“Good or bad?” interrupted William.
“Oh, good,” said Marianne decisively. “Very, very good, very wealthy and respected, full of years and honor; though to start with he hadn’t been any of those things.”
“Well, go on,” said William, disappointed in the man.
“And the two Abbesses decided that they would like to meet again, and kiss and be friends, and so when the tide was out the younger sister started walking across the sand from Notre Dame du Castel, and the elder from Marie-Tape-Tout, and they met halfway at the low, flat rock called Le Petit Aiguillon, and they put their arms round each other and kissed; and they were neither of them ever seen again.”
“By gad!” ejaculated William. “What happened to them?”
“Nobody knows,” said Marianne. “Some people say the tide came up suddenly, and being very old ladies they hadn’t the strength to swim home, and were drowned. And other people say they were caught up to heaven. They left no trace except their footmarks on Le Petit Aiguillon. . . . Of course it’s just a legend. . . . The nuns on Marie-Tape-Tout left after their Abbess disappeared and went to St. Pierre and founded the Convent of Saint Raphael that is still there. And the sea washed away the convent on Marie-Tape-Tout. You can’t see anything of it now except a little figure of the Virgin carved in the rock.”
Octavius had again halted the chariot, that he and Sophie might admire the beauty of La Baie des Saints from the top of the cliff before descending and admiring it from below.
William gasped. They were at an immense height above the sea, gazing down at an amphitheater of rock that took one’s breath away. Pinnacles and bastions and towers of grey granite fell away below them, grand and terrible, though softened by the wheeling white wings of gulls and by patches of turf between the rocks where withered heather and bracken took on almost the color of flame beneath the sun, and by grey veilings of old-man’s-beard. Far down below in the bay a crescent of pale golden sand was slipping from beneath an almost transparent veil of blue water, like the moon from beneath a gauzy cloud. Sharp, jagged rocks covered with seaweed were showing above the water, and the rocky island of Marie-Tape-Tout, standing out to sea beyond the rocks, looked nearer than it was.
“The tide is going out,” said Marianne.
To the right of the bay the great rocks withdrew a little, and here was the little fishing village of Notre Dame, the whitewashed cottages sheltering within the crevasses of the cliff, their thatch kept secure against winter storms by netting and rope weighed down by stones. Smoke coiled up from their chimneys, and a few fishing boats, their hulls painted blue and green, lay peacefully upon the quiet water.
But to the left of the bay the rocks soared to a great height, and crowning their summit was the Convent of Notre Dame du Castel. Built of grey granite like the rocks below it, weathered by centuries of sunshine and storm, it was now a part of the cliff. It was hard to remember that men had built it; even those almost legendary monks who so long ago had crossed the sea in their frail boats to bring the knowledge of the love of God to the Island savages. They had built well. Notre Dame du Castel reared itself above the Atlantic with a primeval power and strength that made it look more like a fortress than a convent. Marianne told the awestruck William that in the early days of its history the monks had kept a light always burning in the west window of the great tower of the church, so that by night as well as by day Notre Dame du Castel should be a beacon for mariners for miles across the sea. That tradition had never been allowed to die, and today the nuns still tended the light. Just below the window where it shone, within an alcove cut in the west wall of the tower, a life-size statue of the Madonna stood looking out to sea.
“There’s not another convent like it anywhere,” said Marianne. “It’s famous, you know, all over the world.”
It was she who was doing all the talking now. Marguerite sat silent, her hands in her lap, gazing at Notre Dame du Castel with an expression of fear and wonder on her round child’s face. She had seen it many times before, and probably she would see it many times again, but the sight of it never failed to lift her up into some other country, where the air was rarefied and hard to breathe, where it was very cold, and where the rivers ran so swiftly that there was always a singing in one’s ears.
“How do you get there?” asked William.
Marguerite started and looked at him, but he was not talking about that other country but about the convent.
