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Updated: May 3, 2025
But not even after her death did she leave him in peace. Remembrance of her soon came surging back, binding her to him with a tragic interest. The very evening that he was talking with his friend in the café of the Cannebière, he went to the post office to get the mail which had been forwarded to him at Marseilles. They gave him a great package of letters and newspapers.
When Napoleon Bonaparte, the shabby, sallow-faced, out-of-work captain of artillery, was kicking his heels in morose idleness at Marseilles, and whiling away the dull hours in making love to Desirée Clary, the pretty daughter of the silk-merchant in the Rue des Phocéens, his sisters were living with their mother, the Signora Letizia, in a sordid fourth-floor apartment in a slum near the Cannebiere, and running wild in the Marseilles streets.
"If you have anything to do, please tell me. But I know nobody in this furnace of a town. You're a godsend." A while afterwards they were seated beneath the awning of a crowded cafe on the Cannebiere.
"A man who was once a porter at Marseille." At that M. Noël bristled up. "I say there, old Francis, you're glad enough to have the porter of La Cannebière pay for your roastings at bouillotte all the same. You won't find many parvenus like us, who loan millions to kings, and whom great noblemen like Mora don't blush to receive at their table."
The first evening that he met his old comrade, the captain, in the café of the Cannebière, he skillfully guided the conversation around until he could bring out naturally the question in the back of his mind: "What was the fate of that Freya Talberg that there was so much talk about in the newspapers before I went to Salonica?..." The Marseillaise had to make an effort to recall her.
"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat, "let us go and see, and heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!" They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Cannebiere. There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel. "The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" said every voice.
We seem no longer in France, but in a great cosmopolitan mart that belongs to the whole world. The Marseillais, nevertheless, are French; and Marseilles, to their thinking, is the veritable metropolis. "If Paris had but her Cannebiere," they say, "she would be a little Marseilles!"
For him Mills is not to be criticized. A remarkable instance of the great power of mere individuality over the young. Certain streets have an atmosphere of their own, a sort of universal fame and the particular affection of their citizens. One of such streets is the Cannebière, and the jest: “If Paris had a Cannebière it would be a little Marseilles” is the jocular expression of municipal pride.
Wandering through the streets of the old city, now in a café of La Cannebière and now along a quay of the Old Port, his ghost has often crossed my path and dogged my footsteps, though he has lain in his grave this many a day. I grew to know him very well, to be first amused by him, then to be interested, and in the end to entertain an affection for him.
Moreover, milords upstairs would be sure to recompense him for an enforced vigil by a liberal pourboire. At last, when even the Cannebiere was empty, and when the latest café had closed its doors and the final tramcar had wearily jingled its way up the hill towards a distant suburb, the electric bell jangled a noisy summons to the front door.
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