Chapter VII.

Can the transports of first love be calmed, checked, turned to a cold suspicion of the future by a grave quotation from a work on Political Economy?  I ask—­is it conceivable?  Is it possible?  Would it be right?  With my feet on the very shores of the sea and about to embrace my blue-eyed dream, what could a good-natured warning as to spoiling one’s life mean to my youthful passion?  It was the most unexpected and the last too of the many warnings I had received.  It sounded to me very bizarre—­and, uttered as it was in the very presence of my enchantress, like the voice of folly, the voice of ignorance.  But I was not so callous or so stupid as not to recognise there also the voice of kindness.  And then the vagueness of the warning—­because what can be the meaning of the phrase:  to spoil one’s life?—­arrested one’s attention by its air of wise profundity.  At any rate, as I have said before, the words of la belle Madame Delestang made me thoughtful for a whole evening.  I tried to understand and tried in vain, not having any notion of life as an enterprise that could be mismanaged.  But I left off being thoughtful shortly before midnight, at which hour, haunted by no ghosts of the past and by no visions of the future, I walked down the quay of the Vieux Port to join the pilot-boat of my friends.  I knew where she would be waiting for her crew, in the little bit of a canal behind the Fort at the entrance of the harbour.  The deserted quays looked very white and dry in the moonlight and as if frost-bound in the sharp air of that December night.  A prowler or two slunk by noiselessly; a custom-house guard, soldier-like, a sword by his side, paced close under the bowsprits of the long row of ships moored bows on opposite the long, slightly curved, continuous flat wall of the tall houses that seemed to be one immense abandoned building with innumerable windows shuttered closely.  Only here and there a small dingy cafe for sailors cast a yellow gleam on the bluish sheen of the flagstones.  Passing by, one heard a deep murmur of voices inside—­nothing more.  How quiet everything was at the end of the quays on the last night on which I went out for a service cruise as a guest of the Marseilles pilots!  Not a footstep, except my own, not a sigh, not a whispering echo of the usual revelry going on in the narrow unspeakable lanes of the Old Town reached my ear—­and suddenly, with a terrific jingling rattle of iron and glass, the omnibus of the Jolliette on its last journey swung round the corner of the dead wall which faces across the paved road the characteristic angular mass of the Fort St. Jean.  Three horses trotted abreast with the clatter of hoofs on the granite setts, and the yellow, uproarious machine jolted violently behind them, fantastic, lighted up, perfectly empty and with the driver apparently asleep on his swaying perch above that amazing racket.  I flattened myself against