“It is an Englishman, of course,” said the Mother Senneville, examining the placid white face. “They throw their dead about the world like cigar-ends.”
By midday the news was in the London streets, and the talk was all of storms and wrecks and gallant rescues. And a few whose concern it was noted the fact that the Ocean Waif, of London, on a voyage from Antwerp and Southampton to the River Plate, had supposedly been wrecked off the north coast of France. Sole survivor, Albert Robinson, apparently a fireman or a steward, who lay at the Hotel de la Plage at Yport, unconscious, and suffering from a severe concussion of the brain. By midday, also, the cure was established as sick nurse in the back bedroom of the little hotel with an English conversation-book, borrowed from the schoolmaster, protruding from the pocket of his soutane, awaiting the return of Albert Robinson's inner consciousness.
“Are you feeling better?” the cure had all ready to fire off at him as soon as he awoke. To which the conversation-book made reply: “Yes, but I have caught a severe chill on the mountain,” which also the cure had made ready to understand—with modifications.
But the day passed away without any use having been found for the conversation-book. And sundry persons, whose business it was, came and looked at Albert Robinson, and talked to the priest and to Jean Belfort—who, to tell the truth, made much capital and a number of free glasses of red wine out of the incident—and went away again.
The cure passed that night on the second bed of the back bedroom of the Hotel de la Plage, and awoke only at daylight, full of self-reproach, to find his charge still unconscious, still placid like a statue, with cheeks a little hollower, and lips a little whiter. The young doctor came and shook his head, and discoursed of other cases of a similar nature which he had read up since the previous day, and pretended now to have remembered among his experiences. He also went away again, and Yport seemed to drop out of the world once more into that oblivion to which a village with such a poor sea front and no railway station, or lodging houses, or hotels where there are waiters, must expect to be consigned.
The cure had just finished his dejeuner of fish and an omelette—the day being Friday—when a carriage rattled down the village street, leaving behind it doorways suddenly occupied by the female population of Yport wiping its hands upon its apron.
“It is Francois Morin's carriage from Fecamp,” said the Mother Senneville, “with a Parisienne, who has a parasol, if you please.”
“No,” corrected the cure; “that is an Englishwoman. I saw several last year in Rouen.”
And he hurried out, hatless, conversation-book in hand. He was rather taken aback—never having spoken to a person so well-dressed as this English girl, who nodded quickly in answer to his salutation.
“Is this the hotel? Is he here? Is he conscious yet?” she asked in tolerable French.