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Title: Toilers of the sea

Author: Victor Hugo

Editor: Ernest Rhys

Translator: W. Moy Thomas

Release date: May 12, 2010 [eBook #32338]
Most recently updated: April 8, 2023

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOILERS OF
THE SEA ***

EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS

FICTION

HUGO’S TOILERS OF THE
SEA
NOW NEWLY COMPLETED FROM
W. MOY THOMAS’S TRANSLATION
INTRODUCTION BY ERNEST RHYS

THIS IS NO. 509 OF EVERYMAN’S
LIBRARY. THE PUBLISHERS WILL
BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO ALL
APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED
AND PROJECTED VOLUMES ARRANGED
UNDER THE FOLLOWING SECTIONS:
TRAVEL · SCIENCE · FICTION
THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY · CLASSICAL
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ESSAYS · ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
REFERENCE
ROMANCE

THE ORDINARY EDITION IS BOUND
IN CLOTH WITH GILT DESIGN AND
COLOURED TOP. THERE IS ALSO A
LIBRARY EDITION IN REINFORCED CLOTH
J.M. DENT & SONS LTD.

ALDINE HOUSE, BEDFORD STREET, LONDON. W.C.2
E.P. DUTTON & CO.

681 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

First Issue of this Edition 1911
Reprinted 1913, 1917, 1920, 1928

Printed in Great Britain

INTRODUCTION

Victor Hugo was thinking much of Æschylus and his Prometheus at the
time he conceived the figure of Gilliatt, heroic warrer with the elements.
But it is to a creature of the Gothic mind like Byron’s Manfred, and not to
any earlier, or classic, type of the eternal rebellion against fate or time or
circumstance, that Hugo’s readers will be tempted to turn for the fellow to
his Guernsey hero:
“My joy was in the wilderness—
to breathe
The difficult air of the iced
mountain’s top,
Where the birds dare not build—nor
insects wing
Flit o’er the herbless granite; or to
plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new-
breaking wave
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their
flow.”
The island of Guernsey was Gilliatt’s Alp and sea-solitude, where he, too,
had his avalanches waiting to fall “like foam from the round ocean of old
Hell.” And as Byron figured his own revolt against the bonds in Manfred,
so Hugo, being in exile, put himself with lyrical and rhetorical impetuosity
into the island marcou and child of destiny that he concocted with “a little
sand and a little blood and a deal of fantasy” in the years 1864 and 1865.
There is a familiar glimpse of the Hugo household to be had in the first
winter of its transference to the Channel Islands, years before Les
Travailleurs was written, which betrays the mood from which finally sprang
this concrete fable of the man-at-odds. It was the end of November 1852,
and a father and his younger son sat in a room of a house of Marine Terrace,
Jersey—a plain, unpicturesque house; square, hard in outline, and newly
whitewashed,—Methodism, said Hugo, in stones and mortar. Outside its
windows the rain fell and the wind blew: the house was like a thing
benumbed by the angry noise. The two inmates sat plunged in thought,
possibly thinking of the sad significance of these beginnings of winter and
of exile which had arrived together. At length the son (François Hugo)
asked the father what he meant to do during their exile, which he had

already predicted would be long? The father said, “I shall look at the sea.”
Then came a silence, broken by a question as to what the son would do? To
which he replied that he would translate Shakespeare.
Victor Hugo’s own study or eulogy of Shakespeare was written as a
preamble to his son’s translation of the plays. It is not too much to connect
the new and ample creative work that followed, including his great novel of
Revolution, Les Misérables, and his poems in La Légende des Siècles (first
series) with the double artistic stimulus gained from this conditioned
solitude and his closer acquaintance with the dramatic mind of that “giant
of the great art of the ages,” as he termed our English poet in the book
already quoted from.
The Shakespeare book is dated from Hauteville House, 1864. Les
Travailleurs from the same quarters, March 1866. The Hugos had perforce
suddenly left Jersey for Guernsey in 1855, owing to the gibes and flouts of
an unlucky revolutionary Jersey journal, L’Homme, at the two governments:
Victor Hugo being already a marked man for his pains. The Guernsey house
he inhabited for so many years had a spacious study in its upper story, with
a large window, free to the sun and to the sea. Here he wrote, tirelessly,
tremendously, as his custom was: beginning betimes in the early morning,
and writing on till the time for his déjeuner: standing at a tall desk to write
in his sea-tower. You must turn to certain of his poems and to the pages of
Les Misérables and Les Travailleurs for the mental colours and
phantasmagoria of those days and years.
It would be easy to point out, resuming an immense amount of criticism
of his romances and of this story in particular, the defects on the side of
dramatic and true life-likeness to be found in Hugo’s prose-narrative. But it
is more helpful in turning to a story-book to know what has been said
unreservedly in its favour. Hugo’s greatest appreciator was superlative in
his praise, and it need hardly be explained that it was Swinburne who
brought his tribute to the romance of Gilliatt also, after positing the parallel
claims of Hugo’s five chief romances. Of the five, they were not, he said, to
be comparatively classified in order of merit. “But I may perhaps be
permitted to say without fear of deserved rebuke that none is to me
personally a treasure of greater price than Les Travailleurs de la Mer. The
splendid energy of the book makes the superhuman energy of the hero seem
not only possible but natural, and his triumph over all physical

impossibilities not only natural but inevitable.” Swinburne’s love for the
Channel Islands, and his poems inspired by them, were mainly due as we
know to Hugo’s life and his books lived and written there.
E.R.
The following is a list of the chief publications of Victor Hugo:—
Poetical Works:—Nouvelles Odes, 1824; Odes et Poésies Diverses,
1822; Odes et Ballades, 1826; Les Orientales, 1829; Feuilles d’Automne,
1831; Les Chants du Crépuscule, 1835; Les Voix Intérieures, 1837; Les
Rayons et les Ombres, 1840; Odes sur Napoléon, 1840; Les Châtiments,
1853; Les Contemplations, 1856; La Légende des Siècles (1st part), 1859;
Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois, 1865; L’Année Terrible, 1872; La
Légende des Siècles (2nd part), 1877; L’Art d’être Grand-père, 1877; Le
Pape, 1878; La Pitié Suprême, 1879; L’Âne, 1880; Religion et Religions,
1880; Les Quatre Vents de l’Esprit, 1881; La Légende des Siècles (3rd
part), 1883.
Dramatic Works:—Cromwell, 1827; Amy Robsart, 1828; Hernani,
1830; Marion Delorme, 1831; Le Roi s’amuse, 1832; Lucrèce Borgia, 1833;
Marie Tudor, 1833; Angelo, Tyran de Padoue, 1835; La Esmeralda (libretto
for Opera), 1836; Ruy Blas, 1838; Burgraves, 1843; Torquemada, 1882.
Novels and other Prose Works:—Hans d’Islande, 1823; Bug-Jargal
(enlarged for book form), 1826; Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné, 1829;
Notre-Dame de Paris, 1831; Étude sur Mirabeau, 1834; Claude Gueux,
1834; Le Rhin, 1842; Napoléon le Petit, 1852; Les Misérables, 1862;
Littérature et Philosophie mélées, 1864; William Shakespeare, 1864; Les
Travailleurs de la Mer, 1866; L’Homme qui rit, 1869; Actes et Paroles,
1872; Quatre-Vingt-Treize, 1873; Histoire d’un Crime, 1877; Discours pour
Voltaire, 1878; Le Domaine public payant, 1878; L’Archipel de la Manche,
1883.
Hugo left a mass of manuscripts, of which some have been published
since his death:—Le Théatre en Liberté, La Fin de Satan, Dieu, Choses
Vues, Tonte la Lyre, Océan, En Voyage, Postscriptum de ma Vie.
An Edition Définitive of his works in 48 volumes was published 1880-5.
Translations:—Of novels, 28 vols., 1895, 1899, etc.; of dramas, by I.G.
Burnham, 1895. Separate translations of prose and poetical works.

Life:—Among the biographies and appreciations are:—Sainte-Beuve,
Biographie des Contemporains, vol. iv., 1831; Portraits Contemporains, vol.
i., 1846; Victor Hugo raconté par un témoin de sa vie (Madame Hugo),
1863; A. Barbou, 1880 (trans. 1881); E. Biré, Victor Hugo avant 1830,
1883; après 1830, 1891; après 1852, 1894; F.W.H. Myers, Essays, 1883;
Paul de Saint Victor, 1885, 1892; Alfred Asseline, Victor Hugo intime,
1885; G.B. Smith, 1885; J. Cappon, A Memoir and a Study, 1885; A.C.
Swinburne, A Study of Victor Hugo, 1886; E. Dupuy, Victor Hugo,
l’homme et le poète, 1886; F.T. Marzials (Great Writers), 1888; Charles
Renouvier, Victor Hugo le Poète, 1892; L. Mabilleau, 1893; J.P. Nichol,
1893; C. Renouvier, Victor Hugo le Philosophe, 1900; E. Rigal, 1900; G.V.
Hugo, Mon Grand-père, 1902; Juana Lesclide, Victor Hugo intime, 1902;
Theophile Gautier, 1902; F. Gregh, Étude sur Victor Hugo, 1905; P.
Stapfers, Victor Hugo à Guernsey, 1905.

PREFACE
Religion, Society, and Nature! these are the three struggles of man. They
constitute at the same time his three needs. He has need of a faith; hence the
temple. He must create; hence the city. He must live; hence the plough and
the ship. But these three solutions comprise three perpetual conflicts. The
mysterious difficulty of life results from all three. Man strives with
obstacles under the form of superstition, under the form of prejudice, and
under the form of the elements. A triple ἁναγκη weighs upon us. There is
the fatality of dogmas, the oppression of human laws, the inexorability of
nature. In Notre Dame de Paris the author denounced the first; in the
Misérables he exemplified the second; in this book he indicates the third.
With these three fatalities mingles that inward fatality—the supreme
ἁναγκη, the human heart.
Hauteville House,
March, 1866.

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO THE
ROCK OF HOSPITALITY AND LIBERTY
TO THAT PORTION OF OLD NORMAN GROUND
INHABITED BY
THE NOBLE LITTLE NATION OF THE SEA
TO THE ISLAND OF GUERNSEY
SEVERE YET KIND, MY PRESENT ASYLUM
PERHAPS MY TOMB.

CONTENTS
PART I
SIEUR CLUBIN
Book I.—The History of a Bad Reputation
CHAP. PAGE
I. A Word written on a White Page 1
II. The Bû de la Rue 3
III. For your Wife: when you Marry 7
IV. An Unpopular Man 9
V. More Suspicious Facts about Gilliatt 18
VI. The Dutch Sloop 20
VII. A Fit Tenant for a Haunted House 25
VIII. The Gild-Holm-’Ur Seat 27

Book II.—Mess Lethierry
I. A Troubled Life, but a Quiet Conscience 30
II. A Certain Predilection 32
III. The Old Sea Language 33
IV. One is Vulnerable where one Loves 35

Book III.—Durande and Déruchette
I. Prattle and Smoke 37
II. The Old Story of Utopia 39
III. Rantaine 41
IV. Continuation of the Story of Utopia 44
V. The Devil Boat 46
VI. Lethierry’s Exaltation 50
VII. The same Godfather and the same Patron Saint 52
VIII. “Bonnie Dundee” 54
IX. The Man who discovered Rantaine’s Character 57
X. Long Yarns 58
XI. Matrimonial Prospects 60
XII. An Anomaly in the Character of Lethierry 61
XIII. Thoughtlessness adds a Grace to Beauty 65

Book IV.—The Bagpipe
I. Streaks of Fire on the Horizon 67
II. The Unknown unfolds itself by Degrees 69
III. The Air “Bonnie Dundee” finds an Echo on the Hill 71
IV. “A serenade by night may please a lady fair, 72
But of uncle and of guardian let the troubadour beware.”
Unpublished Comedy
V. A Deserved Success has always its Detractors 74
VI. The Sloop Cashmere saves a Shipwrecked Crew 75
How an Idler had the Good Fortune to be seen by a
VII. 77
Fisherman

Book V.—The Revolver
I. Conversations at the Jean Auberge 80
II. Clubin observes Someone 86
III. Clubin carries away Something and brings back Nothing 88
IV. Pleinmont 91
V. The Birds’-nesters 96
VI. The Jacressade 108

VII. Nocturnal Buyers and Mysterious Sellers 114
VIII. A “Cannon” off the Red Ball and the Black 117
Useful Information for Persons who expect or fear the
IX. 125
Arrival of Letters from beyond Sea

Book VI.—The Drunken Steersman and the Sober Captain
I. The Douvres 130
II. An Unexpected Flask of Brandy 132
III. Conversations interrupted 135
IV. Captain Clubin displays all his great Qualities 142
V. Clubin reaches the Crowning-point of Glory 147
VI. The Interior of an Abyss suddenly revealed 151
VII. An Unexpected Dénouement 158

Book VII.—The Danger of Opening a Book at Random
I. The Pearl at the Foot of a Precipice 162
II. Much Astonishment on the Western Coast 169
III. A Quotation from the Bible 173
PART II
MALICIOUS GILLIATT
Book I.—The Rock
I. The Place which is difficult to reach, and difficult to leave 181
II. A Catalogue of Disasters 186
III. Sound; but not Safe 188
IV. A Preliminary Survey 190
V. A Word upon the Secret Co-operations of the Elements 192
VI. A Stable for the Horse 196
VII. A Chamber for the Voyager 198
VIII. Importunæque Volucres 205
IX. The Rock, and how Gilliatt used it 207
X. The Forge 210
XI. Discovery 214
XII. The Interior of an Edifice under the Sea 217
XIII. What was seen there; and what perceived dimly 219

Book II.—The Labour
I. The Resources of one who has nothing 225
II. Wherein Shakespeare and Æschylus meet 227
Gilliatt’s Masterpiece comes to the Rescue of that of
III. 229
Lethierry
IV. Sub Re 232
V. Sub Umbra 237
VI. Gilliatt places the Sloop in readiness 242
VII. Sudden Danger 244
VIII. Movement rather than Progress 247
IX. A Slip between Cup and Lip 250
X. Sea-warnings 252
XI. A Word to the Wise is enough 255

Book III.—The Struggle
I. Extremes meet 258
II. The Ocean Winds 259
III. The Noises explained 262
IV. Turba Turma 265
V. Gilliatt’s Alternatives 267
VI. The Combat 268

Book IV.—Pitfalls in the Way
I. He who is Hungry is not Alone 280
II. The Monster 296
III. Another Kind of Sea-combat 297
IV. Nothing is hidden; Nothing lost 299
V. The Fatal Difference between Six Inches and Two Feet 302
VI. De Profundis ad Altum 306
VII. The Appeal is heard 311
PART III
DÉRUCHETTE
Book I.—Night and the Moon

I. The Harbour Bell 315
II. The Harbour Bell again 327

Book II.—Gratitude and Despotism
I. Joy surrounded by Tortures 335
II. The Leathern Trunk 343

Book III.—The Departure of the “Cashmere”
I. The Havelet near the Church 346
II. Despair confronts Despair 348
III. The Forethought of Self-sacrifice 355
IV. For your Wife: when you Marry 359
V. The Great Tomb 362

TOILERS OF THE SEA

PART I.—SIEUR CLUBIN

BOOK I
THE HISTORY OF A BAD REPUTATION

I

A WORD WRITTEN ON A WHITE PAGE
Christmas Day in the year 182- was somewhat remarkable in the island
of Guernsey. Snow fell on that day. In the Channel Islands a frosty winter is
uncommon, and a fall of snow is an event.
On that Christmas morning, the road which skirts the seashore from St.
Peter’s Port to the Vale was clothed in white. From midnight till the break
of day the snow had been falling. Towards nine o’clock, a little after the
rising of the wintry sun, as it was too early yet for the Church of England
folks to go to St. Sampson’s, or for the Wesleyans to repair to Eldad Chapel,
the road was almost deserted. Throughout that portion of the highway
which separates the first from the second tower, only three foot-passengers
could be seen. These were a child, a man, and a woman. Walking at a
distance from each other, these wayfarers had no visible connection. The
child, a boy of about eight years old, had stopped, and was looking
curiously at the wintry scene. The man walked behind the woman, at a
distance of about a hundred paces. Like her he was coming from the
direction of the church of St. Sampson. The appearance of the man, who
was still young, was something between that of a workman and a sailor. He
wore his working-day clothes—a kind of Guernsey shirt of coarse brown

stuff, and trousers partly concealed by tarpaulin leggings—a costume which
seemed to indicate that, notwithstanding the holy day, he was going to no
place of worship. His heavy shoes of rough leather, with their soles covered
with large nails, left upon the snow, as he walked, a print more like that of a
prison lock than the foot of a man. The woman, on the contrary, was
evidently dressed for church. She wore a large mantle of black silk,
wadded, under which she had coquettishly adjusted a dress of Irish poplin,
trimmed alternately with white and pink; but for her red stockings, she
might have been taken for a Parisian. She walked on with a light and free
step, so little suggestive of the burden of life that it might easily be seen that
she was young. Her movements possessed that subtle grace which indicates
the most delicate of all transitions—that soft intermingling, as it were, of
two twilights—the passage from the condition of a child to that of
womanhood. The man seemed to take no heed of her.
Suddenly, near a group of oaks at the corner of a field, and at the spot
called the Basses Maisons, she turned, and the movement seemed to attract
the attention of the man. She stopped, seemed to reflect a moment, then
stooped, and the man fancied that he could discern that she was tracing with
her finger some letters in the snow. Then she rose again, went on her way at
a quicker pace, turned once more, this time smiling, and disappeared to the
left of the roadway, by the footpath under the hedges which leads to the Ivy
Castle. When she had turned for the second time, the man had recognised
her as Déruchette, a charming girl of that neighbourhood.
The man felt no need of quickening his pace; and some minutes later he
found himself near the group of oaks. Already he had ceased to think of the
vanished Déruchette; and if, at that moment, a porpoise had appeared above
the water, or a robin had caught his eye in the hedges, it is probable that he
would have passed on his way. But it happened that his eyes were fixed
upon the ground; his gaze fell mechanically upon the spot where the girl
had stopped. Two little footprints were there plainly visible; and beside
them he read this word, evidently written by her in the snow—
“GILLIATT.”
It was his own name.
He lingered for awhile motionless, looking at the letters, the little
footprints, and the snow; and then walked on, evidently in a thoughtful
mood.

II

THE BÛ DE LA RUE
Gilliatt lived in the parish of St. Sampson. He was not liked by his
neighbours; and there were reasons for that fact.
To begin with, he lived in a queer kind of “haunted” dwelling. In the
islands of Jersey and Guernsey, sometimes in the country, but often in
streets with many inhabitants, you will come upon a house the entrance to
which is completely barricaded. Holly bushes obstruct the doorway, hideous
boards, with nails, conceal the windows below; while the casements of the
upper stories are neither closed nor open: for all the window-frames are
barred, but the glass is broken. If there is a little yard, grass grows between
its stones; and the parapet of its wall is crumbling away. If there is a garden,
it is choked with nettles, brambles, and hemlock, and strange insects
abound in it. The chimneys are cracked, the roof is falling in; so much as
can be seen from without of the rooms presents a dismantled appearance.
The woodwork is rotten; the stone mildewed. The paper of the walls has
dropped away and hangs loose, until it presents a history of the bygone
fashions of paper-hangings—the scrawling patterns of the time of the
Empire, the crescent-shaped draperies of the Directory, the balustrades and
pillars of the days of Louis XVI. The thick draperies of cobwebs, filled with
flies, indicate the quiet reign long enjoyed by innumerable spiders.
Sometimes a broken jug may be noticed on a shelf. Such houses are
considered to be haunted. Satan is popularly believed to visit them by night.
Houses are like the human beings who inhabit them. They become to their
former selves what the corpse is to the living body. A superstitious belief
among the people is sufficient to reduce them to this state of death. Then
their aspect is terrible. These ghostly houses are common in the Channel
Islands.
The rural and maritime populations are easily moved with notions of the
active agency of the powers of evil. Among the Channel Isles, and on the
neighbouring coast of France, the ideas of the people on this subject are
deeply rooted. In their view, Beelzebub has his ministers in all parts of the
earth. It is certain that Belphegor is the ambassador from the infernal

regions in France, Hutgin in Italy, Belial in Turkey, Thamuz in Spain,
Martinet in Switzerland, and Mammon in England. Satan is an Emperor just
like any other: a sort of Satan Cæsar. His establishment is well organised.
Dagon is grand almoner, Succor Benoth chief of the Eunuchs; Asmodeus,
banker at the gaming-table; Kobal, manager of the theatre, and Verdelet,
grand-master of the ceremonies. Nybbas is the court-fool; Wierus, a savant,
a good strygologue, and a man of much learning in demonology, calls
Nybbas the great parodist.
The Norman fishermen, who frequent the Channel, have many
precautions to take at sea, by reason of the illusions with which Satan
environs them. It has long been an article of popular faith, that Saint
Maclou inhabited the great square rock called Ortach, in the sea between
Aurigny and the Casquets; and many old sailors used to declare that they
had often seen him there, seated and reading in a book. Accordingly the
sailors, as they passed, were in the habit of kneeling many times before the
Ortach rock, until the day when the fable was destroyed, and the truth took
its place. For it has been discovered, and is now well established, that the
lonely inhabitant of the rock is not a saint, but a devil. This evil spirit,
whose name is Jochmus, had the impudence to pass himself off, for many
centuries, as Saint Maclou. Even the Church herself is not proof against
snares of this kind. The demons Raguhel, Oribel, and Tobiel, were regarded
as saints until the year 745; when Pope Zachary, having at length exposed
them, turned them out of saintly company. This sort of weeding of the
saintly calendar is certainly very useful; but it can only be practised by very
accomplished judges of devils and their ways.
The old inhabitants of these parts relate—though all this refers to bygone
times—that the Catholic population of the Norman Archipelago was once,
though quite involuntarily, even in more intimate correspondence with the
powers of darkness than the Huguenots themselves. How this happened,
however, we do not pretend to say; but it is certain that the people suffered
considerable annoyance from this cause. It appears that Satan had taken a
fancy to the Catholics, and sought their company a good deal; a
circumstance which has given rise to the belief that the devil is more
Catholic than Protestant. One of his most insufferable familiarities consisted
in paying nocturnal visits to married Catholics in bed, just at the moment
when the husband had fallen fast asleep, and the wife had begun to doze; a
fruitful source of domestic trouble. Patouillet was of opinion that a faithful

biography of Voltaire ought not to be without some allusion to this practice
of the evil one. The truth of all this is perfectly well known, and described
in the forms of excommunication in the rubric de erroribus nocturnis et de
semine diabolorum. The practice was raging particularly at St. Helier’s
towards the end of the last century, probably as a punishment for the
Revolution; for the evil consequences of revolutionary excesses are
incalculable. However this may have been, it is certain that this possibility
of a visit from the demon at night, when it is impossible to see distinctly, or
even in slumber, caused much embarrassment among orthodox dames. The
idea of giving to the world a Voltaire was by no means a pleasant one. One
of these, in some anxiety, consulted her confessor on this extremely difficult
subject, and the best mode for timely discovery of the cheat. The confessor
replied, “In order to be sure that it is your husband by your side, and not a
demon, place your hand upon his head. If you find horns, you may be sure
there is something wrong.” But this test was far from satisfactory to the
worthy dame.
Gilliatt’s house had been haunted, but it was no longer in that condition;
it was for that reason, however, only regarded with more suspicion. No one
learned in demonology can be unaware of the fact that, when a sorcerer has
installed himself in a haunted dwelling, the devil considers the house
sufficiently occupied, and is polite enough to abstain from visiting there,
unless called in, like the doctor, on some special occasion.
This house was known by the name of the Bû de la Rue. It was situated at
the extremity of a little promontory, rather of rock than of land, forming a
small harbourage apart in the creek of Houmet Paradis. The water at this
spot is deep. The house stood quite alone upon the point, almost separated
from the island, and with just sufficient ground about it for a small garden,
which was sometimes inundated by the high tides. Between the port of St.
Sampson and the creek of Houmet Paradis, rises a steep hill, surmounted by
the block of towers covered with ivy, and known as Vale Castle, or the
Château de l’Archange; so that, at St. Sampson, the Bû de la Rue was shut
out from sight.
Nothing is commoner than sorcerers in Guernsey. They exercise their
profession in certain parishes, in profound indifference to the enlightenment
of the nineteenth century. Some of their practices are downright criminal.
They set gold boiling, they gather herbs at midnight, they cast sinister looks

upon the people’s cattle. When the people consult them they send for bottles
containing “water of the sick,” and they are heard to mutter mysteriously,
“the water has a sad look.” In March, 1857, one of them discovered, in
water of this kind, seven demons. They are universally feared. Another only
lately bewitched a baker “as well as his oven.” Another had the diabolical
wickedness to wafer and seal up envelopes “containing nothing inside.”
Another went so far as to have on a shelf three bottles labelled “B.” These
monstrous facts are well authenticated. Some of these sorcerers are
obliging, and for two or three guineas will take on themselves the complaint
from which you are suffering. Then they are seen to roll upon their beds,
and to groan with pain; and while they are in these agonies the believer
exclaims, “There! I am well again.” Others cure all kinds of diseases, by
merely tying a handkerchief round the patient’s loins, a remedy so simple
that it is astonishing that no one had yet thought of it. In the last century, the
Cour Royale of Guernsey bound such folks upon a heap of fagots and burnt
them alive. In these days it condemns them to eight weeks’ imprisonment;
four weeks on bread and water, and the remainder of the term in solitary
confinement. Amant alterna catenæ.
The last instance of burning sorcerers in Guernsey took place in 1747.
The city authorities devoted one of its squares, the Carrefour du Bordage, to
that ceremony. Between 1565 and 1700, eleven sorcerers thus suffered at
this spot. As a rule the criminals made confession of their guilt. Torture was
used to assist their confession. The Carrefour du Bordage has indeed
rendered many other services to society and religion. It was here that
heretics were brought to the stake. Under Queen Mary, among other
Huguenots burnt here, were a mother and two daughters. The name of this
mother was Perrotine Massy. One of the daughters was enceinte, and was
delivered of a child even in the midst of the flames. As the old chronicle
expresses it, “Son ventre éclata.” The new-born infant rolled out of the fiery
furnace. A man named House took it in his arms; but Helier Gosselin the
bailli, like a good Catholic as he was, sternly commanded the child to be
cast again into the fire.

III

FOR YOUR WIFE: WHEN YOU MARRY
We must return to Gilliatt.
The country people told how, towards the close of the great Revolution, a
woman, bringing with her a little child, came to live in Guernsey. She was
English, or perhaps French. She had a name which the Guernsey
pronunciation and the country folks’ bad spelling had finally converted into
“Gilliatt.” She lived alone with the child, which, according to some, was a
nephew; according to others, a son or grandson; according to others, again,
a strange child whom she was protecting. She had some means; enough to
struggle on in a poor way. She had purchased a small plot of ground at La
Sergentée, and another at La Roque Crespel, near Rocquaine. The house of
the Bû de la Rue was haunted at this period. For more than thirty years no
one had inhabited it. It was falling into ruins. The garden, so often invaded
by the sea, could produce nothing. Besides noises and lights seen there at
night-time, the house had this mysterious peculiarity: any one who should
leave there in the evening, upon the mantelpiece, a ball of worsted, a few
needles, and a plate filled with soup, would assuredly find, in the morning,
the soup consumed, the plate empty, and a pair of mittens ready knitted. The
house, demon included, was offered for sale for a few pounds sterling. The
stranger woman became the purchaser, evidently tempted by the devil, or by
the advantageous bargain.
She did more than purchase the house; she took up her abode there with
the child; and from that moment peace reigned within its walls. The Bû de
la Rue has found a fit tenant, said the country people. The haunting ceased.
There was no longer any light seen there, save that of the tallow candle of
the new comer. “Witch’s candle is as good as devil’s torch.” The proverb
satisfied the gossips of the neighbourhood.
The woman cultivated some acres of land which belonged to her. She had
a good cow, of the sort which produces yellow butter. She gathered her
white beans, cauliflowers, and “Golden drop” potatoes. She sold, like other
people, her parsnips by the tonneau, her onions by the hundred, and her
beans by the denerel. She did not go herself to market, but disposed of her
crops through the agency of Guilbert Falliot, at the sign of the Abreveurs of
St. Sampson. The register of Falliot bears evidence that Falliot sold for her,
on one occasion, as much as twelve bushels of rare early potatoes.

The house had been meanly repaired; but sufficiently to make it
habitable. It was only in very bad weather that the rain-drops found their
way through the ceilings of the rooms. The interior consisted of a ground-
floor suite of rooms, and a granary overhead. The ground-floor was divided
into three rooms; two for sleeping, and one for meals. A ladder connected it
with the granary above. The woman attended to the kitchen and taught the
child to read. She did not go to church or chapel, which, all things
considered, led to the conclusion that she must be French not to go to a
place of worship. The circumstance was grave. In short, the new comers
were a puzzle to the neighbourhood.
That the woman was French seemed probable. Volcanoes cast forth
stones, and revolutions men, so families are removed to distant places;
human beings come to pass their lives far from their native homes; groups
of relatives and friends disperse and decay; strange people fall, as it were,
from the clouds—some in Germany, some in England, some in America.
The people of the country view them with surprise and curiosity. Whence
come these strange faces? Yonder mountain, smoking with revolutionary
fires, casts them out. These barren aërolites, these famished and ruined
people, these footballs of destiny, are known as refugees, émigrés,
adventurers. If they sojourn among strangers, they are tolerated; if they
depart, there is a feeling of relief. Sometimes these wanderers are harmless,
inoffensive people, strangers—at least, as regards the women—to the
events which have led to their exile, objects of persecution, helpless and
astonished at their fate. They take root again somewhere as they can. They
have done no harm to any one, and scarcely comprehend the destiny that
has befallen them. So thus I have seen a poor tuft of grass uprooted and
carried away by the explosion of a mine. No great explosion was ever
followed by more of such strays than the first French Revolution.
The strange woman whom the Guernsey folks called “Gilliatt” was,
possibly, one of these human strays.
The woman grew older; the child became a youth. They lived alone and
avoided by all; but they were sufficient for each other. Louve et louveteau se
pourlèchent. This was another of the generous proverbs which the
neighbourhood applied to them. Meanwhile, the youth grew to manhood;
and then, as the old and withered bark falls from the tree, the mother died.
She left to her son the little field of Sergentée, the small property called La

Roque Crespel, and the house known as the Bû de la Rue; with the addition,
as the official inventory said, of “one hundred guineas in gold in the pid
d’une cauche,” that is to say, in the foot of a stocking. The house was
already sufficiently furnished with two oaken chests, two beds, six chairs
and a table, besides necessary household utensils. Upon a shelf were some
books, and in the corner a trunk, by no means of a mysterious character,
which had to be opened for the inventory. This trunk was of drab leather,
ornamented with brass nails and little stars of white metal, and it contained
a bride’s outfit, new and complete, of beautiful Dunkirk linen—chemises
and petticoats, and some silk dresses—with a paper on which was written,
in the handwriting of the deceased,—
“For your wife: when you marry.”
The loss of his mother was a terrible blow for the young man. His
disposition had always been unsociable; he became now moody and sullen.
The solitude around him was complete. Hitherto it had been mere isolation;
now his life was a blank. While we have only one companion, life is
endurable; left alone, it seems as if it is impossible to struggle on, and we
fall back in the race, which is the first sign of despair. As time rolls on,
however, we discover that duty is a series of compromises; we contemplate
life, regard its end, and submit; but it is a submission which makes the heart
bleed.
Gilliatt was young; and his wound healed with time. At that age sorrows
cannot be lasting. His sadness, disappearing by slow degrees, seemed to
mingle itself with the scenes around him, to draw him more and more
towards the face of nature, and further and further from the need of social
converse; and, finally, to assimilate his spirit more completely to the
solitude in which he lived.

