?”
“Yes, on the good God.”
“Well, you’re to tell him that his father is dead, that his mother is dead, that his brother is dead, all the three of them in the same month, of typhoid fever, in January, 1883, three and a half years ago.”
And now it was he who felt the blood rush through his body, and for some moments he sat there, so overcome that he could find nothing to say in reply; then he began to have doubts and asked:
“Are you sure?”
“I’m quite sure.”
“Who told it to you?”
She put her hands on his shoulders and, peering into his eyes, said:
“You swear you won’t give me away?”
“I swear it.”
“I’m his sister.”
Her name broke involuntarily from his mouth:
“Françoise?”
She regarded him again fixedly, then, overwhelmed by a crazy fear, by a profound feeling of horror, murmured under her breath, against his mouth:
“Oh, oh, is it you, Célestin?”
They sat rigid, eyes staring into eyes.
Round them, the sailors went on shouting. The noise of glasses, fists, and heels beating in tune to the choruses, and the shrill cries of the women, mingled with the uproarious songs.
He felt her against him, held close to him, warm and terrified, his sister! Then, in a mere whisper, afraid lest someone overhear him, so low that she herself could hardly hear:
“My God, I’ve done a fine thing!”
Her eyes filled with tears in an instant, and she stammered:
“It’s not my fault, is it?”
But he said abruptly:
“So they’re dead?”
“Yes, they’re dead.”
“Dad, and mother, and my brother?”
“All three in the same month, as I’ve just told you. I was left alone, with nothing but what I stood up in, seeing that I owed money to the chemist and the doctor and for burying the three bodies, which I paid off with the furniture.
“After that I went as servant to old Cacheux, you know him, the cripple. I was just exactly fifteen then, seeing that you went away when I was not quite fourteen. I got into trouble with him. You’re a fool when you’re young. Then I went as housemaid to a solicitor; he seduced me too and set me up in a room in Havre. It wasn’t long before he stopped coming; I spent three days without food and then, since I couldn’t get any work, I went into a house, like many another. I’ve seen the world too, I have, and a dirty world at that! Rouen, Evreux, Lille, Bordeaux, Perpignan, Nice, and now here I am at Marseilles!”
Tears poured out of her eyes and her nose, wetting her cheeks, and ran down into her mouth.
She went on:
“I thought you were dead too, my poor Célestin.”
He said:
“I would never have known you again, you were so little then, and now you’re so big, but how was it you didn’t recognise me?”
She made a despairing gesture.
“I see so many men that they all look alike to me.”
He was still staring into her eyes in the grip of a confused emotion, an emotion so overwhelming that he wanted to cry like a beaten child. He still held her in his arms, sitting astride his legs, his hands spread out on the girl’s back, and now by dint of staring at her, he recognised her at last, the little sister left in the country with the three she had watched die while he tossed at sea.
All at once he took her newfound face in his great sailor’s paws and began to embrace her as a man embraces his flesh and blood. Then sobs, a man’s terrible sobs, long-drawn surging cries, rose in his throat like the hiccups of a drunken man.
He stammered:
“To see you, to see you again, Françoise, my little Françoise. …”
Suddenly he leaped to his feet and began to swear in a dreadful voice, bringing his fist down on the table with such violence that the overturned glasses broke to atoms. Then he took three steps, staggered, flung out his arms and fell face downwards. He rolled on the floor, shouting, beating the ground with arms and legs, and uttering such groans that they were like the death-rattle of a man in agony.
All the sailors looked at him and laughed.
“He isn’t half drunk,” said one.
“Put him to bed,” said another; “if he goes out they’ll stick him in jail.”
Then, as he had money in his pockets, the proprietress offered a bed, and the other sailors, themselves so drunk that they couldn’t stand, hoisted him up the narrow staircase to the bedroom of the woman who had lately received him, and who remained sitting on a chair, at the foot of that guilty couch, weeping over him, until morning.