“Bateau-pècheur; Bastia,” I replied composedly, resting on my oars at the same time.
“You are late, comrade,” remarked the sentry. “What luck?”
“Very poor,” I replied. “I have only been able to find half my lines, the darkness is so great; and in searching for the others I have lost a good deal of time.”
“Ah,” returned he, “you are lucky to have found any of them. Pass on, monsieur le pècheur; and good-night.”
“Good-night,” I shouted back, stretching out at the oars once more, and rowing laboriously up the harbour against a slight ebb-tide.
I had no difficulty in finding the landing-place. It was a sort of slipway leading down from the top of the quay to the water’s edge; and some ten or a dozen other fishing-boats were either hauled up there, or moored alongside. There was not a soul to be seen about the place when I ranged up alongside the green and slimy piles of which the slipway was constructed; I was consequently able to moor the boat at leisure, and in such a way that if I wanted her again in a hurry, I should have no difficulty in quickly casting her adrift.
I then gathered up the fish and placed them in a basket which was stowed away in the eyes of the boat; and throwing the rope strap over my shoulders, trudged with my load up the slipway until I stood upon the top of the quay.
I had been very minute in my inquiries as to how I was to proceed on landing, so as to be able to go direct to the abode of Dame Leferrier; and the fisherman Jean had been equally minute and careful in directing me; I had only to stand a few seconds, therefore, as though taking breath after the steep ascent, and look carefully about, to recognise the landmarks which he had given me to determine the direction I ought to take.
A low and villainous-looking waterside tavern stood at the corner of a street at no great distance, dimly visible in the light of a grimy lantern which swung over the door; and making for this, and keeping it on my right, I found myself in a narrow, wretchedly-paved street; up which I passed for about a couple of hundred yards, when I found myself opposite a rickety little hovel, having a light burning in its window. I was directed to look for such a light in the house to which I was bound; and as this appeared to be the only place in the street so distinguished, I walked boldly up to the door, raised the wooden latch, and entered.
I found myself in a small, low-ceiled room, stone-paved; with a heavy wooden table in the centre, having a rough wooden bench on each side; a couple of three-legged stools against the wall; a pair of clumsy oars and a boat-hook in one corner; a boat’s mast and sails in another; a fireplace, with a few smouldering logs, over which was suspended an iron pot, occupied nearly the whole of one side of the room; and, by the side of the hearth, with her back toward me, sat an old dame, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, gazing, half-asleep, at the almost extinct fire.