The Woman of Fire

I-2

“My old age stick,” said the old man, smiling at his niece. “Ah! I recognize that she is precious to me, and I thank you, Madam, for leaving her with me.”

The three of them left the dock and moved inland, stopping at every step to read the signs of the houses for rent.

Meanwhile, Lucien was walking on the beach, looking and admiring with all his soul. Seeing him only concerned about the spectacle unfolding before him in this way, it was easy to conclude that his mother's observations had not made a very strong impression on his mind.

Indeed, the kind of invitation that Madame d'Aubier had addressed to him was only ill-timed: in principle, he did not reject marriage, and the idea of marrying Miss Marie de Rioux, whose beauty and grace he appreciated, had more than once tickled him.

But it was not to get married that Lucien had asked the Minister of Justice for a month's leave, that he had said goodbye the day before to the public prosecutor's office in Nantes, and that he had been at the sea for an hour. He had come here to seek a little rest, contemplation, freedom of spirit, and some fun.

Marriage could offer him guarantees of happiness, but now, perhaps without knowing it, he only aspired to pleasure. For a long time now, he had been thinking: “When will I get a month's leave, a month's rest?” He had it and he wanted to take advantage of it in a complete way.

This twenty-five-year-old aged ahead of time by a constant work of several years, difficult and painful functions, and a position in evidence, suddenly felt the urgent need to become young again, to blossom in complete freedom, to enjoy a moment of life. If the idea of settling down in Le Pouliguen had not seduced him, it was because he feared that in this small place he would not be able to hide himself at ease, be ignored by everyone, put aside this stiffness of command to which he thought he was obliged, and, throwing away the magistrate's dress and hat, put on the jacket and round hat of the bather.

In college, he was condemned to be strong in Greek, Latin, writing and translation, to win all the prizes in the general competitions. His young intelligence was overworked, and he was elevated to the rank of student prodigy. From college, and without transition, he had entered the office of a lawyer and four years had been enough for him to receive a doctorate in law. Then, thanks to the influence of his father, Attorney General in Paris, who died the following year in the exercise of his high office, he was appointed as a substitute in the provinces.

Since his first year of college, he had never had time to stop in his tracks, to breathe, to live. He shouted: “I long for rest.” He was told: “Here are prizes, crowns, diplomas, advancement, honors.” He thought, “I have a heart like other men, why doesn't it work? Why doesn't it beat? Why doesn't it love?” “To love: it takes up too much time. Love! You have no right to it; your occupations, your works are against it. Leave your heart aside, it is your head that must work; your other organs are useless, in your career, they are even harmful.” Indeed, the head had finally dominated the heart: it was only beating at equal times, without Lucien feeling it beating. It was no longer the organ of moral sensitivity in his mind, it was a simple viscera in his chest.

But before being defeated, broken, annihilated, had the organ we are talking about fought, resisted, rebelled against its oppressors? No. His owner had not given him time to do so. He had barely allowed him, at rare intervals, in short moments of leisure, to have vague aspirations towards another state. And yet, there was still so much unconscious youth, vigor and latent forces in this oppressed and defeated man that perhaps an accident, a spark, a ray of sunshine or a spark of love was enough to break his shackles, split the polar ice and fly him to warmer regions.

Around Lucien, everything seemed, at this moment, to want to contribute to this transformation and this blossoming. Nature had put itself in charge to welcome him at Le Pouliguen: the weather, a little cold since the beginning of summer, had suddenly changed the previous night, under the influence of the new moon, and the sky had never been more beautiful, the sun brighter, never had this pretty corner of Brittany, sung by Balzac in Beatrix, presented itself in a more attractive way.

The sea had been in full swing for an hour, and the bay, partly bared at low tide, was completely flooded. Large waves formed offshore and obeying the force of the tide rather than the violence of the wind, slowly advanced into the bay; after breaking on the first rocks, then resting on the sandbanks, they regained their momentum and came, with great noise, to invade the beach and cover it with their white foam. As they withdrew, they left behind a trail of kelp and seaweed that filled the air with pungent scents. Hundreds of water birds, until then held back by the cold in the South, made their first appearance on the coast of Brittany and greeted this beloved land with their cries. The flotilla reported offshore, an hour earlier, entered the port, and the fishermen on board, after setting and stowing their sails, rowed back singing an old and picturesque Breton song.

These songs, these cries, these perfumes, this show, this great voice that raised from the sea, lamenting at times, sound and bright the next moment, this sun, this heat, this vivifying and pure air warmed his blood and gave him an unknown vigor.

He already seemed to forget his usual reserve: there were more kindness and carelessness in his manners, he had less dress. He had not been afraid to unbutton the top of his vest tightening him a little too much; there were creases and wrinkles on his shirt collar, probably premeditated; his tie was looser, the sides of his frock coat, thrown back, put him in more direct contact with the sea breeze. Finally, to protect himself from the sun's rays, he was not afraid to place a handkerchief between his head and his black felt hat.

