island whose ribs are stone beneath a veil of earth. He blasts in summer because the frost and the rock together defy his tools in winter-time. So you find him in July preparing the sometime bed of one knows not who—his own perhaps, as he reminds you.
Catholic and Protestant lie in the common plot. One corner is reserved for sailors; the graves of the shipwrecked are marked by nameless crosses.
A fog winds in from the Atlantic, and we hasten down to the quay where yard-arms stretch dark and stiff in the mist and moisture stains the flagging. Before the despatch board of the French Cable office a group of black-shawled women is discussing the report that an Emperor's heir has been murdered. "A bad business," they murmur, knowing no more than the rest of the world, what a very bad business it should prove to be.
Some one taps on the window. "Entrez mes amis! There are fresh cables—a fine wedding for Madame, la boxe for Monsieur. . . ." It is forbidden, this "leaking" of small news, but if one has spent an amiable evening with the director who is one's landlady's brother-in-law, rules need not be too strictly kept.
In the grimy booth we hear that the French cabinet is in difficulties, that Carpentier has invaded Britain, and a submarine has gone down—to stay. Opinions are launched and disputed, argument runs high among the loungers in the office.