IV

AN UNPOPULAR MAN
Gilliatt, as we have said, was not popular in the parish. Nothing could be
more natural than that antipathy among his neighbours. The reasons for it

were abundant. To begin with, as we have already explained, there was the
strange house he lived in; then there was his mysterious origin. Who could
that woman have been? and what was the meaning of this child? Country
people do not like mysteries, when they relate to strange sojourners among
them. Then his clothes were the clothes of a workman, while he had,
although certainly not rich, sufficient to live without labour. Then there was
his garden, which he succeeded in cultivating, and from which he produced
crops of potatoes, in spite of the stormy equinoxes; and then there were the
big books which he kept upon a shelf, and read from time to time.
More reasons: why did he live that solitary life? The Bû de la Rue was a
kind of lazaretto, in which Gilliatt was kept in a sort of moral quarantine.
This, in the popular judgment, made it quite simple that people should be
astonished at his isolation, and should hold him responsible for the solitude
which society had made around his home.
He never went to chapel. He often went out at night-time. He held
converse with sorcerers. He had been seen, on one occasion, sitting on the
grass with an expression of astonishment on his features. He haunted the
druidical stones of the Ancresse, and the fairy caverns which are scattered
about in that part. It was generally believed that he had been seen politely
saluting the Roque qui Chante, or Crowing Rock. He bought all birds which
people brought to him, and having bought them, set them at liberty. He was
civil to the worthy folks in the streets of St. Sampson, but willingly turned
out of his way to avoid them if he could. He often went out on fishing
expeditions, and always returned with fish. He trimmed his garden on
Sundays. He had a bagpipe which he had bought from one of the Highland
soldiers who are sometimes in Guernsey, and on which he played
occasionally at twilight, on the rocks by the seashore. He had been seen to
make strange gestures, like those of one sowing seeds. What kind of
treatment could be expected for a man like that?
As regards the books left by the deceased woman, which he was in the
habit of reading, the neighbours were particularly suspicious. The Reverend
Jaquemin Hérode, rector of St. Sampson, when he visited the house at the
time of the woman’s funeral, had read on the backs of these books the titles
Rosier’s Dictionary, Candide, by Voltaire, Advice to the People on Health,
by Tissot. A French noble, an émigré, who had retired to St. Sampson,

remarked that this Tissot, “must have been the Tissot who carried the head
of the Princess de Lamballe upon a pike.”
The Reverend gentleman had also remarked upon one of these books, the
highly fantastic and terribly significant title, De Rhubarbaro.
In justice to Gilliatt, however, it must be added that this volume being in
Latin—a language which it is doubtful if he understood—the young man
had possibly never read it.
But it is just those books which a man possesses, but does not read,
which constitute the most suspicious evidence against him. The Spanish
Inquisition have deliberated on that point, and have come to a conclusion
which places the matter beyond further doubt.
The book in question, however, was no other than the treatise of Doctor
Tilingius upon the rhubarb plant, published in Germany in 1679.
It was by no means certain that Gilliatt did not prepare philters and
unholy decoctions. He was undoubtedly in possession of certain phials.
Why did he walk abroad at evening, and sometimes even at midnight, on
the cliffs? Evidently to hold converse with the evil spirits who, by night,
frequent the seashores, enveloped in smoke.
On one occasion he had aided a witch at Torteval to clean her chaise: this
was an old woman named Moutonne Gahy.
When a census was taken in the island, in answer to a question about his
calling, he replied, “Fisherman; when there are fish to catch.” Imagine
yourself in the place of Gilliatt’s neighbours, and admit that there is
something unpleasant in answers like this.
Poverty and wealth are comparative terms. Gilliatt had some fields and a
house, his own property; compared with those who had nothing, he was not
poor. One day, to test this, and perhaps, also as a step towards a
correspondence—for there are base women who would marry a demon for
the sake of riches—a young girl of the neighbourhood said to Gilliatt,
“When are you going to take a wife, neighbour?” He answered, “I will take
a wife when the Roque qui Chante takes a husband.”
This Roque qui Chante is a great stone, standing in a field near Mons.
Lemézurier de Fry’s. It is a stone of a highly suspicious character. No one
knows what deeds are done around it. At times you may hear there a cock
crowing, when no cock is near—an extremely disagreeable circumstance.

Then it is commonly asserted that this stone was originally placed in the
field by the elfin people known as Sarregousets, who are the same as the
Sins.
At night, when it thunders, if you should happen to see men flying in the
lurid light of the clouds, or on the rolling waves of the air, these are no other
than the Sarregousets. A woman who lives at the Grand Mielles knows them
well. One evening, when some Sarregousets happened to be assembled at a
crossroad, this woman cried out to a man with a cart, who did not know
which route to take, “Ask them your way. They are civil folks, and always
ready to direct a stranger.” There can be little doubt that this woman was a
sorceress.
The learned and judicious King James I. had women of this kind boiled,
and then tasting the water of the cauldron, was able to say from its flavour,
“That was a sorceress;” or “That was not one.”
It is to be regretted that the kings of these latter days no longer possess a
talent which placed in so strong a light the utility of monarchical
institutions.
It was not without substantial grounds that Gilliatt lived in this odour of
sorcery. One midnight, during a storm, Gilliatt being at sea alone in a bark,
on the coast by La Sommeilleuse, he was heard to ask—
“Is there a passage sufficient for me?”
And a voice cried from the heights above:
“Passage enough: steer boldly.”
To whom could he have been speaking, if not to those who replied to
him? This seems something like evidence.
Another time, one stormy evening, when it was so dark that nothing
could be distinguished, Gilliatt was near the Catiau Roque—a double row
of rocks where witches, goats, and other diabolical creatures assemble and
dance on Fridays—and here, it is firmly believed, that the voice of Gilliatt
was heard mingling in the following terrible conversation:—
“How is Vesin Brovard?” (This was a mason who had fallen from the
roof of a house.)
“He is getting better.”

“Ver dia! he fell from a greater height than that of yonder peak. It is
delightful to think that he was not dashed to pieces.”
“Our folks had a fine time for the seaweed gathering last week.”
“Ay, finer than to-day.”
“I believe you. There will be little fish at the market to-day.”
“It blows too hard.”
“They can’t lower their nets.”
“How is Catherine?”
“She is charming.”
Catherine was evidently the name of a Sarregouset.
According to all appearance, Gilliatt had business on hand at night: at
least none doubted it.
Sometimes he was seen with a pitcher in his hand, pouring water on the
ground. Now water, cast upon the ground, is known to make a shape like
that of devils.
On the road to St. Sampson, opposite the Martello tower, number 1, stand
three stones, arranged in the form of steps. Upon the platform of those
stones, now empty, stood anciently a cross, or perhaps a gallows. These
stones are full of evil influences.
Staid and worthy people, and perfectly credible witnesses, testified to
having seen Gilliatt at this spot conversing with a toad. Now there are no
toads at Guernsey. The share of Guernsey in the reptiles of the Channel
Isles consisting exclusively of the snakes. It is Jersey that has all the toads.
This toad, then, must have swum from the neighbouring island, in order to
hold converse with Gilliatt. The converse was of a friendly kind.
These facts were clearly established; and the proof is that the three stones
are there to this day. Those who doubt it may go and see them; and at a little
distance, there is also a house on which the passer-by may read this
inscription:—
“Dealer in cattle, alive and dead, old cordage, iron, bones, and
tobacco for chewing, prompt payment for goods, and every attention
given to orders.”

A man must be sceptical indeed to contest the existence of those stones,
and of the house in question. Now both these circumstances were injurious

to the reputation of Gilliatt.
Only the most ignorant are unaware of the fact that the greatest danger of
the coasts of the Channel Islands is the King of the Auxcriniers. No
inhabitant of the seas is more redoubtable. Whoever has seen him is certain
to be wrecked between one St. Michel and the other. He is little, being in
fact a dwarf; and is deaf, in his quality of king. He knows the names of all
those who have been drowned in the seas, and the spots where they lie. He
has a profound knowledge of that great graveyard which stretches far and
wide beneath the waters of the ocean. A head, massive in the lower part and
narrow in the forehead; a squat and corpulent figure; a skull, covered with
warty excrescences; long legs, long arms, fins for feet, claws for hands, and
a sea-green countenance; such are the chief characteristics of this king of
the waves. His claws have palms like hands; his fins human nails. Imagine a
spectral fish with the face of a human being. No power could check his
career unless he could be exorcised, or mayhap, fished up from the sea.
Meanwhile he continues his sinister operations. Nothing is more unpleasant
than an interview with this monster: amid the rolling waves and breakers, or
in the thick of the mist, the sailor perceives, sometimes, a strange creature
with a beetle brow, wide nostrils, flattened ears, an enormous mouth, gap-
toothed jaws, peaked eyebrows, and great grinning eyes. When the
lightning is livid, he appears red; when it is purple, he looks wan. He has a
stiff spreading beard, running with water, and overlapping a sort of pelerine,
ornamented with fourteen shells, seven before and seven behind. These
shells are curious to those who are learned in conchology. The King of the
Auxcriniers is only seen in stormy seas. He is the terrible harbinger of the
tempest. His hideous form traces itself in the fog, in the squall, in the
tempest of rain. His breast is hideous. A coat of scales covers his sides like a
vest. He rises above the waves which fly before the wind, twisting and
curling like thin shavings of wood beneath the carpenter’s plane. Then his
entire form issues out of the foam, and if there should happen to be in the
horizon any vessels in distress, pale in the twilight, or his face lighted up
with a sinister smile, he dances terrible and uncouth to behold. It is an evil
omen indeed to meet him on a voyage.
At the period when the people of St. Sampson were particularly excited
on the subject of Gilliatt, the last persons who had seen the King of the
Auxcriniers declared that his pelerine was now ornamented with only
thirteen shells. Thirteen! He was only the more dangerous. But what had

become of the fourteenth? Had he given it to some one? No one would say
positively; and folks confined themselves to conjecture. But it was an
undoubted fact that a certain Mons. Lupin Mabier, of Godaines, a man of
property, paying a good sum to the land tax, was ready to depose on oath,
that he had once seen in the hands of Gilliatt a very remarkable kind of
shell.
It was not uncommon to hear dialogues like the following among the
country people:—
“I have a fine bull here, neighbour, what do you say?”
“Very fine, neighbour?”
“It is a fact, tho’ ’tis I who say it; he is better though for tallow than for
meat.”
“Ver dia!”
“Are you sure that Gilliatt hasn’t cast his eye upon it?”
Gilliatt would stop sometimes beside a field where some labourers were
assembled, or near gardens in which gardeners were engaged, and would
perhaps hear these mysterious words:
“When the mors du diable flourishes, reap the winter rye.”
(The mors du diable is the scabwort plant.)
“The ash tree is coming out in leaf. There will be no more frost.”
“Summer solstice, thistle in flower.”
“If it rain not in June, the wheat will turn white. Look out for mildew.”
“When the wild cherry appears, beware of the full moon.”
“If the weather on the sixth day of the new moon is like that of the fourth,
or like that of the fifth day, it will be the same nine times out of twelve, in
the first case, and eleven times out of twelve in the second, during the
whole month.”
“Keep your eye on neighbours who go to law with you. Beware of
malicious influences. A pig which has had warm milk given to it will die. A
cow which has had its teeth rubbed with leeks will eat no more.”
“Spawning time with the smelts; beware of fevers.”
“When frogs begin to appear, sow your melons.”
“When the liverwort flowers, sow your barley.”

“When the limes are in bloom, mow the meadows.”
“When the elm-tree flowers, open the hot-bed frames.”
“When tobacco fields are in blossom, close your greenhouses.”
And, fearful to relate, these occult precepts were not without truth. Those
who put faith in them could vouch for the fact.
One night, in the month of June, when Gilliatt was playing upon his
bagpipe, upon the sand-hills on the shore of the Demie de Fontenelle, it had
happened that the mackerel fishing had failed.
One evening, at low water, it came to pass that a cart filled with seaweed
for manure overturned on the beach, in front of Gilliatt’s house. It is most
probable that he was afraid of being brought before the magistrates, for he
took considerable trouble in helping to raise the cart, and he filled it again
himself.
A little neglected child of the neighbourhood being troubled with vermin,
he had gone himself to St. Peter’s Port, and had returned with an ointment,
with which he rubbed the child’s head. Thus Gilliatt had removed the pest
from the poor child, which was an evidence that Gilliatt himself had
originally given it; for everybody knows that there is a certain charm for
giving vermin to people.
Gilliatt was suspected of looking into wells—a dangerous practice with
those who have an evil eye; and, in fact, at Arculons, near St. Peter’s Port,
the water of a well became unwholesome. The good woman to whom this
well belonged said to Gilliatt:
“Look here, at this water;” and she showed him a glassful. Gilliatt
acknowledged it.
“The water is thick,” he said; “that is true.”
The good woman, who dreaded him in her heart, said, “Make it sweet
again for me.”
Gilliatt asked her some questions: whether she had a stable? whether the
stable had a drain? whether the gutter of the drain did not pass near the
well? The good woman replied “Yes.” Gilliatt went into the stable; worked
at the drain; turned the gutter in another direction; and the water became
pure again. People in the country round might think what they pleased. A
well does not become foul one moment and sweet the next without good
cause; the bottom of the affair was involved in obscurity; and, in short, it

was difficult to escape the conclusion that Gilliatt himself had bewitched
the water.
On one occasion, when he went to Jersey, it was remarked that he had
taken a lodging in the street called the Rue des Alleurs. Now the word
alleurs signifies spirits from the other world.
In villages it is the custom to gather together all these little hints and
indications of a man’s career; and when they are gathered together, the total
constitutes his reputation among the inhabitants.
It happened that Gilliatt was once caught with blood issuing from his
nose. The circumstances appeared grave. The master of a barque who had
sailed almost entirely round the world, affirmed that among the Tongusians
all sorcerers were subject to bleeding at the nose. In fact, when you see a
man in those parts bleeding at the nose, you know at once what is in the
wind. Moderate reasoners, however, remarked that the characteristics of
sorcerers among the Tongusians may possibly not apply in the same degree
to the sorcerers of Guernsey.
In the environs of one of the St. Michels, he had been seen to stop in a
close belonging to the Huriaux, skirting the highway from the Videclins. He
whistled in the field, and a moment afterwards a crow alighted there; a
moment later, a magpie. The fact was attested by a worthy man who has
since been appointed to the office of Douzenier of the Douzaine, as those
are called who are authorised to make a new survey and register of the fief
of the king.
At Hamel, in the Vingtaine of L’Epine, there lived some old women who
were positive of having heard one morning a number of swallows distinctly
calling “Gilliatt.”
Add to all this that he was of a malicious temper.
One day, a poor man was beating an ass. The ass was obstinate. The poor
man gave him a few kicks in the belly with his wooden shoe, and the ass
fell. Gilliatt ran to raise the unlucky beast, but he was dead. Upon this
Gilliatt administered to the poor man a sound thrashing.
Another day, Gilliatt seeing a boy come down from a tree with a brood of
little birds, newly hatched and unfledged, he took the brood away from the
boy, and carried his malevolence so far as even to take them back and
replace them in the tree.

Some passers-by took up the boy’s complaint; but Gilliatt made no reply,
except to point to the old birds, who were hovering and crying plaintively
over the tree, as they looked for their nest. He had a weakness for birds—
another sign by which the people recognise a magician.
Children take a pleasure in robbing the nests of birds along the cliff. They
bring home quantities of yellow, blue, and green eggs, with which they
make rosaries for mantelpiece ornaments. As the cliffs are peaked, they
sometimes slip and are killed. Nothing is prettier than shutters decorated
with sea-birds’ eggs. Gilliatt’s mischievous ingenuity had no end. He would
climb, at the peril of his own life, into the steep places of the sea rocks, and
hang up bundles of hay, old hats, and all kinds of scarecrows, to deter the
birds from building there, and, as a consequence, to prevent the children
from visiting those spots.
These are some of the reasons why Gilliatt was disliked throughout the
country. Perhaps nothing less could have been expected.

V

MORE SUSPICIOUS FACTS ABOUT GILLIATT
Public opinion was not yet quite settled with regard to Gilliatt.
In general he was regarded as a Marcou: some went so far as to believe
him to be a Cambion. A cambion is the child of a woman begotten by a
devil.
When a woman bears to her husband seven male children consecutively,
the seventh is a marcou. But the series must not be broken by the birth of
any female child.
The marcou has a natural fleur-de-lys imprinted upon some part of his
body; for which reason he has the power of curing scrofula, exactly the
same as the King of France. Marcous are found in all parts of France, but
particularly in the Orléanais. Every village of Gâtinais has its marcou. It is
sufficient for the cure of the sick that the marcou should breathe upon their
wounds, or let them touch his fleur-de-lys. The night of Good Friday is

particularly favourable to these ceremonies. Ten years ago there lived, at
Ormes in Gâtinais, one of these creatures who was nicknamed the Beau
Marcou, and consulted by all the country of Beauce. He was a cooper,
named Foulon, who kept a horse and vehicle. To put a stop to his miracles,
it was found necessary to call in the assistance of the gendarmes. His fleur-
de-lys was on the left breast; other marcous have it in different parts.
There are marcous at Jersey, Auvigny, and at Guernsey. This fact is
doubtless in some way connected with the rights possessed by France over
Normandy: or why the fleur-de-lys?
There are also, in the Channel Islands, people afflicted with scrofula;
which of course necessitates a due supply of these marcous.
Some people, who happened to be present one day when Gilliatt was
bathing in the sea, had fancied that they could perceive upon him a fleur-de-
lys. Interrogated on that subject he made no reply, but merely burst into
laughter. For he laughed sometimes like other men. From that time,
however, no one ever saw him bathe: he bathed thenceforth only in perilous
and solitary places; probably by moonlight: a thing in itself somewhat
suspicious.
Those who obstinately regarded him as a cambion, or son of the devil,
were evidently in error. They ought to have known that cambions scarcely
exist out of Germany. But The Vale and St. Sampson were, fifty years ago,
places remarkable for the ignorance of their inhabitants.
To fancy that a resident of the island of Guernsey could be the son of a
devil was evidently absurd.
Gilliatt, for the very reason that he caused disquietude among the people,
was sought for and consulted. The peasants came in fear, to talk to him of
their diseases. That fear itself had in it something of faith in his powers; for
in the country, the more the doctor is suspected of magic, the more certain
is the cure. Gilliatt had certain remedies of his own, which he had inherited
from the deceased woman. He communicated them to all who had need of
them, and would never receive money for them. He cured whitlows with
applications of herbs. A liquor in one of his phials allayed fever. The
chemist of St. Sampson, or pharmacien, as they would call him in France,
thought that this was probably a decoction of Jesuits’ bark. The more
generous among his censors admitted that Gilliatt was not so bad a demon
in his dealings with the sick, so far as regarded his ordinary remedies. But

in his character of a marcou, he would do nothing. If persons afflicted with
scrofula came to him to ask to touch the fleur-de-lys on his skin, he made
no other answer than that of shutting the door in their faces. He persistently
refused to perform any miracles—a ridiculous position for a sorcerer. No
one is bound to be a sorcerer; but when a man is one, he ought not to shirk
the duties of his position.
One or two exceptions might be found to this almost universal antipathy.
Sieur Landoys, of the Clos-Landés, was clerk and registrar of St. Peter’s
Port, custodian of the documents, and keeper of the register of births,
marriages, and deaths. This Landoys was vain of his descent from Peter
Landoys, treasurer of the province of Brittany, who was hanged in 1485.
One day, when Sieur Landoys was bathing in the sea, he ventured to swim
out too far, and was on the point of drowning: Gilliatt plunged into the
water, narrowly escaping drowning himself, and succeeded in saving him.
From that day Landoys never spoke an evil word of Gilliatt. To those who
expressed surprise at this change, he replied, “Why should I detest a man
who never did me any harm, and who has rendered me a service?” The
parish clerk and registrar even came at last to feel a sort of friendship for
Gilliatt. This public functionary was a man without prejudices. He had no
faith in sorcerers. He laughed at people who went in fear of ghostly visitors.
As for him, he had a boat in which he amused himself by making fishing
excursions in his leisure hours; but he had never seen anything
extraordinary, unless it was on one occasion —a woman clothed in white,
who rose about the waters in the light of the moon—and even of this
circumstance he was not quite sure. Moutonne Gahy, the old witch of
Torteval, had given him a little bag to be worn under the cravat, as a
protection against evil spirits: he ridiculed the bag, and knew not what it
contained, though, to be sure, he carried it about him, feeling more security
with this charm hanging on his neck.
Some courageous persons, emboldened by the example of Landoys,
ventured to cite, in Gilliatt’s favour, certain extenuating circumstances; a
few signs of good qualities, as his sobriety, his abstinence from spirits and
tobacco; and sometimes they went so far as to pass this elegant eulogium
upon him: “He neither smokes, drinks, chews tobacco, or takes snuff.”
Sobriety, however, can only count as a virtue when there are other virtues
to support it.

The ban of public opinion lay heavily upon Gilliatt.
In any case, as a marcou, Gilliatt had it in his power to render great
services. On a certain Good Friday, at midnight, a day and an hour
propitious to this kind of cure, all the scrofulous people of the island, either
by sudden inspiration, or by concerted action, presented themselves in a
crowd at the Bû de la Rue, and with pitiable sores and imploring gestures,
called on Gilliatt to make them clean. But he refused; and herein the people
found another proof of his malevolence.

VI

THE DUTCH SLOOP
Such was the character of Gilliatt.
The young women considered him ugly.
Ugly he was not. He might, perhaps, have been called handsome. There
was something in his profile of rude but antique grace. In repose it had
some resemblance to that of a sculptured Dacian on the Trajan column. His
ears were small, delicate, without lobes, and of an admirable form for
hearing. Between his eyes he had that proud vertical line which indicates in
a man boldness and perseverance. The corners of his mouth were depressed,
giving a slight expression of bitterness. His forehead had a calm and noble
roundness. The clear pupils of his eyes possessed a steadfast look, although
troubled a little with that involuntary movement of the eyelids which
fishermen contract from the glitter of the waves. His laugh was boyish and
pleasing. No ivory could be of a finer white than his teeth; but exposure to
the sun had made him swarthy as a moor. The ocean, the tempest, and the
darkness cannot be braved with impunity. At thirty he looked already like a
man of forty-five. He wore the sombre mask of the wind and the sea.
The people had nicknamed him “Malicious Gilliatt.”
There is an Indian fable to the effect that one day the god Brahma
inquired of the Spirit of Power, “Who is stronger than thee?” and the spirit
replied “Cunning.” A Chinese proverb says, “What could not the lion do, if

he was the monkey also?” Gilliatt was neither the lion nor the monkey; but
his actions gave some evidence of the truth of the Chinese proverb, and of
the Hindoo fable. Although only of ordinary height and strength, he was
enabled, so inventive and powerful was his dexterity, to lift burdens that
might have taxed a giant, and to accomplish feats which would have done
credit to an athlete.
He had in him something of the power of the gymnast. He used, with
equal address, his left hand and his right.
He never carried a gun; but was often seen with his net. He spared the
birds, but not the fish. Ill-luck to these dumb creatures! He was an excellent
swimmer.
Solitude either develops the mental powers, or renders men dull and
vicious. Gilliatt sometimes presented himself under both these aspects. At
times, when his features wore that air of strange surprise already mentioned,
he might have been taken for a man of mental powers scarcely superior to
the savage. At other moments an indescribable air of penetration lighted up
his face. Ancient Chaldea possessed some men of this stamp. At certain
times the dullness of the shepherd mind became transparent, and revealed
the inspired sage.
After all, he was but a poor man; uninstructed, save to the extent of
reading and writing. It is probable that the condition of his mind was at that
limit which separates the dreamer from the thinker. The thinker wills, the
dreamer is a passive instrument. Solitude sinks deeply into pure natures,
and modifies them in a certain degree. They become, unconsciously,
penetrated with a kind of sacred awe. The shadow in which the mind of
Gilliatt constantly dwelt was composed in almost equal degrees of two
elements, both obscure, but very different. Within himself all was ignorance
and weakness; without, infinity and mysterious power.
By dint of frequent climbing on the rocks, of escalading the rugged cliffs,
of going to and fro among the islands in all weathers, of navigating any sort
of craft which came to hand, of venturing night and day in difficult
channels, he had become, without taking count of his other advantages, and
merely in following his fancy and pleasure, a seaman of extraordinary skill.
He was a born pilot. The true pilot is the man who navigates the bed of
the ocean even more than its surface. The waves of the sea are an external
problem, continually modified by the submarine conditions of the waters in

which the vessel is making her way. To see Gilliatt guiding his craft among
the reefs and shallows of the Norman Archipelago, one might have fancied
that he carried in his head a plan of the bottom of the sea. He was familiar
with it all, and feared nothing.
He was better acquainted with the buoys in the channels than the
cormorants who make them their resting-places. The almost imperceptible
differences which distinguish the four upright buoys of the Creux,
Alligande, the Trémies, and the Sardrette, were perfectly visible and clear to
him, even in misty weather. He hesitated neither at the oval, apple-headed
buoy of Anfré, nor at the triple iron point of the Rousse, nor at the white
ball of the Corbette, nor at the black ball of Longue Pierre; and there was no
fear of his confounding the cross of Goubeau with the sword planted in
earth at La Platte, nor the hammer-shaped buoy of the Barbées with the
curled-tail buoy of the Moulinet.
His rare skill in seamanship showed itself in a striking manner one day at
Guernsey, on the occasion of one of those sea tournaments which are called
regattas. The feat to be performed was to navigate alone a boat with four
sails from St. Sampson to the Isle of Herm, at one league distance, and to
bring the boat back from Herm to St. Sampson. To manage, without
assistance, a boat with four sails, is a feat which every fisherman is equal to,
and the difficulty seemed little; but there was a condition which rendered it
far from simple. The boat, to begin with, was one of those large and heavy
sloops of bygone times which the sailors of the last century knew by the
name of “Dutch Belly Boats.” This ancient style of flat, pot-bellied craft,
carrying on the larboard and starboard sides, in compensation for the want
of a keel, two wings, which lowered themselves, sometimes the one,
sometimes the other, according to the wind, may occasionally be met with
still at sea. In the second place, there was the return from Herm, a journey
which was rendered more difficult by a heavy ballasting of stones. The
conditions were to go empty, but to return loaded. The sloop was the prize
of the contest. It was dedicated beforehand to the winner. This “Dutch Belly
Boat” had been employed as a pilot-boat. The pilot who had rigged and
worked it for twenty years was the most robust of all the sailors of the
channel. When he died no one had been found capable of managing the
sloop; and it was, in consequence, determined to make it the prize of the
regatta. The sloop, though not decked, had some sea qualities, and was a
tempting prize for a skilful sailor. Her mast was somewhat forward, which

increased the motive-power of her sails; besides having the advantage of
not being in the way of her pilot. It was a strong-built vessel, heavy, but
roomy, and taking the open sea well; in fact, a good, serviceable craft.
There was eager anxiety for the prize; the task was a rough one, but the
reward of success was worth having. Seven or eight fishermen, among the
most vigorous of the island, presented themselves. One by one they
essayed; but not one could succeed in reaching Herm. The last one who
tried his skill was known for having crossed, in a rowing-boat, the terrible
narrow sea between Sark and Brecq-Hou. Sweating with his exertions, he
brought back the sloop, and said, “It is impossible.” Gilliatt then entered the
bark, seized first of all the oar, then the mainsail, and pushed out to sea.
Then, without either making fast the boom, which would have been
imprudent, or letting it go, which kept the sail under his direction, and
leaving the boom to move with the wind without drifting, he held the tiller
with his left hand. In three quarters of an hour he was at Herm. Three hours
later, although a strong breeze had sprung up and was blowing across the
roads, the sloop, guided by Gilliatt, returned to St. Sampson with its load of
stones. He had, with an extravagant display of his resources, even added to
the cargo the little bronze cannon at Herm, which the people were in the
habit of firing off on the 5th of November, by way of rejoicing over the
death of Guy Fawkes.
Guy Fawkes, by the way, has been dead two hundred and sixty years; a
remarkably long period of rejoicing.
Gilliatt, thus burdened and encumbered, although he had the Guy
Fawkes’-day cannon in the boat and the south wind in his sails, steered, or
rather brought back, the heavy craft to St. Sampson.
Seeing which, Mess Lethierry exclaimed, “There’s a bold sailor for you!”
And he held out his hand to Gilliatt.
We shall have occasion to speak again of Mess Lethierry.
The sloop was awarded to Gilliatt.
This adventure detracted nothing from his evil reputation.
Several persons declared that the feat was not at all astonishing, for that
Gilliatt had concealed in the boat a branch of wild medlar. But this could
not be proved.

From that day forward, Gilliatt navigated no boat except the old sloop. In
this heavy craft he went on his fishing avocation. He kept it at anchor in the
excellent little shelter which he had all to himself, under the very wall of his
house of the Bû de la Rue. At nightfall, he cast his nets over his shoulder,
traversed his little garden, climbed over the parapet of dry stones, stepped
lightly from rock to rock, and jumping into the sloop, pushed out to sea.
He brought home heavy takes of fish; but people said that his medlar
branch was always hanging up in the boat. No one had ever seen this
branch, but every one believed in its existence.
When he had more fish than he wanted, he did not sell it, but gave it
away.
The poor people took his gift, but were little grateful, for they knew the
secret of his medlar branch. Such devices cannot be permitted. It is
unlawful to trick the sea out of its treasures.
He was a fisherman; but he was something more. He had, by instinct, or
for amusement, acquired a knowledge of three or four trades. He was a
carpenter, worker in iron, wheelwright, boat-caulker, and, to some extent,
an engineer. No one could mend a broken wheel better than he could. He
manufactured, in a fashion of his own, all the things which fishermen use.
In a corner of the Bû de la Rue he had a small forge and an anvil; and the
sloop having but one anchor, he had succeeded, without help, in making
another. The anchor was excellent. The ring had the necessary strength; and
Gilliatt, though entirely uninstructed in this branch of the smith’s art, had
found the exact dimensions of the stock for preventing the over-balancing
of the fluke ends.
He had patiently replaced all the nails in the planks by rivets; which
rendered rust in the holes impossible.
In this way he had much improved the sea-going qualities of the sloop.
He employed it sometimes when he took a fancy to spend a month or two in
some solitary islet, like Chousey or the Casquets. People said, “Ay! ay!
Gilliatt is away;” but this was a circumstance which nobody regretted.

