Shadows on the Rock (14 page)

Pierre Charron had come down from Montreal and was giving a supper party for his friend Maître Pondaven, captain of Le
Faucon. Cécile and her father were the only guests invited, though Pierre had said they might bring Jacques along to see the
Captain’s parrot. It was to be a party in the open air, down by the waterside, under the full moon.

Cécile had no looking-glass upstairs — the only one in the house was in the salon — so she always dressed by feeling
rather than by sight. This afternoon she put on the blue silk dress with black velvet bands, walked about in it, then took
it off and spread it out on her bed, where she smoothed it and admired it. It was too different from anything she had ever
worn before, too long and too grand — quite right to wear to mass or to a wedding, perhaps, but not for tonight. She slipped
on one of her new jerseys and felt like herself again. The coral beads she would wear; they seemed appropriate for a
sailor’s party. She left the beautiful dress lying on her bed and went down to see that her father had brushed his Sunday
coat, and to give Jacques’s hands a scrubbing. She and the little boy sat down on the sofa to wait for Pierre, while Auclair
was arranging his shop for the night. To Cécile the time dragged very slowly. She was thinking, not about the novelty of
having supper by moonlight, or of the tête de veau they were promised, or of the celebrated Captain Pondaven, but of his
parrot.

All her life she had longed to possess a parrot. The idea of a talking bird was fascinating to her — seemed to belong
with especially rare and wonderful things, like orange-trees and peacocks and gold crowns and the Count’s glass fruit. Her
mother, she whispered to Jacques, had often told her about a parrot kept in one of the great houses at home, which saw a
servant steal silver spoons and told the master. Then there was the imprisoned princess who taught her parrot to say her
lover’s name, and her cruel brothers cut out the bird’s tongue. Magpies were also taught to speak, but they could say only a
word or two.

At last she heard Pierre’s voice at the front door.

“All ready, Monsieur Euclide?”

Cécile jumped up from the sofa and ran into the shop.

“We have been ready a long while, Pierre. I thought you had forgotten us.”

“Little stupid!” Pierre pinched her ear.

Auclair now looked at his daughter for the first time.

“But I supposed you would wear the new dress from Aunt Blanche?”

Cécile coloured a little. “I feel better like this. You don’t mind, Pierre Charron?”

“Not a bit! This is a picnic, not a dinner of ceremony. Monsieur Auclair, will you be kind enough to bring some of those
little nuts you burn to keep off mosquitoes?”

“Ah yes, the eucalyptus balls! Certainly, that is a good idea. I will fill my pockets.” The apothecary put on the large
beaver hat which he wore only to weddings and funerals, and they set off down the hill, the two men before, Cécile and
Jacques following.

Down on the water-front, at some distance behind the church of Notre Dame de la Victoire, a row of temporary cabins were
put up each summer, where hot food was served to the sailors on shore leave. In one of these Renaude-le-lièvre, the
butter-woman, and an old dame from Dinan sold fresh milk and butter and Breton pancakes to the seamen from that part of the
world. Tonight they had prepared a special supper for the Captain, of whom all the Bretons were proud; he had come up from a
mousse and had made his own way in the world. Pierre had ordered things he knew the Captain liked; a dish made of three
kinds of shell-fish, a tête de veau, which la Renaude did very well, a roast capon with a salad, and for dessert Breton
pancakes with honey and preserves.

When the party arrived, their table was waiting for them, with a white cloth, and a lantern hung from a pole — already
lit, though it was not yet dark and a pale moon was shining in a clear evening sky. While Pierre was giving instructions to
the cooks, Captain Pondaven was being rowed ashore by two of his crew. He came up from the landing, his parrot on his
shoulder, dressed as no one there had ever seen him before, in his Breton holiday suit, which he carried about the world
with him in his sailor’s chest; a black jacket heavily embroidered in yellow, white knee-breeches, very full and pleated at
the belt, black cloth leggings, and a broad-brimmed black hat with a shallow crown. He was a plain, simple man, direct in
his dealings as in his glance, and he came from Saint–Malo, where the grey sea breaks against the town walls.