“There’s a road cut through the rock from the landward side,” said Marianne, “and round on the other side of the convent there’s another little bay that you can’t see from here, called La Baie des Petits Fleurs because of the lovely shells on the beach, and people say that from there you can climb to the convent up steps cut in the rock. But they say the steps are hard to find because the monks made them all those years ago to use when they went fishing, and now they are nearly worn away.”
“ ‘People say,’ ” repeated William after her. “Haven’t you been to La Baie des Petits Fleurs to see for yourselves?”
“Papa has forbidden us to go by ourselves,” said Marianne. “He’s always saying he will take us, but he always goes to sleep after a picnic lunch, and so somehow he never does. It’s dangerous. The tide comes in very quickly here, and rises very high in La Baie des Petits Fleurs, and if you are cut off there’s no way of escape.”
“Except by those steps the monks cut in the rock,” said William.
“But they’re difficult to find,” said Marianne, “and they say that if you do find them they only bring you out in front of an old locked door in the tower, under the statue of the Madonna. It was the door that the monks used when they went fishing, but no one uses it now.”
“There’s a cave in La Baie des Petits Fleurs called Le Creux des Fâïes,” said Marguerite. “The sarregousets feast there when the moon is at the full. There’s a sort of chimney at the back of the cave, and when there is a bad storm the spray dashes right up through it and the peasants say, ‘Look at the smoke from the sarregousets’ fire!’ Oh, I wish Papa would take us to La Baie des Petits Fleurs!”
“Drive on, Pierre,” said Octavius, sticking his head out of the window. “And be careful going down. Hold on tight, children.”
William discovered to his astonishment that a narrow sandy road, deeply sunk in the winding gully, led right down to the village of Notre Dame. It was so steep that the horses could only go very slowly, and obeying the instructions of Octavius everyone leaned as far back as they could to ease the weight. It was a strange sensation, after the wide view upon the clifftop, to find one’s self enclosed in this rocky tunnel. A stream ran down one side of the sandy road and luxuriant ferns grew up the rock above it. The air was chill and damp, but craning one’s head back, gazing up, one could see the sunlit wings of the gulls sailing across the patch of bright blue sky over one’s head.
The road widened fanwise and upon their right were the whitewashed cottages of Notre Dame, each with its patch of garden with in front of it a low stone wall where fishing nets were spread to dry, while in front of them spread the dancing light of the sun upon sea and sand.
Upon the dry rocks above high-water mark Pierre spread rugs and cushions and the hampers of food, plates, bottles, and glasses, before withdrawing to visit a relative at Notre Dame. The high cliffs gave shelter from the wind, and sitting full in the sun it was as warm as June. Sophie had to put up her parasol to shield her complexion, and Octavius discarded his greatcoat.
The birthday luncheon was excellent. It contained all Marguerite’s favorite food, cold chicken and ham, gâche â corinthes, a delectable cake stuffed full of raisins and spice, anglicé currant cake iced in honor of the birthday, raspberry wine, and something a little stronger for Octavius who, as he observed as he drank it, worked hard for his family, and “i’ faut prendre une pelite goutte pour arrousaï, ou bien j’n’ airons pâs d’ pânais.” This was an Isl
and saying which was translated to William as “One must take a sip to moisten the field or there will be no parsnips.” William agreed and, being a male, was allowed to have a little too.
Marguerite was unusually silent as she ate. This silence during a picnic luncheon at La Baie des Saints was habitual with her and was put down by her family to her enjoyment of good food. It was true that she enjoyed her food, partaking of as much as she could conveniently hold with a thoroughness and almost religious concentration that caused her father to ejaculate, “Au nom de Dieu soit!” when she started and, “Au nom de Dieu c’est fini!” when she had done, but her silence was not only due to good appetite. It was due also to thwarted longing. Ever since she had been a tiny child and had first heard the tale of it, she had longed to go to forbidden La Baie des Petits Fleurs. She wanted to see all the little shells. She wanted to see the cave where the sarregousets feasted and the chimney that carried away the smoke of their fire. She wanted to see the steps the monks had made that ended at the feet of the Madonna who had stood in her niche for nine centuries looking across the sea. They said the last person to use those steps had been the Abbess who went down them to kiss and forgive her sister on Le Petit Aiguillon, that very old Abbess who had gone down them to her death. La Baie des Petits Fleurs drew Marguerite with an attraction that it needed all her considerable strength to resist. It was only because she was so naturally obedient a child that she had not gone there long ago. . . . Perhaps, today, Papa would take them.