VII

A FIT TENANT FOR A HAUNTED HOUSE
Gilliatt was a man of dreams, hence his daring, hence also his timidity.
He had ideas on many things which were peculiarly his own.
There was in his character, perhaps, something of the visionary and the
transcendentalist. Hallucinations may haunt the poor peasant like Martin, no
less than the king like Henry IV. There are times when the unknown reveals
itself in a mysterious way to the spirit of man. A sudden rent in the veil of
darkness will make manifest things hitherto unseen, and then close again
upon the mysteries within. Such visions have occasionally the power to
effect a transfiguration in those whom they visit. They convert a poor
camel-driver into a Mahomet; a peasant girl tending her goats into a Joan of
Arc. Solitude generates a certain amount of sublime exaltation. It is like the
smoke arising from the burning bush. A mysterious lucidity of mind results,
which converts the student into a seer, and the poet into a prophet: herein
we find a key to the mysteries of Horeb, Kedron, Ombos; to the intoxication
of Castilian laurels, the revelations of the month Busion. Hence, too, we
have Peleia at Dodona, Phemonoe at Delphos, Trophonius in Lebadea,
Ezekiel on the Chebar, and Jerome in the Thetais.
More frequently this visionary state overwhelms and stupefies its victim.
There is such a thing as a divine besottedness. The Hindoo fakir bears about
with him the burden of his vision, as the Cretin his goître. Luther holding
converse with devils in his garret at Wittenburg; Pascal shutting out the
view of the infernal regions with the screen of his cabinet; the African Obi
conversing with the white-faced god Bossum; are each and all the same
phenomenon, diversely interpreted by the minds in which they manifest
themselves, according to their capacity and power. Luther and Pascal were
grand, and are grand still; the Obi is simply a poor half-witted creature.
Gilliatt was neither so exalted nor so low. He was a dreamer: nothing
more.
Nature presented itself to him under a somewhat strange aspect.
Just as he had often found in the perfectly limpid water of the sea strange
creatures of considerable size and of various shapes, of the Medusa genus,
which out of the water bore a resemblance to soft crystal, and which, cast
again into the sea, became lost to sight in that medium by reason of their
identity in transparency and colour, so he imagined that other

transparencies, similar to these almost invisible denizens of the ocean,
might probably inhabit the air around us. The birds are scarcely inhabitants
of the air, but rather amphibious creatures passing much of their lives upon
the earth. Gilliatt could not believe the air a mere desert. He used to say,
“Since the water is filled with life, why not the atmosphere?” Creatures
colourless and transparent like the air would escape from our observation.
What proof have we that there are no such creatures? Analogy indicates that
the liquid fields of air must have their swimming habitants, even as the
waters of the deep. These aerial fish would, of course, be diaphanous; a
provision of their wise Creator for our sakes as well as their own. Allowing
the light to pass through their forms, casting no shadow, having no defined
outline, they would necessarily remain unknown to us, and beyond the
grasp of human sense. Gilliatt indulged the wild fancy that if it were
possible to exhaust the earth of its atmosphere, or if we could fish the air as
we fish the depths of the sea, we should discover the existence of a
multitude of strange animals. And then, he would add in his reverie, many
things would be made clear.
Reverie, which is thought in its nebulous state, borders closely upon the
land of sleep, by which it is bounded as by a natural frontier. The discovery
of a new world, in the form of an atmosphere filled with transparent
creatures, would be the beginning of a knowledge of the vast unknown. But
beyond opens up the illimitable domain of the possible, teeming with yet
other beings, and characterised by other phenomena. All this would be
nothing supernatural, but merely the occult continuation of the infinite
variety of creation. In the midst of that laborious idleness, which was the
chief feature in his existence, Gilliatt was singularly observant. He even
carried his observations into the domain of sleep. Sleep has a close relation
with the possible, which we call also the invraisemblable. The world of
sleep has an existence of its own. Night-time, regarded as a separate sphere
of creation, is a universe in itself. The material nature of man, upon which
philosophers tell us that a column of air forty-five miles in height
continually presses, is wearied out at night, sinks into lassitude, lies down,
and finds repose. The eyes of the flesh are closed; but in that drooping head,
less inactive than is supposed, other eyes are opened. The unknown reveals
itself. The shadowy existences of the invisible world become more akin to
man; whether it be that there is a real communication, or whether things far
off in the unfathomable abyss are mysteriously brought nearer, it seems as if

the impalpable creatures inhabiting space come then to contemplate our
natures, curious to comprehend the denizens of the earth. Some phantom
creation ascends or descends to walk beside us in the dim twilight: some
existence altogether different from our own, composed partly of human
consciousness, partly of something else, quits his fellows and returns again,
after presenting himself for a moment to our inward sight; and the sleeper,
not wholly slumbering, nor yet entirely conscious, beholds around him
strange manifestations of life—pale spectres, terrible or smiling, dismal
phantoms, uncouth masks, unknown faces, hydra-headed monsters,
undefined shapes, reflections of moonlight where there is no moon, vague
fragments of monstrous forms. All these things which come and go in the
troubled atmosphere of sleep, and to which men give the name of dreams,
are, in truth, only realities invisible to those who walk about the daylight
world. The dream-world is the Aquarium of Night.
So, at least, thought Gilliatt.

VIII

THE GILD-HOLM-’UR SEAT
The curious visitor, in these days, would seek in vain in the little bay of
Houmet for the house in which Gilliatt lived, or for his garden, or the creek
in which he sheltered the Dutch sloop. The Bû de la Rue no longer exists.
Even the little peninsula on which his house stood has vanished, levelled by
the pickaxe of the quarryman, and carried away, cart-load by cart-load, by
dealers in rock and granite. It must be sought now in the churches, the
palaces, and the quays of a great city. All that ridge of rocks has been long
ago conveyed to London.
These long lines of broken cliffs in the sea, with their frequent gaps and
crevices, are like miniature chains of mountains. They strike the eye with
the impression which a giant may be supposed to have in contemplating the
Cordilleras. In the language of the country they are called “Banques.” These
banques vary considerably in form. Some resemble a long spine, of which

each rock forms one of the vertebræ; others are like the backbone of a fish;
while some bear an odd resemblance to a crocodile in the act of drinking.
At the extremity of the ridge on which the Bû de la Rue was situate, was
a large rock, which the fishing people of Houmet called the “Beast’s Horn.”
This rock, a sort of pyramid, resembled, though less in height, the
“Pinnacle” of Jersey. At high water the sea divided it from the ridge, and the
Horn stood alone; at low water it was approached by an isthmus of rocks.
The remarkable feature of this “Beast’s Horn” was a sort of natural seat on
the side next the sea, hollowed out by the water, and polished by the rains.
The seat, however, was a treacherous one. The stranger was insensibly
attracted to it by “the beauty of the prospect,” as the Guernsey folks said.
Something detained him there in spite of himself, for there is a charm in a
wide view. The seat seemed to offer itself for his convenience; it formed a
sort of niche in the peaked façade of the rock. To climb up to it was easy,
for the sea, which had fashioned it out of its rocky base, had also cast
beneath it, at convenient distances, a kind of natural stairs composed of flat
stones. The perilous abyss is full of these snares; beware, therefore, of its
proffered aids. The spot was tempting: the stranger mounted and sat down.
There he found himself at his ease; for his seat he had the granite rounded
and hollowed out by the foam; for supports, two rocky elbows which
seemed made expressly for him; against his back, the high vertical wall of
rock which he looked up to and admired, without thinking of the
impossibility of scaling it. Nothing could be more simple than to fall into
reverie in that convenient resting-place. All around spread the wide sea; far
off the ships were seen passing to and fro. It was possible to follow a sail
with the eye, till it sank in the horizon beyond the Casquets. The stranger
was entranced: he looked around, enjoying the beauty of the scene, and the
light touch of wind and wave. There is a sort of bat found at Cayenne,
which has the power of fanning people to sleep in the shade with a gentle
beating of its dusky wings. Like this strange creature the wind wanders
about, alternately ravaging or lulling into security. So the stranger would
continue contemplating the sea, listening for a movement in the air, and
yielding himself up to dreamy indolence. When the eyes are satiated with
light and beauty, it is a luxury to close them for awhile. Suddenly the
loiterer would arouse; but it was too late. The sea had crept up step by step;
the waters surrounded the rock; the stranger had been lured on to his death.
A terrible rock was this in a rising sea.

The tide gathers at first insensibly, then with violence; when it touches
the rocks a sudden wrath seems to possess it, and it foams. Swimming is
difficult in the breakers: excellent swimmers have been lost at the Horn of
the Bû de la Rue.
In certain places, and at certain periods, the aspect of the sea is dangerous
—fatal; as at times is the glance of a woman.
Very old inhabitants of Guernsey used to call this niche, fashioned in the
rock by the waves, “Gild-Holm-’Ur” seat, or Kidormur; a Celtic word, say
some authorities, which those who understand Celtic cannot interpret, and
which all who understand French can—“Qui-dort-meurt:”[1] such is the
country folks’ translation.
The reader may choose between the translation, Qui-dort-meurt, and that
given in 1819, I believe in The Armorican, by M. Athenas. According to
this learned Celtic scholar, Gild-Holm-’Ur signifies “The resting-place of
birds.”
There is, at Aurigny, another seat of this kind, called the Monk’s Chair, so
well sculptured by the waves, and with steps of rock so conveniently
placed, that it might be said that the sea politely sets a footstool for those
who rest there.
In the open sea, at high water, the Gild-Holm-’Ur was no longer visible;
the water covered it entirely.
The Gild-Holm-’Ur was a neighbour of the Bû de la Rue. Gilliatt knew it
well, and often seated himself there. Was it his meditating place? No. We
have already said he did not meditate, but dream. The sea, however, never
entrapped him there.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] He who sleeps must die.

BOOK II
MESS LETHIERRY

I

A TROUBLED LIFE, BUT A QUIET CONSCIENCE
Mess Lethierry, a conspicuous man in St. Sampson, was a redoubtable
sailor. He had voyaged a great deal. He had been a cabin-boy, seaman,
topmast-man, second mate, mate, pilot, and captain. He was at this period a
ship-owner. There was not a man to compare with him for general
knowledge of the sea. He was brave in putting off to ships in distress. In
foul weather he would take his way along the beach, scanning the horizon.
“What have we yonder?” he would say; “some craft in trouble?” Whether it
were an interloping Weymouth fisherman, a cutter from Aurigny, a bisquine
from Courseulle, the yacht of some nobleman, an English craft or a French
one—poor or rich, mattered little. He jumped into a boat, called together
two or three strong fellows, or did without them, as the case might be,
pushed out to sea, rose and sank, and rose again on rolling waves, plunged
into the storm, and encountered the danger face to face. Then afar off, amid
the rain and lightning, and drenched with water, he was sometimes seen
upright in his boat like a lion with a foaming mane. Often he would pass
whole days in danger amidst the waves, the hail, and the wind, making his
way to the sides of foundering vessels during the tempest, and rescuing men
and merchandise. At night, after feats like these, he would return home, and
pass his time in knitting stockings.
For fifty years he led this kind of life—from ten years of age to sixty—so
long did he feel himself still young. At sixty, he began to discover that he
could no longer lift with one hand the great anvil at the forge of Varclin.
This anvil weighed three hundredweight. At length rheumatic pains
compelled him to be a prisoner; he was forced to give up his old struggle
with the sea, to pass from the heroic into the patriarchal stage, to sink into
the condition of a harmless, worthy old fellow.
Happily his rheumatism attacks happened at the period when he had
secured a comfortable competency. These two consequences of labour are

natural companions. At the moment when men become rich, how often
comes paralysis—the sorrowful crowning of a laborious life!
Old and weary men say among themselves, “Let us rest and enjoy life.”
The population of islands like Guernsey is composed of men who have
passed their lives in going about their little fields or in sailing round the
world. These are the two classes of the labouring people; the labourers on
the land, and the toilers of the sea. Mess Lethierry was of the latter class; he
had had a life of hard work. He had been upon the continent; was for some
time a ship carpenter at Rochefort, and afterwards at Cette. We have just
spoken of sailing round the world; he had made the circuit of all France,
getting work as a journeyman carpenter; and had been employed at the
great salt works of Franche-Comte. Though a humble man, he had led a life
of adventure. In France he had learned to read, to think, to have a will of his
own. He had had a hand in many things, and in all he had done had kept a
character for probity. At bottom, however, he was simply a sailor. The water
was his element; he used to say that he lived with the fish when really at
home. In short, his whole existence, except two or three years, had been
devoted to the ocean. Flung into the water, as he said, he had navigated the
great oceans both of the Atlantic and the Pacific, but he preferred the
Channel. He used to exclaim enthusiastically, “That is the sea for a rough
time of it!” He was born at sea, and at sea would have preferred to end his
days. After sailing several times round the world, and seeing most
countries, he had returned to Guernsey, and never permanently left the
island again. Henceforth his great voyages were to Granville and St. Malo.
Mess Lethierry was a Guernsey man—that peculiar amalgamation of
Frenchman and Norman, or rather English. He had within himself this
quadruple extraction, merged and almost lost in that far wider country, the
ocean. Throughout his life and wheresoever he went, he had preserved the
habits of a Norman fisherman.
All this, however, did not prevent his looking now and then into some old
book; of taking pleasure in reading, in knowing the names of philosophers
and poets, and in talking a little now and then in all languages.

II

A CERTAIN PREDILECTION
Gilliatt was a child of Nature. Mess Lethierry was the same.
Lethierry’s uncultivated nature, however, was not without certain
refinements.
He was fastidious upon the subject of women’s hands. In his early years,
while still a lad, passing from the stage of cabin-boy to that of sailor, he had
heard the Admiral de Suffren say, “There goes a pretty girl; but what
horrible great red hands.” An observation from an admiral on any subject is
a command, a law, an authority far above that of an oracle. The exclamation
of Admiral de Suffren had rendered Lethierry fastidious and exacting in the
matter of small and white hands. His own hand, a large club fist of the
colour of mahogany, was like a mallet or a pair of pincers for a friendly
grasp, and, tightly closed, would almost break a paving-stone.
He had never married; he had either no inclination for matrimony, or had
never found a suitable match. That, perhaps, was due to his being a stickler
for hands like those of a duchess. Such hands are, indeed, somewhat rare
among the fishermen’s daughters at Portbail.
It was whispered, however, that at Rochefort, on the Charente, he had,
once upon a time, made the acquaintance of a certain grisette, realising his
ideal. She was a pretty girl with graceful hands; but she was a vixen, and
had also a habit of scratching. Woe betide any one who attacked her! yet her
nails, though capable at a pinch of being turned into claws, were of a
cleanliness which left nothing to be desired. It was these peculiarly
bewitching nails which had first enchanted and then disturbed the peace of
Lethierry, who, fearing that he might one day become no longer master of
his mistress, had decided not to conduct that young lady to the nuptial altar.
Another time he met at Aurigny a country girl who pleased him. He
thought of marriage, when one of the inhabitants of the place said to him, “I
congratulate you; you will have for your wife a good fuel maker.” Lethierry
asked the meaning of this. It appeared that the country people at Aurigny
have a certain custom of collecting manure from their cow-houses, which
they throw against a wall, where it is left to dry and fall to the ground.
Cakes of dried manure of this kind are used for fuel, and are called

coipiaux. A country girl of Aurigny has no chance of getting a husband if
she is not a good fuel maker; but the young lady’s especial talent only
inspired disgust in Lethierry.
Besides, he had in his love matters a kind of rough country folks’
philosophy, a sailor-like sort of habit of mind. Always smitten but never
enslaved, he boasted of having been in his youth easily conquered by a
petticoat, or rather a cotillon; for what is now-a-days called a crinoline, was
in his time called a cotillon; a term which, in his use of it, signifies both
something more and something less than a wife.
These rude seafaring men of the Norman Archipelago, have a certain
amount of shrewdness. Almost all can read and write. On Sundays, little
cabin-boys may be seen in those parts, seated upon a coil of ropes, reading,
with book in hand. From all time these Norman sailors have had a peculiar
satirical vein, and have been famous for clever sayings. It was one of these
men, the bold pilot Quéripel, who said to Montgomery, when he sought
refuge in Jersey after the unfortunate accident in killing Henry II. at a
tournament, with a blow of his lance, “Tête folle a cassé tête vide.” Another
one, Touzeau, a sea-captain at St. Brélade, was the author of that
philosophical pun, erroneously attributed to Camus, “Après la mort, les
papes deviennent papillons, et les sires deviennent cirons.”

III

THE OLD SEA LANGUAGE
The mariners of the Channel are the true ancient Gauls. The islands,
which in these days become rapidly more and more English—preserved for
many ages their old French character. The peasant in Sark speaks the
language of Louis XIV. Forty years ago, the old classical nautical language
was to be found in the mouths of the sailors of Jersey and Aurigny. When
amongst them, it was possible to imagine oneself carried back to the sea life
of the seventeenth century. From that speaking trumpet which terrified
Admiral Hidde, a philologist might have learnt the ancient technicalities of
manœuvring and giving orders at sea, in the very words which were roared

out to his sailors by Jean Bart. The old French maritime vocabulary is now
almost entirely changed, but was still in use in Jersey in 1820. A ship that
was a good plyer was bon boulinier; one that carried a weather-helm in
spite of her foresails and rudder was un vaisseau ardent; to get under way
was prendre aire; to lie to in a storm, capeyer; to make fast running rigging
was faire dormant; to get to windward, faire chapelle; to keep the cable
tight, faire teste; to be out of trim, être en pantenne; to keep the sails full,
porter plain. These expressions have fallen out of use. To-day we say
louvoyer for to beat to windward, they said leauvoyer; for naviguer, sail,
they said naviger; for virer vent devant, to tack, donner vent devant; for
aller de l’avant, to make headway, tailler de l’avant; for tirez d’accord,
haul together, halez d’accord; for dérapez, to weigh anchor, deplantez; for
embraquez, to haul tight, abraquez; for taquets, cleats, bittons; for burins,
toggles, tappes; for balancine, fore-lift, main-lift, etc., valancine; for
tribord, starboard, stribord; for les hommes de quart à bâbord, men of the
larboard watch, les basbourdis. Tourville wrote to Hocquincourt: nous
avons singlét (sailed), for cinglé. Instead of la rafale, squall, le raffal;
instead of bossoir, cat-head, boussoir; instead of drosse, truss, drousse;
instead of loffer, to luff, faire une olofée; instead of elonger, to lay
alongside, alonger; instead of forte brise, stiff breeze, survent; instead of
jouail, stock of an anchor, jas; instead of soute, store-room, fosse.
Such, at the beginning of this century, was the maritime dialect of the
Channel Islands. Ango would have been startled had he heard the speech of
a Jersey pilot. Whilst everywhere else the sails faseyaient (shivered), in
these islands they barbeyaient. A saute de vent, sudden shift of wind, was a
folle-vente. The old methods of mooring known as la valture and la
portugaise were alone used, and such commands as jour-et-chaque! and
bosse et vilte! might still be heard. While a sailor of Granville was already
employing the word clan for sheave-hold, one of St. Aubin or of St.
Sampson still stuck to his canal de pouliot. What was called bout d’alonge
(upper fultock) at St. Malo, was oreille d’âne at St. Helier. Mess Lethierry,
as did the Duke de Vibonne, called the sheer of the decks la tonture, and the
caulker’s chisel la patarasse.
It was with this uncouth sea dialect in his mouth that Duquesne beat De
Ruyter, that Duguay Trouin defeated Wasnaer, and that Tourville, in 1681,
poured a broadside into the first galley which bombarded Algiers. It is now

a dead language. The idiom of the sea is altogether different. Duperré would
not be able to understand Suffren.
The language of French naval signals is not less transformed; there is a
long distance between the four pennants, red, white, yellow, and blue, of
Labourdonnaye, and the eighteen flags of these days, which, hoisted two
and two, three and three, or four and four, furnish, for distant
communication, sixty-six thousand combinations, are never deficient, and,
so to speak, foresee the unforeseen.

IV

ONE IS VULNERABLE WHERE ONE LOVES
Mess Lethierry’s heart and hand were always ready—a large heart and a
large hand. His failing was that admirable one, self-confidence. He had a
certain fashion of his own of undertaking to do a thing. It was a solemn
fashion. He said, “I give my word of honour to do it, with God’s help.” That
said, he went through with his duty. He put his faith in God—nothing more.
His rare churchgoing was merely formal. At sea he was superstitious.
Nevertheless, the storm had never yet arisen which could daunt him. One
reason of this was his impatience of opposition. He could tolerate it neither
from the ocean nor anything else. He meant to have his way; so much the
worse for the sea if it thwarted him. It might try, if it would, but Mess
Lethierry would not give in. A refractory wave could no more stop him than
an angry neighbour. What he had said was said; what he planned out was
done. He bent neither before an objection nor before the tempest. The word
“no” had no existence for him, whether it was in the mouth of a man or in
the angry muttering of a thunder-cloud. In the teeth of all he went on in his
way. He would take no refusals. Hence his obstinacy in life, and his
intrepidity on the ocean.
He seasoned his simple meal of fish soup for himself, knowing the
quantities of pepper, salt, and herbs which it required, and was as well
pleased with the cooking as with the meal. To complete the sketch of
Lethierry’s peculiarities, the reader must conjure a being to whom the

putting on of a surtout would amount to a transfiguration; whom a
landsman’s greatcoat would convert into a strange animal; one who,
standing with his locks blown about by the wind, might have represented
old Jean Bart, but who, in the landsman’s round hat, would have looked an
idiot; awkward in cities, wild and redoubtable at sea; a man with broad
shoulders, fit for a porter; one who indulged in no oaths, was rarely in
anger, whose voice had a soft accent, which became like thunder in a
speaking-trumpet; a peasant who had read something of the philosophy of
Diderot and D’Alembert; a Guernsey man who had seen the great
Revolution; a learned ignoramus, free from bigotry, but indulging in
visions, with more faith in the White Lady than in the Holy Virgin;
possessing the strength of Polyphemus, the perseverance of Columbus, with
a little of the bull in his nature, and a little of the child. Add to these
physical and mental peculiarities a somewhat flat nose, large cheeks, a set
of teeth still perfect, a face filled with wrinkles, and which seemed to have
been buffeted by the waves and subjected to the beating of the winds of
forty years, a brow in which the storm and tempest were plainly written—
an incarnation of a rock in the open sea. Add to this, too, a good-tempered
smile always ready to light up his weather-beaten countenance, and you
have before you Mess Lethierry.
Mess Lethierry had two special objects of affection only. Their names
were Durande and Déruchette.

BOOK III
DURANDE AND DÉRUCHETTE
I

PRATTLE AND SMOKE
The human body might well be regarded as a mere simulacrum; but it
envelopes our reality, it darkens our light, and broadens the shadow in

which we live. The soul is the reality of our existence. Strictly speaking, the
human visage is a mask. The true man is that which exists under what is
called man. If that being, which thus exists sheltered and secreted behind
that illusion which we call the flesh, could be approached, more than one
strange revelation would be made. The vulgar error is to mistake the
outward husk for the living spirit. Yonder maiden, for example, if we could
see her as she really is, might she not figure as some bird of the air?
A bird transmuted into a young maiden, what could be more exquisite?
Picture it in your own home, and call it Déruchette. Delicious creature! One
might be almost tempted to say, “Good-morning, Mademoiselle Goldfinch.”
The wings are invisible, but the chirping may still be heard. Sometimes,
too, she pipes a clear, loud song. In her childlike prattle, the creature is,
perhaps, inferior; but in her song, how superior to humanity! When
womanhood dawns, this angel flies away; but sometimes returns, bringing
back a little one to a mother. Meanwhile, she who is one day to be a mother
is for a long while a child; the girl becomes a maiden, fresh and joyous as
the lark. Noting her movements, we feel as if it was good of her not to fly
away. The dear familiar companion moves at her own sweet will about the
house; flits from branch to branch, or rather from room to room; goes to and
fro; approaches and retires; plumes her wings, or rather combs her hair, and
makes all kinds of gentle noises—murmurings of unspeakable delight to
certain ears. She asks a question, and is answered; is asked something in
return, and chirps a reply. It is delightful to chat with her when tired of
serious talk; for this creature carries with her something of her skyey
element. She is, as it were, a thread of gold interwoven with your sombre
thoughts; you feel almost grateful to her for her kindness in not making
herself invisible, when it would be so easy for her to be even impalpable;
for the beautiful is a necessary of life. There is, in this world, no function
more important than that of being charming. The forest-glade would be
incomplete without the humming-bird. To shed joy around, to radiate
happiness, to cast light upon dark days, to be the golden thread of our
destiny, and the very spirit of grace and harmony, is not this to render a
service? Does not beauty confer a benefit upon us, even by the simple fact
of being beautiful? Here and there we meet with one who possesses that
fairy-like power of enchanting all about her; sometimes she is ignorant
herself of this magical influence, which is, however, for that reason, only
the more perfect. Her presence lights up the home; her approach is like a

cheerful warmth; she passes by; and we are content; she stays awhile, and
we are happy. To behold her is to live: she is the Aurora with a human face.
She has no need to do more than simply to be: she makes an Eden of the
house; Paradise breathes from her; and she communicates this delight to all,
without taking any greater trouble than that of existing beside them. Is it not
a thing divine to have a smile which, none know how, has the power to
lighten the weight of that enormous chain which all the living, in common,
drag behind them? Déruchette possessed this smile: we may even say that
this smile was Déruchette herself. There is one thing which has more
resemblance to ourselves than even our face, and that is our expression: but
there is yet another thing which more resembles us than this, and that is our
smile. Déruchette smiling was simply Déruchette.
There is something peculiarly attractive in the Jersey and Guernsey race.
The women, particularly the young, are remarkable for a pure and exquisite
beauty. Their complexion is a combination of the Saxon fairness, with the
proverbial ruddiness of the Norman people—rosy cheeks and blue eyes; but
the eyes want brilliancy. The English training dulls them. Their liquid
glances will be irresistible whenever the secret is found of giving them that
depth which is the glory of the Parisienne. Happily Englishwomen are not
yet quite transformed into the Parisian type. Déruchette was not a Parisian;
yet she was certainly not a Guernesiaise. Lethierry had brought her up to be
neat and delicate and pretty; and so she was.
Déruchette had, at times, an air of bewitching langour, and a certain
mischief in the eye, which were altogether involuntary. She scarcely knew,
perhaps, the meaning of the word love, and yet not unwillingly ensnared
those about her in the toils. But all this in her was innocent. She never
thought of marrying.
Déruchette had the prettiest little hands in the world, and little feet to
match them. Sweetness and goodness reigned throughout her person; her
family and fortune were her uncle Mess Lethierry; her occupation was only
to live her daily life; her accomplishments were the knowledge of a few
songs; her intellectual gifts were summed up in her simple innocence; she
had the graceful repose of the West Indian woman, mingled at times with
giddiness and vivacity, with the teasing playfulness of a child, yet with a
dash of melancholy. Her dress was somewhat rustic, and like that peculiar
to her country—elegant, though not in accordance with the fashions of great

cities; for she wore flowers in her bonnet all the year round. Add to all this
an open brow, a neck supple and graceful, chestnut hair, a fair skin slightly
freckled with exposure to the sun, a mouth somewhat large, but well-
defined, and visited from time to time by a dangerous smile. This was
Déruchette.
Sometimes in the evening, a little after sunset, at the moment when the
dusk of the sky mingles with the dusk of the sea, and twilight invests the
waves with a mysterious awe, the people beheld, entering the harbour of St.
Sampson, upon the dark rolling waters, a strange, undefined thing, a
monstrous form which puffed and blew; a horrid machine which roared like
a wild beast, and smoked like a volcano; a species of Hydra foaming among
the breakers, and leaving behind it a dense cloud, as it rushed on towards
the town with a frightful beating of its fins, and a throat belching forth
flame. This was Durande.

II
THE OLD STORY OF UTOPIA
A steamboat was a prodigious novelty in the waters of the Channel in
182-. The whole coast of Normandy was long strangely excited by it. Now-
a-days, ten or a dozen steam vessels, crossing and recrossing within the
bounds of the horizon, scarcely attract a glance from loiterers on the shore.
At the most, some persons, whose interest or business it is to note such
things, will observe the indications in their smoke of whether they burn
Welsh or Newcastle coal. They pass, and that is all. “Welcome,” if coming
home; “a pleasant passage,” if outward bound.
Folks were less calm on the subject of these wonderful inventions in the
first quarter of the present century; and the new and strange machines, and
their long lines of smoke regarded with no good-will by the Channel
Islanders. In that Puritanical Archipelago, where the Queen of England has
been censured for violating the Scriptures[2] by using chloroform during her
accouchments, the first steam-vessel which made its appearance received
the name of the “Devil Boat.” In the eyes of these worthy fishermen, once

Catholics, now Calvinists, but always bigots, it seemed to be a portion of
the infernal regions which had been somehow set afloat. A local preacher
selected for his discourse the question of “Whether man has the right to
make fire and water work together when God had divided them.[3] This
beast, composed of iron and fire, did it not resemble Leviathan? Was it not
an attempt to bring chaos again into the universe? This is not the only
occasion on which the progress of civilisation has been stigmatised as a
return to chaos.
“A mad notion—a gross delusion—an absurdity!” Such was the verdict
of the Academy of Sciences when consulted by Napoleon on the subject of
steamboats, early in the present century. The poor fishermen of St. Sampson
may be excused for not being, in scientific matters, any wiser than the
mathematicians of Paris; and in religious matters, a little island like
Guernsey is not bound to be more enlightened than a great continent like
America. In the year 1807, when the first steamboat of Fulton, commanded
by Livingston, furnished with one of Watt’s engines, sent from England,
and manœuvred, besides her ordinary crew, by two Frenchmen only, André
Michaux and another, made her first voyage from New York to Albany, it
happened that she set sail on the 17th of August. The Methodists took up
this important fact, and in numberless chapels, preachers were heard calling
down a malediction on the machine, and declaring that this number 17 was
no other than the total of the ten horns and seven heads of the beast of the
Apocalypse. In America, they invoked against the steamboats the beast
from the book of Revelation; in Europe, the reptile of the book of Genesis.
This was the simple difference.
The savants had rejected steamboats as impossible; the priests had
anathematised them as impious. Science had condemned, and religion
consigned them to perdition. Fulton was a new incarnation of Lucifer. The
simple people on the coasts and in the villages were confirmed in their
prejudice by the uneasiness which they felt at the outlandish sight. The
religious view of steamboats may be summed up as follows: Water and fire
were divorced at the creation. This divorce was enjoined by God himself.
Man has no right to join what his Maker has put asunder; to reunite what he
has disunited. The peasants’ view was simply, “I don’t like the look of this
thing.”

No one but Mess Lethierry, perhaps, could have been found at that early
period daring enough to dream of such an enterprise as the establishment of
a steam-vessel between Guernsey and St. Malo. He, alone, as an
independent thinker, was capable of conceiving such an idea, or, as a hardy
mariner, of carrying it out. The French part of his nature, probably,
conceived the idea; the English part supplied the energy to put it in
execution.
How and when this was, we are about to inform the reader.

FOOTNOTES:
[2] Genesis, chap. iii. v. 16.
[3] Genesis, chap. i. v. 4.

III

RANTAINE
About forty years before the period of the commencement of our
narrative, there stood in the suburbs of Paris, near the city wall, between the
Fosse-aux-Loups and the Tombe-Issoire, a house of doubtful reputation. It
was a lonely, ruinous building, evidently a place for dark deeds on an
occasion. Here lived, with his wife and child, a species of town bandit; a
man who had been clerk to an attorney practising at the Châtelet—he
figured somewhat later at the Assize Court; the name of this family was
Rantaine. On a mahogany chest of drawers in the old house were two china
cups, ornamented with flowers, on one of which appeared, in gilt letters, the
words, “A souvenir of friendship;” on the other, “A token of esteem.” The
child lived in an atmosphere of vice in this miserable home. The father and
mother having belonged to the lower middle class, the boy had learnt to
read, and they brought it up in a fashion. The mother, pale and almost in
rags, gave “instruction,” as she called it, mechanically, to the little one,
heard it spell a few words to her, and interrupted the lesson to accompany
her husband on some criminal expedition, or to earn the wages of
prostitution. Meanwhile, the book remained open on the table as she had
left it, and the boy sat beside it, meditating in his way.
The father and mother, detected one day in one of their criminal
enterprises, suddenly vanished into that obscurity in which the penal laws
envelop convicted malefactors. The child, too, disappeared.

