A sharp, cold air is hardening the ground, beneath a sky sparkling with stars. And somewhere in this night Joseph is on his way. Through space I see him,—yes, really, I see him, serious, dreaming, enormous, in his compartment in a railway carriage.
He is smiling at me; he is drawing nearer to me; he is coming toward me. He is bringing me, at last, peace, liberty, happiness. Happiness?
I shall see him to-morrow. _____
XVII
It is eight months since I have written a single line in this diary,—I have had something else to do and to think of,—and it is exactly three months since Joseph and I left the Priory, and established ourselves in the little cafe at Cherbourg, near the harbor.
We are married; business is good; I like the trade; I am happy.
Born by the sea, I have come back to the sea.
I did not miss it, but it gives me pleasure, all the same, to find it again.
Here one does not see the desolate landscapes of Audierne, the infinite sadness of its coasts, the magnificent horror of its beaches that howl so mournfully. Here nothing is sad; on the contrary, everything contributes to gaiety. There is the joyous sound of a military city, the picturesque movement and varied activity of a military harbor.
Crowds in a hurry to enjoy between two periods of far-off exile; spectacles incessantly changing and diverting, in which I inhale that natal odor of coal tar and sea-weed which I love, although I never found it agreeable in my childhood. I have seen again the lads of my native province, now serving on State men-of-war.
We have scarcely talked together, and I have not dreamed of asking them for news of my brother. It is so long ago!
To me it is as if he were dead. Good day!... good evening!... be good. When they are not drunk, they are too stupid.
When they are not stupid, they are too drunk. And they have heads like those of old fishes. Between them and me there has been no other emotion, no other effusion. Besides, Joseph does not like me to be familiar with simple seamen, dirty Bretons who haven't a sou, and who get drunk on a glass of kill-me-quick.
But I must relate briefly the events that preceded our departure from the Priory. _____
It will be remembered that, at the Priory, Joseph slept in the out-buildings, over the harness-room.
Every day, summer and winter, he rose at five o'clock.
Now, on the morning of December 24, just a month after his return from Cherbourg, he noticed that the kitchen-door was wide open.
"What!" said he to himself. "Can they have risen already?"
He noticed at the same time that a square of glass had been cut out of the glass door, with a diamond, near the lock, in such a way as to admit the introduction of an arm.
The lock had been forced by expert hands.
Bits of wood, glass, and twisted iron were strewn along the stone flagging.
Within, all the doors, so carefully bolted at night under Madame's eyes, were open also.
One felt that something frightful had happened. Greatly impressed,—I tell the story of his discovery as he told it himself before the magistrates,—Joseph passed through the kitchen, and then through the passage-way into which opened, at the right, the fruit-room, the bath-room, and the ante-room; at the left, the servants' hall, the dining-room, and the little salon; and, at the end, the grand salon.
The dining-room presented a spectacle of frightful disorder, of real pillage. The furniture was upset; the sideboard had been ransacked from top to bottom; its drawers, as well as those of the two side-tables, were turned upside down on the carpet; and on the table, among empty boxes and a confused heap of valueless articles, a candle was burning itself out in a brass candlestick.
But it was in the servants' hall that the spectacle became really imposing.
In the servants' hall—I believe I have already noted the fact—there was a very deep closet, protected by a very complicated system of locks, the secret of which was known only to Madame.
There slept the famous and venerable silver service, in three heavy boxes, with steel corners and cross-pieces.
The boxes were screwed to the floor, and held fast against the wall by solid iron clamps.
But now the three boxes, torn from their mysterious and inviolable tabernacle, lay yawning and empty, in the middle of the room.
At sight of these, Joseph gave the alarm.
With all the strength of his lungs, he shouted up the stairs:
"Madame! Monsieur!
Come down right away. We are robbed! we are robbed!"
There was a sudden avalanche, a frightful plunge down the stairs.
Madame, in her chemise, with her shoulders scarcely covered by a light neckkerchief. Monsieur, in his drawers and shirt. And both of them, dishevelled, pale, and grimacing, as if they had been awakened in the middle of a nightmare, shouted:
"What is the matter?
What is the matter?"
"We are robbed! we are robbed!"
"We are robbed, what?
We are robbed, what?"
In the dining-room, Madame groaned:
"My God!
My God!" While, with distorted mouth, Monsieur continued to scream:
"We are robbed, what? what?"
Guided by Joseph into the servants' hall, Madame, at sight of the three boxes unsealed, made a great gesture, uttered a great cry:
"My silver service!
My God!
Is it possible?
My silver service!"
And, lifting the empty compartments, and turning the empty cases upside down, she sank, frightened and horrified, upon the floor.