A Fisher Girl of France by Fernand Calmettes

The night was soft, moonlit, and silent. There was not a sound in the village, not a breath of air to awaken the sleeping life. The cock, turning on his rod at the top of the steeple, did not creak; there was not the sound of a blind slamming against a wall; not even the furtive step of a marauding cat. Nothing could be heard except the rhythmic beating of the waves on the beach, and very far away on the heights, in the direction of the graveyard, the plaintive howlings of a dog, wailing to the dead.

It must be the captain's dog. During the fifteen days that she had been away, Elise had not thought of her good friend, the shaggy-coated and brave fellow, who said so many sweet things to her with his thoughtful eyes. She could hear him still. It was he, without doubt, but his voice seemed a little deeper than usual. Why was he howling so dismally, and so far away? Could he have lost his master? Elise had returned late the night before.

She had not heard the news. Could the poor captain have died?

The captain enjoyed great consideration in the village, not only on account of his merit, but on account of his rank. It is true that he was only an officer of the coast guards, who had been for a long time on the retired list, but he was better known than any of the officers of those parts. Eating little and drinking less, he spent the greater part of his pension in stuffing with dainties the village children, and in feeding his dog Barbet, his only friend and the friend of his whole life.

For twenty-five years he had lived in close comradeship with the same dog, this dog who was now watching on his tomb. The same dog? It was not possible, at least, to tell when he was changed. His history was very simple. Like the greater part of the coast guards, the captain had adopted a dog on entering the service. The first of the Barbets had long, coarse hair. One day he had saved the captain from drowning, and from that time he had treated him as a brother and faithful companion. And this friendship had lasted fifteen years; fifteen years -- the life of a dog. Barbet, grown old, had gently come to his end, but he had left a son as shaggy as himself, with long hair, always full of thistle-heads, collected from the hedges. Gentle as his father, the second of the family had the same intelligent and kind look, the same affection for his master. The captain had fed him in the same way, had taught him in the same way, and had raised him to the same rank. They were both corporals, the Barbets, the son as well as the father. On the days of inspection, before the superior officer who passed through the town, Barbet advanced at the word of command, his chevron under his chin, after the ancient fashion, and a stripe of silver on his legs.

He was proud of these honors, because he had earned them by force of application. He knew the drill, but that he considered as nothing. He was not proud, for all the dogs of the company knew as much. He had a real cause for pride which no one could dispute. He had not an equal in recognizing, at a distance, the boats of his friends.

From the coast-guard station on the height of the dune, he could see them as they arrived from sea, and could distinguish them better than any man or woman. He announced them after a fashion of his own, by distinct barks. All the people of the village had learned to know what the barks meant. During bad weather, when the women, awaiting the return of their husbands, could just make out, lost in the white foam of the sea, a bit of sail above a black hull, they would consult Barbet. Three barks -- it was the boat of Baptiste Hénin. Elise, while still a child, on hearing him name her father in this way, had wept, while her mother, with an eye from which the fire of anxiety had dried the tears, watched the strife of the little boat against the heavy sea.

No; it is not Hénin's boat. We can see two masts. It is the sloop of big Poidevin. Look again, Barbet. The dog would dilate his nostrils in the wind. Through his long hair his fawn-colored eyes would shine like gleaming points. Three barks again. Yes, it is Hénin's boat. She comes as if she were flying; one mast only; Barbet is right. And when the boat, pitching and rolling through the tumbling sea, drew near enough to be recognized by all, then it was that Barbet was triumphant, barking every time that the hull disappeared in the waves and reappeared on their crest. When, after hours of anguish, that seemed longer than a whole existence, the crowd, massed on the dune, finally see the boat reach the harbor, and are all hurrying to assist at her arrival, Barbet follows them in their joyful course. When they arrive at the harbor, he tugs on the ropes that make her fast, then barks joyfully, while all the dogs in the town re-echo his cries like a note of victory.

All these recollections of her infancy, at the same time sweet and sad, come back to Elise, while she stands listening to the howling of Barbet on the dune. Poor Barbet! He was the third of his race, still young and strong in proportion. Elise had known only two of them, but she could not tell them apart any more than their master could.

But whether there were one or two, it was always the same Barbet, simple as a tale, lasting as a tradition. What was the use of a pedigree in a family where the descendant was as good as his ancestor, and when from grandfather to grandson the same intelligent and kind spirit animated them all under the same body?

Barbet ought to know thoroughly the history of the village. He had brought up all the children, and it was he who took them to school. He had learned the hour for going and coming, and he arrived punctually, in order to watch over them on the route. He was a strong hand for discipline. He detested an abuse of power or injustice. It was a bad day for the older children if they struck the younger.