Lethierry, in his wanderings about the world, stumbled, one day, on an
adventurer like himself; helped him out of some scrape; rendered him a
kindly service, and was apparently repaid with gratitude. He took a fancy to
the stranger, picked him up, and brought him to Guernsey, where, finding
him intelligent in learning the duties of a sailor aboard a coasting vessel, he
made him a companion. This stranger was the little Rantaine, now grown up
to manhood.
Rantaine, like Lethierry, had a bull neck, a large and powerful breadth of
shoulders for carrying burdens, and loins like those of the Farnese Hercules.
Lethierry and he had a remarkable similarity of appearance: Rantaine was
the taller. People who saw their forms behind as they were walking side by
side along the port, exclaimed, “There are two brothers.” On looking them
in the face the effect was different: all that was open in the countenance of
Lethierry was reserved and cautious in that of Rantaine. Rantaine was an
expert swordsman, played on the harmonica, could snuff a candle at twenty
paces with a pistol-ball, could strike a tremendous blow with the fist, recite
verses from Voltaire’s Henriade, and interpret dreams; he knew by heart Les
Tombeaux de Saint Denis, by Treneuil. He talked sometimes of having had
relations with the Sultan of Calicut, “whom the Portuguese call the
Zamorin.” If any one had seen the little memorandum-book which he
carried about with him, he would have found notes and jottings of this kind:
“At Lyons in a fissure of the wall of one of the cells in the prison of St.
Joseph, a file.” He spoke always with a grave deliberation; he called
himself the son of a Chevalier de Saint Louis. His linen was of a
miscellaneous kind, and marked with different initials. Nobody was ever
more tender than he was on the point of honour; he fought and killed his
man. The mother of a pretty actress could not have an eye more watchful
for an insult.
He might have stood for the personification of subtlety under an outer
garb of enormous strength.
It was the power of his fist, applied one day at a fair, upon a cabeza de
moro, which had originally taken the fancy of Lethierry. No one in
Guernsey knew anything of his adventures. They were of a chequered kind.
If the great theatre of destiny had a special wardrobe, Rantaine ought to
have taken the dress of harlequin. He had lived, and had seen the world. He
had run through the gamut of possible trades and qualities; had been a cook

at Madagascar, trainer of birds at Honolulu, a religious journalist at the
Galapagos Islands, a poet at Oomrawuttee, a freeman at Haiti. In this latter
character he had delivered at Grand Goave a funeral oration, of which the
local journals have preserved this fragment: “Farewell, then, noble spirit. In
the azure vault of the heavens, where thou wingest now thy flight, thou wilt,
no doubt, rejoin the good Abbé Leander Crameau, of Little Goave. Tell him
that, thanks to ten years of glorious efforts, thou hast completed the church
of the Ansa-à-Veau. Adieu! transcendent genius, model mason!” His
freemason’s mask did not prevent him, as we see, wearing a little of the
Roman Catholic. The former won to his side the men of progress, and the
latter the men of order. He declared himself a white of pure caste, and hated
the negroes; though, for all that, he would certainly have been an admirer of
the Emperor Soulouque. In 1815, at Bordeaux, the glow of his royalist
enthusiasm broke forth in the shape of a huge white feather in his cap. His
life had been a series of eclipses—of appearances, disappearances, and
reappearances. He was a sort of revolving light upon the coasts of
scampdom. He knew a little Turkish: instead of “guillotined,” would say
“néboïssé.” He had been a slave in Tripoli, in the house of a Thaleb, and
had learnt Turkish by dint of blows with a stick. His employment had been
to stand at evenings at the doors of the mosque, there to read aloud to the
faithful the Koran inscribed upon slips of wood, or pieces of camel leather.
It is not improbable that he was a renegade.
He was capable of everything, and something worse.
He had a trick of laughing loud and knitting his brows at the same time.
He used to say, “In politics, I esteem only men inaccessible to influences;”
or, “I am for decency and good morals;” or, “The pyramid must be replaced
upon its base.” His manner was rather cheerful and cordial than otherwise.
The expression of his mouth contradicted the sense of his words. His
nostrils had an odd way of distending themselves. In the corners of his eyes
he had a little network of wrinkles, in which all sorts of dark thoughts
seemed to meet together. It was here alone that the secret of his
physiognomy could be thoroughly studied. His flat foot was a vulture’s
claw. His skull was low at the top and large about the temples. His ill-
shapen ear, bristled with hair, seemed to say, “Beware of speaking to the
animal in this cave.”
One fine day, in Guernsey, Rantaine was suddenly missing.

Lethierry’s partner had absconded, leaving the treasury of their
partnership empty.
In this treasury there was some money of Rantaine’s, no doubt, but there
were also fifty thousand francs belonging to Lethierry.
By forty years of industry and probity as a coaster and ship carpenter,
Lethierry had saved one hundred thousand francs. Rantaine robbed him of
half the sum.
Half ruined, Lethierry did not lose heart, but began at once to think how
to repair his misfortune. A stout heart may be ruined in fortune, but not in
spirit. It was just about that time that people began to talk of the new kind
of boat to be moved by steam-engines. Lethierry conceived the idea of
trying Fulton’s invention, so much disputed about; and by one of these fire-
boats to connect the Channel Islands with the French coast. He staked his
all upon this idea; he devoted to it the wreck of his savings. Accordingly,
six months after Rantaine’s flight, the astonished people of St. Sampson
beheld, issuing from the port, a vessel discharging huge volumes of smoke,
and looking like a ship a-fire at sea. This was the first steam-vessel to
navigate the Channel.
This vessel, to which the people in their dislike and contempt for novelty
immediately gave the nickname of “Lethierry’s Galley,” was announced as
intended to maintain a constant communication between Guernsey and St.
Malo.

IV

CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF UTOPIA
It may be well imagined that the new enterprise did not prosper much at
first. The owners of cutters passing between the Island of Guernsey and the
French coast were loud in their outcries. They denounced this attack upon
the Holy Scriptures and their monopoly. The chapels began to fulminate
against it. One reverend gentleman, named Elihu, stigmatised the new
steam-vessel as an “atheistical construction,” and the sailing-boat was
declared the only orthodox craft. The people saw the horns of the devil

among the beasts which the fireship carried to and fro. This storm of protest
continued a considerable time. At last, however, it began to be perceived
that these animals arrived less tired and sold better, their meat being
superior; that the sea risk was less also for passengers; that this mode of
travelling was less expensive, shorter, and more sure; that they started at a
fixed time, and arrived at a fixed time; that consignments of fish travelling
faster arrived fresher, and that it was now possible to find a sale in the
French markets for the surplus of great takes of fish so common in
Guernsey. The butter, too, from the far-famed Guernsey cows, made the
passage quicker in the “Devil Boat” than in the old sailing vessels, and lost
nothing of its good quality, insomuch that Dinan, in Brittany, began to
become a customer for it, as well as St. Brieuc and Rennes. In short, thanks
to what they called “Lethierry’s Galley,” the people enjoyed safe travelling,
regular communication, prompt and easy passages to and fro, an increase of
circulation, an extension of markets and of commerce, and, finally, it was
felt that it was necessary to patronise this “Devil Boat,” which flew in the
face of the Holy Scriptures, and brought wealth to the island. Some daring
spirits even went so far as to express a positive satisfaction at it. Sieur
Landoys, the registrar, bestowed his approval upon the vessel—an
undoubted piece of impartiality on his part, as he did not like Lethierry. For,
first of all, Lethierry was entitled to the dignity of “Mess,” while Landoys
was merely “Sieur Landoys.” Then, although registrar of St. Peter’s Port,
Landoys was a parishioner of St. Sampson. Now, there was not in the entire
parish another man besides them devoid of prejudices. It seemed little
enough, therefore, to indulge themselves with a detestation of each other.
Two of a trade, says the proverb, rarely agree.
Sieur Landoys, however, had the honesty to support the steamboat.
Others followed Landoys. By little and little, these facts multiplied. The
growth of opinion is like the rising tide. Time and the continued and
increasing success of the venture, with the evidence of real service rendered
and the improvement in the general welfare, gradually converted the
people; and the day at length arrived when, with the exception of a few
wiseacres, every one admired “Lethierry’s Galley.”
It would probably win less admiration now-a-days. This steamboat of
forty years since would doubtless provoke a smile among our modern boat-
builders; for this marvel was ill-shaped; this prodigy was clumsy and
infirm.

The distance between our grand Atlantic steam-vessels of the present day
and the boats with wheel-paddles which Denis Papin floated on the Fulda in
1707, is not greater than that between a three-decker, like the Montebello,
200 feet long, having a mainyard of 115 feet, carrying a weight of 3000
tons, 1100 men, 120 guns, 10,000 cannon-balls, and 160 packages of
canister, belching forth at every broadside, when in action, 3300 pounds of
iron, and spreading to the wind, when it moves, 5600 square mètres of
canvas, and the old Danish galley of the second century, discovered, full of
stone hatchets, and bows and clubs, in the mud of the seashore, at Wester-
Satrup, and preserved at the Hotel de Ville at Flensburg.
Exactly one hundred years—from 1707 to 1807—separate the first
paddle-boat of Papin from the first steamboat of Fulton. “Lethierry’s
Galley” was assuredly a great improvement upon those two rough sketches;
but it was itself only a sketch. For all that, it was a masterpiece in its way.
Every scientific discovery in embryo presents that double aspect—a
monster in the fœtus, a marvel in the germ.

V

THE DEVIL BOAT
“Lethierry’s Galley” was not masted with a view to sailing well; a fact
which was not a defect; it is, indeed, one of the laws of naval construction.
Besides, her motive power being steam, her sails were only accessory. A
paddle steamboat, moreover, is almost insensible to sails. The new steam-
vessel was too short, round, and thick-set. She had too much bow, and too
great a breadth of quarter. The daring of inventors had not yet reached the
point of making a steam-vessel light; Lethierry’s boat had some of the
defects of Gilliatt’s Dutch sloop. She pitched very little, but she rolled a
good deal. Her paddle-boxes were too high. She had too much beam for her
length. The massive machinery encumbered her, and to make her capable of
carrying a heavy cargo, her constructors had raised her bulwarks to an
unusual height, giving to the vessel the defects of old seventy-fours, a
bastard model which would have to be cut down to render them really

seaworthy, or fit to go into action. Being short, she ought to have been able
to veer quickly—the time employed in a manœuvre of that kind being in
proportion to the length of the vessel—but her weight deprived her of the
advantage of her shortness. Her midship-frame was too broad, a fact which
retarded her; the resistance of the sea being proportioned to the largest
section below the water-line, and to the square of the speed. Her prow was
vertical, which would not be regarded as a fault at the present day, but at
that period this portion of the construction was invariably sloped at an angle
of forty-five degrees. All the curving lines of the hull agreed well together,
but it was not long enough for oblique sailing, or for lying parallel with the
water displaced, which should always be thrown off laterally. In rough
weather she drew too much water, sometimes fore, sometimes aft, which
showed that her centre of gravity was not rightly adjusted. Owing to the
weight of the engine, the cargo shifted, so that the centre of gravity was
often aft of the mainmast, and then steam power had to be resorted to, for at
such times the mainsail had to be furled as it only made the vessel fall off.
If close to the wind, very careful manœuvring was required. The rudder was
the old-fashioned bar-rudder, not the wheeled one of the present time. Two
skiffs, a species of you-yous, were suspended to the davits. The vessel had
four anchors; the sheet-anchor, the second or working anchor, and two
bower-anchors. These four anchors, slung by chains, were moved,
according to the occasion, by the great capstan of the poop, or by the small
capstan at the prow. At that period the pump windlass had not superseded
the intermitting efforts of the old handspike. Having only two bower-
anchors, one on the starboard and the other on the larboard side, the vessel
could not move conveniently in certain winds, though she could aid herself
at such times with the second anchor. Her buoys were normal, and so
constructed that they carried the weight of the buoy-ropes without dipping.
The launch was of a useful size, of service in all cases of need, and able to
raise the main anchor. A novelty about her was that she was rigged with
chains, which in no way detracted, however, from the mobility of the
running rigging, or from the firmness of the standing rigging. The masts,
yards, etc., although not of first-rate quality, were not in any way amiss, and
the rigging at the mast-head was not very noticeable. The ribs were solid,
but coarse, less delicacy of wood being required for steam than for sail. Her
speed was six knots an hour. When lying-to she rode well. Take her as she
was, “Lethierry’s Galley” was a good sea boat; but people felt, that in

moments of danger from reefs or waterspouts, she would be hardly
manageable. Unhappily her build made her roll about on the waves, with a
perpetual creaking like that of a new shoe.
She was, above all, a merchandise boat, and, like all ships built more for
commerce than for fighting, was constructed exclusively with a view to
stowage. She carried few passengers. The transport of cattle rendered
stowage difficult and very peculiar. Vessels carried bullocks at that time in
the hold, which was a complication of the difficulty. At the present day they
are stowed on the fore-deck. The paddle-boxes of Lethierry’s “Devil Boat”
were painted white, the hull, down to the water-line, red, and all the rest of
the vessel black, according to the somewhat ugly fashion of this century.
When empty she drew seven feet of water, and when laden fourteen.
With regard to the engine, it was of considerable power. To speak exactly,
its power was equal to that of one horse to every three tons burden, which is
almost equal to that of a tugboat. The paddles were well placed, a little in
advance of the centre of gravity of the vessel. The maximum pressure of the
engine was equal to two atmospheres. It consumed a great deal of coal,
although it was constructed on the condensation and expansion principles. It
had no fly-wheel on account of the instability of the point of support, but
this was then, as now, compensated for by two cranks at the extremities of
the revolving shaft, so arranged that one was always at right angles when
the other was at dead-point. The whole rested on a single sheet of cast-iron,
so that even in case of any serious damage, no shock of the waves could
upset its equilibrium, and even if the hull were injured the engine would
remain intact. To render it stronger still, the connecting-rod had been placed
near the steam-cylinders, so that the centre of oscillation of the working-
beam was transferred from the middle to the end. Since then oscillating
cylinders have been invented which do away with the necessity of
connecting-rods, but in those days the placing of the connecting-rod near
the cylinder was thought a triumph of engineering. The boiler was in
sections and provided with a salt-water pump. The wheels were very large,
which lessened the loss of power; the smoke-stack was lofty, which
increased the draught. On the other hand, the size of the wheels exposed
them to the force of the waves, and the height of the smoke-stack to the
violence of the wind. Wooden paddle-floats, iron clamps, bosses of cast-
iron—such were the wheels, which, well constructed, could, strange though
it may seem, be taken to pieces. Three floats were always under water. The

speed of the centre of the floats only exceeded by a sixth the speed of the
vessel itself; this was the chief defect of the wheels. Moreover, the cranks
were too long, and the slide-valve caused too much friction in the admission
of steam into the cylinder. For that period the engine seemed, and indeed
was, admirable. It had been constructed in France, at the works at Bercy.
Mess Lethierry had roughly sketched it: the engineer who had constructed it
in accordance with his diagram was dead, so that the engine was unique,
and probably could not have been replaced. The designer still lived, but the
constructor was no more.
The engine had cost forty thousand francs.
Lethierry had himself constructed the “Devil Boat” upon the great
covered stocks by the side of the first tower between St. Peter’s Port and St.
Sampson. He had been to Brême to buy the wood. All his skill as a
shipwright was exhausted in its construction; his ingenuity might be seen in
the planks, the seams of which were straight and even, and covered with
sarangousti, an Indian mastic, better than resin. The sheathing was well
beaten. To remedy the roundness of the hull, Lethierry had fitted out a
boom at the bowsprit, which allowed him to add a false spritsail to the
regular one. On the day of the launch, he cried aloud, “At last I am afloat!”
The vessel was successful, in fact, as the reader has already learnt.
Either by chance or design she had been launched on the 14th of July, the
anniversary of the taking of the Bastille. On that day, mounted upon the
bridge between the two paddle-boxes, looked Lethierry upon the sea, and
exclaimed, “It is your turn now! The Parisians took the Bastille, now
science takes the sea.”
Lethierry’s boat made the voyage from Guernsey to St. Malo once a
week. She started on the Tuesday morning, and returned on the Friday
evening, in time for the Saturday market. She was a stronger craft than any
of the largest coasting sloops in all the Archipelago, and her capacity being
in proportion to her dimensions, one of her voyages was equal to four
voyages of an ordinary boat in the same trade; hence they were very
profitable. The reputation of a vessel depends on its stowage, and Lethierry
was an admirable stower of cargo. When he was no longer able to work
himself, he trained up a sailor to undertake this duty. At the end of two
years, the steamboat brought in a clear seven hundred and fifty pounds
sterling a year, or eighteen thousand francs. The pound sterling of Guernsey

is worth twenty-four francs only, that of England twenty-five, and that of
Jersey twenty-six. These differences are less unimportant than they seem:
the banks, at all events, know how to turn them to advantage.

VI

LETHIERRY’S EXALTATION
The “Devil Boat” prospered. Mess Lethierry began to look forward to the
time when he should be called “Monsieur.” At Guernsey, people do not
become “Monsieurs” at one bound. Between the plain man and the
gentleman, there is quite a scale to climb. To begin with, we have the
simple name, plain “Peter,” let us suppose; the second step is “Neighbour
Peter;” the third, “Father Peter;” the fourth, “Sieur Peter;” the fifth, “Mess
Peter;” and then we reach the summit in “Monsieur Peter.”
This scale ascending thus from the ground is carried to still greater
heights. All the upper classes of England join on and continue it. Here are
the various steps, becoming more and more glorious. Above the Monsieur,
or “Mr.,” there is the “Esquire;” above the squire, the knight; above the
knight, still rising, we have the baronet, the Scotch laird, the baron, the
viscount, the earl (called count in France, and jarl in Norway); the marquis,
the duke, the prince of the blood royal, and the king: so, by degrees, we
ascend from the people to the middle class, from the middle class to the
baronetage, from the baronetage to the peerage, from the peerage to royalty.
Thanks to his successful ingenuity, thanks to steam, and his engines, and
the “Devil Boat,” Mess Lethierry was fast becoming an important
personage. When building his vessel he had been compelled to borrow
money. He had become indebted at Brême, he had become indebted at St.
Malo; but every year he diminished his obligations.
He had, moreover, purchased on credit, at the very entrance to the port of
St. Sampson, a pretty stone-built house, entirely new, situate between the
sea and a garden. On the corner of this house was inscribed the name of the
“Bravées.” Its front formed a part of the wall of the port itself, and it was
remarkable for a double row of windows: on the north, alongside a little

enclosure filled with flowers, and on the south commanding a view of the
ocean. It had thus two façades, one open to the tempest and the sea, the
other looking into a garden filled with roses.
These two frontages seemed made for the two inmates of the house—
Mess Lethierry and Déruchette.
The “Bravées” was popular at St. Sampson, for Mess Lethierry had at
length become a popular man. This popularity was due partly to his good
nature, his devotedness, and his courage; partly to the number of lives he
had saved; and a great deal to his success, and to the fact that he had
awarded to St. Sampson the honour of being the port of the departure and
arrival of the new steamboat. Having made the discovery that the “Devil
Boat” was decidedly a success, St. Peter’s, the capital, desired to obtain it
for that port, but Lethierry held fast to St. Sampson. It was his native town.
“It was there that I was first pitched into the water,” he used to say; hence
his great local popularity. His position as a small landed proprietor paying
land-tax, made him, what they call in Guernsey, an unhabitant. He was
chosen douzenier. The poor sailor had mounted five out of six steps of the
Guernsey social scale; he had attained the dignity of “Mess”; he was rapidly
approaching the Monsieur; and who could predict whether he might not
even rise higher than that? who could say that they might not one day find
in the almanack of Guernsey, under the heading of “Nobility and Gentry,”
the astonishing and superb inscription,—Lethierry, Esq.?
But Mess Lethierry had nothing of vanity in his nature, or he had no
sense of it; or if he had, disdained it: to know that he was useful was his
greatest pleasure; to be popular touched him less than being necessary; he
had, as we have already said, only two objects of delight, and consequently
only two ambitions: the Durande and Déruchette.
However this may have been, he had embarked in the lottery of the sea,
and had gained the chief prize.
This chief prize was the Durande steaming away in all her pride.

VII

THE SAME GODFATHER AND THE SAME PATRON SAINT
Having created his steamboat, Lethierry had christened it: he had called it
Durande—“La Durande.” We will speak of her henceforth by no other
name; we will claim the liberty, also, in spite of typographical usage, of not
italicising this name Durande; conforming in this to the notion of Mess
Lethierry, in whose eyes La Durande was almost a living person.
Durande and Déruchette are the same name. Déruchette is the
diminutive.
This diminutive is very common in France.
In the country the names of saints are endowed with all these diminutives
as well as all their augmentatives. One might suppose there were several
persons when there is, in fact, only one. This system of patrons and
patronesses under different names is by no means rare. Lise, Lisette, Lisa,
Elisa, Isabelle, Lisbeth, Betsy, all these are simply Elizabeth. It is probable
that Mahout, Maclou, Malo, and Magloire are the same saint: this, however,
we do not vouch for.
Saint Durande is a saint of l’Angoumois, and of the Charente; whether
she is an orthodox member of the calendar is a question for the Bollandists:
orthodox or not, she has been made the patron saint of numerous chapels.
It was while Lethierry was a young sailor at Rochefort that he had made
the acquaintance of this saint, probably in the person of some pretty
Charantaise, perhaps in that of the grisette with the white nails. The saint
had remained sufficiently in his memory for him to give the name to the
two things which he loved most—Durande to the steamboat, Déruchette to
the girl.
Of one he was the father, of the other the uncle.
Déruchette was the daughter of a brother who had died: she was an
orphan child: he had adopted her, and had taken the place both of father and
mother.
Déruchette was not only his niece, she was his godchild; he had held her
in his arms at the baptismal font; it was he who had chosen her patron saint,
Durande, and her Christian name, Déruchette.
Déruchette, as we have said, was born at St. Peter’s Port. Her name was
inscribed at its date on the register of the parish.

As long as the niece was a child, and the uncle poor, nobody took heed of
her appellation of Déruchette; but when the little girl became a miss, and
the sailor a gentleman, the name of Déruchette shocked the feelings of
Guernsey society. The uncouthness of the sound astonished every one.
Folks asked Mess Lethierry “why Déruchette?” He answered, “It is a very
good name in its way.” Several attempts were made to get him to obtain a
change in the baptismal name, but he would be no party to them. One day, a
fine lady of the upper circle of society in St. Sampson, the wife of a rich
retired ironfounder, said to Mess Lethierry, “In future, I shall call your
daughter Nancy.”
“If names of country towns are in fashion,” said he, “why not Lons le
Saulnier?” The fine lady did not yield her point, and on the morrow said,
“We are determined not to have it Déruchette; I have found for your
daughter a pretty name—Marianne.” “A very pretty name, indeed,” replied
Mess Lethierry, “composed of two words which signify—a husband and an
ass.”[4] He held fast to Déruchette.
It would be a mistake to infer from Lethierry’s pun that he had no wish to
see his niece married. He desired to see her married, certainly; but in his
own way: he intended her to have a husband after his own heart, one who
would work hard, and whose wife would have little to do. He liked rough
hands in a man, and delicate ones in a woman. To prevent Déruchette
spoiling her pretty hands he had always brought her up like a young lady;
he had provided her with a music-master, a piano, a little library, and a few
needles and threads in a pretty work-basket. She was, indeed, more often
reading than stitching; more often playing than reading. This was as Mess
Lethierry wished it. To be charming was all that he expected of her. He had
reared the young girl like a flower. Whoever has studied the character of
sailors will understand this: rude and hard in their nature, they have an odd
partiality for grace and delicacy. To realise the idea of the uncle, the niece
ought to have been rich; so indeed felt Mess Lethierry. His steamboat
voyaged for this end. The mission of Durande was to provide a marriage
portion for Déruchette.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A play upon the French words, mari and âne.

VIII
“BONNIE DUNDEE”
Déruchette occupied the prettiest room at the Bravées. It had two
windows, was furnished with various articles made of fine-grained
mahogany, had a bed with four curtains, green and white, and looked out
upon the garden, and beyond it towards the high hill, on which stands the
Vale Castle. Gilliatt’s house, the Bû de la Rue, was on the other side of this
hill.
Déruchette had her music and piano in this chamber; she accompanied
herself on the instrument when singing the melody which she preferred—
the melancholy Scottish air of “Bonnie Dundee.” The very spirit of night
breathes in this melody; but her voice was full of the freshness of dawn.
The contrast was quaint and pleasing; people said, “Miss Déruchette is at
her piano.”
The passers-by at the foot of the hill stopped sometimes before the wall
of the garden of the Bravées to listen to that sweet voice and plaintive song.
Déruchette was the very embodiment of joy as she went to and fro in the
house. She brought with her a perpetual spring. She was beautiful, but more
pretty than beautiful; and still more graceful than pretty. She reminded the
good old pilots, friends of Mess Lethierry, of that princess in the song
which the soldiers and sailors sing, who was so beautiful:
“Qu’elle passait pour telle dans le regiment.”
Mess Lethierry used to say, “She has a head of hair like a ship’s cable.”
From her infancy she had been remarkable for beauty. The learned in
such matters had grave doubts about her nose, but the little one having
probably determined to be pretty, had finally satisfied their requirements.
She grew to girlhood without any serious loss of beauty; her nose became
neither too long nor too short; and when grown up, her critics admitted her
to be charming.

She never addressed her uncle otherwise than as father.
Lethierry allowed her to soil her fingers a little in gardening, and even in
some kind of household duties: she watered her beds of pink hollyhocks,
purple foxgloves, perennial phloxes, and scarlet herb bennets. She took
good advantage of the climate of Guernsey, so favourable to flowers. She
had, like many other persons there, aloes in the open ground, and, what is
more difficult, she succeeded in cultivating the Nepaulese cinquefoil. Her
little kitchen-garden was scientifically arranged; she was able to produce
from it several kinds of rare vegetables. She sowed Dutch cauliflower and
Brussels cabbages, which she thinned out in July, turnips for August, endive
for September, short parsnip for the autumn, and rampions for winter. Mess
Lethierry did not interfere with her in this, so long as she did not handle the
spade and rake too much, or meddle with the coarser kinds of garden
labour. He had provided her with two servants, one named Grace, and the
other Douce, which are favourite names in Guernsey. Grace and Douce did
the hard work of the house and garden, and they had the right to have red
hands.
With regard to Mess Lethierry, his room was a little retreat with a view
over the harbour, and communicating with the great lower room of the
ground floor, on which was situated the door of the house, near which the
various staircases met.
His room was furnished with his hammock, his chronometer, and his
pipe: there were also a table and a chair. The ceiling had been whitewashed,
as well as the four walls. A fine marine map, bearing the inscription W.
Faden, 5 Charing Cross, Geographer to His Majesty, and representing the
Channel Islands, was nailed up at the side of the door, and on the left,
stretched out and fastened with other nails, appeared one of those large
cotton handkerchiefs on which are printed, in colours, the signals of all
countries in the world, having at the four corners the standards of France,
Russia, Spain, and the United States, and in the centre the union-jack of
England.
Douce and Grace were two faithful creatures within certain limits. Douce
was good-natured enough, and Grace was probably good-looking. Douce
was unmarried, and had secretly “a gallant.” In the Channel Islands the
word is common, as indeed is the fact itself. The two girl’s regarded as
servants had something of the Creole in their character, a sort of slowness in

their movements, not out of keeping with the Norman spirit pervading the
relations of servant and master in the Channel Islands. Grace, coquettish
and good-looking, was always scanning the future with a nervous anxiety.
This arose from the fact of her not only having, like Douce, “a gallant,” but
also, as the scandal-loving averred, a sailor husband, whose return one day
was a thing she dreaded. This, however, does not concern us. In a household
less austere and less innocent, Douce would have continued to be the
servant, but Grace would have become the soubrette. The dangerous talents
of Grace were lost upon a young mistress so pure and good as Déruchette.
For the rest, the intrigues of Douce and Grace were cautiously concealed.
Mess Lethierry knew nothing of such matters, and no token of them had
ever reached Déruchette.
The lower room of the ground floor, a hall with a large fireplace and
surrounded with benches and tables, had served in the last century as a
meeting-place for a conventicle of French Protestant refugees. The sole
ornament of the bare stone wall was a sheet of parchment, set in a frame of
black wood, on which were represented some of the charitable deeds of the
great Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux. Some poor diocesans of this famous
orator, surnamed the “Eagle,” persecuted by him at the time of the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and driven to take shelter at Guernsey,
had hung this picture on the wall to preserve the remembrance of those
facts. The spectator who had the patience to decipher a rude handwriting in
faded ink might have learnt the following facts, which are but little known:
—“29th October, 1685, Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux, appeals to the king
to destroy the temples of Morcef and Nanteuil”—“2nd April, 1686, Arrest
of Cochard, father and son, for their religious opinions, at the request of
Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux. Released: the Cochards having
recanted.”—“28th October, 1699, Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux sent to
Mde. Pontchartrain a petition of remonstrance, pointing out that it will be
necessary to place the young ladies named Chalandes and de Neuville, who
are of the reformed religion, in the House of the ‘New Catholics’ at
Paris.”—“7th July, 1703, the king’s order executed as requested by
Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux, for shutting up in an asylum Baudouin and
his wife, two bad Catholics of Fublaines.”
At the end of the hall, near the door of Mess Lethierry’s room, was a little
corner with a wooden partition, which had been the Huguenot’s sanctum,
and had become, thanks to its row of rails and a small hole to pass paper or

money through, the steamboat office; that is to say, the office of the
Durande, kept by Mess Lethierry in person. Upon the old oaken reading-
desk, where once rested the Holy Bible, lay a great ledger with its alternate
pages headed Dr. and Cr.

IX

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED RANTAINE’S CHARACTER
As long as Mess Lethierry had been able to do duty, he had commanded
the Durande, and had had no other pilot or captain but himself; but a time
had come, as we have said, when he had been compelled to find a
successor. He had chosen for that purpose Sieur Clubin, of Torteval, a
taciturn man. Sieur Clubin had a character upon the coast for strict probity.
He became the alter ego, the double, of Mess Lethierry.
Sieur Clubin, although he had rather the look of a notary than of a sailor,
was a mariner of rare skill. He had all the talents which are required to meet
dangers of every kind. He was a skilful stower, a safe man aloft, an able and
careful boatswain, a powerful steersman, an experienced pilot, and a bold
captain. He was prudent, and he carried his prudence sometimes to the point
of daring, which is a great quality at sea. His natural apprehensiveness of
danger was tempered by a strong instinct of what was possible in an
emergency. He was one of those mariners who will face risks to a point
perfectly well known to themselves, and who generally manage to come
successfully out of every peril. Every certainty which a man can command,
dealing with so fickle an element as the sea, he possessed. Sieur Clubin,
moreover, was a renowned swimmer; he was one of that race of men broken
into the buffeting of the waves, who can remain as long as they please in the
water—who can start from the Havre-des-Pas at Jersey, double the Colettes,
swim round the Hermitage and Castle Elizabeth, and return in two hours to
the point from which they started. He came from Torteval, where he had the
reputation of often having swum across the passage so much dreaded, from
the Hanway rocks to the point of Pleinmont.

One circumstance which had recommended Sieur Clubin to Mess
Lethierry more than any other, was his having judged correctly the
character of Rantaine. He had pointed out to Lethierry the dishonesty of the
man, and had said “Rantaine will rob you.” His prediction was verified.
More than once—in matters, it is true, not very important—Mess Lethierry
had put his ever-scrupulous honesty to the proof; and he freely
communicated with him on the subject of his affairs. Mess Lethierry used to
say, “A good conscience expects to be treated with perfect confidence.”

X

LONG YARNS
Mess Lethierry, for the sake of his own ease, always wore his seafaring
clothes, and preferred his tarpaulin overcoat to his pilot jacket. Déruchette
felt vexed, occasionally, about this peculiarity. Nothing is prettier than a
pouting beauty. She laughed and scolded. “My dear father,” she would say,
“what a smell of pitch!” and she would give him a gentle tap upon his broad
shoulders.
This good old seaman had gathered from his voyages many wonderful
stories. He had seen at Madagascar birds’ feathers, three of which sufficed
to make a roof of a house. He had seen in India, field sorrel, the stalks of
which were nine inches high. In New Holland he had seen troops of turkeys
and geese led about and guarded by a bird, like a flock by a shepherd’s dog;
this bird was called the Agami. He had visited elephants’ cemeteries. In
Africa, he had encountered gorillas, a terrible species of man-monkey. He
knew the ways of all the ape tribe, from the wild dog-faced monkey, which
he called the Macaco-bravo, to the howling monkey or Macaco-barbado. In
Chili, he had seen a pouched monkey move the compassion of the
huntsman by showing its little one. He had seen in California a hollow
trunk of a tree fall to the ground, so vast that a man on horseback could ride
one hundred paces inside. In Morocco, he had seen the Mozabites and the
Bisskris fighting with matraks and bars of iron—the Bisskris, because they
had been called kelbs, which means dogs; and the Mozabites, because they

had been treated as khamsi, which means people of the fifth sect. He had
seen in China the pirate Chanh-thong-quan-larh-Quoi cut to pieces for
having assassinated the Ap of a village. At Thu-dan-mot, he had seen a lion
carry off an old woman in the open market-place. He was present at the
arrival of the Great Serpent brought from Canton to Saigon to celebrate in
the pagoda of Cho-len the fête of Quan-nam, the goddess of navigators. He
had beheld the great Quan-Sû among the Moi. At Rio de Janeiro, he had
seen the Brazilian ladies in the evening put little balls of gauze into their
hair, each containing a beautiful kind of firefly; and the whole forming a
head-dress of little twinkling lights. He had combated in Paraguay with
swarms of enormous ants and spiders, big and downy as an infant’s head,
and compassing with their long legs a third of a yard, and attacking men by
pricking them with their bristles, which enter the skin as sharp as arrows,
and raise painful blisters. On the river Arinos, a tributary of the Tocantins,
in the virgin forests to the north of Diamantina, he had determined the
existence of the famous bat-shaped people, the Murcilagos, or men who are
born with white hair and red eyes, who live in the shady solitudes of the
woods, sleep by day, awake by night, and fish and hunt in the dark, seeing
better then than by the light of the moon. He told how, near Beyrout, once
in an encampment of an expedition of which he formed part, a rain gauge
belonging to one of the party happened to be stolen from a tent. A wizard,
wearing two or three strips of leather only, and looking like a man having
nothing on but his braces, thereupon rang a bell at the end of a horn so
violently, that a hyena finally answered the summons by bringing back the
missing instrument. The hyena was, in fact, the thief. These veritable
histories bore a strong resemblance to fictions; but they amused Déruchette.
The poupée or “doll” of the Durande, as the people of the Channel
Islands call the figure-head of a ship, was the connecting link between the
vessel and Lethierry’s niece. In the Norman Islands the figure-head of a
ship, a roughly-carved wooden statue, is called the Poupée. Hence the local
saying, meaning to sail, “être entre poupe et poupée.”
The poupée of the Durande was particularly dear to Mess Lethierry. He
had instructed the carver to make it resemble Déruchette. It looked like a
rude attempt to cut out a face with a hatchet; or like a clumsy log trying
hard to look like a girl.

