“Pardieu!” muttered Gaspard to himself, “the fellow that made that laugh would not make the pleasantest companion. Let us listen—”
He leaned on the bulwark rail.
The hot southeast trade wind coming out of the velvety darkness whispered in the shrouds and set the reef points pattering; the warm, windy, starry night had a perfume more than the perfume of the sea; some trace of scent from the gardens and forests of Dominica, some hint of the spices of Guadaloupe hung on the skirts of the wind.
Then, all of a sudden, from forward came again the voice, not laughing this time.
A Fort de France, Ay ho!
A Fort de France, Ay ho!
Bonjour Doudoux, Ay ho!
A Fort de France.
A Fort de France,
Ay ho!
The chanty of the negroes when they were breaking the cargo out of La Belle Arlésienne sung by that single cracked voice. Now, the negro sailor, or the white, for the matter of that, never sings a working chanty for the pleasure of the thing. Who was this, then, breaking imaginary cargo or tramping at the capstan bars of some visionary vessel?
The deck-house door opened and a burst of light flooded the deck.
Sagesse stood for a moment framed in the doorway. He seemed listening to the voice from forward; then he saw Gaspard and called him to come into the deck-house.
A case bottle of rum was on the table, two glasses, and a pitcher of water; one of the glasses held some rum in it. Sagesse had evidently been drinking by himself. His face had a grey tinge; something had evidently disturbed him.
He shut the door, filled a glass for Gaspard, placed a box of cigars on the table, all without a word; then he took his seat at the table and began talking of the voyage in the desultory manner of a man who wishes to make conversation.