Then, drowning out everything, as though some belfry in the sky had flung open, came the sound of bells; it was the carillon of the cathedral that rings twice daily, silver bells and golden bells, tenor and alto, answered by a thousand singing echoes from high wood and harbour, street and place, floating up to the blue sky, floating out over the blue sea.
“Marie, Marie de Morne Rouge—Bonjour, Marie—Little porteuse, child of the sun, listen to us, the bells, listen to us, the echoes—we are speaking the language he spoke, birds and echoes, bells and flowers, soul of woman and soul of man, one language only have they.”
“Marie de Morne Rouge—Marie.”
CHAPTER XXI
THE FLEUR D’AMOUR
Then, as if challenged by the bells, the clouds around Pelée spread out fanwise, the sky darkened, and Marie, taking shelter beneath a verandah, heard the rush of rain as it swept down from street to street.
The darkness and the rain were like an omen—or might have been but for the bells, ringing on, joyous, triumphant, like the love that lives through disaster and beyond death.
She heard the thunder of the rain on roof and verandah, the sky looked as though it would never clear again, and then, just as though the bells had broken a way to heaven, a blue rift shewed through the clouds, widened, spread wider still to a burst of sunshine and the clouds were passing away over the sea, sweeping it with meadows of tourmaline-coloured shadow.
Marie, leaving the shelter of the verandah, turned to the shop of M. Sartine, gave the account of her dealings with the Señora, received her meed of praise from the old shopkeeper, who was an excellent-hearted man in all things in which money was not concerned, and departed for home.