“I believe you, twice rather than once.”

Again she seemed to hesitate, to search in her brain for something that she had forgotten, then, in a tone somewhat different, more serious: 

“Have you met many ships in your voyages?”

“I believe you, my beauty.”

“You did not happen to see the Notre Dame des Vents?”

He chuckled: 

“No later than last week.”

She turned pale, all the blood leaving her cheeks, and asked: 

“Is that true, perfectly true?”

“’Tis true as I tell you.”

“Honor bright! you are not telling me a lie?”

He raised his hand.

“Before God, I’m not!” said he.

“Then do you know whether Celestin Duclos is still on her?”

He was astonished, uneasy, and wished, before answering, to learn something further.

“Do you know him?”

She became distrustful in turn.

“Oh! ’tis not myself—­’tis a woman who is acquainted with him.”

“A woman from this place?”

“No, from a place not far off.”

“In the street?”

“What sort of a woman?”

“Why, then, a woman—­a woman like myself.”

“What has she to say to him, this woman?”

“I believe she is a country-woman of his.”

They stared into one another’s hand, watching one another, feeling, divining that something of a grave nature was going to arise between them.

He resumed: 

“I could see her there, this woman.”

“What would you say to her?”

“I would say to her—­I would say to her—­that I had seen Celestin Duclos.”

“He is quite well—­isn’t he?”

“As well as you or me—­he is a strapping young fellow.”

She became silent again, trying to collect her ideas; then slowly: 

“Where has the Notre Dame des Vents gone to?”

“Why, just to Marseilles.”

She could not repress a start.

“Is that really true?”

“’Tis really true.”

“Do you know Duclos?”

“Yes, I do know him.”

She still hesitated; then in a very gentle tone: 

“Good!  That’s good!”

“What do you want with him?”

“Listen!—­you will tell him—­nothing!”

He stared at her, more and more perplexed.  At last, he put this question to her: 

“Do you know him, too, yourself?”

“No,” said she.

“Then what do you want with him?”

Suddenly, she made up her mind what to do, left her seat, rushed over to the bar where the landlady of the tavern presided, seized a lemon, which she tore open, and shed its juice into a glass, then she filled this glass with pure water, and carrying it across to him: 

“Drink this!”

“Why?”

“To make it pass for wine.  I will talk to you afterwards.”

He drank it without further protest, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then observed: