A Fisher Girl of France by Fernand Calmettes

The _Jeune-Adolphine_ did not sail the next day. A good fellow, after all, Poidevin had a tender heart. Immediately after the fight, of which he had been a witness, he had gone to the tavern to drown his emotion, and he had drowned it so effectively that his reasoning faculties had gone with it.

Wandering through the town and tired of knocking at all the doors whose bolts would not move for his key, he had ended by occupying a very soft bed which he found in a damp ditch by the roadside. When the next morning they lifted him up, muddy and with water-cress in his beard and hair, he was helpless. His fat alone had saved him from a worse fate. Howling with rheumatism, he kept his bed for a month, while the _Jeune-Adolphine_ waited impatiently in the harbor.

Silvere wished to take advantage of this respite and be married. On his recent trip he had recovered some important sums lent by his father to his country relatives. He was in easy circumstances as far as money was concerned. What was there to wait for.

They must wait for Barbet to get well. At least so Elise thought. She would not have a happy wedding if her old friend did not assist.

"Hurry and get well, my poor Barbet. I want you for a witness."

And a witness he was. Poidevin's illness continued beyond the doctor's expectations; the days grew into weeks. The end of October was at hand and the _Jeune-Adolphine_ could not hope to go fishing before the new year. Already the sailors were dismantling her. They were not now driven by the fear of having to sail, and Elise herself began to wish for the long-announced marriage.

"Hurry to get well, Barbet. You will not put us off until winter, will you?"

For a fortnight Barbet had moved about the room, dragging his hind legs behind him. His strength came back very slowly.

"You will not be able to dance at the wedding, you poor old crippled Barbet."

He did not object to any remedies, salt baths, rubbings, tonics, but, much as he wished it, he could not get well. At last, near All Saint's Day, after hours of attempts which cost him many a twinge, he managed to stand on his four feet and walk. He tried it twenty times before Elise.

"You walk well now, my old Barbet."

And the wedding was fixed for the Saturday after Saint Martin's Day. On that day the sky was clear at the sun rising, with that blue of autumn which pales as it nears the horizon. The south wind blew softly, while the gray crows, the larks, the starlings, the green finches, and all the birds of passage filled the air with joyous cries.

At daybreak Elise went with Silvere to the graveyard to invoke from her parents the first of the benedictions she was to receive that day. She slowly climbed the dune road, supported by him whom she was so soon to accept before men and for eternity as her only master, her protector, and her husband.

Half-way up she stopped. Below her the gulf hid beneath its scintillations the deep abyss, but as she saw it from afar, so laughing and so treacherous, Elise had not the tremors of other days. One is not afraid of what one knows.

"Silvere," she said simply, "one clings closer to happiness when one has fought for it."

Then she threw a last glance beyond the gulf toward England, and her breast swelled with emotion at the remembrance. Her thoughts flew to Firmin, the lad of her choice, whom she had loved so much. Notwithstanding all, she reproached herself for leaving him. She said to herself that soon other cares would take all her time, and some day, perhaps, she would have children of her own who would awake in her new inquietude and new duties.

Silvere watched her, lost in this far-off revery. She lifted her eyes to his unconsciously, and seeing that he divined her thoughts tried to hide them in a smile. But he quickly reassured her.

"You will always love your Firmin, will you not? Since he is your brother he shall be mine, Lise. In a household all friendships should be shared."

After the blessings of the relations, comes that of the mayor. The procession left the cottage, Silvere at its head, very handsome in his new clothes, with his brown hat and his blue shirt with a heart embroidered on it. Radiantly happy, Mother Pilote, hanging on the arm of her great son, trotted gayly along in her holiday costume of red skirt and green shawl.

Elise was married in white. That is the rule for young girls. She marched second in the procession, and took no one's arm in order that she might have Barbet beside her.