This unshapely block produced a great effect upon Mess Lethierry’s
imagination. He looked upon it with an almost superstitious admiration. His
faith in it was complete. He was able to trace in it an excellent resemblance
to Déruchette. Thus the dogma resembles the truth, and the idol the deity.
Mess Lethierry had two grand fête days in every week; one was Tuesday,
the other Friday. His first delight consisted in seeing the Durande weigh
anchor; his second in seeing her enter the port again. He leaned upon his
elbows at the window contemplating his work, and was happy.
On Fridays, the presence of Mess Lethierry at his window was a signal.
When people passing the Bravées saw him lighting his pipe, they said, “Ay!
the steamboat is in sight.” One kind of smoke was the herald of the other.
The Durande, when she entered the port, made her cable fast to a huge
iron ring under Mess Lethierry’s window, and fixed in the basement of the
house. On those nights Lethierry slept soundly in his hammock, with a
soothing consciousness of the presence of Déruchette asleep in her room
near him, and of the Durande moored opposite.
The moorings of the Durande were close to the great bell of the port. A
little strip of quay passed thence before the door of the Bravées.
The quay, the Bravées and its house, the garden, the alleys bordered with
edges, and the greater part even of the surrounding houses, no longer exist.
The demand for Guernsey granite has invaded these too. The whole of this
part of the town is now occupied by stone-cutters’ yards.

XI

MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS
Déruchette was approaching womanhood, and was still unmarried.
Mess Lethierry in bringing her up to have white hands had also rendered
her somewhat fastidious. A training of that kind has its disadvantages; but
Lethierry was himself still more fastidious. He would have liked to have
provided at the same time for both his idols; to have found in the guide and
companion of the one a commander for the other. What is a husband but the

pilot on the voyage of matrimony? Why not then the same conductor for the
vessel and for the girl? The affairs of a household have their tides, their
ebbs and flows, and he who knows how to steer a bark, ought to know how
to guide a woman’s destiny, subject as both are to the influences of the
moon and the wind. Sieur Clubin being only fifteen years younger than
Lethierry, would necessarily be only a provisional master for the Durande.
It would be necessary to find a young captain, a permanent master, a true
successor of the founder, inventor, and creator of the first channel
steamboat. A captain for the Durande who should come up to his ideal,
would have been, already, almost a son-in-law in Lethierry’s eyes. Why not
make him son-in-law in a double sense? The idea pleased him. The husband
in posse of Déruchette haunted his dreams. His ideal was a powerful
seaman, tanned and browned by weather, a sea athlete. This, however, was
not exactly the ideal of Déruchette. Her dreams, if dreams they could even
be called, were of a more ethereal character.
The uncle and the niece were at all events agreed in not being in haste to
seek a solution of these problems. When Déruchette began to be regarded as
a probable heiress, a crowd of suitors had presented themselves. Attentions
under these circumstances are not generally worth much. Mess Lethierry
felt this. He would grumble out the old French proverb, “A maiden of gold,
a suitor of brass.” He politely showed the fortune-seekers to the door. He
was content to wait, and so was Déruchette.
It was, perhaps, a singular fact, that he had little inclination for the local
aristocracy. In that respect Mess Lethierry showed himself not entirely
English. It will hardly be believed that he even refused for Déruchette a
Ganduel of Jersey, and a Bugnet Nicolin of Sark. People were bold enough
to affirm, although we doubt if this were possible, that he had even declined
the proposals of a member of the family of Edou, which is evidently
descended from “Edou-ard” (Anglicè Edward) the Confessor.

XII

AN ANOMALY IN THE CHARACTER OF LETHIERRY

Mess Lethierry had a failing, and a serious one. He detested a priest;
though not as an individual, but as an institution. Reading one day—for he
used to read—in a work of Voltaire—for he would even read Voltaire—the
remark, that priests “have something cat-like in their nature,” he laid down
the book and was heard to mutter, “Then, I suppose, I have something dog-
like in mine.”
It must be remembered that the priests—Lutheran and Calvinist, as well
as Catholic—had vigorously combated the new “Devil Boat,” and had
persecuted its inventor. To be a sort of revolutionist in the art of navigation,
to introduce a spirit of progress in the Norman Archipelago, to disturb the
peace of the poor little island of Guernsey with a new invention, was in
their eyes, as we have not concealed from the reader, an abominable and
most condemnable rashness. Nor had they omitted to condemn it pretty
loudly. It must not be forgotten that we are now speaking of the Guernsey
clergy of a bygone generation, very different from that of the present time,
who in almost all the local places of worship display a laudable sympathy
with progress. They had embarrassed Lethierry in a hundred ways; every
sort of resisting force which can be found in sermons and discourses had
been employed against him. Detested by the churchmen, he naturally came
to detest them in his turn. Their hatred was the extenuating circumstance to
be taken into account in judging of his.
But it must be confessed that his dislike for priests was, in some degree,
in his very nature. It was hardly necessary for them to hate him in order to
inspire him with aversion. As he said, he moved among them like the dog
among cats. He had an antipathy to them, not only in idea, but in what is
more difficult to analyse, his instincts. He felt their secret claws, and
showed his teeth; sometimes, it must be confessed, a little at random and
out of season. It is a mistake to make no distinctions: a dislike in the mass is
a prejudice. The good Savoyard curé would have found no favour in his
eyes. It is not certain that a worthy priest was even a possible thing in
Lethierry’s mind. His philosophy was carried so far that his good sense
sometimes abandoned him. There is such a thing as the intolerance of
tolerants, as well as the violence of moderates. But Lethierry was at bottom
too good-natured to be a thorough hater. He did not attack so much as
avoid. He kept the church people at a distance. He suffered evil at their
hands; but he confined himself to not wishing them any good. The shade of
difference, in fact, between his aversion and theirs, lay in the fact that they

bore animosity, while he had only a strong antipathy. Small as is the island
of Guernsey, it has, unfortunately, plenty of room for differences of
religion; there, to take the broad distinction, is the Catholic faith and the
Protestant faith; every form of worship has its temple or chapel. In
Germany, at Heidelberg, for example, people are not so particular; they
divide a church in two, one half for St. Peter, the other half for Calvin, and
between the two is a partition to prevent religious variances terminating in
fisticuffs. The shares are equal; the Catholics have three altars, the
Huguenots three altars. As the services are at the same hours, one bell
summonses both denominations to prayers; it rings, in fact, both for God
and for Satan, according as each pleases to regard it. Nothing can be more
simple.
The phlegmatic character of the Germans favours, I suppose, this
peculiar arrangement, but in Guernsey every religion has its own domicile;
there is the orthodox parish and the heretic parish; the individual may
choose. “Neither one nor the other” was the choice of Mess Lethierry.
This sailor, workman, philosopher, and parvenu trader, though a simple
man in appearance, was by no means simple at bottom. He had his opinions
and his prejudices. On the subject of the priests he was immovable; he
would have entered the lists with Montlosier.
Occasionally he indulged in rather disrespectful jokes upon this subject.
He had certain odd expressions thereupon peculiar to himself, but
significant enough. Going to confession he called “combing one’s
conscience.” The little learning that he had—a certain amount of reading
picked up here and there between the squalls at sea—did not prevent his
making blunders in spelling. He made also mistakes in pronunciation, some
of which, however, gave a double sense to his words, which might have
been suspected of a sly intention. After peace had been brought about by
Waterloo between the France of Louis XVIII. and the England of
Wellington, Mess Lethierry was heard to say, “Bour mont a été le traître
d’union entre les deux camps.” On one occasion he wrote pape ôté for
papauté. We do not think these puns were intentional.
Though he was a strong anti-papist, that circumstance was far from
conciliating the Anglicans. He was no more liked by the Protestant rectors
than by the Catholic curés. The enunciation of the greatest dogmas did not
prevent his anti-theological temper bursting forth. Accident, for example,

having once brought him to hear a sermon on eternal punishment, by the
Reverend Jaquemin Hérode—a magnificent discourse, filled from one end
to the other with sacred texts, proving the everlasting pains, the tortures, the
torments, the perditions, the inexorable chastisements, the burnings without
end, the inextinguishable maledictions, the wrath of the Almighty, the
celestial fury, the divine vengeance, and other incontestable realities—he
was heard to say as he was going out in the midst of the faithful flock, “You
see, I have an odd notion of my own on this matter; I imagine God as a
merciful being.”
This leaven of atheism was doubtless due to his sojourn in France.
Although a Guernsey man of pure extraction, he was called in the island
“the Frenchman;” but chiefly on account of his “improper” manner of
speaking. He did not indeed conceal the truth from himself. He was
impregnated with ideas subversive of established institutions. His obstinacy
in constructing the “Devil Boat” had proved that. He used to say, “I was
suckled by the ’89”—a bad sort of nurse. These were not his only
indiscretions. In France “to preserve appearances,” in England “to be
respectable,” is the chief condition of a quiet life. To be respectable implies
a multitude of little observances, from the strict keeping of Sunday down to
the careful tying of a cravat. “To act so that nobody may point at you;” this
is the terrible social law. To be pointed at with the finger is almost the same
thing as an anathematisation. Little towns, always hotbeds of gossip, are
remarkable for that isolating malignancy, which is like the tremendous
malediction of the Church seen through the wrong end of the telescope. The
bravest are afraid of this ordeal. They are ready to confront the storm, the
fire of cannon, but they shrink at the glance of “Mrs. Grundy.” Mess
Lethierry was more obstinate than logical; but under pressure even his
obstinacy would bend. He put—to use another of his phrases, eminently
suggestive of latent compromises, not always pleasant to avow—“a little
water in his wine.” He kept aloof from the clergy, but he did not absolutely
close his door against them. On official occasions, and at the customary
epochs of pastoral visits, he received with sufficiently good grace both the
Lutheran rector and the Papist chaplain. He had even, though at distant
intervals, accompanied Déruchette to the Anglican parish church, to which
Déruchette herself, as we have said, only went on the four great festivals of
the year.

On the whole, these little concessions, which always cost him a pang,
irritated him; and far from inclining him towards the Church people, only
increased his inward disinclination to them. He compensated himself by
more raillery. His nature, in general so devoid of bitterness, had no
uncharitable side except this. To alter him, however, was impossible.
In fact, this was in his very temperament, and was beyond his own power
to control.
Every sort of priest or clergyman was distasteful to him. He had a little of
the old revolutionary want of reverence. He did not distinguish between one
form of worship and another. He did not do justice to that great step in the
progress of ideas, the denial of the real presence. His shortsightedness in
these matters even prevented his perceiving any essential difference
between a minister and an abbé. A reverend doctor and a reverend father
were pretty nearly the same to him. He used to say, “Wesley is not more to
my taste than Loyola.” When he saw a reverend pastor walking with his
wife, he would turn to look at them, and mutter, “a married priest,” in a tone
which brought out all the absurdity which those words had in the ears of
Frenchmen at that time. He used to relate how, on his last voyage to
England, he had seen the “Bishopess” of London. His dislike for marriages
of that sort amounted almost to disgust. “Gown and gown do not mate
well,” he would say. The sacerdotal function was to him in the nature of a
distinct sex. It would have been natural to him to have said, “Neither a man
nor a woman, only a priest;” and he had the bad taste to apply to the
Anglican and the Roman Catholic clergy the same disdainful epithets. He
confounded the two cassocks in the same phraseology. He did not take the
trouble to vary in favour of Catholics or Lutherans, or whatever they might
be, the figures of speech common among military men of that period. He
would say to Déruchette, “Marry whom you please, provided you do not
marry a parson.”

XIII
THOUGHTLESSNESS ADDS A GRACE TO BEAUTY

A word once said, Mess Lethierry remembered it: a word once said,
Déruchette soon forgot it. Here was another difference between the uncle
and the niece.
Brought up in the peculiar way already described, Déruchette was little
accustomed to responsibility. There is a latent danger in an education not
sufficiently serious, which cannot be too much insisted on. It is perhaps
unwise to endeavour to make a child happy too soon.
So long as she was happy, Déruchette thought all was well. She knew,
too, that it was always a pleasure to her uncle to see her pleased. The
religious sentiment in her nature was satisfied with going to the parish
church four times in the year. We have seen her in her Christmas-day toilet.
Of life, she was entirely ignorant. She had a disposition which one day
might lead her to love passionately. Meanwhile she was contented.
She sang by fits and starts, chatted by fits and starts, enjoyed the hour as
it passed, fulfilled some little duty, and was gone again, and was delightful
in all. Add to all this the English sort of liberty which she enjoyed. In
England the very infants go alone, girls are their own mistresses, and
adolescence is almost wholly unrestrained. Such are the differences of
manners. Later, how many of these free maidens become female slaves? I
use the word in its least odious sense; I mean that they are free in the
development of their nature, but slaves to duty.
Déruchette awoke every morning with little thought of her actions of the
day before. It would have troubled her a good deal to have had to give an
account of how she had spent her time the previous week. All this, however,
did not prevent her having certain hours of strange disquietude; times when
some dark cloud seemed to pass over the brightness of her joy. Those azure
depths are subject to such shadows! But clouds like these soon passed away.
She quickly shook off such moods with a cheerful laugh, knowing neither
why she had been sad, nor why she had regained her serenity. She was
always at play. As a child, she would take delight in teasing the passers-by.
She played practical jokes upon the boys. If the fiend himself had passed
that way, she would hardly have spared him some ingenious trick. She was
pretty and innocent; and she could abuse the immunity accorded to such
qualities. She was ready with a smile, as a cat with a stroke of her claws. So
much the worse for the victim of her scratches. She thought no more of
them. Yesterday had no existence for her. She lived in the fullness of to-day.

Such it is to have too much happiness fall to one’s lot! With Déruchette
impressions vanished like the melted snow.

BOOK IV
THE BAGPIPE

I

STREAKS OF FIRE ON THE HORIZON
Gilliatt had never spoken to Déruchette; he knew her from having seen
her at a distance, as men know the morning star.
At the period when Déruchette had met Gilliatt on the road leading from
St. Peter’s Port to Vale, and had surprised him by tracing his name in the
snow, she was just sixteen years of age. Only the evening before Mess
Lethierry had said to her, “Come, no more childish tricks; you are a great
girl.”
That word “Gilliatt,” written by the young maiden, had sunk into an
unfathomed depth.
What were women to Gilliatt? He could not have answered that question
himself. When he met one he generally inspired her with something of the
timidity which he felt himself. He never spoke to a woman except from
urgent necessity. He had never played the part of a “gallant” to any one of
the country girls. When he found himself alone on the road, and perceived a
woman coming towards him, he would climb over a fence, or bury himself
in some copse: he even avoided old women. Once in his life he had seen a
Parisian lady. A Parisienne on the wing was a strange event in Guernsey at
that distant epoch; and Gilliatt had heard this gentle lady relate her little
troubles in these words: “I am very much annoyed; I have got some spots of
rain upon my bonnet. Pale buff is a shocking colour for rain.” Having
found, some time afterwards, between the leaves of a book, an old
engraving, representing “a lady of the Chaussée d’Antin” in full dress, he

had stuck it against the wall at home as a souvenir of this remarkable
apparition.
On that Christmas morning when he had met Déruchette, and when she
had written his name and disappeared laughing, he returned home, scarcely
conscious of why he had gone out. That night he slept little; he was
dreaming of a thousand things: that it would be well to cultivate black
radishes in the garden; that he had not seen the boat from Sark pass by; had
anything happened to it? Then he remembered that he had seen the white
stonecrop in flower, a rare thing at that season. He had never known exactly
who was the woman who had reared him, and he made up his mind that she
must have been his mother, and thought of her with redoubled tenderness.
He called to mind the lady’s clothing in the old leathern trunk. He thought
that the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode would probably one day or other be
appointed dean of St. Peter’s Port and surrogate of the bishop, and that the
rectory of St. Sampson would become vacant. Next, he remembered that the
morrow of Christmas would be the twenty-seventh day of the moon, and
that consequently high water would be at twenty-one minutes past three, the
half-ebb at a quarter past seven, low water at thirty-three minutes past nine,
and half flood at thirty-nine minutes past twelve. He recalled, in the most
trifling details, the costume of the Highlander who had sold him the
bagpipe; his bonnet with a thistle ornament, his claymore, his close-fitting
short jacket, his philabeg ornamented with a pocket, and his snuff-horn, his
pin set with a Scottish stone, his two girdles, his sash and belts, his sword,
cutlass, dirk, and skene-dhu—his black-sheathed knife, with its black
handle ornamented with two cairngorms—and the bare knees of the soldier;
his socks, gaiters, and buckled shoes. This highly-equipped figure became a
spectre in his imagination, which pursued him with a sense of feverishness
as he sunk into oblivion. When he awoke it was full daylight, and his first
thought was of Déruchette.
The next night he slept more soundly, but he was dreaming again of the
Scottish soldier. In the midst of his sleep he remembered that the after-
Christmas sittings of the Chief Law Court would commence on the 21st of
January. He dreamed also about the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode. He
thought of Déruchette, and seemed to be in violent anger with her. He
wished he had been a child again to throw stones at her windows. Then he
thought that if he were a child again he should have his mother by his side,
and he began to sob.

Gilliatt had a project at this time of going to pass three months at
Chousey, or at the Miriquiers; but he did not go.
He walked no more along the road to St. Peter’s Port.
He had an odd fancy that his name of “Gilliatt” had remained there traced
upon the ground, and that the passers-by stopped to read it.

II

THE UNKNOWN UNFOLDS ITSELF BY DEGREES
On the other hand, Gilliatt had the satisfaction of seeing the Bravées
every day. By some accident he was continually passing that way. His
business seemed always to lead him by the path which passed under the
wall of Déruchette’s garden.
One morning, as he was walking along this path, he heard a market-
woman who was returning from the Bravées, say to another: “Mess
Lethierry is fond of sea-kale.”
He dug in his garden of the Bû de la Rue a trench for sea-kale. The sea-
kale is a vegetable which has a flavour like asparagus.
The wall of the garden of the Bravées was very low; it would have been
easy to scale it. The idea of scaling it would have appeared, to him, terrible.
But there was nothing to hinder his hearing, as any one else might, the
voices of persons talking as he passed, in the rooms or in the garden. He did
not listen, but he heard them. Once he could distinguish the voices of the
two servants, Grace and Douce, disputing. It was a sound which belonged
to the house, and their quarrel remained in his ears like a remembrance of
music.
On another occasion, he distinguished a voice which was different, and
which seemed to him to be the voice of Déruchette. He quickened his pace,
and was soon out of hearing.
The words uttered by that voice, however, remained fixed in his memory.
He repeated them at every instant. They were, “Will you please give me the
little broom?”

By degrees he became bolder. He had the daring to stay awhile. One day
it happened that Déruchette was singing at her piano, altogether invisible
from without, although her window was open. The air was that of “Bonnie
Dundee.” He grew pale, but he screwed his courage to the point of
listening.
Springtide came. One day Gilliatt enjoyed a beatific vision. The heavens
were opened, and there, before his eyes, appeared Déruchette, watering
lettuces in her little garden.
Soon afterwards he look to doing more than merely listening there. He
watched her habits, observed her hours, and waited to catch a glimpse of
her.
In all this he was very careful not to be seen.
The year advanced; the time came when the trellises were heavy with
roses, and haunted by the butterflies. By little and little, he had come to
conceal himself for hours behind her wall, motionless and silent, seen by no
one, and holding his breath as Déruchette passed in and out of her garden.
Men grow accustomed to poison by degrees.
From his hiding-place he could often hear the sound of Déruchette
conversing with Mess Lethierry under a thick arch of leaves, in a spot
where there was a garden-seat. The words came distinctly to his ears.
What a change had come over him! He had even descended to watch and
listen. Alas! there is something of the character of a spy in every human
heart.
There was another garden-seat, visible to him, and nearer. Déruchette
would sit there sometimes.
From the flowers that he had observed her gathering he had guessed her
taste in the matter of perfumes. The scent of the bindweed was her
favourite, then the pink, then the honeysuckle, then the jasmine. The rose
stood only fifth in the scale. She looked at the lilies, but did not smell them.
Gilliatt figured her in his imagination from this choice of odours. With
each perfume he associated some perfection.
The very idea of speaking to Déruchette would have made his hair stand
on end. A poor old rag-picker, whose wandering brought her, from time to
time, into the little road leading under the inclosure of the Bravées, had
occasionally remarked Gilliatt’s assiduity beside the wall, and his devotion

for this retired spot. Did she connect the presence of a man before this wall
with the possibility of a woman behind it? Did she perceive that vague,
invisible thread? Was she, in her decrepit mendicancy, still youthful enough
to remember something of the old happier days? And could she, in this dark
night and winter of her wretched life, still recognise the dawn? We know
not: but it appears that, on one occasion, passing near Gilliatt at his post,
she brought to bear upon him something as like a smile as she was still
capable of, and muttered between her teeth, “It is getting warmer.”
Gilliatt heard the words, and was struck by them. “It warms one,” he
muttered, with an inward note of interrogation. “It is getting warmer.” What
did the old woman mean?
He repeated the phrase mechanically all day, but he could not guess its
meaning.

III

THE AIR “BONNIE DUNDEE” FINDS AN ECHO ON THE
HILL
It was in a spot behind the enclosure of the garden of the Bravées, at an
angle of the wall, half concealed with holly and ivy, and covered with
nettles, wild mallow, and large white mullen growing between the blocks of
stone, that he passed the greater part of that summer. He watched there, lost
in deep thought. The lizards grew accustomed to his presence, and basked
in the sun among the same stones. The summer was bright and full of
dreamy indolence: overhead the light clouds came and went. Gilliatt sat
upon the grass. The air was full of the songs of birds. He held his two hands
up to his forehead, sometimes trying to recollect himself: “Why should she
write my name in the snow?” From a distance the sea breeze came up in
gentle breaths, at intervals the horn of the quarrymen sounded abruptly,
warning the passers-by to take shelter, as they shattered some mass with
gunpowder. The Port of St. Sampson was not visible from this place, but he
could see the tips of masts above the trees. The sea-gulls flew wide and afar.
Gilliatt had heard his mother say that women could love men; that such

things happened sometimes. He remembered it; and said within himself,
“Who knows, may not Déruchette love me?” Then a feeling of sadness
would come upon him; he would say, “She, too, thinks of me in her turn. It
is well.” He remembered that Déruchette was rich, and that he was poor:
and then the new boat appeared to him an execrable invention. He could
never remember what day of the month it was. He would stare listlessly at
the great bees, with their yellow bodies and their short wings, as they
entered with a buzzing noise into the holes in the wall.
One evening Déruchette went in-doors to retire to bed. She approached
her window to close it. The night was dark. Suddenly, something caught her
ear, and she listened. Somewhere in the darkness there was a sound of
music. It was some one, perhaps, on the hill-side, or at the foot of the
towers of Vale Castle, or, perhaps, further still, playing an air upon some
instrument. Déruchette recognised her favourite melody, “Bonnie Dundee,”
played upon the bagpipe. She thought little of it.
From that night the music might be heard again from time to time at the
same hours, particularly when the nights were very dark.
Déruchette was not much pleased with all this.

IV
“A serenade by night may please a lady fair,
the troubadour beware.”
Unpublished Comedy
Four years passed away.
Déruchette was approaching her twenty-first year, and was still
unmarried. Some writer has said that a fixed idea is a sort of gimlet; every
year gives it another turn. To pull out the first year is like plucking out the
hair by the roots; in the second year, like tearing the skin; in the third, like
breaking the bones; and in the fourth, like removing the very brain itself.
Gilliatt had arrived at this fourth stage.
He had never yet spoken a word to Déruchette. He lived and dreamed
near that delightful vision. This was all.

It happened one day that, finding himself by chance at St. Sampson, he
had seen Déruchette talking with Mess Lethierry at the door of the Bravées,
which opens upon the roadway of the port. Gilliatt ventured to approach
very near. He fancied that at the very moment of his passing she had smiled.
There was nothing impossible in that.
Déruchette still heard, from time to time, the sound of the bagpipe.
Mess Lethierry had also heard this bagpipe. By degrees he had come to
remark this persevering musician under Déruchette’s window. A tender
strain, too; all the more suspicious. A nocturnal gallant was a thing not to
his taste. His wish was to marry Déruchette in his own time, when she was
willing and he was willing, purely and simply, without any romance, or
music, or anything of that sort. Irritated at it, he had at last kept a watch,
and he fancied that he had detected Gilliatt. He passed his fingers through
his beard—a sign of anger—and grumbled out, “What has that fellow got to
pipe about? He is in love with Déruchette, that is clear. You waste your
time, young man. Any one who wants Déruchette must come to me, and not
loiter about playing the flute.”
An event of importance, long foreseen, occurred soon afterwards. It was
announced that the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode was appointed surrogate of
the Bishop of Winchester, dean of the island, and rector of St. Peter’s Port,
and that he would leave St. Sampson for St. Peter’s immediately after his
successor should be installed.
It could not be long to the arrival of the new rector. He was a gentleman
of Norman extraction, Monsieur Ebenezer Caudray.
Some facts were known about the new rector, which the benevolent and
malevolent interpreted in a contrary sense. He was known to be young and
poor, but his youth was tempered with much learning, and his poverty by
good expectations. In the dialect specially invented for the subject of riches
and inheritances, death goes by the name of “expectations.” He was the
nephew and heir of the aged and opulent dean of St. Asaph. At the death of
this old gentleman he would be a rich man. M. Caudray had distinguished
relations. He was almost entitled to the quality of “Honourable.” As
regarded his doctrine, people judged differently. He was an Anglican, but,
according to the expression of Bishop Tillotson, a “libertine”—that is, in
reality, one who was very severe. He repudiated all pharisaism. He was a
friend rather of the Presbytery than the Episcopacy. He dreamed of the

Primitive Church of the days when even Adam had the right to choose his
Eve, and when Frumentinus, Bishop of Hierapolis, carried off a young
maiden to make her his wife, and said to her parents, “Her will is such, and
such is mine. You are no longer her mother, and you are no longer her
father. I am the Bishop of Hierapolis, and this is my wife. Her father is in
heaven.” If the common belief could be trusted, M. Caudray subordinated
the text, “Honour thy father and thy mother,” to that other text, in his eyes
of higher significance, “The woman is the flesh of the man. She shall leave
her father and mother to follow her husband.” This tendency, however, to
circumscribe the parental authority and to favour religiously every mode of
forming the conjugal tie, is peculiar to all Protestantism, particularly in
England, and singularly so in America.

V
A DESERVED SUCCESS HAS ALWAYS ITS DETRACTORS
At this period the affairs of Mess Lethierry were in this position:—The
Durande had well fulfilled all his expectations. He had paid his debts,
repaired his misfortunes, discharged his obligations at Brême, met his
acceptances at St. Malo. He had paid off the mortgage upon his house at the
Bravées, and had bought up all the little local rent charges upon the
property. He was also the proprietor of a great productive capital. This was
the Durande herself. The net revenue from the boat was about a thousand
pounds sterling per annum, and the traffic was constantly increasing.
Strictly speaking, the Durande constituted his entire fortune. She was also
the fortune of the island. The carriage of cattle being one of the most
profitable portions of her trade, he had been obliged, in order to facilitate
the stowage, and the embarking and disembarking of animals, to do away
with the luggage-boxes and the two boats. It was, perhaps, imprudent. The
Durande had but one boat—namely, her long-boat; but this was an excellent
one.
Ten years had elapsed since Rantaine’s robbery.

This prosperity of the Durande had its weak point. It inspired no
confidence. People regarded it as a risk. Lethierry’s good fortune was
looked upon as exceptional. He was considered to have gained by a lucky
rashness. Some one in the Isle of Wight who had imitated him had not
succeeded. The enterprise had ruined the shareholders. The engines, in fact,
were badly constructed. But people shook their heads. Innovations have
always to contend with the difficulty that few wish them well. The least
false step compromises them.
One of the commercial oracles of the Channel Islands, a certain banker
from Paris, named Jauge, being consulted upon a steamboat speculation,
was reported to have turned his back, with the remark, “An investment is it
you propose to me? Exactly; an investment in smoke.”
On the other hand, the sailing vessels had no difficulty in finding
capitalists to take shares in a venture. Capital, in fact, was obstinately in
favour of sails, and as obstinately against boilers and paddle-wheels. At
Guernsey, the Durande was indeed a fact, but steam was not yet an
established principle. Such is the fanatical spirit of conservatism in
opposition to progress. They said of Lethierry, “It is all very well; but he
could not do it a second time.” Far from encouraging, his example inspired
timidity. Nobody would have dared to risk another Durande.

VI

THE SLOOP “CASHMERE” SAVES A SHIPWRECKED CREW
The equinoctial gales begin early in the Channel. The sea there is narrow,
and the winds disturb it easily. The westerly gales begin from the month of
February, and the waves are beaten about from every quarter. Navigation
becomes an anxious matter. The people on the coasts look to the signal-
post, and begin to watch for vessels in distress. The sea is then like a cut-
throat in ambush for his victim. An invisible trumpet sounds the alarm of
war with the elements, furious blasts spring up from the horizon, and a
terrible wind soon begins to blow. The dark night whistles and howls. In the

depth of the clouds the black tempest distends its cheeks, and the storm
arises.
The wind is one danger; the fogs are another.
Fogs have from all time been the terror of mariners. In certain fogs
microscopic prisms of ice are found in suspension, to which Mariotte
attributes halos, mock suns, and paraselenes. Storm-fogs are of a composite
character; various gases of unequal specific gravity combine with the
vapour of water, and arrange themselves, layer over layer, in an order which
divides the dense mist into zones. Below ranges the iodine; above the iodine
is the sulphur; above the sulphur the brome; above the brome the
phosphorus. This, in a certain manner, and making allowance for electric
and magnetic tension, explains several phenomena, as the St. Elmo’s Fire of
Columbus and Magellan, the flying stars moving about the ships, of which
Seneca speaks; the two flames, Castor and Pollux, mentioned by Plutarch;
the Roman legion, whose spears appeared to Cæsar to take fire; the peak of
the Chateau of Duino in Friuli which the sentinel made to sparkle by
touching it with his lance; and perhaps even those fulgurations from the
earth which the ancients called Satan’s terrestrial lightnings. At the equator,
an immense mist seems permanently to encircle the globe. It is known as
the cloud-ring. The function of the cloud-ring is to temper the heat of the
tropics, as that of the Gulf-stream is to mitigate the coldness of the Pole.
Under the cloud-ring fogs are fatal. These are what are called horse
latitudes. It was here that navigators of bygone ages were accustomed to
cast their horses into the sea to lighten the ship in stormy weather, and to
economise the fresh water when becalmed. Columbus said, “Nube abaxo ex
muerte,” death lurks in the low cloud. The Etruscans, who bear the same
relation to meteorology which the Chaldeans did to astronomy, had two
high priests—the high priest of the thunder, and the high priest of the
clouds. The “fulgurators” observed the lightning, and the weather sages
watched the mists. The college of Priest-Augurs was consulted by the
Syrians, the Phœnicians, the Pelasgi, and all the primitive navigators of the
ancient Mare Internum. The origin of tempests was, from that time forward,
partially understood. It is intimately connected with the generation of fogs,
and is, properly speaking, the same phenomenon. There exist upon the
ocean three regions of fogs, one equatorial and two polar. The mariners give
them but one name, the pitch-pot.