At first Cécile thought him a little sombre and solemn, but after a mug of Jamaica rum he was more at his ease, and as
the supper went on he grew very companionable. She had hoped he would begin to tell at once about his voyages and the
strange countries he had seen, but he seemed to wish to talk of nothing but his own town and his family. He had four boys,
he said, and one little girl.

“And she is the only one who was born when I was at home. I am always a little anxious about her. The boys are strong
like me and can take care of themselves, but she is more delicate, — not so sturdy as Mademoiselle here, though perhaps
Mademoiselle is older.”

“I was thirteen last month,” Cécile told him.

“And she will be eleven in December. I am nearly always at home for her birthday.”

Auclair asked him whether by home he meant Le Havre or Saint–Malo. The seaman looked surprised.

“Saint–Malo, naturally. I was born a Malouin.”

“I know that. But since you take on your cargo at Le Havre, I thought you perhaps lived there now.”

“Oh, no! One is best in one’s own country. I run back to Saint–Malo after my last trip, and tie up there for the
winter.”

“But that must add to your difficulties, Monsieur Pondaven.”

“It is nothing to me. I know the Channel like my own town. All my equipage are glad to get home. They are all Malouins. I
should not know how to manage with men from another part.”

“You Malouins stick together like Jesuits,” Pierre declared. “Yet by your own account you were not so well treated there
that you need love the place.”

Captain Pondaven smiled an artless smile. “Perhaps that is the very reason! He means, Monsieur Auclair, that the town
brought me up like a stepmother. My father was drowned, fishing off Newfoundland, and my mother died soon afterwards. With
us, when an orphan boy is twelve years old, he is given a suit of clothes and a chest and is sent to sea as a mousse. They
sent me out with a hard master my first voyage. But when I came back from Madagascar and showed how my ears were torn and my
back was scarred, the townspeople took up my case and got my papers changed. My townspeople did not do so badly by me. When
I was ready for a command, they saw that I had my chance. They put their money behind me, and I have been half-owner in my
boat for five years now.”

Though she liked the Captain very much and gave polite attention to his talk, Cécile’s mind was on the parrot. He sat
forgotten on the back of the chair, attached to his master’s belt by a long cord. He seemed of a sullen disposition — there
was nothing gay and bird-like about him. Neither was he so brilliant as she had expected. He was all grey, except for
rose-coloured tail-feathers, and his plumage was ruffled and untidy, for he was moulting. He gave no sign of his peculiar
talent, but sat as silent as the stuffed alligator at home, never moving except to cock his head on one side. When the leek
soup put a temporary stop to conversation, she ventured a question.

“And what is your parrot’s name, if you please, Monsieur Pondaven?”

The Captain looked up from his plate and smiled at her. “His name is Coco, mademoiselle, and he will make noise enough
presently. He is a little shy with strangers, not seeing many on board.”

Then the shell-fish came on, and Auclair asked the Captain what people at home thought of the King’s peace with the
English.

He said he did not know what the inland people thought. “But with us on the coast it will make little difference. The
King cannot make peace on the sea. Our people will take an English ship whenever they have a chance. They are looking for
good plunder this summer. We must have our revenge for the ships they took from us last year.”

“They are fine seamen, the English,” Pierre Charron declared. Cécile had noticed that he was in one of his perverse
moods, when he liked to tease and antagonize everyone a little.

The Captain answered him mildly. “Yes, they are good sailors, but we usually get the better of them. They are a
blasphemous lot and have no respect for good manners or religion. That never pays.”

Auclair reminded him that last summer the English had captured one of the boats bound for Canada.

“I remember well, Le Saint–Antoine, and the Captain is a friend of mine. They took the boat into Plymouth and sold her at
auction. Many of our merchants lost heavily. Your Bishop, Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier, had sent some things for the
missions over here by Le Saint–Antoine. Some bones of the saints and other holy relics were packed in an oak chest, and the
Captain, out of respect, put it in his own cabin. The English, when they plundered the ship, came upon this chest and
supposed it was treasure. When they opened it, they were furious. After committing every possible sacrilege they took the
relics to the cook’s galley and threw them into the stove where their dinner was cooking.”

