LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1236, 20 February 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY HEROINE. Argosy.

( Continued .) But I had forgotten all the difficulties when I met her on the afternoon of the next day, on the road to Buys—a bleak road skirting tiie efiffs, winding, dipping, and rising as though it had been designed by half a dozen officials of the Ponhs et Chaussees, utterly at variance as to where it should go. Annette had not forgotten her question, however. She took my arm with proud elation, and wanted to know whether I was very spiritual when I wrote, and if I ever talked about things she could understand

I described literature as a profession as clearly and succinctly as I could; and, divested of the lofty adjectives with which we usually ornament the subject, it looked wonderfully like any oth>T business ‘ But you are rich, and so young ! It must be delightful to write See the pere ; be has been working more than forty years ; and what has he got? —a meehan-te barque de pecheur or two. ‘ Annette dear, indeed I am not rich—indeed you must not believe that. I have scarcely a hundred pounds in the world. I write for my living—my living is not yoar father’s, you know. If Herve, for instance had been brought up as I have been, he couldn’t have lived for a month as he has been living for yeans.

‘ I see,’ she said reflectively. * Pavvre ami ; and I have nothing to give him not even a white hand he’d not be ashamed of ’

And she extended her hand disparagingly. As I kissed it, she said softly, ‘I have only my love.’ She resumed in a moment — ‘ But you have de la fami lie 1 You are not quite alone ?’

‘I. have an uncle—a milord rich and mighty. But we quarrelled—ho insulted me. I would rather die than ask anything of him ’

And I told her the s'ory of the feud. How her cheeks flamed ! How t! e pride of her race spoke in the soft brown eyes ! When I finished she threw her arms about my neck, and cried indignantly, ‘ Moi je I' aurai tue, le lacks! And he beat's my name!’ * Henry Vallance, Vallance Place, Hants,’ I answered, laughing at her vehement denunciation.

The novel progressed rapidly. My love, the new gladness of my life, gave me courage —gave me genius, perhaps, for the moment. For once I could read what I had written and feel satisfied. It was arranged that I should speak to Le Houx directly the book was in the printer’s hands. It was approaching completion, when I suddenly stopped short at an incident that necessitated some practical experience of a fisherman’s life at sea. I was at the Grand Cafe the cafe favored by officers of the garrison —when Lieutenant Ch~.sseloup suddenly observed, between two absinthes, * There’s a stupid account in the “Gaulois” of a night passed on board a fishing-smack. I have done the thing myself ; the writer’s quite wrong.’ I had become slightly acquainted with the lively lieutenant of Chasseurs, who saluted me on my arrival. He was Parisian, knew a little English, was well versed in light literature of a better class than Paul de Kock, and altogether seemed something of a living link between my present life and civilisation.

‘ Indeed !’ I exclaimed : and an easy solu tion of rny literary difficulty presented itself to my mind. ‘ I should like to try a night at sea on board a smack. Would a fisherman take me, do you think?’ ‘I don’t know. They’re a terribly independent lot. They won’t accept any money for the favor, and hate to have a bourgeois in their way.’ * But if you could present me to the skipper who accommodated yon.’ 4 Willingly. But, au fait, you know him. It is Herve le Houx.’

My friend the lieutenant knew more about me than 1 had told him. He added apologetically, 4 1 see Le Houx now and then ; he brings fish for Hie mess to the castle. I think he told me you were staying at his uncle’s house. ’ I assented.

* Ask Herve—he’ll he delighted ; and now is your time. The nights are dark. It will be picturesque on diablc.’ I adopted his suggestion, and the next day asked Herve on what night he could receive me. He had accomplished the nightly piquet as regularly as ever during the foregoing month, but he had not the same air of stolid confidence ; and moreover I was told he had begun to drink abnormal quantities of the thin Dieppe piquette obtained from the slopes surrounding the town. It seemed a cruel injustice to ascribe any moral phenomenon to the influence of the local vintage, br'ou must be Dieppois, and pofsessed moreover of a strong determination to avoid the ennui of going to bed slighlly sober, before you can order the thin claret sold in the Pollet with anything like confidence as to the result. Having made up your mind, having resolved upon inebriety at any cost, you can achieve your purpose after several hours of strenuous ingurgitatiou. Wi'h patience and practice, I suppose a man could brutalise himself with flour A'oranges; a slightly smaller effort, and one can produce intoxication with the Pollet i'in. lam unable to say whether Herve made that effort frequently ; but I heard at all hours M. le lloux lamenting to his wife and neighbours that ihe ‘ gar con was going wrong.’ I had not much communication with the qnr con , and was absolutely indifferent as to his moral transformation. He scowled at me now and then with a loose lumbering movement of his shoulders ; but I regarded that as a natural and pardonable manifestation of jealousy. I knew that he had divined our secret, and I was puzzled to account for the fact that he had not divulged it. But in spite of surly looks and laconic answers, we were good friends enough to warrant me in requesting him to receive me on board the Yigie some duT December night, when the dangerous side of his profession would be most visible. He did not assent at first. My proposition appeared to trouble, even to irritate, him. 'J here was not much room in the lugger ; I should bo put to serious inconvenience, taken from my work fu’ a couple of days perhaps. And then, with a side-long glance of suspicion, he added,