In all latitudes, and particularly in the Channel, the equinoctial fogs are
dangerous. They shed a sudden darkness over the sea. One of the perils of
fogs, even when not very dense, arises from their preventing the mariners
perceiving the change of the bed of the sea by the variations of the colour of
the water. The result is a dangerous concealment of the approach of sands
and breakers. The vessel steers towards the shoals without receiving any
warning. Frequently the fogs leave a ship no resource except to lie-to, or to
cast anchor. There are as many shipwrecks from the fogs as from the winds.
After a very violent squall succeeding one of these foggy days, the mail-
boat Cashmere arrived safely from England. It entered at St. Peter’s Port as
the first gleam of day appeared upon the sea, and at the very moment when
the cannon of Castle Cornet announced the break of day. The sky had
cleared: the sloop Cashmere was anxiously expected, as she was to bring
the new rector of St. Sampson.
A little after the arrival of the sloop, a rumour ran through the town that
she had been hailed during the night at sea by a long-boat containing a
shipwrecked crew.

VII

HOW AN IDLER HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE TO BE SEEN
BY A FISHERMAN
On that very night, at the moment when the wind abated, Gilliatt had
gone out with his nets, without, however, taking his famous old Dutch boat
too far from the coast.
As he was returning with the rising tide, towards two o’clock in the
afternoon, the sun was shining brightly, and he passed before the Beast’s
Horn to reach the little bay of the Bû de la Rue. At that moment he fancied
that he saw, in the projection of the “Gild-Holm-’Ur” seat a shadow, which
was not that of the rock. He steered his vessel nearer, and was able to
perceive a man sitting in the “Gild-Holm-’Ur.” The sea was already very
high, the rock encircled by the waves, and escape entirely cut off. Gilliatt

made signs to the man. The stranger remained motionless. Gilliatt drew
nearer; the man was asleep.
He was attired in black. “He looks like a priest,” thought Gilliatt. He
approached still nearer, and could distinguish the face of a young man.
The features were unknown to him.
The rock, happily, was peaked; there was a good depth. Gilliatt wore off,
and succeeded in skirting the rocky wall. The tide raised the bark so high
that Gilliatt, by standing upon the gunwale of the sloop, could touch the
man’s feet. He raised himself upon the planking, and stretched out his
hands. If he had fallen at that moment, it is doubtful if he would have risen
again on the water; the waves were rolling in between the boat and the rock,
and destruction would have been inevitable. He pulled the foot of the
sleeping man. “Ho! there. What are you doing in this place?”
The man aroused, and muttered—
“I was looking about.”
He was now completely awake, and continued—
“I have just arrived in this part. I came this way on a pleasure trip. I have
passed the night on the sea: the view from here seemed beautiful. I was
weary, and fell asleep.”
“Ten minutes later, and you would have been drowned.”
“Ha!”
“Jump into my bark.”
Gilliatt kept the bark fast with his foot, clutched the rock with one hand,
and stretched out the other to the stranger in black, who sprang quickly into
the boat. He was a fine young man.
Gilliatt seized the tiller, and in two minutes his boat entered the bay of
the Bû de la Rue.
The young man wore a round hat and a white cravat; and his long black
frock-coat was buttoned up to the neck. He had fair hair, which he wore en
couronne. He had a somewhat feminine cast of features, a clear eye, a grave
manner.
Meanwhile the boat had touched the ground. Gilliatt passed the cable
through the mooring-ring, then turned and perceived the young man holding
out a sovereign in a very white hand.

Gilliatt moved the hand gently away.
There was a pause. The young man was the first to break the silence.
“You have saved me from death.”
“Perhaps,” replied Gilliatt.
The moorings were made fast, and they went ashore.
The stranger continued—
“I owe you my life, sir.”
“No matter.”
This reply from Gilliatt was again followed by a pause.
“Do you belong to this parish?”
“No,” replied Gilliatt.
“To what parish, then?”
Gilliatt lifted up his right hand, pointed to the sky, and said—
“To that yonder.”
The young man bowed, and left him.
After walking a few paces, the stranger stopped, felt in his pocket, drew
out a book, and returning towards Gilliatt, offered it to him.
“Permit me to make you a present of this.”
Gilliatt took the volume.
It was a Bible.
An instant after, Gilliatt, leaning upon the parapet, was following the
young man with his eyes as he turned the angle of the path which led to St.
Sampson.
By little and little he lowered his gaze, forgot all about the stranger—
knew no more whether the “Gild-Holm-’Ur” existed. Everything
disappeared before him in the bottomless depth of a reverie.
There was one abyss which swallowed up all his thought. This was
Déruchette.
A voice calling him, aroused him from this dream.
“Ho there, Gilliatt!”
He recognised the voice and looked up.
“What is the matter, Sieur Landoys?”

It was, in fact, Sieur Landoys, who was passing along the road about one
hundred paces from the Bû de la Rue in his phaeton, drawn by one little
horse. He had stopped to hail Gilliatt, but he seemed hurried.
“There is news, Gilliatt.”
“Where is that?”
“At the Bravées.”
“What is it?”
“I am too far off to tell you the story.”
Gilliatt shuddered.
“Is Miss Déruchette going to be married?”
“No; but she had better look out for a husband.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go up to the house, and you will learn.”
And Sieur Landoys whipped on his horse.

BOOK V
THE REVOLVER

I

CONVERSATIONS AT THE JEAN AUBERGE
Sieur Clubin was a man who bided his time. He was short in stature, and
his complexion was yellow. He had the strength of a bull. His sea life had
not tanned his skin; his flesh had a sallow hue; it was the colour of a wax
candle, of which his eyes, too, had something of the steady light. His
memory was peculiarly retentive. With him, to have seen a man once, was
to have him like a note in a note-book. His quiet glance took possession of
you. The pupil of his eye received the impression of a face, and kept it like
a portrait. The face might grow old, but Sieur Clubin never lost it; it was

impossible to cheat that tenacious memory. Sieur Clubin was curt in speech,
grave in manner, bold in action. No gestures were ever indulged in by him.
An air of candour won everybody to him at first; many people thought him
artless. He had a wrinkle in the corner of his eye, astonishingly expressive
of simplicity. As we have said, no abler mariner existed; no one like him for
reefing a sail, for keeping a vessel’s head to the wind, or the sails well set.
Never did reputation for religion and integrity stand higher than his. To
have suspected him would have been to bring yourself under suspicion. He
was on terms of intimacy with Monsieur Rébuchet, a money-changer at St.
Malo, who lived in the Rue St. Vincent, next door to the armourer’s; and
Monsieur Rébuchet would say, “I would leave my shop in Clubin’s hands.”
Sieur Clubin was a widower; his wife, like himself, had enjoyed a high
reputation for probity. She had died with a fame for incorruptible virtue. If
the bailli had whispered gallant things in her ear, she would have impeached
him before the king. If a saint had made love to her, she would have told it
to the priest. This couple, Sieur and Dame Clubin, had realised in Torteval
the ideal of the English epithet “respectable.” Dame Clubin’s reputation was
as the snowy whiteness of the swan; Sieur Clubin’s like that of ermine itself
—a spot would have been fatal to him. He could hardly have picked up a
pin without making inquiries for the owner. He would send round the town-
crier about a box of matches. One day he went into a wine-shop at St.
Servan, and said to the man who kept it, “Three years ago I breakfasted
here; you made a mistake in the bill;” and he returned the man thirteen sous.
He was the very personification of probity, with a certain compression of
the lips indicative of watchfulness.
He seemed, indeed, always on the watch—for what? For rogues
probably.
Every Tuesday he commanded the Durande on her passage from
Guernsey to St. Malo. He arrived at St. Malo on the Tuesday evening,
stayed two days there to discharge and take in a new cargo, and started
again for Guernsey on Friday morning.
There was at that period, at St. Malo, a little tavern near the harbour,
which was called the “Jean Auberge.”
The construction of the modern quays swept away this house. At this
period, the sea came up as far as the St. Vincent and Dinan gates. St. Merlan
and St. Servan communicated with each other by covered carts and other

vehicles, which passed to and fro among vessels lying high and dry,
avoiding the buoys, the anchors, and cables, and running the risk now and
then of smashing their leathern hoods against the lowered yards, or the end
of a jibboom. Between the tides, the coachmen drove their horses over
those sands, where, six hours afterwards, the winds would be beating the
rolling waves. The four-and-twenty carrying dogs of St. Malo, who tore to
pieces a naval officer in 1770, were accustomed to prowl about this beach.
This excess of zeal on their part led to the destruction of the pack. Their
nocturnal barkings are no longer heard between the little and the great
Talard.
Sieur Clubin was accustomed to stay at the Jean Auberge. The French
office of the Durande was held there.
The custom-house officers and coast-guardmen came to take their meals
and to drink at the Jean Auberge. They had their separate tables. The
custom-house officers of Binic found it convenient for the service to meet
there with their brother officers of St. Malo.
Captains of vessels came there also; but they ate at another table.
Sieur Clubin sat sometimes at one, sometimes at the other table, but
preferred the table of the custom-house men to that of the sea captains. He
was always welcome at either.
The tables were well served. There were strange drinks especially
provided for foreign sailors. A dandy sailor from Bilboa could have been
supplied there with a helada. People drank stout there, as at Greenwich; or
brown gueuse, as at Antwerp.
Masters of vessels who came from long voyages and privateersmen
sometimes appeared at the captains’ table, where they exchanged news.
“How are sugars? That commission is only for small lots.—The brown
kinds, however, are going off. Three thousand bags of East India, and five
hundred hogsheads of Sagua.—Take my word, the opposition will end by
defeating Villèle.—What about indigo? Only seven serons of Guatemala
changed hands.—The Nanino-Julia is in the roads; a pretty three-master
from Brittany.—The two cities of La Plata are at loggerheads again.—
When Monte Video gets fat, Buenos Ayres grows lean.—It has been found
necessary to transfer the cargo of the Regina-Cœli, which has been
condemned at Callao.—Cocoas go off briskly.—Caraque bags are quoted at
one hundred and thirty-four, and Trinidad’s at seventy-three.—It appears

that at the review in the Champ de Mars, the people cried, ‘Down with the
ministers!’—The raw salt Saladeros hides are selling—ox-hides at sixty
francs, and cows’ at forty-eight.—Have they passed the Balkan?—What is
Diebitsch about?—Aniseed is in demand at San Francisco. Plagniol olive
oil is quiet.—Gruyère cheese, in bulk, is thirty-two francs the quintal.—
Well, is Leon XII. dead?” etc., etc.
All these things were talked about and commented on aloud. At the table
of the custom-house and coast-guard officers they spoke in a lower key.
Matters of police and revenue on the coast and in the ports require, in
fact, a little more privacy, and a little less clearness in the conversation.
The sea-captains’ table was presided over by an old captain of a large
vessel, M. Gertrais-Gaboureau. M. Gertrais-Gaboureau could hardly be
regarded as a man; he was rather a living barometer. His long life at sea had
given him a surprising power of prognosticating the state of the weather. He
seemed to issue a decree for the weather to-morrow. He sounded the winds,
and felt the pulse, as it were, of the tides. He might be imagined requesting
the clouds to show their tongue—that is to say, their forked lightnings. He
was the physician of the wave, the breeze, and the squall. The ocean was his
patient. He had travelled round the world like a doctor going his visits,
examining every kind of climate in its good and bad condition. He was
profoundly versed in the pathology of the seasons. Sometimes he would be
heard delivering himself in this fashion—“The barometer descended in
1796 to three degrees below tempest point.” He was a sailor from real love
of the sea. He hated England as much as he liked the ocean. He had
carefully studied English seamanship, and considered himself to have
discovered its weak point. He would explain how the Sovereign of 1637
differed from the Royal William of 1670, and from the Victory of 1775. He
compared their build as to their forecastles and quarter-decks. He looked
back with regret to the towers upon the deck, and the funnel-shaped tops of
the Great Harry of 1514—probably regarding them from the point of view
of convenient lodging-places for French cannon-balls. In his eyes, nations
only existed for their naval institutions. He indulged in some odd figures of
speech on this subject. He considered the term “The Trinity House” as
sufficiently indicating England. The “Northern Commissioners” were in
like manner synonymous in his mind with Scotland; the “Ballast Board,”
with Ireland. He was full of nautical information. He was, in himself, a

marine alphabet and almanack, a tariff and low-water mark, all combined.
He knew by heart all the lighthouse dues—particularly those of the English
coast—one penny per ton for passing before this; one farthing before that.
He would tell you that the Small Rock Light which once used to burn two
hundred gallons of oil, now consumes fifteen hundred. Once, aboard ship,
he was attacked by a dangerous disease, and was believed to be dying. The
crew assembled round his hammock, and in the midst of his groans and
agony he addressed the chief carpenter with the words, “You had better
make a mortise in each side of the main caps, and put in a bit of iron to help
pass the top ropes through.” His habit of command had given to his
countenance an expression of authority.
It was rare that the subjects of conversation at the captains’ table and at
that of the custom-house men were the same. This, however, did happen to
be the case in the first days of that month of February to which the course
of this history has now brought us. The three-master Tamaulipas, Captain
Zuela, arrived from Chili, and bound thither again, was the theme of
discussion at both tables.
At the captains’ table they were talking of her cargo; and at that of the
custom-house people, of certain circumstances connected with her recent
proceedings.
Captain Zuela, of Copiapo, was partly a Chilian and partly a Columbian.
He had taken a part in the War of Independence in a true independent
fashion, adhering sometimes to Bolivar, sometimes to Morillo, according as
he had found it to his interest. He had enriched himself by serving all
causes. No man in the world could have been more Bourbonist, more
Bonapartist, more absolutist, more liberal, more atheistical, or more
devoutly catholic. He belonged to that great and renowned party which may
be called the Lucrative party. From time to time he made his appearance in
France on commercial voyages; and if report spoke truly, he willingly gave
a passage to fugitives of any kind—bankrupts or political refugees, it was
all the same to him, provided they could pay. His mode of taking them
aboard was simple. The fugitive waited upon a lonely point of the coast,
and at the moment of setting sail, Zuela would detach a small boat to fetch
him. On his last voyage he had assisted in this way an outlaw and fugitive
from justice, named Berton; and on this occasion he was suspected of being

about to aid the flight of the men implicated in the affair of the Bidassoa.
The police were informed, and had their eye upon him.
This period was an epoch of flights and escapes. The Restoration in
France was a reactionary movement. Revolutions are fruitful of voluntary
exile; and restorations of wholesale banishments. During the first seven or
eight years which followed the return of the Bourbons, panic was universal
—in finance, in industry, in commerce, men felt the ground tremble beneath
them. Bankruptcies were numerous in the commercial world; in the
political, there was a general rush to escape. Lavalette had taken flight,
Lefebvre Desnouettes had taken flight, Delon had taken flight. Special
tribunals were again in fashion—plus Treetaillon. People instinctively
shunned the Pont de Saumur, the Esplanade de la Réole, the wall of the
Observatoire in Paris, the tower of Taurias d’Avignon—dismal landmarks
in history where the period of reaction has left its sign-spots, on which the
marks of that blood-stained hand are still visible. In London the
Thistlewood affair, with its ramifications in France: in Paris the Trogoff
trial, with its ramifications in Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, had
increased the motives for anxiety and flight, and given an impetus to that
mysterious rout which left so many gaps in the social system of that day. To
find a place of safety, this was the general care. To be implicated was to be
ruined. The spirit of the military tribunals had survived their institution.
Sentences were matters of favour. People fled to Texas, to the Rocky
Mountains, to Peru, to Mexico. The men of the Loire, traitors then, but now
regarded as patriots, had founded the Champ d’Asile. Béranger in one of his
songs says—
“Barbarians! we are Frenchmen born;
Pity us, glorious, yet forlorn.”
Self-banishment was the only resource left. Nothing, perhaps, seems
simpler than flight, but that monosyllable has a terrible significance. Every
obstacle is in the way of the man who slips away. Taking to flight
necessitates disguise. Persons of importance—even illustrious characters—
were reduced to these expedients, only fit for malefactors. Their
independent habits rendered it difficult for them to escape through the
meshes of authority. A rogue who violates the conditions of his ticket-of-
leave comports himself before the police as innocently as a saint; but
imagine innocence constrained to act a part; virtue disguising its voice; a

glorious reputation hiding under a mask. Yonder passer-by is a man of well-
earned celebrity; he is in quest of a false passport. The equivocal
proceedings of one absconding from the reach of the law is no proof that he
is not a hero. Ephemeral but characteristic features of the time of which our
so-called regular history takes no note, but which the true painter of the age
will bring out into relief. Under cover of these flights and concealments of
honest men, genuine rogues, less watched and suspected, managed often to
get clear off. A scoundrel, who found it convenient to disappear, would take
advantage of the general pell-mell, tack himself on to the political refugees,
and, thanks to his greater skill in the art, would contrive to appear in that
dim twilight more honest even than his honest neighbours. Nothing looks
more awkward and confused sometimes than honesty unjustly condemned.
It is out of its element, and is almost sure to commit itself.
It is a curious fact, that this voluntary expatriation, particularly with
honest folks, appeared to lead to every strange turn of fortune. The
modicum of civilisation which a scamp brought with him from London or
Paris became, perhaps, a valuable stock in trade in some primitive country,
ingratiated him with the people, and enabled him to strike into new paths.
There is nothing impossible in a man’s escaping thus from the laws, to
reappear elsewhere as a dignitary among the priesthood. There was
something phantasmagorial in these sudden disappearances; and more than
one such flight has led to events like the marvels of a dream. An escapade
of this kind, indeed, seemed to end naturally in the wild and wonderful; as
when some broken bankrupt suddenly decamps to turn up again twenty
years later as Grand Vizier to the Mogul, or as a king in Tasmania.
Rendering assistance to these fugitives was an established trade, and,
looking to the abundance of business of that kind, was a highly profitable
one. It was generally carried on as a supplementary branch of certain
recognised kinds of commerce. A person, for instance, desiring to escape to
England, applied to the smugglers; one who desired to get to America, had
recourse to sea-captains like Zuela.

II

CLUBIN OBSERVES SOMEONE
Zuela came sometimes to take refreshment at the Jean Auberge. Clubin
knew him by sight.
For that matter Clubin was not proud. He did not disdain even to know
scamps by sight. He went so far sometimes as to cultivate even a closer
acquaintance with them; giving his hand in the open street, or saying good-
day to them. He talked English with the smugglers, and jabbered Spanish
with the contrebandistas. On this subject he had at command a number of
apologetic phrases. “Good,” he said, “can be extracted out of the knowledge
of evil. The gamekeeper may find advantage in knowing the poacher. The
good pilot may sound the depths of a pirate, who is only a sort of hidden
rock. I test the quality of a scoundrel as a doctor will test a poison.” There
was no answering a battery of proverbs like this. Everybody gave Clubin
credit for his shrewdness. People praised him for not indulging in a
ridiculous delicacy. Who, then, should dare to speak scandal of him on this
point? Everything he did was evidently “for the good of the service.” With
him, all was straightforward. Nothing could stain his good fame. Crystal
might more easily become sullied. This general confidence in him was the
natural reward of a long life of integrity, the crowning advantage of a settled
reputation. Whatever Clubin might do, or appear to do, was sure to be
interpreted favourably. He had attained almost to a state of impeccability.
Over and above this, “he is very wary,” people said: and from a situation
which in others would have given rise to suspicion, his integrity would
extricate itself, with a still greater halo of reputation for ability. This
reputation for ability mingled harmoniously with his fame for perfect
simplicity of character. Great simplicity and great talents in conjunction are
not uncommon. The compound constitutes one of the varieties of the
virtuous man, and one of the most valuable. Sieur Clubin was one of those
men who might be found in intimate conversation with a sharper or a thief,
without suffering any diminution of respect in the minds of their
neighbours.
The Tamaulipas had completed her loading. She was ready for sea, and
was preparing to sail very shortly.
One Tuesday evening the Durande arrived at St. Malo while it was still
broad daylight. Sieur Clubin, standing upon the bridge of the vessel, and

superintending the manœuvres necessary for getting her into port, perceived
upon the sandy beach near the Petit-Bey, two men, who were conversing
between the rocks, in a solitary spot. He observed them with his sea-glass,
and recognised one of the men. It was Captain Zuela. He seemed to
recognise the other also.
This other was a person of high stature, a little grey. He wore the broad-
brimmed hat and the sober clothing of the Society of Friends. He was
probably a Quaker. He lowered his gaze with an air of extreme diffidence.
On arriving at the Jean Auberge, Sieur Clubin learnt that the Tamaulipas
was preparing to sail in about ten days.
It has since become known that he obtained information on some other
points.
That night he entered the gunsmith’s shop in the St. Vincent Street, and
said to the master:
“Do you know what a revolver is?”
“Yes,” replied the gunsmith. “It is an American weapon.”
“It is a pistol with which a man can carry on a conversation.”
“Exactly: an instrument which comprises in itself both the question and
the answer.”
“And the rejoinder too.”
“Precisely, Monsieur Clubin. A rotatory clump of barrels.”
“I shall want five or six balls.”
The gunmaker twisted the corner of his lip, and made that peculiar noise
with which, when accompanied by a toss of the head, Frenchmen express
admiration.
“The weapon is a good one, Monsieur Clubin.”
“I want a revolver with six barrels.”
“I have not one.”
“What! and you a gunmaker!”
“I do not keep such articles yet. You see, it is a new thing. It is only just
coming into vogue. French makers, as yet, confine themselves to the simple
pistol.”
“Nonsense.”

“It has not yet become an article of commerce.”
“Nonsense, I say.”
“I have excellent pistols.”
“I want a revolver.”
“I agree that it is more useful. Stop, Monsieur Clubin!”
“What?”
“I believe I know where there is one at this moment in St. Malo; to be
had a bargain.”
“A revolver?”
“Yes.”
“For sale?”
“Yes.”
“Where is that?”
“I believe I know; or I can find out.”
“When can you give me an answer?”
“A bargain; but of good quality.”
“When shall I return?”
“If I procure you a revolver, remember, it will be a good one.”
“When will you give me an answer?”
“After your next voyage.”
“Do not mention that it is for me,” said Clubin.

III

CLUBIN CARRIES AWAY SOMETHING AND BRINGS BACK
NOTHING
Sieur Clubin completed the loading of the Durande, embarked a number
of cattle and some passengers, and left St. Malo for Guernsey, as usual, on
the Friday morning.

On that same Friday, when the vessel had gained the open, which permits
the captain to absent himself a moment from the place of command, Clubin
entered his cabin, shut himself in, took a travelling bag which he kept there,
put into one of its compartments some biscuit, some boxes of preserves, a
few pounds of chocolate in sticks, a chronometer, and a sea telescope, and
passed through the handles a cord, ready prepared to sling it if necessary.
Then he descended into the hold, went into the compartment where the
cables are kept, and was seen to come up again with one of those knotted
ropes heavy with pieces of metal, which are used for ship caulkers at sea
and by robbers ashore. Cords of this kind are useful in climbing.
Having arrived at Guernsey, Clubin repaired to Torteval. He took with
him the travelling bag and the knotted cord, but did not bring them back
again.
Let us repeat once for all, the Guernsey which we are describing is that
ancient Guernsey which no longer exists, and of which it would be
impossible to find a parallel now anywhere except in the country. There it is
still flourishing, but in the towns it has passed away. The same remarks
apply to Jersey. St. Helier’s is as civilised as Dieppe, St. Peter’s Port as
L’Orient. Thanks to the progress of civilisation, thanks to the admirably
enterprising spirit of that brave island people, everything has been changed
during the last forty years in the Norman Archipelago. Where there was
darkness there is now light. With these premises let us proceed.
At that period, then, which is already so far removed from us as to have
become historical, smuggling was carried on very extensively in the
Channel. The smuggling vessels abounded, particularly on the western
coast of Guernsey. People of that peculiarly clever kind who know, even in
the smallest details, what went on half a century ago, will even cite you the
names of these suspicious craft, which were almost always Austrians or
Guiposeans. It is certain that a week scarcely ever passed without one or
two being seen either in Saint’s Bay or at Pleinmont. Their coming and
going had almost the character of a regular service. A cavern in the cliffs at
Sark was called then, and is still called, the “Shops” (“Les Boutiques”),
from its being the place where these smugglers made their bargains with the
purchasers of their merchandise. This sort of traffic had in the Channel a
dialect of its own, a vocabulary of contraband technicalities now forgotten,
and which was to the Spanish what the “Levantine” is to the Italian.

On many parts of the English coast smuggling had a secret but cordial
understanding with legitimate and open commerce. It had access to the
house of more than one great financier, by the back-stairs it is true; and its
influence extended itself mysteriously through all the commercial world,
and the intricate ramifications of manufacturing industry. Merchant on one
side, smuggler on the other; such was the key to the secret of many great
fortunes. Séguin affirmed it of Bourgain, Bourgain of Séguin. We do not
vouch for their accusations; it is possible that they were calumniating each
other. However this may have been, it is certain that the contraband trade,
though hunted down by the law, was flourishing enough in certain financial
circles. It had relations with “the very best society.” Thus the brigand
Mandrin, in other days, found himself occasionally tête-à-tête with the
Count of Charolais; for this underhand trade often contrived to put on a
very respectable appearance; kept a house of its own with an irreproachable
exterior.
All this necessitated a host of manœuvres and connivances, which
required impenetrable secrecy. A contrabandist was entrusted with a good
many things, and knew how to keep them secret. An inviolable confidence
was the condition of his existence. The first quality, in fact, in a smuggler
was strict honour in his own circle. No discreetness, no smuggling. Fraud
has its secrets like the priest’s confessional.
These secrets were indeed, as a rule, faithfully kept. The contrabandist
swore to betray nothing, and he kept his word; nobody was more
trustworthy than the genuine smuggler. The Judge Alcade of Oyarzun
captured a smuggler one day, and put him to torture to compel him to
disclose the name of the capitalist who secretly supported him. The
smuggler refused to tell. The capitalist in question was the Judge Alcade
himself. Of these two accomplices, the judge and the smuggler, the one had
been compelled, in order to appear in the eyes of the world to fulfil the law,
to put the other to the torture, which the other had patiently borne for the
sake of his oath.
The two most famous smugglers who haunted Pleinmont at that period
were Blasco and Blasquito. They were Tocayos. This was a sort of Spanish
or Catholic relationship which consisted in having the same patron saint in
heaven; a thing, it will be admitted, not less worthy of consideration than
having the same father upon earth.

When a person was initiated into the furtive ways of the contraband
business, nothing was more easy, or, from a certain point of view, more
troublesome. It was sufficient to have no fear of dark nights, to repair to
Pleinmont, and to consult the oracle located there.

IV
PLEINMONT
Pleinmont, near Torteval, is one of the three corners of the island of
Guernsey. At the extremity of the cape there rises a high turfy hill, which
looks over the sea.
The height is a lonely place. All the more lonely from there being one
solitary house there.
This house adds a sense of terror to that of solitude.
It is popularly believed to be haunted.
Haunted or not, its aspect is singular.
Built of granite, and rising only one story high, it stands in the midst of
the grassy solitude. It is in a perfectly good condition as far as exterior is
concerned; the walls are thick and the roof is sound. Not a stone is wanting
in the sides, not a tile upon the roof. A brick-built chimney-stack forms the
angle of the roof. The building turns its back to the sea, being on that side
merely a blank wall. On examining this wall, however, attentively, the
visitor perceives a little window bricked up. The two gables have three
dormer windows, one fronting the east, the others fronting the west, but
both are bricked up in like manner. The front, which looks inland, has alone
a door and windows. This door, too, is walled in, as are also the two
windows of the ground-floor. On the first floor—and this is the feature
which is most striking as you approach—there are two open windows; but
these are even more suspicious than the blind windows. Their open squares
look dark even in broad day, for they have no panes of glass, or even
window-frames. They open simply upon the dusk within. They strike the
imagination like hollow eye-sockets in a human face. Inside all is deserted.

Through the gaping casements you may mark the ruin within. No
panellings, no woodwork; all bare stone. It is like a windowed sepulchre,
giving liberty to the spectres to look out upon the daylight world. The rains
sap the foundations on the seaward side. A few nettles, shaken by the
breeze, flourish in the lower part of the walls. Far around the horizon there
is no other human habitation. The house is a void; the abode of silence: but
if you place your ear against the wall and listen, you may distinguish a
confused noise now and then, like the flutter of wings. Over the walled
door, upon the stone which forms its architrave, are sculptured these letters,
“Elm-Pbilg,” with the date “1780.”
The dark shadow of night and the mournful light of the moon find
entrance there.
The sea completely surrounds the house. Its situation is magnificent; but
for that reason its aspect is more sinister. The beauty of the spot becomes a
puzzle. Why does not a human family take up its abode here? The place is
beautiful, the house well-built. Whence this neglect? To these questions,
obvious to the reason, succeed others, suggested by the reverie which the
place inspires. Why is this cultivatable garden uncultivated? No master for
it; and the bricked-up doorway? What has happened to the place? Why is it
shunned by men? What business is done here? If none, why is there no one
here? Is it only when all the rest of the world are asleep that some one in
this spot is awake? Dark squalls, wild winds, birds of prey, strange
creatures, unknown forms, present themselves to the mind, and connect
themselves somehow with this deserted house. For what class of wayfarers
can this be the hostelry? You imagine to yourself whirlwinds of rain and
hail beating in at the open casements, and wandering through the rooms.
Tempests have left their vague traces upon the interior walls. The chambers,
though walled and covered in, are visited by the hurricanes. Has the house
been the scene of some great crime? You may almost fancy that this spectral
dwelling, given up to solitude and darkness, might be heard calling aloud
for succour. Does it remain silent? Do voices indeed issue from it? What
business has it on hand in this lonely place? The mystery of the dark hours
rests securely here. Its aspect is disquieting at noonday; what must it be at
midnight? The dreamer asks himself—for dreams have their coherence—
what this house may be between the dusk of evening and the twilight of
approaching dawn? Has the vast supernatural world some relation with this
deserted height, which sometimes compels it to arrest its movements here,

and to descend and to become visible? Do the scattered elements of the
spirit world whirl around it? Does the impalpable take form and substance
here? Insoluble riddles! A holy awe is in the very stones; that dim twilight
has surely relations with the infinite Unknown. When the sun has gone
down, the song of the birds will be hushed, the goatherd behind the hills
will go homeward with his goats; reptiles, taking courage from the
gathering darkness, will creep through the fissures of rocks; the stars will
begin to appear, night will come, but yonder two blank casements will still
be staring at the sky. They open to welcome spirits and apparitions; for it is
by the names of apparitions, ghosts, phantom faces vaguely distinct, masks
in the lurid light, mysterious movements of minds, and shadows, that the
popular faith, at once ignorant and profound, translates the sombre relations
of this dwelling with the world of darkness.
The house is “haunted;” the popular phrase comprises everything.
Credulous minds have their explanation; common-sense thinkers have
theirs also. “Nothing is more simple,” say the latter, “than the history of the
house. It is an old observatory of the time of the revolutionary wars and the
days of smuggling. It was built for such objects. The wars being ended, the
house was abandoned; but it was not pulled down, as it might one day again
become useful. The door and windows have been walled to prevent people
entering, or doing injury to the interior. The walls of the windows, on the
three sides which face the sea, have been bricked up against the winds of
the south and south-west. That is all.”
The ignorant and the credulous, however, are not satisfied. In the first
place, the house was not built at the period of the wars of the Revolution. It
bears the date “1780,” which was anterior to the Revolution. In the next
place it was not built for an observatory. It bears the letters “Elm-Pbilg,”
which are the double monogram of two families, and which indicate,
according to usage, that the house was built for the use of a newly-married
couple. Then it has certainly been inhabited: why then should it be
abandoned? If the door and windows were bricked up to prevent people
entering the house only, why were two windows left open? Why are there
no shutters, no window-frames, no glass? Why were the walls bricked in on
one side if not on the other? The wind is prevented from entering from the
south; but why is it allowed to enter from the north?