Cécile asked whether no punishment had come upon those sailors.

“Not at the time, mademoiselle, but I shouldn’t like to put to sea with such actions on my soul, — and I am no coward,
either.”

“Sales cochons anglais, sales cochons!” said another voice, and she realized that at last the parrot had spoken. Jacques
put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry. Pierre and her father laughed, and applauded the parrot, but Cécile was much
too startled to laugh. She had supposed that the speech of parrots called for a good deal of imagination on the part of the
listener, like the first efforts of babies. But nobody could possibly mistake what this bird said. Had he been out of sight,
in the shed kitchen with Mère Renaude, she would have thought some queer old person was in there, talking in a vindictive
tone.

“Oh, monsieur, isn’t he wonderful!” she gasped.

The Captain was pleased. “You find him amusing? Yes, he is a clever bird; you will see. Now let us all clink our cups
together, — you, too, little man, — and perhaps he will say something else.”

They rattled their pewter mugs several times, and the bird came out with: “Vive le Roi, vive le Roi!” Jacques began
jumping up and down with excitement.

“He is a loyal subject of the King,” said Pondaven. “He has been taught to say that when the cups clink. But for the most
part, I don’t teach him; he picks up what he likes.”

“And do you always take him to sea with you, monsieur?”

“Nearly always, mademoiselle. My men believe he brings us good luck; they like to have him on board. I have his cage
swung in my cabin, and when the ship pitches badly, I tie it down.”

“But how does he endure the cold?” Auclair asked. “These are tropical birds, after all.”

“Yes, his brother died of a chill on his first voyage — I had two of them. But this one seems to stand it. When he begins
to shiver, I give him a little brandy in warm water — he is very fond of it — and I put a blanket over him. He will live to
be a hundred if I can keep him from taking cold.”

Conscious that he was the centre of attention, the parrot began to croon softly: “Bon petit Coco, bon petit Coco. Ici,
ici!”

Jacques and Cécile left their places and stood behind the Captain’s chair to watch the bird’s throat. Pondaven explained
that he was an African parrot, and that was why he had so many tones of voice, harsh and gentle, for the African birds have
a much more sensitive ear than the West Indian.

“Should you like to hear him whistle a tune, mademoiselle? He can, if he will. We will try to have a little concert.” He
put the parrot on his knee, took a piece of maple sugar from the table, and held it before the unblinking yellow eyes. Then
the Captain began to whistle a song of his own country:

After a few moments the bird repeated the air perfectly — his whistle was very musical, sounded somewhat like a flute. He
was given the sugar, and stood on one foot while he fed himself with the other. The company now became interested in the
tête de veau, but Jacques and Cécile scarcely tasted the dish for watching Coco. They were both wishing they could carry him
off and keep him in the apothecary shop for ever.

“Has Coco a soul, Cécile?” Jacques whispered.

“I wonder! I will ask the Captain after a while, but we must listen now.”

Captain Pondaven was relating some of the wonderful happenings in his own town. Presently he told them the story of how a
great she-ape, brought to Saint–Malo as a curiosity by the Indian fleet, had one day broken her chain and run about the
town. She dashed into a house, snatched a baby from its cradle, and ran up to the house-tops with it, — and in Saint–Malo,
he reminded them, the houses are four and even five storeys high. While all the terrified neighbours gathered in the street,
the mother fell on her knees, shut her eyes, and appealed to the Blessed Virgin. The ape clambered along the roofs until she
came to a house where an image of Our Lady stood in a little alcove up under the eaves. Into this recess the beast thrust
the baby, and left it there, as safe as if it were with its own mother.

The children and the apothecary thought this a charming story, but Pierre sniffed. “Oh, you have nothing over us in the
way of miracles!” he told the Captain. “Here we have them all the time. Every Friday the beaver is changed into a fish, so
that good Catholics may eat him without sin. And why do you look at me like that, Mademoiselle Cécile?”

“Everyone knows he is not changed, Pierre. He is only considered as a fish by the Church, so that hunters off in the
woods can have something to eat on Fridays.”