‘ And there is nothing worth seeing ; that is to say, if monsieur only wants to join us cn simple ciiricHX.’ ‘ fcurely,’ 1 replied. ‘ I don’t want to organise a smuggling expedition, and 1 have no practical intentions with regard to the Vigie ’ •Very well,’ he said reluctantly, ‘as monsieur wishes; only I am afraid he will be disappointed— vrai, I am afraid.’ On tlie night of Christmas eve I was upstairs in my little room, abusing Marshal MacMahon, at two pounds a column, for a doctrinaire weekly of gloomy views on all subjects not connected with land-tenure reform, when I heard Herve’s voice below. He was hailing me. * Monsieur Vallance ! Cela va-t-il pmr ce soir V

I bade him come up. He was shiny and crackling iu oilskin, and wore a fur cap with lappets. Annette had gone to the midnight Mass, having begged me not to accompany her. To he seen at church with a monsieur was a public announcement of a forthcoming marriage, or of something worse in the past. Wervo would not sit down, and declined. the brandy-and-water I suggested as an appropriate refreshment in such weather. * There’s no time to lose,’ he said awkwardly, watching me put a few things into a bag and straggle into top-boots and a pilot-coat. ‘ The tide will be out in an hour, and I must hurry on hoard. Claude and Barnabe aren’t worth a hard. left to themselyes.’ Outside a thin drizzling rain was fading, like a substantial and, peculiarly penetrating mist. Herve explained that he hoped to he back by this time to-morrow night; and seeing what weather; we were likely to have,,

I was rather pleased to reflect that my experience would last buftwenty-four hours. I slipped and scrambled on to the deck of the lugger. Every thing I touched was icy cold, sticky, and smelt of fish. Claude and Barnabe were at work at the windlass, lightening the labour with a lugubrious chant that to my mind suggested shipwreck, empty nets, every calamity incidental to navigation and fishing. Once past Notre JL)ame de Bon Secour, where the sailors signed themselves; once at sea, plunging and rolling with cracking cordage and groaning spars, I began to experience the restless longing of the landsman for something new—an incident, a danger—the itching to do something, to free oneself from the paralysis of the mere passenger, conveyed inert from port to port like a bale of merchandise. Herve was taciturn, and answered my questions as briefly as possible. The information extracted from Claude and Barnabe was conveyed in such an uncouth dialect, and enveloped in such an abundance of technicalities, that one must have studied the theory of navigation and lived in the Pollet for several years to be able to pr fit by it. I turned in at dawn, stretched myself (if the process of fitting oneself into the rough wooden coffin that served as bed can be so described) in the bunk prepared for me, and fell asleep, dreaming of the novel and Annette.

I awoke at midday. Herve was sitting opposite me eating bread-and-cheese, with a clasp-knife open before him. He said nothing as I sat up, yawned, and proceeded to draw on my boots, but shut his knife q cickly and put it in his pocket.

* Well, what fortune ?’ I said cheerily, opening my bag and extracting therefrom Lyons sausage sandwiches and three bottles of Burgundy, with which I proposed regaling the crew.

* Oh, good,’ he answered; * a fine haul at every coup.' 1 offered my provisions. He shook his head and finished his bread-and-cheese. The wine tempted him, I could see, but he refused it Did some old social law of the Pollet forbid a man to break bread or touch glasses with his rival ? We mounted the steep companion-ladder together. The sea was gray and sullen ; the night would be squally. I could see the dim uncertain line of the Sussex coast, a dot or two in the distance - that was all. The nets came up at regular intervals full, as the skipper had said. C laude and Barnabe were scaly from head to foot, like very swarthy and dirty harlequins. I saw shining quivering masses in the baskets in the tank. I began to perceive that the realities of the hardy fisher’s life are nob exactly photographed by the Opera-Comique librettists. This Christmas Day was the longest I ever spent. I essayed a little fishing on my own account, and gave it up in despair. When night came on 1 introduced my Bergundy to MM. Claude and Barnabe, and Herve completed the feast with a flask of brandy. The skipper did not seem afraid of what was likely to ensue —he remained on deck. There was nothing festive about his speech or manner, albeit I noticed that during tae day he took frequent pulls at a stone jar that emitted strong spirituous odours. The men were becoming noisy, and their patois was not rendered more intelligible by brandy and Bergundy. I went on Jdeck, and found that we were making for Dieppe, but very slowly. Herve was at the helm; the breeze was freshening every moment, and the lugger quivered and plunged under shortened sail. I stood |in the bows and watched the white crests divide, with showers of spray, hissing and spitting as our stem cut through them. Tbeu a man came from, below and took, the helm, and Herve was beside me, sullenly staring into the sullen waters. £ I made a light remark about the rising squall. I was heartily sick of my experiment. The darkness, the black slimy deck, the squalor, and. surly coarseness of the drinkers, and this man’s lowering face, irritated and disquieted me. I repeated my remark, and added angrily, * The storm seems to deafen you.’ He looked up ; I could not see his face, but it scowled threateningly, I was sure. He said slowly, chewing his words, ‘ And Annette is praying for her beau monsieur out in the storm.’

I thought the stone jar had taken effect, and answered tranquilly, * Annette’s prayars don’t malter to you or to me. Turn in and get some rest; you’ll need your strength to-night.’ (To ho routiuvod.)

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