The credulous are wrong, no doubt; but it is clear that the common-sense
thinkers have not discovered the key to the mystery. The problem remains
still unsolved.
It is certain that the house is generally believed to have been more useful
than inconvenient to the smugglers.
The growth of superstitious terror tends to deprive facts of their true
proportions. Without doubt, many of the nocturnal phenomena which have,
by little and little, secured to the building the reputation of being haunted,
might be explained by obscure and furtive visits, by brief sojourns of sailors
near the spot, and sometimes by the precaution, sometimes by the daring, of
men engaged in certain suspicious occupations concealing themselves for
their dark purposes, or allowing themselves to be seen in order to inspire
dread.
At this period, already a remote one, many daring deeds were possible.
The police—particularly in small places—was by no means as efficient as
in these days.
Add to this, that if the house was really, as was said, a resort of the
smugglers, their meetings there must, up to a certain point, have been safe
from interruptions precisely because the house was dreaded by the
superstitious people of the country. Its ghostly reputation prevented its
being visited for other reasons. People do not generally apply to the police,
or officers of customs, on the subject of spectres. The superstitious rely on
making the sign of the cross; not on magistrates and indictments. There is
always a tacit connivance, involuntary it may be, but not the less real,
between the objects which inspire fear and their victims. The terror-stricken
feel a sort of culpability in having encountered their terrors; they imagine
themselves to have unveiled a secret; and they have an inward fear,
unknown even to themselves, of aggravating their guilt, and exciting the
anger of the apparitions. All this makes them discreet. And over and above
this reason, the very instinct of the credulous is silence; dread is akin to
dumbness; the terrified speak little; horror seems always to whisper,
“Hush!”
It must be remembered that this was a period when the Guernsey
peasants believed that the Mystery of the Holy Manger is repeated by oxen
and asses every year on a fixed day; a period when no one would have

dared to enter a stable at night for fear of coming upon the animals on their
knees.
If the local legends and stories of the people can be credited, the popular
superstition went so far as to fasten to the walls of the house at Pleinmont
things of which the traces are still visible—rats without feet, bats without
wings, and bodies of other dead animals. Here, too, were seen toads crushed
between the pages of a Bible, bunches of yellow lupins, and other strange
offerings, placed there by imprudent passers-by at night, who, having
fancied that they had seen something, hoped by these small sacrifices to
obtain pardon, and to appease the ill-humours of were-wolves and evil
spirits. In all times, believers of this kind have flourished; some even in
very high places. Cæsar consulted Saganius, and Napoleon Mademoiselle
Lenormand. There are a kind of consciences so tender, that they must seek
indulgences even from Beelzebub. “May God do, and Satan not undo,” was
one of the prayers of Charles the Fifth. They come to persuade themselves
that they may commit sins even against the Evil One; and one of their
cherished objects was, to be irreproachable even in the eyes of Satan. We
find here an explanation of those adorations sometimes paid to infernal
spirits. It is only one more species of fanaticism. Sins against the devil
certainly exist in certain morbid imaginations. The fancy that they have
violated the laws of the lower regions torments certain eccentric casuists;
they are haunted with scruples even about offending the demons. A belief in
the efficacy of devotions to the spirits of the Brocken or Armuyr, a notion of
having committed sins against hell, visionary penances for imaginary
crimes, avowals of the truth to the spirit of falsehood, self-accusation before
the origin of all evil, and confessions in an inverted sense—are all realities,
or things at least which have existed. The annals of criminal procedure
against witchcraft and magic prove this in every page. Human folly
unhappily extends even thus far: when terror seizes upon a man he does not
stop easily. He dreams of imaginary faults, imaginary purifications, and
clears out his conscience with the old witches’ broom.
Be this as it may, if the house at Pleinmont had its secrets, it kept them to
itself; except by some rare chance, no one went there to see. It was left
entirely alone. Few people, indeed, like to run the risk of an encounter with
the other world.

Owing to the terror which it inspired, and which kept at a distance all
who could observe or bear testimony on the subject, it had always been
easy to obtain an entrance there at night by means of a rope ladder, or even
by the use of the first ladder coming to hand in one of the neighbouring
fields. A consignment of goods or provisions left there might await in
perfect safety the time and opportunity for a furtive embarkation. Tradition
relates that forty years ago a fugitive—for political offences as some affirm,
for commercial as others say—remained for some time concealed in the
haunted house at Pleinmont; whence he finally succeeded in embarking in a
fishing-boat for England. From England a passage is easily obtained to
America.
Tradition also avers that provisions deposited in this house remain there
untouched, Lucifer and the smugglers having an interest in inducing
whoever places them there to return.
From the summit of the house, there is a view to the south of the Hanway
Rocks, at about a mile from the shore.
These rocks are famous. They have been guilty of all the evil deeds of
which rocks are capable. They are the most ruthless destroyers of the sea.
They lie in a treacherous ambush for vessels in the night. They have
contributed to the enlargement of the cemeteries at Torteval and Rocquaine.
A lighthouse was erected upon these rocks in 1862. At the present day,
the Hanways light the way for the vessels which they once lured to
destruction; the destroyer in ambush now bears a lighted torch in his hand;
and mariners seek in the horizon, as a protector and a guide, the rock which
they used to fly as a pitiless enemy. It gives confidence by night in that vast
space where it was so long a terror—like a robber converted into a
gendarme.
There are three Hanways: the Great Hanway, the Little Hanway, and the
Mauve. It is upon the Little Hanway that the red light is placed at the
present time.
This reef of rocks forms part of a group of peaks, some beneath the sea,
some rising out of it. It towers above them all; like a fortress, it has
advanced works: on the side of the open sea, a chain of thirteen rocks; on
the north, two breakers—the High Fourquiés, the Needles, and a sandbank
called the Hérouée. On the south, three rocks—the Cat Rock, the Percée,
and the Herpin Rock; then two banks—the South Bank and the Muet:

besides which, there is, on the side opposite Pleinmont, the Tas de Pois
d’Aval.
To swim across the channel from the Hanways to Pleinmont is difficult,
but not impossible. We have already said that this was one of the
achievements of Clubin. The expert swimmer who knows this channel can
find two resting-places, the Round Rock, and further on, a little out of the
course, to the left, the Red Rock.

V
THE BIRDS’-NESTERS
It was near the period of that Saturday which was passed by Sieur Clubin
at Torteval that a curious incident occurred, which was little heard of at the
time, and which did not generally transpire till a long time afterwards. For
many things, as we have already observed, remain undivulged, simply by
reason of the terror which they have caused in those who have witnessed
them.
In the night-time between Saturday and Sunday—we are exact in the
matter of the date, and we believe it to be correct—three boys climbed up
the hill at Pleinmont. The boys returned to the village: they came from the
seashore. They were what are called, in the corrupt French of that part,
“déniquoiseaux,” or birds’-nesters. Wherever there are cliffs and cleft-rocks
overhanging the sea, the young birds’-nesters abound. The reader will
remember that Gilliatt interfered in this matter for the sake of the birds as
well as for the sake of the children.
The “déniquoiseaux” are a sort of sea-urchins, and are not a very timid
species.
The night was very dark. Dense masses of cloud obscured the zenith.
Three o’clock had sounded in the steeple of Torteval which is round and
pointed like a magician’s hat.
Why did the boys return so late? Nothing more simple. They had been
searching for sea-gulls’ nests in the Tas de Pois d’Aval. The season having

been very mild, the pairing of the birds had begun very early. The children
watching the fluttering of the male and female about their nests, and excited
by the pursuit, had forgotten the time. The waters had crept up around them;
they had no time to regain the little bay in which they had moored their
boat, and they were compelled to wait upon one of the peaks of the Tas de
Pois for the ebb of the tide. Hence their late return. Mothers wait on such
occasions in feverish anxiety for the return of their children, and when they
find them safe, give vent to their joy in the shape of anger, and relieve their
tears by dealing them a sound drubbing. The boys accordingly hastened
their steps, but in fear and trembling. Their haste was of that sort which is
glad of an excuse for stopping, and which is not inconsistent with a
reluctance to reach their destination; for they had before them the prospect
of warm embraces, to be followed with an inevitable thrashing.
One only of the boys had nothing of this to fear. He was an orphan: a
French boy, without father or mother, and perfectly content just then with
his motherless condition; for nobody taking any interest in him, his back
was safe from the dreaded blows. The two others were natives of Guernsey,
and belonged to the parish of Torteval.
Having climbed the grassy hill, the three birds’-nesters reached the
tableland on which was situate the haunted house.
They began by being in fear, which is the proper frame of mind of every
passer-by; and particularly of every child at that hour and in that place.
They had a strong desire to take to their heels as fast as possible, and a
strong desire, also, to stay and look.
They did stop.
They looked towards the solitary building.
It was all dark and terrible.
It stood in the midst of the solitary plain—an obscure block, a hideous
but symmetrical excrescence; a high square mass with right-angled corners,
like an immense altar in the darkness.
The first thought of the boys was to run: the second was to draw nearer.
They had never seen this house before. There is such a thing as a desire to
be frightened arising from curiosity. They had a little French boy with them,
which emboldened them to approach.
It is well known that the French have no fear.

Besides, it is reassuring to have company in danger; to be frightened in
the company of two others is encouraging.
And then they were a sort of hunters accustomed to peril. They were
children; they were used to search, to rummage, to spy out hidden things.
They were in the habit of peeping into holes; why not into this hole?
Hunting is exciting. Looking into birds’ nests perhaps gives an itch for
looking a little into a nest of ghosts. A rummage in the dark regions. Why
not?
From prey to prey, says the proverb, we come to the devil. After the
birds, the demons. The boys were on the way to learn the secret of those
terrors of which their parents had told them. To be on the track of hobgoblin
tales—nothing could be more attractive. To have long stories to tell like the
good housewives. The notion was tempting.
All this mixture of ideas, in their state of half-confusion, half-instinct, in
the minds of the Guernsey birds’-nesters, finally screwed their courage to
the point. They approached the house.
The little fellow who served them as a sort of moral support in the
adventure was certainly worthy of their confidence. He was a bold boy—an
apprentice to a ship-caulker; one of those children who have already
become men. He slept on a little straw in a shed in the ship-caulker’s yard,
getting his own living, having red hair, and a loud voice; climbing easily up
walls and trees, not encumbered with prejudices in the matter of property in
the apples within his reach; a lad who had worked in the repairing dock for
vessels of war—a child of chance, a happy orphan, born in France, no one
knew exactly where; ready to give a centime to a beggar; a mischievous
fellow, but a good one at heart; one who had talked to Parisians. At this time
he was earning a shilling a day by caulking the fishermen’s boats under
repair at the Pêqueries. When he felt inclined he gave himself a holiday, and
went birds’-nesting. Such was the little French boy.
The solitude of the place impressed them with a strange feeling of dread.
They felt the threatening aspect of the silent house. It was wild and savage.
The naked and deserted plateau terminated in a precipice at a short distance
from its steep incline. The sea below was quiet. There was no wind. Not a
blade of grass stirred.
The birds’-nesters advanced by slow steps, the French boy at their head,
and looking towards the house.

One of them, afterwards relating the story, or as much of it as had
remained in his head, added, “It did not speak.”
They came nearer, holding their breath, as one might approach a savage
animal.
They had climbed the hill at the side of the house which descended to
seaward towards a little isthmus of rocks almost inaccessible. Thus they had
come pretty near to the building; but they saw only the southern side, which
was all walled up. They did not dare to approach by the other side, where
the terrible windows were.
They grew bolder, however; the caulker’s apprentice whispered, “Let’s
veer to larboard. That’s the handsome side. Let’s have a look at the black
windows.”
The little band accordingly “veered to larboard,” and came round to the
other side of the house.
The two windows were lighted up.
The boys took to their heels.
When they had got to some distance, the French boy, however, returned.
“Hillo!” said he, “the lights have vanished.”
The light at the windows had, indeed, disappeared. The outline of the
building was seen as sharply defined as if stamped out with a punch against
the livid sky.
Their fear was not abated, but their curiosity had increased. The birds’-
nesters approached.
Suddenly the light reappeared at both windows at the same moment.
The two young urchins from Torteval took to their heels and vanished.
The daring French boy did not advance, but he kept his ground.
He remained motionless, confronting the house and watching it.
The light disappeared, and appeared again once more. Nothing could be
more horrible. The reflection made a vague streak of light upon the grass,
wet with the night dew. All of a moment the light cast upon the walls of the
house two huge dark profiles, and the shadows of enormous heads.
The house, however, being without ceilings, and having nothing left but
its four walls and roof, one window could not be lighted without the other.

Perceiving that the caulker’s apprentice kept his ground, the other birds’-
nesters returned, step by step, and one after the other, trembling and
curious. The caulker’s apprentice whispered to them, “There are ghosts in
the house. I have seen the nose of one.” The two Torteval boys got behind
their companion, standing tiptoe against his shoulder; and thus sheltered,
and taking him for their shield, felt bolder and watched also.
The house on its part seemed also to be watching them. There it stood in
the midst of that vast darkness and silence, with its two glaring eyes. These
were its upper windows. The light vanished, reappeared, and vanished
again, in the fashion of these unearthly illuminations. These sinister
intermissions had, probably, some connection with the opening and shutting
of the infernal regions. The air-hole of a sepulchre has thus been seen to
produce effects like those from a dark lantern.
Suddenly a dark form, like that of a human being, ascended to one of the
windows, as if from without, and plunged into the interior of the house.
To enter by the window is the custom with spirits.
The light was for a moment more brilliant, then went out, and appeared
no more. The house became dark. The noises resembled voices. This is
always the case. When there was anything to be seen it is silent. When all
became invisible again, noises were heard.
There is a silence peculiar to night-time at sea. The repose of darkness is
deeper on the water than on the land. When there is neither wind nor wave
in that wild expanse, over which, in ordinary time, even the flight of eagles
makes no sound, the movement of a fly could be heard. This sepulchral
quiet gave a dismal relief to the noises which issued from the house.
“Let us look,” said the French boy.
And he made a step towards the house.
The others were so frightened that they resolved to follow him. They did
not dare even to run away alone.
Just as they had passed a heap of fagots, which for some mysterious
reason seemed to inspire them with a little courage in that solitude, a white
owl flew towards them from a bush. The owls have a suspicious sort of
flight, a sidelong skim which is suggestive of mischief afloat. The bird
passed near the boys, fixing upon them its round eyes, bright amidst the
darkness.

A shudder ran through the group behind the French boy.
He looked up at the owl and said:
“Too late, my bird; I will look.”
And he advanced.
The crackling sound made by his thick-nailed boots among the furze
bushes did not prevent his hearing the noise in the house, which rose and
fell with the continuousness and the calm accent of a dialogue.
A moment afterwards the boy added:
“Besides, it is only fools who believe in spirits.”
Insolence in the face of danger rallies the cowardly, and inspirits them to
go on.
The two Torteval lads resumed their march, quickening their steps behind
the caulker’s apprentice.
The haunted house seemed to them to grow larger before their eyes. This
optical illusion of fear is founded in reality. The house did indeed grow
larger, for they were coming nearer to it.
Meanwhile the voices in the house took a tone more and more distinct.
The children listened. The ear, too, has its power of exaggerating. It was
different to a murmur, more than a whispering, less than an uproar. Now
and then one or two words, clearly articulated, could be caught. These
words, impossible to be understood, sounded strangely. The boys stopped
and listened; then went forward again.
“It’s the ghosts talking,” said the caulker’s apprentice; “but I don’t
believe in ghosts.”
The Torteval boys were sorely tempted to shrink behind the heap of
fagots, but they had already left it far behind; and their friend the caulker
continued to advance towards the house. They trembled at remaining with
him; but they dared not leave him.
Step by step, and perplexed, they followed. The caulker’s apprentice
turned towards them and said—
“You know it isn’t true. There are no such things.”
The house grew taller and taller. The voices became more and more
distinct.
They drew nearer.

And now they could perceive within the house something like a muffled
light. It was a faint glimmer, like one of those effects produced by dark
lanterns, already referred to, and which are common at the midnight
meetings of witches.
When they were close to the house they halted.
One of the two Torteval boys ventured on an observation:
“It isn’t spirits: it is ladies dressed in white.”
“What’s that hanging from the window?” asked the other.
“It looks like a rope.”
“It’s a snake.”
“It is only a hangman’s rope,” said the French boy, authoritatively.
“That’s what they use. Only I don’t believe in them.”
And in three bounds, rather than steps, he found himself against the wall
of the building.
The two others, trembling, imitated him, and came pressing against him,
one on his right side, the other on his left. The boys applied their ears to the
wall. The sounds continued.
The following was the conversation of the phantoms:—

“Asi, entendido esta?”
“Entendido.”
“Dicho?”
“Dicho.”
“Aqui esperara un hombre, y podra marcharse en Inglaterra con
Blasquito.”
“Pagando?”

“So that is understood?”

“Perfectly.”
“As is arranged?”
“As is arranged.”
“A man will wait here, and can accompany Blasquito to England.”
“Paying the expense?”

“Pagando.”
“Blasquito tomara al hombre en su barca.”
“Sin buscar para conocer a su pais?”
“No nos toca.”
“Ni a su nombre del hombre?”
“No se pide el nombre, pero se pesa la bolsa.”
“Bien: esperara el hombre en esa casa.”
“Tenga que comer.”
“Tendra.”
“Onde?”
“En este saco que he llevado.”
“Muy bien.”
“Puedo dexar el saco aqui?”
“Los contrabandistas no son ladrones.”
“Y vosotros, cuando marchais?”
“Mañana por la mañana. Si su hombre de usted parado podria venir con
nosotros.”
“Parado no esta.”
“Hacienda suya.”
“Cuantos dias esperara alli?”

“Paying the expense.”
“Blasquito will take the man in his bark.”
“Without seeking to know what country he belongs to?”
“That is no business of ours.”
“Without asking his name?”
“We do not ask for names; we only feel the weight of the purse.”
“Good: the man shall wait in this house.”
“He must have provisions.”
“He will be furnished with them.”
“How?”
“From this bag which I have brought.”
“Very good.”
“Can I leave this bag here?”
“Smugglers are not robbers.”
“And when do you go?”
“To-morrow morning. If your man was ready he could come with us.”
“He is not prepared.”
“That is his affair.”
“How many days will he have to wait in this house?”

“Dos, tres, quatro dias; menos o mas.”
“Es cierto que el Blasquito vendra?”
“Cierto.”
“En est Plainmont?”
“En est Plainmont.”
“A qual semana?”
“La que viene.”
“A qual dia?”
“Viernes, o sabado, o domingo.”

“No peuede faltar?”
“Es mi tocayo.”
“Por qualquiera tiempo viene?”
“Qualquiera. No tieme. Soy el Blasco, es el Blasquito.”
“Asi, no puede faltar de venir en Guernesey?”
“Vengo a un mes, y viene al otro mes.”
“Entiendo.”
“A cuentar del otro sabado, desde hoy en ocho, no se parasan cinco dias
sin que venga el Blasquito.”
“Pero un muy malo mar?”
“Egurraldia gaiztoa.”

“Two, three, or four days; more or less.”
“Is it certain that Blasquito will come?”
“Certain.”
“Here to Pleinmont?”
“To Pleinmont.”
“When?”
“Next week.”
“What day?”
“Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.”
“May he not fail?”
“He is my Tocayo.”
“Will he come in any weather?”
“At any time. He has no fear. My name is Blasco, his Blasquito.”
“So he cannot fail to come to Guernsey?”
“I come one month—he the other.”
“I understand.”

“Counting from Saturday last, one week from to-day, five days cannot
elapse without bringing Blasquito.”
“But if there is much sea?”
“Bad weather?”

“Si.”
“No vendria el Blasquito tan pronto, pero vendria.”
“Donde vendra?”
“De Vilvao.”
“Onde ira?”
“En Portland.”
“Bien.”
“O en Tor Bay.”
“Mejor.”
“Su humbre de usted puede estarse quieto.”
“No traidor sera, el Blasquito?”
“Los cobardes son traidores. Somos valientes. El mar es la iglesia del
invierno. La traicion es la iglesia del infierno.”
“No se entiende a lo que dicemos?”
“Escuchar a nosotros y mirar a nosotros es imposible. La espanta hace
alli el desierto.”
“Lo sè.”
“Quien se atravesaria a escuchar?”
“Es verdad.”
“Y escucharian que no entiendrian. Hablamos a una

“Yes.”

“Blasquito will not come so quickly, but he will come.”
“Whence will he come?”
“From Bilbao.”
“Where will he be going?”
“To Portland.”
“Good.”
“Or to Torbay.”
“Better still.”
“Your man may rest easy.”
“Blasquito will betray nothing?”
“Cowards are the only traitors. We are men of courage. The sea is the
church of winter. Treason is the church of hell.”
“No one hears what we say?”
“It is impossible to be seen or overheard. The people’s fear of this spot
makes it deserted.”
“I know it.”
“Who is there who would dare to listen here?”
“True.”
“Besides, if they listened, none would understand. We

lengua fiera y nuestra que no se conoce. Despues que la sabeis, eries con
nosotros.”
“Soy viendo para componer las haciendas con ustedes.”
“Bueno.”
“Y allora me voy.”
“Mucho.”
“Digame usted, hombre. Si el pasagero quiere que el Blasquito le lleven
en unguna otra parte que Portland o Tor Bay?”
“Tenga onces.”

“El Blasquito hara lo que querra el hombre?”
“El Blasquito hace lo que quieren las onces.”
“Es menester mucho tiempo para ir en Tor Bay?”
“Como quiere el viento.”
“Ocho horas?”
“Menos, o mas.”
“El Blasquito obedecera al pasagero?”
“Si le obedece el mar al Blasquito.”
“Bien pagado sera.”
“El oro es el oro. El viento es el viento.”
“Mucho.”

speak a wild language of our own, which nobody knows hereabouts. As
you know it, you are one of us.”
“I came only to make these arrangements with you.”
“Very good.”
“I must now take my leave.”
“Be it so.”
“Tell me; suppose the passenger should wish Blasquito to take him
anywhere else than to Portland or Torbay?”
“Let him bring some gold coins.”
“Will Blasquito consult the stranger’s convenience?”
“Blasquito will do whatever the gold coins command.”
“Does it take long to go to Torbay?”
“That is as it pleases the winds.”
“Eight hours?”
“More or less.”
“Will Blasquito obey the passenger?”
“If the sea will obey Blasquito.”

“He will be well rewarded.”
“Gold is gold; and the sea is the sea.”
“That is true.”

“El hombre hace lo que puede con el oro. Dios con el viento hace lo que
quiere.”
“Aqui sera viernes el que desea marcharse con Blasquito.”
“Pues.”
“A qual momento llega Blasquito.”
“A la noche. A la noche se llega, a la noche se marcha. Tenemos una
muger quien se llama el mar, y una quien se llama la noche.”
“La muger puede faltar, la hermana no.”
“Todo dicho esta. Abour, hombres.”
“Buenas tardes. Un golpe de aquardiente?”
“Gracias.”
“Es mejor que xarope.”
“Tengo vuestra palabra.”
“Mi nombre es Pundonor.”
“Sea usted con Dios.”
“Ereis gentleman, y soy caballero.”

“Man with his gold does what he can. Heaven with its winds does what it
will.”
“The man who is to accompany Blasquito will be here on Friday.”
“Good.”
“At what hour will Blasquito appear?”
“In the night. We arrive by night; and sail by night. We have a wife who
is called the sea, and a sister called night. The wife betrays sometimes; but

the sister never.”
“All is settled, then. Good-night, my men.”
“Good-night. A drop of brandy first?”
“Thank you.”
“That is better than a syrup.”
“I have your word.”
“My name is Point-of-Honour.”
“Adieu.”
“You are a gentleman: I am a caballero.”

It was clear that only devils could talk in this way. The children did not
listen long. This time they took to flight in earnest; the French boy,
convinced at last, running even quicker than the others.
On the Tuesday following this Saturday, Sieur Clubin returned to St.
Malo, bringing back the Durande.
The Tamaulipas was still at anchor in the roads.
Sieur Clubin, between the whiffs of his pipe, said to the landlord of the
Jean Auberge:
“Well; and when does the Tamaulipas get under way?”
“The day after to-morrow—Thursday,” replied the landlord.
On that evening, Clubin supped at the coast-guard officers’ table; and,
contrary to his habit, went out after his supper. The consequence of his
absence was, that he could not attend to the office of the Durande, and thus
lost a little in the matter of freights. This fact was remarked in a man
ordinarily punctual.
It appeared that he had chatted a few moments with his friend the money-
changer.
He returned two hours after Noguette had sounded the Curfew bell. The
Brazilian bell sounds at ten o’clock. It was therefore midnight.

VI
THE JACRESSADE
Forty years ago, St. Malo possessed an alley known by the name of the
“Ruelle Coutanchez.” This alley no longer exists, having been removed for
the improvements of the town.
It was a double row of houses, leaning one towards the other, and leaving
between them just room enough for a narrow rivulet, which was called the
street. By stretching the legs, it was possible to walk on both sides of the
stream, touching with head or elbows, as you went, the houses either on the
right or the left. These old relics of mediæval Normandy have almost a
human interest. Tumbledown houses and sorcerers always go together.
Their leaning stories, their overhanging walls, their bowed penthouses, and
their old thick-set irons, seem like lips, chin, nose, and eyebrows. The garret
window is the blind eye. The walls are the wrinkled and blotchy cheeks.
The opposite houses lay their foreheads together as if they were plotting
some malicious deed. All those words of ancient villany—like cut-throat,
“slit-weazand,” and the like—are closely connected with architecture of this
kind.
One of these houses in the alley—the largest and the most famous, or
notorious—was known by the name of the Jacressade.
The Jacressade was a lodging-house for people who do not lodge. In all
towns, and particularly in sea-ports, there is always found beneath the
lowest stratum of society a sort of residuum: vagabonds who are more than
a match for justice; rovers after adventures; chemists of the swindling order,
who are always dropping their lives into the melting-pot; people in rags of
every shape, and in every style of wearing them; withered fruits of roguery;
bankrupt existences; consciences that have filed their schedule; men who
have failed in the house-breaking trade (for the great masters of burglary
move in a higher sphere); workmen and workwomen in the trade of
wickedness; oddities, male and female; men in coats out at elbows;
scoundrels reduced to indigence; rogues who have missed the wages of
roguery; men who have been hit in the social duel; harpies who have no
longer any prey; petty larceners; queux in the double and unhappy meaning
of that word. Such are the constituents of that living mass. Human nature is
here reduced to something bestial. It is the refuse of the social state, heaped

up in an obscure corner, where from time to time descends that dreaded
broom which is known by the name of police. In St. Malo, the Jacressade
was the name of this corner.
It is not in dens of this sort that we find the high-class criminals—the
robbers, forgers, and other great products of ignorance and poverty. If
murder is represented here, it is generally in the person of some coarse
drunkard; in the matter of robbery, the company rarely rise higher than the
mere sharper. The vagrant is there; but not the highwayman. It would not,
however, be safe to trust this distinction. This last stage of vagabondage
may have its extremes of scoundrelism. It was on an occasion, when casting
their nets into the Epi-scié—which was in Paris what the Jacressade was in
St. Malo—that the police captured the notorious Lacenaire.
These lurking-places refuse nobody. To fall in the social scale has a
tendency to bring men to one level. Sometimes honesty in tatters found
itself there. Virtue and probity have been known before now to be brought
to strange passes. We must not judge always by appearances, even in the
palace or at the galleys. Public respect, as well as universal reprobation,
requires testing. Surprising results sometimes spring from this principle. An
angel may be discovered in the stews; a pearl in the dunghill. Such sad and
dazzling discoveries are not altogether unknown.
The Jacressade was rather a courtyard than a house; and more of a well
than a courtyard. It had no stories looking on the street. Its façade was
simply a high wall, with a low gateway. You raised the latch, pushed the
gate, and were at once in the courtyard.
In the midst of this yard might be perceived a round hole, encircled with
a margin of stones, and even with the ground. The yard was small, the well
large. A broken pavement surrounded it.
The courtyard was square, and built on three sides only. On the side of
the street was only the wall; facing you as you entered the gateway stood
the house, the two wings of which formed the sides to right and left.
Any one entering there after nightfall, at his own risk and peril, would
have heard a confused murmur of voices; and, if there had been moonlight
or starlight enough to give shape to the obscure forms before his eyes, this
is what he would have seen.
The courtyard: the well. Around the courtyard, in front of the gate, a
lean-to or shed, in a sort of horse-shoe form, but with square corners; a

rotten gallery, with a roof of joists supported by stone pillars at unequal
distances. In the centre, the well; around the well, upon a litter of straw, a
kind of circular chaplet, formed of the soles of boots and shoes; some
trodden down at heel, some showing the toes of the wearers, some the
naked heels. The feet of men, women, and children, all asleep.
Beyond these feet, the eye might have distinguished, in the shadow of the
shed, bodies, drooping heads, forms stretched out lazily, bundles of rags of
both sexes, a promiscuous assemblage, a strange and revolting mass of life.
The accommodation of this sleeping chamber was open to all, at the rate of
two sous a week. On a stormy night the rain fell upon the feet, the whirling
snow settled on the bodies of those wretched sleepers.
Who were these people? The unknown. They came there at night, and
departed in the morning. Creatures of this kind form part of the social
fabric. Some stole in during the darkness, and paid nothing. The greater part
had scarcely eaten during the day. All kinds of vice and baseness, every sort
of moral infection, every species of distress were there. The same sleep
settled down upon all in this bed of filth. The dreams of all these
companions in misery went on side by side. A dismal meeting-place, where
misery and weakness, half-sobered debauchery, weariness from long
walking to and fro, with evil thoughts, in quest of bread, pallor with closed
eyelids, remorse, envy, lay mingled and festering in the same miasma, with
faces that had the look of death, and dishevelled hair mixed with the filth
and sweepings of the streets. Such was the putrid heap of life fermenting in
this dismal spot. An unlucky turn of the wheel of fortune, a ship arrived on
the day before, a discharge from prison, a dark night, or some other chance,
had cast them here, to find a miserable shelter. Every day brought some new
accumulation of such misery. Let him enter who would, sleep who could,
speak who dared; for it was a place of whispers. The new comers hastened
to bury themselves in the mass, or tried to seek oblivion in sleep, since there
was none in the darkness of the place. They snatched what little of
themselves they could from the jaws of death. They closed their eyes in that
confusion of horrors which every day renewed. They were the embodiment
of misery, thrown off from society, as the scum is from the sea.
It was not every one who could even get a share of the straw. More than
one figure was stretched out naked upon the flags. They lay down worn out
with weariness, and awoke paralysed. The well, without lid or parapet, and

thirty feet in depth, gaped open night and day. Rain fell around it; filth
accumulated about, and the gutters of the yard ran down and filtered
through its sides. The pail for drawing the water stood by the side. Those
who were thirsty drank there; some, disgusted with life, drowned
themselves in it—slipped from their slumber in the filthy shed into that
profounder sleep. In the year 1819, the body of a boy, of fourteen years old,
was taken up out of this well.
To be safe in this house, it was necessary to be of the “right sort.” The
uninitiated were regarded with suspicion.
Did these miserable wretches, then, know each other? No; yet they
scented out the genuine guest of the Jacressade.
The mistress of the house was a young and rather pretty woman, wearing
a cap trimmed with ribbons. She washed herself now and then with water
from the well. She had a wooden leg.
At break of day, the courtyard became empty. Its inmates dispersed.
An old cock and some other fowls were kept in the courtyard, where they
raked among the filth of the place all day long. A long horizontal beam,
supported by posts, traversed the yard—a gibbet-shaped erection, not out of
keeping with the associations of the place. Sometimes on the morrow of a
rainy-day, a silk dress, mudded and wet, would be seen hanging out to dry
upon this beam. It belonged to the woman with the wooden leg.
Over the shed, and like it, surrounding the yard, was a story, and above
this story a loft. A rotten wooden ladder, passing through a hole in the roof
of the shed, conducted to this story; and up this ladder the woman would
climb, sometimes staggering while its crazy rounds creaked beneath her.
The occasional lodgers, whether by the week or the night, slept in the
courtyard; the regular inmates lived in the house.
Windows without a pane of glass, door-frames with no door, fireplaces
without stoves; such were the chief features of the interior. You might pass
from one room to the other, indifferently, by a long square aperture which
had been the door, or by a triangular hole between the joists of the
partitions. The fallen plaster of the ceiling lay about the floor. It was
difficult to say how the old house still stood erect. The high winds indeed
shook it. The lodgers ascended as they could by the worn and slippery steps
of the ladder. Everything was open to the air. The wintry atmosphere was

absorbed into the house, like water into a sponge. The multitude of spiders
seemed alone to guarantee the place against falling to pieces immediately.
There was no sign of furniture. Two or three paillasses were in the corner,
their ticking torn in parts, and showing more dust than straw within. Here
and there were a water-pot and an earthen pipkin. A close, disagreeable
odour haunted the rooms.
The windows looked out upon the square yard. The scene was like the
interior of a scavenger’s cart. The things, not to speak of the human beings,
which lay rusting, mouldering, and putrefying there, were indescribable.
The fragments seemed to fraternise together. Some fell from the walls,
others from the living tenants of the place. The débris were sown with their
tatters.
Besides the floating population which bivouacked nightly in the square
yard, the Jacressade had three permanent lodgers—a charcoal man, a rag-
picker, and a “gold-maker.” The charcoal man and the rag-picker occupied
two of the paillasses of the first story; the “gold-maker,” a chemist, lodged
in the loft, which was called, no one knew why, the garret. Nobody knew
where the woman slept. The “gold-maker” was a poet in a small way. He
inhabited a room in the roof, under the tiles—a chamber with a narrow
window, and a large stone fireplace forming a gulf, in which the wind
howled at will. The garret window having no frame, he had nailed across it
a piece of iron sheathing, part of the wreck of a ship. This sheathing left
little room for the entrance of light and much for the entrance of cold. The
charcoal-man paid rent from time to time in the shape of a sack of charcoal;
the rag-picker paid with a bowl of grain for the fowls every week; the
“gold-maker” did not pay at all. Meanwhile the latter consumed the very
house itself for fuel. He had pulled down the little woodwork which
remained; and every now and then he took from the wall or the roof a lath
or some scantling, to heat his crucible. Upon the partition, above the rag-
picker’s mattress, might have been seen two columns of figures, marked in
chalk by the rag-picker himself from week to week—a column of threes,
and a column of fives—according as the bowl of grain had cost him three
liards or five centimes. The gold-pot of the “chemist” was an old fragment
of a bomb-shell, promoted by him to the dignity of a crucible, in which he
mixed his ingredients. The transmutation of metals absorbed all his
thoughts. He was determined before he died to revenge himself by breaking
the windows of orthodox science with the real philosopher’s stone. His

furnace consumed a good deal of wood. The hand-rail of the stairs had
disappeared. The house was slowly burning away. The landlady said to him,
“You will leave us nothing but the shell.” He mollified her by addressing
her in verses.
Such was the Jacressade.
A boy of twelve, or, perhaps, sixteen—for he was like a dwarf, with a
large wen upon his neck, and always carrying a broom in his hand—was the
domestic of the place.
The habitués entered by the gateway of the courtyard; the public entered
by the shop.
In the high wall, facing the street, and to the right of the entrance to the
courtyard, was a square opening, serving at once as a door and a window.
This was the shop. The square opening had a shutter and a frame—the only
shutter in all the house which had hinges and bolts. Behind this square
aperture, which was open to the street, was a little room, a compartment
obtained by curtailing the sleeping shed in the courtyard. Over the door,
passers-by read the inscription in charcoal, “Curiosities sold here.” On three
boards, forming the shop front, were several china pots without ears, a
Chinese parasol made of goldbeater’s skin, and ornamented with figures,
torn here and there, and impossible to open or shut; fragments of iron, and
shapeless pieces of old pottery, and dilapidated hats and bonnets, three or
four shells, some packets of old bone and metal buttons, a tobacco-box with
a portrait of Marie-Antoinette, and a dog’s-eared volume of Boisbertrand’s
Algebra. Such was the stock of the shop; this assortment completed the
“curiosities.” The shop communicated by a back door with the yard in
which was the well. It was furnished with a table and a stool. The woman
with a wooden leg presided at the counter.

