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At four o’clock Marie left the house in the street of the Precipice. This was not a working day with her. To-morrow, the day after, the day after that—all time lay before her to work in. To-day, the saddest day in her life, would be a holiday.
As she passed slowly uphill through the awakening city, she could hear the heavy shutters being flung open, voices, the crowing of a cock from far away somewhere towards the Rue Buonaparte.
This morning, away in the blue sky of dawn, the crest of Mont Pelée, touched already by sun-rays, was an extraordinary sight. The cloud turban, tormented by some wind of the higher air, was streaming upwards in tongues of misty light; the great mountain seemed to fume—one might have fancied it topped by a burning cresset, some signal-fire lit by giants or gods.
She reached the Rue Vauclin. It was already nearly day, and the road was filled with people going to work. From the Rue Victor Hugo below the Creole cries of the street-vendors were already sounding; people gave her good-day as she passed them, and she answered them, and kept on.
Five minutes more brought her to the road to Morne Rouge. Here she paused and, leaning on the wall on the seaward side of the road, looked down.
She was looking at a sight that many people would have crossed the world to see—the bay of St. Pierre unfolding to the most lovely morning that ever came from heaven. She saw nothing but La Belle Arlésienne.
The old barquentine had shaken out her canvas and on the strengthening breeze was stealing out to sea like a thief. The bay was still in half twilight, though beyond the bay the sea was alive with the sun.
One might have thought for a moment that La Belle Arlésienne was not moving; a moment more, and you would have seen the distance widening between her and the steamer anchored to starboard of her.
The girl shaded her eyes with both her hands; then she cast her arms out as if to clutch back some figure in the air that was leaving her; then, leaning on the wall, she looked.