III
In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,” which was taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage to New Orleans. Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not approach the quay, and all the watermen of the town were busy carrying back and forth those who, like our travellers, were outward bound, or those who came merely to say a last farewell.
On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not having friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching the partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out from the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour became even more animated, since they now carried out to the “Espérance” some who had been belated on their way thither, and sought to get themselves and their goods safely aboard before the turn of the tide should serve to carry the ship out through the Straits into the English Channel.
Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence and Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears, which rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was leaving behind her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.
Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he spoke.
“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”
“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since never again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”
“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing her hand; and as she wept she whispered,—
“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to what I should feel at parting from you.”
Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and confusion that Clemence perforce dried her eyes to gaze upon it. The sailors were running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers away, and piled on the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw, each passenger providing such beds and covering as his station in life permitted, since the ship provided only the room in which these might be laid. Boatloads of people were leaving the ship, some merry, some grave, and above all the noise rose the sharp commands of the Captain. At last sounded the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle, and the crew began to man the capstan bars. One of the sailors commenced to sing to ease the labour off a bit, and at the sound of the well-known chorus,