“I answered in a firm voice
“‘I gave ten cents as a tip.’
“My mother started, and, staring at me, she
exclaimed:
“‘You must be crazy! Give ten cents
to that man, to that vagabond—’
“She stopped at a look from my father, who was
pointing at his son-in-law. Then everybody was
silent.
“Before us, on the distant horizon, a purple
shadow seemed to rise out of the sea. It was
Jersey.
“As we approached the breakwater a violent desire
seized me once more to see my Uncle Jules, to be near
him, to say to him something consoling, something
tender. But as no one was eating any more oysters,
he had disappeared, having probably gone below to
the dirty hold which was the home of the poor wretch.”
Curving like a crescent moon, the little town of Etretat,
with its white cliffs, its white, shingly beach and
its blue sea, lay in the sunlight at high noon one
July day. At either extremity of this crescent
its two “gates,” the smaller to the right,
the larger one at the left, stretched forth—one
a dwarf and the other a colossal limb—into
the water, and the bell tower, almost as tall as the
cliff, wide below, narrowing at the top, raised its
pointed summit to the sky.
On the sands beside the water a crowd was seated watching
the bathers. On the terrace of, the Casino another
crowd, seated or walking, displayed beneath the brilliant
sky a perfect flower patch of bright costumes, with
red and blue parasols embroidered with large flowers
in silk.
On the walk at the end of the terrace, other persons,
the restful, quiet ones, were walking slowly, far
from the dressy throng.
A young man, well known and celebrated as a painter,
Jean Sumner, was walking with a dejected air beside
a wheeled chair in which sat a young woman, his wife.
A manservant was gently pushing the chair, and the
crippled woman was gazing sadly at the brightness of
the sky, the gladness of the day, and the happiness
of others.
They did not speak. They did not look at each
other.
“Let us stop a while,” said the young
woman.
They stopped, and the painter sat down on a camp stool
that the servant handed him.
Those who were passing behind the silent and motionless
couple looked at them compassionately. A whole
legend of devotion was attached to them. He had
married her in spite of her infirmity, touched by her
affection for him, it was said.
Not far from there, two young men were chatting, seated
on a bench and looking out into the horizon.
“No, it is not true; I tell you that I am well
acquainted with Jean Sumner.”
“But then, why did he marry her? For she
was a cripple when she married, was she not?”
“Just so. He married her—he
married her—just as every one marries,
parbleu! because he was an idiot!”
