Marie, on the highest summit of the Morne, stood as though the silence of the world had suddenly stricken her, taking away movement and life.
“Ah, if he were to leave St. Pierre! If she were to return and never find him again!”
She had only seen him twice, she had only spoken to him a word, were he to pass out of her life forever, it would be the passing away of a spectre, a mist, a dream, but she would never love again. It was as though she had been waiting for him since the beginning of the world, as though she had lived through the remote past, through the old Carib days, passing from re-incarnation to re-incarnation, through the fervour of tropical days and nights, the silences of the tropical forests, without finding him. And now that she had found him, how would it be with her if she lost him?
Her mind, absolutely virgin and frank as the mind of the prehistoric woman, never paltered with words, she stood there on the morne, gazing at the vision of deathless love, supreme and mysterious happiness, torn by the thought—“Ah, should I lose it!”
There were still miles before her to be travelled before she reached Grande Anse, St. Pierre was calling her back, all her soul and being craved to return; few women of Europe could have withstood that call of the heart, she had only to return, to wander through the streets, by the harbour, on the Place Bertine, and she would be almost sure to meet him; but she had a trust to fulfil, the goods she was carrying had to be delivered at Grande Anse, Death might have stopped but would not have prevented her in her endeavour to fulfil her trust, and Love was powerless over her in this simple matter as Death.
That was her character drawn in four lines. Capable of immortal passion, yet bound by a simple duty as matter is bound by gravity.
Then she went on her road due east for Grande Anse, past the silent woods, through the great white light of the day.