His manners were related to this irregular outfit; he came and went to the beach, smelling the air, picking up shells, going down on the wet sand when the wave, as it withdrew, left it bare, and fleeing with his legs from the wave that came back the next moment. Finally, a little tired by this exercise, by his journey and by the fresh air to which he was not accustomed, he had dared to take advantage of a hole that children had dug on the beach, and sit down, the upper body on the sand, the legs hanging in the hole.

He had been in this whimsical position for a quarter of an hour when he was joined, not to say surprised, by a man about forty years old, dressed in white canvas, with a magnificent Panama hat on his head and holding in his hand one of these parasols whose handle is made of bamboo and whose lining is made of green silk.

“I am not mistaken,” shouted the newcomer, standing in front of Lucien, on the other side of the hole, “It is our dear substitute who is in the waters of the Pouliguen.”

“Indeed,” said Lucien, a little confused and trying to get up.

“Stay there; you are very well in there.”

“Here, I'll sit in front of you. It is my children who have dug this hole, we are allowed to enjoy it.

“Is Madame Desvignes well?” asked Lucien.

“Perfectly. She is on a walk in the Bourg de Batz. I prefer not to get tired. In the sea baths, I limit myself to talking, watching, breathing. Are you at Le Pouliguen for several days?”

“I don't know, I don't know. My mother, I think, is looking for a place to stay; will she find it?”

“I doubt it, we have a lot of people this year.”

“We will then go to the Croisic.”

“I'll regret it; you could have distracted yourself here. As a shipowner, I brought a boat, which I would have put at your service. Stay with us.”

“If we can find a place to stay.”

“Ah! There you go! But by looking carefully... Do you swim?”

“I almost felt like it just now, but no one led the way.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. In one hour, you will see a crowd of charming little women, brown or blond, fat or skinny, in costumes of all colors, rushing to the beach. On the days of high tide, when the sea is still rough, especially off the coast, for a sequence of bad weather, we do not dare to swim at full tide. We wait that the flow, as it moves away, has lost its strength. There's only one person at Le Pouliguen able to take a bath right now.”

“Who?” “A woman, or rather a young girl.”

“A Nantaise?”

“No, a Parisian woman; she lives in Nantes with her father, only for a few months, I don't think you know her.”

“What is her name?”

“Her name is Diane. Her last name Berard, and her nickname...”

“She has a nickname! A young girl!”

“It's not her fault, I gave it to her.”

“What is it?”

“The woman of fire!”

“Ah! How did you give it?”

“In a very good way, believe me, Mr. Deputy. Despite the reputation of levity that the people of Nantes have given to me, jealous to see me spend half my time in Paris and have fun without them, I am unable to damage the reputation of a young girl, perhaps a little eccentric, but perfectly honest.”

“I mean, this nickname, what does it mean?”

“Have you ever heard of the phosphorescence of the sea?”

“Certainly, I have even read, in my rare moments of leisure, a few books about this strange nature: Quatrefages, for example, Becquerel, and Verne in his novel, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.”

“Damn it! You're more advanced than I am. I wanted to dazzle you, and it is you who, with your science, confuses me: I was told that you were a man of study, a scientist. I have seen the effect, I have admired it, but I do not know the cause; if you know it, instruct me.”

“For a long time, this phosphorescence was attributed to a kind of luminous electricity that would emerge from the Ocean; today science gives it a completely different origin. According to the new theory, myriads of microscopic animalcules, small pelagic infusoria, a species of phosphorescent globules, escape from the bottom of the sea, under the influence of certain atmospheric conditions, rise to its surface and suddenly illuminate it with a thousand lights of magic. It is especially in the tropics that you can admire this magnificent spectacle.”

“We also enjoy it at Le Pouliguen, I’ll tell you.”

“Ah! Really! Is the sea phosphorescent here?”

"Very often, in July and August.” “That's wonderful! I'll enjoy the show! But we have moved a long way, it seems to me, from where we started. We were talking, if I'm not mistaken, about the nickname given to Miss Diane Bérard.”

“On the contrary, we are right on the subject and I will prove it to you. Would you like us to walk? With my tick suit, I'm starting to get a little fresh on the sand.”

“Let's move on,” Lucien said as he stood up.

They started walking on the beach. In the company of Desvignes, Lucien d'Aubier felt comfortable and younger. Mr. Desvignes was neither a superior nor an inferior to him; he was a man of good company, an equal. His great position of fortune, his well-known commercial honorability on the Place de Nantes, his paternity, made him forget his reputation as a viveur. In town, too much intimacy with Desvignes might have compromised Lucien; at the seaside, on a holiday, any scruples about it would have been really exaggerated. The magistrate, who was old before his age, could be rejuvenated, without any danger, by the contact with the shipowner who was still young despite his forty years.