h 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, impassively. "Dead--as I always
thought and said he was dead! Drowned! You saw it, Pierre?"

"The good God 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,