It took a long time to eat the beautiful birthday luncheon, and all the while the tide was going out.
“Le Petit Aiguillon is high and dry!” cried Marianne. “Look, William, there! Mamma, we want to show William the footmarks. Papa, may we go?”
“They are a purely natural phenomenon,” pronounced Octavius.
“Yes, sir, I know,” said his daughter impatiently. “But may we go?”
They all shaded their eyes and looked at the low rock covered in green weed that lay midway on the shining uncovered sand between Notre Dame du Castel and Marie-Tape-Tout. The sea had withdrawn very far away now; it was just a line of silver surrounding Marie-Tape-Tout.
“Yes,” said Octavius. “But watch the tide. Be careful.”
“Come with us, Papa!” whispered Marguerite.
But Octavius only repeated upon a yawn, “Be careful!”
“Be very careful,” said Sophie anxiously. She would have refused permission had she been applied to, which Marianne had known better than to do. “Marguerite, you’d better go behind that rock and take your pantalettes right off. You’ll only get them soaked.”
Marguerite obeyed, Marianne seized one of the empty baskets to collect limpets in, and then the three of them in their gay clothes went skimming away over the wet, shining sand, looking more like birds than ever. To Sophie, watching them a little anxiously, it seemed that they flew westward straight into the sun, and that she lost them in the dazzling light. All adventurers, even the sun itself, fly westward, she thought; to the New World, to the Islands of the Blest, to the horizon like a rose. . . . She hated the west. . . . She averted her eyes from it and took out some tatting that she had brought with her in her reticule. Octavius reclined backward upon the cushions, tipped his top hat over his eyes, folded his hands across his stomach and slept. . . . One day he would fulfill his promise of taking the children to La Baie des Petits Fleurs. But not today. It was too hot. He had eaten too much.
3
It took the children a long time to reach Le Petit Aiguillon because the rock pools that had been left uncovered by the tide were a world in themselves, to which William had not as yet been introduced. The brimming water in each pool was like a clear mirror through which one looked down at feathery seaweed like pale pink ostrich feathers or long streamers of dark red ribbon, the grasslike plize that made miniature fairy forests with shells entangled in the undergrowth, sea anemones of every lovely imaginable shape, some like smooth round crimson cushions, some like daisies, and others like velvet rosettes. Rock shrimps and tiny crabs darted about in the pools, and limpets clung to the rocks. The gulls and flocks of red-legged cahouettes circled about them, but the cormorants with their snakelike black heads kept at a distance.
“When we’ve looked at the footprints we’ll get some limpets for supper,” said Marianne. “They’re lovely cooked.”
Marguerite sighed. She loathed prizing the poor limpets off the rocks just to give relish to a meal for people who always overate themselves anyhow. Why should these harmless sea creatures be devoured by greedy humans? She was glad that there were cuttlefish and jellyfish about to retaliate a little. But it was no good remonstrating with Marianne, because for her sister’s practical nature, enjoyment of a lovely view was greatly intensified if she could extract something for the larder out of its beauty.
And William was as bad. At the mention of the limpets his eyes sparkled with masculine lust for the chase. The happy Marguerite actually felt a little sad, for she did not like to feel differently from William.
But she forgot her momentary depression in the fun of climbing up the smooth, slippery side of Le Petit Aiguillon. He was quite a big rock really, when one came close to him, and the two Abbesses must have been very agile in their old age to have chosen to kiss and forgive on his summit instead of down below on the sand. Yet there were their footprints on the summit of the rock, four fairylike prints as of two tiny creatures standing facing each other, nearly worn away by the washing of the waves but still discernible.
“They’re just a natural phenomenon, like your Papa said,” pronounced William. “They’re too small for real footprints.”
