CHAPTER LXXXVIII

"And so you have come to get your allowance, too Madame Quéméneur?"

"And you, too, Madame Kerdoncuff?"

"And where is your husband now, Madam Quéméneur?"

"In China, Madame Kerdoncuff, on the _Kerguelen_."

"And mine, too, you know, Madame Quéméneur; he is there, too, on the _Vénus_."

It is in the Rue des Voutes, in Brest, with a fine rain falling, that this dialogue of strangely shrill, falsetto voices takes place.

The street is full of women who have been waiting there since the morning, outside an ugly granite building: the sailors' pay office. Women of Brest, deterred in no wise by the cold rain, they are talking querulously, their feet in water, hugging the walls of the mournful little street, in the grey mist.

It is the first day of the quarter. They form a queue to get their money and none too soon, for money is wanting in all the dark dwellings of the town.

Wives of sailors far away at sea, they are waiting to draw their allowances, the pay which those sailors have allotted them.

And when they have drawn it they will spend it on drink. There is, opposite, a tavern which has been established specially for their convenience. It is called _À la mère de famille_ and the proprietress is one Madame Pétavin. It is known in Brest as _le cabaret de la délégue_ (the tavern of the allowance).

Madame Quéméneur, pug-faced, square-jawed, big-bellied, wears a waterproof and a bonnet of black tulle trimmed with blue shells.

Madame Kerdoncuff, sickly, greenish, with a look of a blue-bottle, shows a mean, sly-looking face under a hat trimmed with two roses with their foliage.

As the hour approaches the crowd of inebriates increases. The paying office is besieged; there are disputes at the doors. The cashier's desk is about to open.

And Marie, the wife of Yves, is there too, in this unclean promiscuousness, holding little Pierre by the hand. Timid, depressed, filled with a vague fear of all these women, she allows the more impatient to pass and waits against the wall on the side sheltered from the rain.

"Come in, my good woman, instead of letting the dear little fellow get wet like this."

It is Madame Pétavin who speaks. She has just appeared at her door, her face wreathed in smiles.

"Can I get you anything? A little of the best?"

"No, thank you; I do not drink," replies Marie, who, however, seeing that the tavern is empty, enters for fear lest her little Pierre should catch cold. "But if I am in your way. . . ."

Surely not, she was not in Madame Pétavin's way at all. Madame Pétavin had a kind heart and made her sit down.

Presently Madame Quéméneur and Madame Kerdoncuff, among the first to be paid, enter, shut up their umbrellas, and sit down.

"Madame! Madame! Bring us half a pint in two glasses."

No need to ask half a pint of what. Brandy, and raw brandy at that, is what they crave.

These good ladies begin to talk:

"What did you say your husband was, on the _Kerguelen_, Madame Quéméneur?"

"He's a leading seaman, Madame Kerdoncuff."

"And mine, too, you know, is a leading seaman, Madame Quéméneur! Wives of leading seamen ought to be friends! Here's to you, Victoire-Yvonne!"

The women were already addressing each other by their Christian names. The glasses were emptied.

Marie turned upon them big, serious eyes, examining them suddenly with much curiosity, as one might animals in a menagerie. And she had an impulse to leave, to get away. But, outside, it was raining heavily, and there was a crowd still at the door of the paying office.

"Your health, Victoire-Yvonne!"

"Your health, Françoise!"

Glasses are replenished again.

The women now begin to talk of their domestic affairs: it is difficult enough to make ends meet! But it can't be helped! The baker, this time, will have to wait until next quarter day. The butcher will have to be satisfied with something on account. To-day, pay day, may not one have a little enjoyment?

"But I, you know," says Madame Kerdoncuff, with a coquettish smile full of suggestion, "I am not too badly off, because, you see, I let a furnished room to an old sailor, who is a petty officer in the port."

There is no need to be more explicit. The face of Madame Quéméneur wears a smile of comprehension.

"And I, too, I have a quartermaster. . . . Here's to you, Françoise! . . ." (The women whisper to each other.) "He's a gay dog, my quartermaster, I can tell you! . . ."

And the chapter of intimate confidences begins.

Marie Kermadec gets up. Has she heard aright? Many of the words used are unknown to her, it is true, but the meaning of them is transparent and gestures make it doubly clear. Are there really women who can bring themselves to say such things? And she goes out, without looking back, without a word of thanks, red, conscious of her burning cheeks.

"Did you see her? We have shocked her!"

"Oh well, you know, she's from the country; she still wears the coif of Bannalec; she's green yet."

"Here's to you, Victoire-Yvonne!"

The tavern is filling. At the door, umbrellas are closed, old waterproofs are shaken; many more women come in, liquor flows.

And, at home, are little mites puling with the voices of jackals in distress; emaciated children whimpering from cold and hunger. So much the worse, here's to you, for is it not pay day!

When Marie got outside, she saw a group of women in large coifs who were standing aside to make way for the press of the brazen ones; and she went quickly and took her place amongst them so that she might once more be in honest company. Amongst them were dear old women from the villages who had come to draw the allowance of their sons, and who were waiting under their cotton umbrellas, with the dignified, prim faces, which peasant women assume in the town.

As she was waiting her turn, she entered into conversation with an old woman from Kermézeau, who told her the history of her son, a gunner on the _Astrée._ It appeared that in his early youth he had had bouts similar to those of Yves, but afterwards, as he got older, he had quite settled down; one need never despair of a sailor. . . .

Nevertheless in her indignation against these women of Brest, Marie had come to a momentous decision: to return to Toulven at whatever cost, and to-morrow if possible.

As soon as she got back to her room, she began to write a long letter to Yves giving the reasons for her decision. It was true, their tenancy of the lodgings at Récouvrance had still three months to run and that the little house at Toulven would not be finished for a long time yet; but she would make up for all that by working and strict economy; she would take in mending for the neighbours, and would goffer the large native collarettes, work of some difficulty, which she knew how to do very perfectly by the skilful use of very fine reeds.

And she went on to tell him all the new things which little Pierre had learnt to say and do; in very naïve terms, she told of her great love for the absent one; she enclosed a curl, cut from a certain little brown and very restless head; and put the whole in an envelope of thin paper which she superscribed thus:

"To Monsieur Kermadec, Yves, Leading Seaman on board the _Primauguet_, in the southern seas, c/o the French Consul at Panama, to be forwarded."

Poor little letter! Will it ever be delivered? Who can tell? It is not impossible, more unlikely things have happened. In five months, six months, travel-stained and covered with American postmarks, it will be delivered, perhaps, faithfully to Yves, and bring him the deep love of his wife and the brown curl of his son.