Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders.
He returned to his work and with a single blow the
five hammers again fell upon their anvils. Thus
they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful,
happy, like hammers satisfied. But just as the
great bell of a cathedral resounds upon feast days
above the jingling of the other bells, so Phillip’s
hammer, dominating the noise of the others, clanged
second after second with a deafening uproar.
And he, his eye on fire, plied his trade vigorously,
erect amid the sparks.
The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte’s
door. He had his Sunday blouse on, a fresh shirt,
and his beard was trimmed. The young woman showed
herself upon the threshold and said in a grieved tone:
“It is ill to come thus when night has fallen,
Mr. Phillip.”
He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused
before her.
She resumed:
“And still you understand quite well that it
will not do that I should be talked about any more.”
Then he said all at once:
“What does that matter to me, if you will be
my wife!”
No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard
in the shadow of the room the sound of a body which
sank down. He entered very quickly; and Simon,
who had gone to his bed, distinguished the sound of
a kiss and some words that his mother said very softly.
Then he suddenly found himself lifted up by the hands
of his friend, who, holding him at the length of his
herculean arms, exclaimed to him:
“You will tell them, your school-fellows, that
your papa is Phillip Remy, the blacksmith, and that
he will pull the ears of all who do you any harm.”
On the morrow, when the school was full and lessons
were about to begin, little Simon stood up quite pale
with trembling lips:
“My papa,” said he in a clear voice, “is
Phillip Remy, the blacksmith, and he has promised
to box the ears of all who do me any harm.”
This time no one laughed any longer, for he was very
well known, was Phillip Remy, the blacksmith, and
was a papa of whom anyone in the world would have
been proud.
The Restaurant Grillon, a small commonwealth of boatmen,
was slowly emptying. In front of the door all
was a tumult of cries and calls, while the jolly dogs
in white flannels gesticulated with oars on their
shoulders.
The ladies in bright spring toilets stepped aboard
the skiffs with care, and seating themselves astern,
arranged their dresses, while the landlord of the
establishment, a mighty individual with a red beard,
of renowned strength, offered his hand to the pretty
dears, with great self-possession, keeping the frail
craft steady.
The rowers, bare-armed, with bulging chests, took
their places in their turn, posing for their gallery,
as they did so, a gallery consisting of middle class
people dressed in their Sunday clothes, of workmen
and soldiers leaning upon their elbows on the parapet
of the bridge, all taking a great interest in the
sight.
