The Beach of Dreams | Page 9

in the long run, and you are right,
perhaps, as far as what you call the World is concerned. I only repeat
that the thing you call the World is not the real world, for love is real,
and love is not merely a question of good companionship. It is an
immortal bond between two spirits and death cannot break it."
"You speak as though you were very certain of a thing which, of all
things, is most hidden from us."
"I speak by instinct."

"Well," said the Prince, "perhaps you are right. We have left behind us
the simplicity of the old world, we have become artificial, our life is a
sham--but what would you have and how are we to alter it? We are all
like passengers in a train travelling to heaven knows where; the seats
are well cushioned and the dining-car leaves nothing to be desired, but I
admit the atmosphere is stuffy and the long journey has developed all
sorts of unpleasant traits among the passengers--well, what would you
do? We cannot get out."
"I suppose not," said she.
He rose up and stood for a moment turning over some magazines lying
on the table. He had received his answer and he knew instinctively that
it was useless to pursue the business further.
Then after a few more words he went on deck. The wind had fallen to a
steady blow but the sky was still overcast and the atmosphere was
heavy and clammy and not consistent. It was as though the low lying
clouds dipped here and there to touch the sea. Every now and then the
Gaston de Paris would run into a wreath of fog and pass through it into
the clear darkness of the night beyond.
In the darkness aft of the bridge nothing could be seen but the pale hint
of the bridge canvas and a trace of spars and funnels now wiped out
with mist, now visible again against the night.
The Prince leaned on the weather rail and looked over at the tumble and
sud of the water lit here and there with the gleam of a port light.
Cléo de Bromsart had fascinated him, grown upon him, compelled him
in some mysterious way to ask her to marry him. He had sworn after
his disastrous first experience never to marry again. He had attempted
to break his oath. Was he in love with her? He could scarcely answer
that question himself. But this he knew, that her refusal of him and the
words she had said were filling his mind with quite new ideas.
Was she right after all in her statement that he who fancied himself a
man of the world knew nothing of the world except its shams? Was she

right in her statement that love was a bond between two spirits, a bond
unbreakable by death? That old idea was not new to him, he had played
with it as a toy of the mind constructed for the mind to play with by the
poets.
The new thing was to find this idea in the mind of a young girl and to
hear it expressed with such conviction.
After a while he came forward and went up the steps to the bridge.
Captain Lepine was in the chart room, the first officer was on the
bridge and Bouvalot, an old navy quarter-master, had the wheel.
"We have slowed down," said the Prince.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the first officer, "we are getting close to land.
We ought to sight Kerguelen at dawn."
"What do you think of the weather?"
"I don't think the weather will bother us much, monsieur, that blow had
nothing behind it, and were it not for these fog patches I would ask
nothing better; but then it's Kerguelen--what can one expect!"
"True," said the other, "it's a vile place, by all accounts, as far as
weather is concerned."
He tapped at the door of the chart room and entered.
The chart room of the Gaston de Paris was a pleasant change from the
dark and damp of the bridge. A couch upholstered in red velvet ran
along one side of it and on the couch with one leg up and a pipe in his
mouth the captain was resting himself, a big man of the Southern
French navy type, with a beard of burnt-up black that reached nearly to
his eyes.
The Prince, telling him not to move, sat down and lit a cigar. Then they
fell into talk.
Lepine was a sailor and nothing else. Had his character been cut out of

cardboard the line of division between the sailor and the rest of the
world could not have been more sharply marked. That was perhaps
why the two men, though divided by