The home letters were being distributed on board the /Circe/, atanchor at Ha-Long, over on the other side of the earth. In the midstof a group of sailors, the purser called out, in a loud voice, thenames of the fortunate men who had letters to receive. This went on atevening, on the ship's side, all crushing round a funnel.
"Moan, Sylvestre!" There was one for him, postmarked "Paimpol," but itwas not Gaud's writing. What did that mean? from whom did it comeelse?
After having turned and flourished it about, he opened it fearingly,and read:
"PLOUBAZLANEC, March 5th, 1884.
"MY DEAR GRANDSON:"So, it was from his dear old granny. He breathed free again. At thebottom of the letter she even had placed her signature, learned byheart, but trembling like a school-girl's scribble: "Widow Moan.""Widow Moan!" With a quick spontaneous movement he carried the paperto his lips and kissed the poor name, as a sacred relic. For thisletter arrived at a critical moment of his life; to-morrow at dawn, hewas to set out for the battlefield.
It was in the middle of April; Bac-Ninh and Hong-Hoa had just beentaken. There was no great warfare going on in Tonquin, yet thereinforcements arriving were not sufficient; sailors were taken fromall the ships to make up the deficit in the corps already disembarked.
Sylvestre, who had languished so long in the midst of cruises andblockades, had just been selected with some others to fill up thevacancies.
It is true that now peace was spoken of, but something told them thatthey yet would disembarck in good time to fight a bit. They packedtheir bags, made all their other preparations, and said good-bye, andall the evening through they strolled about with their unfortunatemates who had to remain, feeling much grander and prouder than they.
Each in his own way showed his impression at this departure--some weregrave and serious, others exuberant and talkative.
Sylvestre was very quiet and thoughtful, though impatient; only, whenthey looked at him, his smile seemed to say, "Yes, I'm one of thefighting party, and huzza! the action is for to-morrow morning!"Of gunshots and battle he formed but an incomplete idea as yet; butthey fascinated him, for he came of a valiant race.
The strange writing of his letter made him anxious about Gaud, and hedrew near a porthole to read the epistle through. It was difficultamid all those half-naked men pressing round, in the unbearable heatof the gundeck.
As he thought she would do, in the beginning of her letter Granny Moanexplained why she had had to take recourse to the inexperienced handof an old neighbour:
"My dear child, I don't ask your cousin to write for me to-day, asshe is in great trouble. Her father died suddenly two days ago. Itappears that his whole fortune has been lost through unluckygambling last winter in Paris. So his house and furniture willhave to be sold. Nobody in the place was expecting this. I think,dear child, that this will pain you as much as it does me.
"Gaos, the son, sends you his kind remembrance; he has renewed hisarticles with Captain Guermeur of the /Marie/, and the departurefor Iceland was rather early this year, for they set sail on thefirst of the month, two days before our poor Gaud's trouble, andhe don't know of it yet.
"But you can easily imagine that we shall not get them wed now,for she will be obliged to work for her daily bread."Sylvestre dwelt stupor-stricken; this bad news quite spoiled his gleeat going out to fight.
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