“Look!” said Marguerite. She had very tiny feet, almost too tiny for her plump little figure, and she slipped them quite easily into the prints of the Abbess who had come from Notre Dame du Castel. There she stood, looking westward, laughing, her arms held wide.
But it was William, not Marianne, who went into them. He gave her a great childish bear hug that nearly knocked all the breath out of her. Her bonnet fell off backwards and her untidy curls tickled William’s face so that he laughed and wrinkled his nose. They kissed, and tasted the salt of the sea on each other’s lips. William had never kissed a girl before and he enjoyed it. Marguerite was delicious to hold, warm and soft and fragrant. She did not seem to have any bones, but yet her softness was a quite substantial and satisfactory armful, and her plump arms about him felt strong. For both of them it was the first conscious experience of the happiness that can come from the mere fact of human contact. The human delusion that the arms of another are a sure shield against misfortune, and that hidden in the being of another there is safety, came to them in the form of conviction. . . . But only these arms; in this one being only. . . . Each took the shelter, and each gave it, and which was the greater happiness they could not tell; each was the complement of the other and created the fact of mutual love.
“The tide has turned,” said Marianne. She was standing some paces away from them looking out to sea, and so deep was her wound that she was afraid, and her fear was discernible in her voice. For just a moment she lost hold of her childhood’s certainty that to give love is to receive it again in equal measure, and she wondered what it would be like to go through the whole of life giving more than one was given. . . . The hunger . . . the dissatisfaction. . . .
Then Marguerite and William were one on each side of her, utterly mistaking the reason for her fear. “Silly!” said Marguerite. “Why, it hasn’t even reached this rock yet.”
“There’s lots and lots of time,” consoled William. “Time to get back to Mamma and Papa and get a basketful of limpets too.”
Marianne smiled. Silly children! As if she didn’t know the tides much better than they did. Of course there was time. Oceans of it. They were such children that her queer moment of panic was lost in a sense of her own superiority.
“That’s the Atlantic, Wil
liam,” she said. “Over there are Australia and America, and Tasmania and New Zealand, and the other new lands.”
She embraced them all in a vague but impressive gesture, and he gazed awestruck across the smooth blue water. A sea mist was creeping up and the horizon was lost. The mist was like a mysterious curtain let down between the Island and the wonders that lay beyond. Nothing between them and those legendary lands. Nothing but sea. Marie-Tape-Tout, nearer to the horizon than they were, seemed to be gazing too, a great column of rock shaped like a woman with a child in her arms; like one of those peasant women who so often in the cold dawns watched in patience on these shores for the return of a boat that had sailed into the sunshine for a night’s fishing and had not returned. And behind them the carved Madonna of Notre Dame du Castel watched too. When they turned round they could see her far up in her niche above the locked west door of the convent, the great precipice of grey granite falling sheer away from her feet to the little hollow in the rocks that was La Baie des Petits Fleurs.
Chapter II
1
Marguerite was never quite sure what made her do it. Her parents said afterward that it was just naughtiness; and certainly the temptation to go off on her own and explore the forbidden bay was not a temptation that she fought against very hard. But there was more to it than that. She did not want to see those poor limpets prized off their rocks to provide a relish for the supper of the overfed Le Patourels. And she realized, too, that Marianne had felt very lonely when she and William kissed each other on top of Le Petit Aiguillon, much more lonely than she had felt when William’s love of the chase had seemed a barrier between them, and that Marianne would like it very much if she and William were left quite alone to gather the limpets. However, those were no reasons for running off to La Baie des Petits Fleurs. She could perfectly well have gone back to Octavius and Sophie; and she did cast one glance toward the distant flame-colored speck that was Sophie’s parasol; but just at that moment a beautiful white gull sailed by over her head and drifted down into La Baie des Petits Fleurs. The sun touched his feathers to silver as he alighted there upon the little beach, and he seemed to be beckoning to her. Marianne and William were absorbed in limpets. They did not see her pick up her blue skirts and skim away over the wet sand toward the forbidden spot.