e end, nannin-gia! When you go to die, you
will think and think and think of that beautiful Guida Landresse; you
will think and think of the heart you kill, and you will call, and she
will not come. You will call till your throat rattle, but she will not
come, and the child of sorrow you give her will not come--no, bidemme!
E'fin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from the house
of Jean Touzel. It belong to the wife of an honest man--maint'nant!"

In the moment's silence that ensued, Jean took a step forward. "Ma
femme, ma bonne femme!" he said with a shaking voice. Then he pointed
to the door. Humiliated, overwhelmed by the words of the woman, Philip
turned mechanically towards the door without a word, and his fingers
fumbled for the latch, for a mist was before his eyes. With a great
effort he recovered himself, and passed slowly out into the Rue
d'Egypte.

"A child--a child!" he said brokenly. "Guida's child--my God! And
I--have never--known. Plemont--Plemont, she is at Plemont!" He
shuddered. "Guida's child--and mine," he kept saying to himself, as in a
painful dream he passed on to the shore.

In the little fisherman's cottage he had left, a fat old woman sat
sobbing in the great chair made of barrel-staves, and a man, stooping,
kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years. And then
she both laughed and cried.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Guida sat by the fire sewing, Biribi the dog at her feet. A little
distance away, to the right of the chimney, lay Guilbert asleep. Twice
she lowered the work to her lap to look at the child, the reflected
light of the fire playing on his face. Stretching out her hand, she
touched him, and then she smiled. Hers was an all-devouring love; the
child was her whole life; her own present or future was as nothing; she
was but fuel for the fire of his existence.

A storm was raging outside. The sea roared in upon Plemont and Grosnez,
battering the rocks in futile agony. A hoarse nor'-easter ranged across
the tiger's head in helpless fury: a night of awe to inland folk, and of
danger to seafarers. To Guida, who was both of the sea and of the land,
fearless as to either, it was neither terrible nor desolate to be alone
with the storm. Storm was but power unshackled, and power she loved and
understood. She had lived so long in close commerce with storm and sea
that something of their keen force had entered into her, and she was kin
with them. Each wind to