Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

others, but was not yet quite drunk: some more or less connected thoughts still flickered through his brain. He grew tender, and tried to think of something to say to his lass, but the thoughts that came into his head vanished again at once and he was unable to remember or express them.

“Yes,” said he, laughing. “Just so.⁠ ⁠… Just so.⁠ ⁠… And have you lived here long?”

“Six months,” replied the woman.

He nodded his head, as if to show his approval of this.

“And are you comfortable here?”

She thought a moment.

“I have got accustomed to it,” she said. “One has to live somehow. It is not so bad as being in service or working in a laundry.”

He nodded his head approvingly, as if to commend her for this also.

“Were you born in these parts?” said he.

She shook her head.

“Do you come from far away?” he continued.

She nodded.

“Where from?”

She paused, as if to remember.

“I am from Perpignan,” said she.

“Yes, yes,” said he and ceased questioning her.

“And what are you⁠—a sailor?” asked the woman in her turn.

“Yes, we are sailors.”

“And have you been on long voyages?”

“Yes, long enough! We have seen places of all sorts.”

“Have you been round the world?”

“Oh yes,” said he, “not once only⁠—we have been nearly twice round.”

She again paused, as if remembering something.

“I suppose you have met many ships?” said she.

“Of course we have.”

“Have you ever met the Notre-Dame-des-Vents? There is a ship of that name.”

He was surprised at her naming his vessel, and thought he would play a trick on her.

“Why, certainly,” said he; “we met her only last week.”

“Is that the truth?” she said, growing pale.

“The solemn truth.”

“You are not telling me a lie?”

“So help me God,” swore he, “I am telling the truth.”

“And did you not meet a man on board named Celestin Duclos?” asked she.

“Celestin Duclos?” he repeated, astonished and even alarmed. How did this woman know his name?

“Why! do you know him?” he asked.

It was evident that she too was alarmed.

“No, not I, but there is a woman here that knows him.”

“What woman? Here in this house?”

“No, but near here.”

“Tell me where?”

“Oh, not very far away.”

“Who is she?”

“Oh, just a woman⁠—like myself.”

“What has she to do with him?”

“How should I know? Perhaps they come from the same parts.”

They looked searchingly into each other’s eyes.

“I should like to see that woman,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. “Have you anything to tell her?”

“I want to tell her⁠ ⁠…”

“To tell her⁠—what?”

“That I have seen Celestin Duclos.”

“You have seen Celestin Duclos! Is he alive and well?”

“He is quite well. But what is that to you?”

She was silent, again collecting her thoughts. Then she said softly:

“What port is the Notre-Dame-des-Vents bound for?”

“What port? Why, Marseilles.”

“Is that true?” cried she.

“Quite true.”

“And you know Duclos?”

“I have already told you that I know him.”

She thought awhile.

“Yes, yes, it is well,” said she softly.

“What do you want with him?”

“If you should see him, tell him⁠ ⁠… No, better not!”

“What shall I tell him?”

“No, never mind.”

As he looked at her he became more and more agitated.

“Do you know him yourself?” asked he.

“No, I don’t know him myself.”

“Then what does he matter to you?”

She did not answer, but jumping up ran to the counter, behind which the hostess sat. Taking a lemon, she cut it in half and squeezed the juice into a glass which she filled with water, and this she gave to Celestin.

“There⁠—drink that!” she said, sitting down as before on his knees.

“What is this for?” he asked, taking the glass from her.

“To clear your head. Then I will tell you something. Drink it!”

He drank it, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Well, now tell me! I am attending.”

“But you must not let him know that you have seen me, nor tell him whom you heard it from.”

“Very well, I will not tell.”

“Swear it!”

He swore.

“So help you God!”

“So help me God!”

“Well then, tell him his father and mother are both dead and his brother also. A fever broke out and they all died in one and the same month.”

Duclos felt the blood rushing to his heart. For some minutes he sat in silence, not knowing what to say. Presently he uttered the words:

“Are you sure it is so?”

“Quite sure.”

“Who told you?”

She put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Swear you will not let it out!”

He swore it: “So help me God!”

“I am his sister.”

“Françoise!” he shrieked.

She looked intently at him, and softly, softly moved her lips, hardly letting the words escape:

“So you are Celestin!”

They did not stir, but remained as though benumbed, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Around them the others shouted with drunken voices. The ringing of glasses, the beating of hands and heels, and the piercing screams of women, intermingled with the singing and the shouting.

“How can it have happened?” said he, so gently that even she could hardly catch the words.

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“They died,” she continued. “All three in one month. What was I to do? I was left alone. The chemist, the doctor, the three funerals.⁠ ⁠… I had to sell everything to pay the debts. Nothing was left but the clothes I wore. I went as servant to Monsieur Cacheux.⁠ ⁠… Do you remember him? A lame man. I was only just fifteen. I was scarcely fourteen when you left home⁠—and I went wrong with him.⁠ ⁠… You know how stupid we peasant girls are. Then I went as nurse in a notary’s family⁠—and it was the same with him. For a time he made me his mistress and I had a lodging of my own; but that did not last long. He left me, and for three days I was without food. No one would take me, so I came here like the rest of them.” And as she spoke the water flowed in streams from her eyes and nose, wetting her cheeks and trickling into her mouth.

“What have we done?” said he.

“I thought you were dead also. How could I have helped it?” whispered she through her tears.

“How