“Away dey go. You see dat spot where we coum to land, Ma’m’selle Landresse--where de shingle look white, de leetle green grass above? Dat is where mon onc’ ‘Lias he bring in de King’s ship and de privator. Gatd’en’ale--it is a journee awful! He twist to de right, he shape to de left trough de teeth of de rocks--all safe--vera happee--to dis nice leetle bay of de Maitre Ile dey coum. De Frenchies dey grind dere teeth and spit de fire. But de Henglish laugh at demdey are safe. ‘Frien’ of my heart,’ say de hofficier to mon onc’ ‘Lias, ‘pilot of pilots,’ he say, ‘in de name of our greshus King I t’ank you--A bi’tot, good-bye!’ he say. ‘Tres-ba,’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he say den, ‘I will go to my privator.’ ‘You will go to de shore,’ say de hofficier. ‘You will wait on de shore till de captain and his men of de privator coum to you. When dey coum, de ship is yours--de privator is for you.’ Mon onc’ ‘Lias he is like a child--he believe. He ‘bout ship and go shore. Misery me, he sit on dat rocking-stone you see tipping on de wind. But if he wait until de men of de privator coum to him, he will wait till we see him sitting there now. Gache-a-penn, you say patriote? Mon onc’ ‘Lias he has de patreeteesm, and what happen? He save de ship of de greshus King God save--and dey eat up his hoysters! He get nosing. Gad’rabotin--respe d’la compagnie--if dere is a ship of de King coum to de Ecrehoses, and de hofficier say to me”--he tapped his breast--“‘Jean Touzel, tak de ships of de King trough de rocks,’--ah bah, I would rememb’ mon onc’ ‘Lias. I would say, ‘A bi’tot-good-bye.’... Slowlee--slowlee! We are at de place. Bear wif de land, ma’m’selle! Steadee! As you go! V’la! hitch now, Maitre Ranulph.”
The keel of the boat grated on the shingle.
The air of the morning, the sport of using the elements for one’s pleasure, had given Guida an elfish sprightliness of spirits. Twenty times during Jean’s recital she had laughed gaily, and never sat a laugh better on any one’s countenance than on hers. Her teeth were strong, white, and regular; in themselves they gave off a sort of shining mirth.
At first the lugubrious wife of the happy Jean was inclined to resent Guida’s gaiety as unseemly, for Jean’s story sounded to her as serious statement of fact; which incapacity for humour probably accounted for Jean’s occasional lapses from domestic grace. If Jean had said that he had met a periwinkle dancing a hornpipe with an oyster she would have muttered heavily “Think of that!” The most she could say to any one was: “I believe you, ma couzaine.” Some time in her life her voice had dropped into that great well she called her body, and it came up only now and then like an echo. There never was anything quite so fat as she. She was found weeping one day on the veille because she was no longer able to get her shoulders out of the window to use the clothes-lines stretching to her neighbour’s over the way. If she sat down in your presence, it was impossible to do aught but speculate as to whether she could get up alone. Yet she went abroad on the water a great deal with Jean. At first the neighbours gave out sinister suspicions as to Jean’s intentions, for sea-going with your own wife was uncommon among the sailors of the coast. But at last these dark suggestions settled down into a belief that Jean took her chiefly for ballast; and thereafter she was familiarly called “Femme de Ballast.”