VII
NOCTURNAL BUYERS AND MYSTERIOUS SELLERS
Clubin had been absent from the Jean Auberge all the evening of
Tuesday. On the Wednesday night he was absent again.

In the dusk of that evening, two strangers penetrated into the mazes of
the Ruelle Coutanchez. They stopped in front of the Jacressade. One of
them knocked at the window; the door of the shop opened, and they
entered. The woman with the wooden leg met them with the smile which
she reserved for respectable citizens. There was a candle on the table.
The strangers were, in fact, respectable citizens. The one who had
knocked said, “Good-day, mistress. I have come for that affair.”
The woman with the wooden leg smiled again, and went out by the back-
door leading to the courtyard, and where the well was. A moment
afterwards the back-door was opened again, and a man stood in the
doorway. He wore a cap and a blouse. It was easy to see the shape of
something under his blouse. He had bits of old straw in his clothes, and
looked as if he had just been aroused from sleep.
He advanced and exchanged glances with the strangers. The man in the
blouse looked puzzled, but cunning; he said—
“You are the gunsmith?”
The one who had tapped at the window replied—
“Yes; you are the man from Paris?”
“Known as Redskin. Yes.”
“Show me the thing.”
The man took from under his blouse a weapon extremely rare at that
period in Europe. It was a revolver.
The weapon was new and bright. The two strangers examined it. The one
who seemed to know the house, and whom the man in the blouse had called
“the gunsmith,” tried the mechanism. He passed the weapon to the other,
who appeared less at home there, and kept his back turned to the light.
The gunsmith continued—
“How much?”
The man in the blouse replied—
“I have just brought it from America. Some people bring monkeys,
parrots, and other animals, as if the French people were savages. For myself
I brought this. It is a useful invention.”
“How much?” inquired the gunsmith again.
“It is a pistol which turns and turns.”

“How much?”
“Bang! the first fire. Bang! the second fire. Bang! the third fire. What a
hailstorm of bullets! That will do some execution.”
“The price?”
“There are six barrels.”
“Well, well, what do you want for it?”
“Six barrels; that is six Louis.”
“Will you take five?”
“Impossible. One Louis a ball. That is the price.”
“Come, let us do business together. Be reasonable.”
“I have named a fair price. Examine the weapon, Mr. Gunsmith.”
“I have examined it.”
“The barrel twists and turns like Talleyrand himself. The weapon ought
to be mentioned in the Dictionary of Weathercocks. It is a gem.”
“I have looked at it.”
“The barrels are of Spanish make.”
“I see they are.”
“They are twisted. This is how this twisting is done. They empty into a
forge the basket of a collector of old iron. They fill it full of these old
scraps, with old nails, and broken horseshoes swept out of farriers’ shops.”
“And old sickle-blades.”
“I was going to say so, Mr. Gunsmith. They apply to all this rubbish a
good sweating heat, and this makes a magnificent material for gun-barrels.”
“Yes; but it may have cracks, flaws, or crosses.”
“True; but they remedy the crosses by little twists, and avoid the risk of
doublings by beating hard. They bring their mass of iron under the great
hammer; give it two more good sweating heats. If the iron has been heated
too much, they re-temper it with dull heats, and lighter hammers. And then
they take out their stuff and roll it well; and with this iron they manufacture
you a weapon like this.”
“You are in the trade, I suppose?”
“I am of all trades.”

“The barrels are pale-coloured.”
“That’s the beauty of them, Mr. Gunsmith. The tint is obtained with
antimony.”
“It is settled, then, that we give you five Louis?”
“Allow me to observe that I had the honour of saying six.”
The gunsmith lowered his voice.
“Hark you, master. Take advantage of the opportunity. Get rid of this
thing. A weapon of this kind is of no use to a man like you. It will make you
remarked.”
“It is very true,” said the Parisian. “It is rather conspicuous. It is more
suited to a gentleman.”
“Will you take five Louis?”
“No, six; one for every shot.”
“Come, six Napoleons.”
“I will have six Louis.”
“You are not a Bonapartist, then. You prefer a Louis to a Napoleon.”
The Parisian nicknamed “Redskin” smiled.
“A Napoleon is greater,” said he, “but a Louis is worth more.”
“Six Napoleons.”
“Six Louis. It makes a difference to me of four-and-twenty francs.”
“The bargain is off in that case.”
“Good: I keep the toy.”
“Keep it.”
“Beating me down! a good idea! It shall never be said that I got rid like
that of a wonderful specimen of ingenuity.”
“Good-night, then.”
“It marks a whole stage in the progress of making pistols, which the
Chesapeake Indians call Nortay-u-Hah.”
“Five Louis, ready money. Why, it is a handful of gold.”
“‘Nortay-u-Hah,’ that signifies ‘short gun.’ A good many people don’t
know that.”
“Will you take five Louis, and just a bit of silver?”

“I said six, master.”
The man who kept his back to the candle, and who had not yet spoken,
was spending his time during the dialogue in turning and testing the
mechanism of the pistol. He approached the armourer’s ear and whispered
—
“Is it a good weapon?”
“Excellent.”
“I will give the six Louis.”
Five minutes afterwards, while the Parisian nicknamed “Redskin” was
depositing the six Louis which he had just received in a secret slit under the
breast of his blouse, the armourer and his companion carrying the revolver
in his trousers pocket, stepped out into the straggling street.

VIII
A “CANNON” OFF THE RED BALL AND THE BLACK
On the morrow, which was a Thursday, a tragic circumstance occurred at
a short distance from St. Malo, near the peak of the “Décollé,” a spot where
the cliff is high and the sea deep.
A line of rocks in the form of the top of a lance, and connecting
themselves with the land by a narrow isthmus, stretch out there into the
water, ending abruptly with a large peak-shaped breaker. Nothing is
commoner in the architecture of the sea. In attempting to reach the plateau
of the peaked rock from the shore, it was necessary to follow an inclined
plane, the ascent of which was here and there somewhat steep.
It was upon a plateau of this kind, towards four o’clock in the afternoon,
that a man was standing, enveloped in a large military cape, and armed; a
fact easy to be perceived from certain straight and angular folds in his
mantle. The summit on which this man was resting was a rather extensive
platform, dotted with large masses of rock, like enormous paving-stones,
leaving between them narrow passages. This platform, on which a kind of
thick, short grass grew here and there, came to an end on the sea side in an

open space, leading to a perpendicular escarpment. The escarpment, rising
about sixty feet above the level of the sea, seemed cut down by the aid of a
plumb-line. Its left angle, however, was broken away, and formed one of
those natural staircases common to granite cliffs worn by the sea, the steps
of which are somewhat inconvenient, requiring sometimes the strides of a
giant or the leaps of an acrobat. These stages of rock descended
perpendicularly to the sea, where they were lost. It was a break-neck place.
However, in case of absolute necessity, a man might succeed in embarking
there, under the very wall of the cliff.
A breeze was sweeping the sea. The man wrapped in his cape and
standing firm, with his left hand grasping his right shoulder, closed one eye,
and applied the other to a telescope. He seemed absorbed in anxious
scrutiny. He had approached the edge of the escarpment, and stood there
motionless, his gaze immovably fixed on the horizon. The tide was high;
the waves were beating below against the foot of the cliffs.
The object which the stranger was observing was a vessel in the offing,
and which was manœuvring in a strange manner. The vessel, which had
hardly left the port of St. Malo an hour, had stopped behind the Banquetiers.
It had not cast anchor, perhaps because the bottom would only have
permitted it to bear to leeward on the edge of the cable, and because the
ship would have strained on her anchor under the cutwater. Her captain had
contented himself with lying-to.
The stranger, who was a coast-guardman, as was apparent from his
uniform cape, watched all the movements of the three-master, and seemed
to note them mentally. The vessel was lying-to, a little off the wind, which
was indicated by the backing of the small topsail, and the bellying of the
main-topsail. She had squared the mizen, and set the topmast as close as
possible, and in such a manner as to work the sails against each other, and
to make little way either on or off shore. Her captain evidently did not care
to expose his vessel much to the wind, for he had only braced up the small
mizen-topsail. In this way, coming crossway on, he did not drift at the
utmost more than half a league an hour.
It was still broad daylight, particularly on the open sea, and on the
heights of the cliff. The shores below were becoming dark.
The coast-guardman, still engaged in his duty, and carefully scanning the
offing, had not thought of observing the rocks at his side and at his feet. He

turned his back towards the difficult sort of causeway which formed the
communication between his resting-place and the shore. He did not,
therefore, remark that something was moving in that direction. Behind a
fragment of rock, among the steps of that causeway, something like the
figure of a man had been concealed, according to all appearances, since the
arrival of the coast-guardman. From time to time a head issued from the
shadow behind the rock; looked up and watched the watcher. The head,
surmounted by a wide-brimmed American hat, was that of the Quaker-
looking man, who, ten days before, was talking among the stones of the
Petit-Bey to Captain Zuela.
Suddenly, the curiosity of the coast-guardman seemed to be still more
strongly awakened. He polished the glass of his telescope quickly with his
sleeve, and brought it to bear closely upon the three-master.
A little black spot seemed to detach itself from her side.
The black spot, looking like a small insect upon the water, was a boat.
The boat seemed to be making for the shore. It was manned by several
sailors, who were pulling vigorously.
She pulled crosswise by little and little, and appeared to be approaching
the Pointe du Décollé.
The gaze of the coast-guardman seemed to have reached its most intense
point. No movement of the boat escaped it. He had approached nearer still
to the verge of the rock.
At that instant a man of large stature appeared on one of the rocks behind
him. It was the Quaker. The officer did not see him.
The man paused an instant, his arms at his sides, but with his fists
doubled; and with the eye of a hunter, watching for his prey, he observed
the back of the officer.
Four steps only separated them. He put one foot forward, then stopped;
took a second step, and stopped again. He made no movement except the
act of walking; all the rest of his body was motionless as a statue. His foot
fell upon the tufts of grass without noise. He made a third step, and paused
again. He was almost within reach of the coast-guard, who stood there still
motionless with his telescope. The man brought his two closed fists to a
level with his collar-bone, then struck out his arms sharply, and his two
fists, as if thrown from a sling, struck the coast-guardman on the two

shoulders. The shock was decisive. The coast-guardman had not the time to
utter a cry. He fell head first from the height of the rock into the sea. His
boots appeared in the air about the time occupied by a flash of lightning. It
was like the fall of a stone in the sea, which instantly closed over him.
Two or three circles widened out upon the dark water.
Nothing remained but the telescope, which had dropped from the hands
of the man, and lay upon the turf.
The Quaker leaned over the edge of the escarpment a moment, watched
the circles vanishing on the water, waited a few minutes, and then rose
again, singing in a low voice:
“The captain of police is dead,
Through having lost his life.”
He knelt down a second time. Nothing reappeared. Only at the spot
where the officer had been engulfed, he observed on the surface of the
water a sort of dark spot, which became diffused with the gentle lapping of
the waves. It seemed probable that the coast-guardman had fractured his
skull against some rock under water, and that his blood caused the spot in
the foam. The Quaker, while considering the meaning of this spot, began to
sing again:
“Not very long before he died,
The luckless man was still alive.”
He did not finish his song.
He heard an extremely soft voice behind him, which said:
“Is that you, Rantaine? Good-day. You have just killed a man!”
He turned. About fifteen paces behind him, in one of the passages
between the rocks, stood a little man holding a revolver in his hand.
The Quaker answered:
“As you see. Good-day, Sieur Clubin.”
The little man started.
“You know me?”
“You knew me very well,” replied Rantaine.
Meanwhile they could hear a sound of oars on the sea. It was the
approach of the boat which the officer had observed.

Sieur Clubin said in a low tone, as if speaking to himself:
“It was done quickly.”
“What can I do to oblige you?” asked Rantaine.
“Oh, a trifling matter! It is very nearly ten years since I saw you. You
must have been doing well. How are you?”
“Well enough,” answered Rantaine. “How are you?”
“Very well,” replied Clubin.
Rantaine advanced a step towards Clubin.
A little sharp click caught his ear. It was Sieur Clubin who was cocking
his revolver.
“Rantaine, there are about fifteen paces between us. It is a nice distance.
Remain where you are.”
“Very well,” said Rantaine. “What do you want with me?”
“I! Oh, I have come to have a chat with you.”
Rantaine did not offer to move again. Sieur Clubin continued:
“You assassinated a coast-guardman just now.”
Rantaine lifted the flap of his hat, and replied:
“You have already done me the honour to mention it.”
“Exactly; but in terms less precise. I said a man: I say now, a coast-
guardman. The man wore the number 619. He was the father of a family;
leaves a wife and five children.”
“That is no doubt correct,” said Rantaine.
There was a momentary pause.
“They are picked men—those coast-guard people,” continued Clubin;
“almost all old sailors.”
“I have remarked,” said Rantaine, “that people generally do leave a wife
and five children.”
Sieur Clubin continued:
“Guess how much this revolver cost me?”
“It is a pretty tool,” said Rantaine.
“What do you guess it at?”
“I should guess it at a good deal.”

“It cost me one hundred and forty-four francs.”
“You must have bought that,” said Rantaine, “at the shop in the Ruelle
Coutanchez.”
Clubin continued:
“He did not cry out. The fall stopped his voice, no doubt.”
“Sieur Clubin, there will be a breeze to-night.”
“I am the only one in the secret.”
“Do you still stay at the Jean Auberge?”
“Yes: you are not badly served there.”
“I remember getting some excellent sour-krout there.”
“You must be exceedingly strong, Rantaine. What shoulders you have! I
should be sorry to get a tap from you. I, on the other hand, when I came into
the world, looked so spare and sickly, that they despaired of rearing me.”
“They succeeded though; which was lucky.”
“Yes: I still stay at the Jean Auberge.”
“Do you know, Sieur Clubin, how I recognised you? It was from your
having recognised me. I said to myself, there is nobody like Sieur Clubin
for that.”
And he advanced a step.
“Stand back where you were, Rantaine.”
Rantaine fell back, and said to himself:
“A fellow becomes like a child before one of those weapons.”
Sieur Clubin continued:
“The position of affairs is this: we have on our right, in the direction of
St. Enogat, at about three hundred paces from here, another coast-guardman
—his number is 618—who is still alive; and on our left, in the direction of
St. Lunaire—a customs station. That makes seven armed men who could be
here, if necessary, in five minutes. The rock would be surrounded; the way
hither guarded. Impossible to elude them. There is a corpse at the foot of
this rock.”
Rantaine took a side-way glance at the revolver.
“As you say, Rantaine, it is a pretty tool. Perhaps it is only loaded with
powder; but what does that matter? A report would be enough to bring an

armed force—and I have six barrels here.”
The measured sound of the oars became very distinct. The boat was not
far off.
The tall man regarded the little man curiously. Sieur Clubin spoke in a
voice more and more soft and subdued.
“Rantaine, the men in the boat which is coming, knowing what you did
here just now, would lend a hand and help to arrest you. You are to pay
Captain Zuela ten thousand francs for your passage. You would have made
a better bargain, by the way, with the smugglers of Pleinmont; but they
would only have taken you to England; and besides, you cannot risk going
to Guernsey, where they have the pleasure of knowing you. To return, then,
to the position of affairs—if I fire, you are arrested. You are to pay Zuela for
your passage ten thousand francs. You have already paid him five thousand
in advance. Zuela would keep the five thousand and be gone. These are the
facts. Rantaine, you have managed your masquerading very well. That hat
—that queer coat—and those gaiters make a wonderful change. You forgot
the spectacles; but did right to let your whiskers grow.”
Rantaine smiled spasmodically. Clubin continued:
“Rantaine, you have on a pair of American breeches, with a double fob.
In one side you keep your watch. Take care of it.”
“Thank you, Sieur Clubin.”
“In the other is a little box made of wrought iron, which opens and shuts
with a spring. It is an old sailor’s tobacco-box. Take it out of your pocket,
and throw it over to me.”
“Why, this is robbery.”
“You are at liberty to call the coast-guardman.”
And Clubin fixed his eye on Rantaine.
“Stay, Mess Clubin,” said Rantaine, making a slight forward movement,
and holding out his open hand.
The title “Mess” was a delicate flattery.
“Stay where you are, Rantaine.”
“Mess Clubin, let us come to terms. I offer you half.”
Clubin crossed his arms, still showing the barrels of his revolver.
“Rantaine, what do you take me for? I am an honest man.”

And he added after a pause:
“I must have the whole.”
Rantaine muttered between his teeth, “This fellow’s of a stern sort.”
The eye of Clubin lighted up, his voice became clear and sharp as steel.
He cried:
“I see that you are labouring under a mistake. Robbery is your name, not
mine. My name is Restitution. Hark you, Rantaine. Ten years ago you left
Guernsey one night, taking with you the cash-box of a certain partnership
concern, containing fifty thousand francs which belonged to you, but
forgetting to leave behind you fifty thousand francs which were the
property of another. Those fifty thousand francs, the money of your partner,
the excellent and worthy Mess Lethierry, make at present, at compound
interest, calculated for ten years, eighty thousand six hundred and sixty-six
francs. You went into a money-changer’s yesterday. I’ll give you his name
—Rébuchet, in St. Vincent Street. You counted out to him seventy-six
thousand francs in French bank-notes; in exchange for which he gave you
three notes of the Bank of England for one thousand pounds sterling each,
plus the exchange. You put these bank-notes in the iron tobacco-box, and
the iron tobacco-box into your double fob on the right-hand side. On the
part of Mess Lethierry, I shall be content with that. I start to-morrow for
Guernsey, and intend to hand it to him. Rantaine, the three-master lying-to
out yonder is the Tamaulipas. You have had your luggage put aboard there
with the other things belonging to the crew. You want to leave France. You
have your reasons. You are going to Arequipa. The boat is coming to fetch
you. You are awaiting it. It is at hand. You can hear it. It depends on me
whether you go or stay. No more words. Fling me the tobacco-box.”
Rantaine dipped his hand in the fob, drew out a little box, and threw it to
Clubin. It was the iron tobacco-box. It fell and rolled at Clubin’s feet.
Clubin knelt without lowering his gaze; felt about for the box with his
left hand, keeping all the while his eyes and the six barrels of the revolver
fixed upon Rantaine.
Then he cried:
“Turn your back, my friend.”
Rantaine turned his back.

Sieur Clubin put the revolver under one arm, and touched the spring of
the tobacco-box. The lid flew open.
It contained four bank-notes; three of a thousand pounds, and one of ten
pounds.
He folded up the three bank-notes of a thousand pounds each, replaced
them in the iron tobacco-box, shut the lid again, and put it in his pocket.
Then he picked up a stone, wrapped it in the ten-pound note, and said:
“You may turn round again.”
Rantaine turned.
Sieur Clubin continued:
“I told you I would be contented with three thousand pounds. Here, I
return you ten pounds.”
And he threw to Rantaine the note enfolding the stone.
Rantaine, with a movement of his foot, sent the bank-note and the stone
into the sea.
“As you please,” said Clubin. “You must be rich. I am satisfied.”
The noise of oars, which had been continually drawing nearer during the
dialogue, ceased. They knew by this that the boat had arrived at the base of
the cliff.
“Your vehicle waits below. You can go, Rantaine.”
Rantaine advanced towards the steps of stones, and rapidly disappeared.
Clubin moved cautiously towards the edge of the escarpment, and
watched him descending.
The boat had stopped near the last stage of the rocks, at the very spot
where the coast-guardman had fallen.
Still observing Rantaine stepping from stone to stone, Clubin muttered:
“A good number 619. He thought himself alone. Rantaine thought there
were only two there. I alone knew that there were three.”
He perceived at his feet the telescope which had dropped from the hands
of the coast-guardman.
The sound of oars was heard again. Rantaine had stepped into the boat,
and the rowers had pushed out to sea.

When Rantaine was safely in the boat, and the cliff was beginning to
recede from his eyes, he arose again abruptly. His features were convulsed
with rage; he clenched his fist and cried:
“Ha! he is the devil himself; a villain!”
A few seconds later, Clubin, from the top of the rock, while bringing his
telescope to bear upon the boat, heard distinctly the following words
articulated by a loud voice, and mingling with the noise of the sea:
“Sieur Clubin, you are an honest man; but you will not be offended if I
write to Lethierry to acquaint him with this matter; and we have here in the
boat a sailor from Guernsey, who is one of the crew of the Tamaulipas; his
name is Ahier-Tostevin, and he will return to St. Malo on Zuela’s next
voyage, to bear testimony to the fact of my having returned to you, on Mess
Lethierry’s account, the sum of three thousand pounds sterling.”
It was Rantaine’s voice.
Clubin rarely did things by halves. Motionless as the coast-guardman had
been, and in the exact same place, his eye still at the telescope, he did not
lose sight of the boat for one moment. He saw it growing less amidst the
waves; watched it disappear and reappear, and approach the vessel, which
was lying-to; finally he recognised the tall figure of Rantaine on the deck of
the Tamaulipas.
When the boat was raised, and slung again to the davits, the Tamaulipas
was in motion once more. The land-breeze was fresh, and she spread all her
sails. Clubin’s glass continued fixed upon her outline growing more and
more indistinct; until half an hour later, when the Tamaulipas had become
only a dark shape upon the horizon, growing smaller and smaller against the
pale twilight in the sky.

IX

USEFUL INFORMATION FOR PERSONS WHO EXPECT OR
FEAR THE ARRIVAL OF LETTERS FROM BEYOND SEA
On that evening, Sieur Clubin returned late.

One of the causes of his delay was, that before going to his inn, he had
paid a visit to the Dinan gate of the town, a place where there were several
wine-shops. In one of these wine-shops, where he was not known, he had
bought a bottle of brandy, which he placed in the pocket of his overcoat, as
if he desired to conceal it. Then, as the Durande was to start on the
following morning, he had taken a turn aboard to satisfy himself that
everything was in order.
When Sieur Clubin returned to the Jean Auberge, there was no one left in
the lower room except the old sea-captain, M. Gertrais-Gaboureau, who
was drinking a jug of ale and smoking his pipe.
M. Gertrais-Gaboureau saluted Sieur Clubin between a whiff and a
draught of ale.
“How d’ye do, Captain Clubin?”
“Good evening, Captain Gertrais.”
“Well, the Tamaulipas is gone.”
“Ah!” said Clubin, “I did not observe.”
Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau expectorated, and said:
“Zuela has decamped.”
“When was that?”
“This evening.”
“Where is he gone?”
“To the devil.”
“No doubt; but where is that?”
“To Arequipa.”
“I knew nothing of it,” said Clubin.
He added:
“I am going to bed.”
He lighted his candle, walked towards the door, and returned.
“Have you ever been at Arequipa, Captain?”
“Yes; some years ago.”
“Where do they touch on that voyage?”
“A little everywhere; but the Tamaulipas will touch nowhere.”

M. Gertrais-Gaboureau emptied his pipe upon the corner of a plate and
continued:
“You know the lugger called the Trojan Horse, and that fine three-master,
the Trentemouzin, which are gone to Cardiff? I was against their sailing on
account of the weather. They have returned in a fine state. The lugger was
laden with turpentine; she sprang a leak, and in working the pumps they
pumped up with the water all her cargo. As to the three-master, she has
suffered most above water. Her cutwater, her headrail, the stock of her
larboard anchor are broken. Her standing jibboom is gone clean by the cap.
As for the jib-shrouds and bobstays, go and see what they look like. The
mizenmast is not injured, but has had a severe shock. All the iron of the
bowsprit has given way; and it is an extraordinary fact that, though the
bowsprit itself is not scratched, it is completely stripped. The larboard-bow
of the vessel is stove in a good three feet square. This is what comes of not
taking advice.”
Clubin had placed the candle on the table, and had begun to readjust a
row of pins which he kept in the collar of his overcoat. He continued:
“Didn’t you say, Captain, that the Tamaulipas would not touch
anywhere?”
“Yes; she goes direct to Chili.”
“In that case, she can send no news of herself on the voyage.”
“I beg your pardon, Captain Clubin. In the first place, she can send any
letters by vessels she may meet sailing for Europe.”
“That is true.”
“Then there is the ocean letter-box.”
“What do you mean by the ocean letter-box?”
“Don’t you know what that is, Captain Clubin?”
“No.”
“When you pass the straits of Magellan——”
“Well.”
“Snow all round you; always bad weather; ugly down-easters, and bad
seas.”
“Well.”
“When you have doubled Cape Monmouth——”

“Well, what next?”
“Then you double Cape Valentine.”
“And then?”
“Why, then you double Cape Isidore.”
“And afterwards?”
“You double Point Anne.”
“Good. But what is it you call the ocean letter-box?”
“We are coming to that. Mountains on the right, mountains on the left.
Penguins and stormy petrels all about. A terrible place. Ah! by Jove, what a
howling and what cracks you get there! The hurricane wants no help. That’s
the place for holding on to the sheer-rails; for reefing topsails. That’s where
you take in the mainsail, and fly the jibsail; or take in the jibsail and try the
stormjib. Gusts upon gusts! And then, sometimes four, five, or six days of
scudding under bare poles. Often only a rag of canvas left. What a dance!
Squalls enough to make a three-master skip like a flea. I saw once a cabin-
boy hanging on to the jibboom of an English brig, the True Blue, knocked,
jibboom and all, to ten thousand nothings. Fellows are swept into the air
there like butterflies. I saw the second mate of the Revenue, a pretty
schooner, knocked from under the forecross-tree, and killed dead. I have
had my sheer-rails smashed, and come out with all my sails in ribbons.
Frigates of fifty guns make water like wicker baskets. And the damnable
coast! Nothing can be imagined more dangerous. Rocks all jagged-edged.
You come, by and by, to Port Famine. There it’s worse and worse. The
worst seas I ever saw in my life. The devil’s own latitudes. All of a sudden
you spy the words, painted in red, ‘Post Office.’”

“What do you mean, Captain Gertrais?”
“I mean, Captain Clubin, that immediately after doubling Point Anne you
see, on a rock, a hundred feet high, a great post with a barrel suspended to
the top. This barrel is the letter-box. The English sailors must needs go and
write up there ‘Post Office.’ What had they to do with it? It is the ocean
post-office. It isn’t the property of that worthy gentleman, the King of
England. The box is common to all. It belongs to every flag. Post Office!
there’s a crack-jaw word for you. It produces an effect on me as if the devil
had suddenly offered me a cup of tea. I will tell you now how the postal
arrangements are carried out. Every vessel which passes sends to the post a
boat with despatches. A vessel coming from the Atlantic, for instance, sends
there its letters for Europe; and a ship coming from the Pacific, its letters for
New Zealand or California. The officer in command of the boat puts his
packet into the barrel, and takes away any packet he finds there. You take
charge of these letters, and the ship which comes after you takes charge of
yours. As ships are always going to and fro, the continent whence you come
is that to which I am going. I carry your letters; you carry mine. The barrel
is made fast to the post with a chain. And it rains, snows and hails! A pretty
sea. The imps of Satan fly about on every side. The Tamaulipas will pass
there. The barrel has a good lid with a hinge, but no padlock. You see, a
fellow can write to his friends this way. The letters come safely.”
“It is very curious,” muttered Clubin thoughtfully.
Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau returned to his bottle of ale.
“If that vagabond Zuela should write (continued Clubin aside), the
scoundrel puts his scrawl into the barrel at Magellan, and in four months I
have his letter.”
“Well, Captain Clubin, do you start to-morrow?”
Clubin, absorbed in a sort of somnambulism, did not notice the question;
and Captain Gertrais repeated it.
Clubin woke up.
“Of course, Captain Gertrais. It is my day. I must start to-morrow
morning.”
“If it was my case, I shouldn’t, Captain Clubin. The hair of the dog’s coat
feels damp. For two nights past, the sea-birds have been flying wildly round
the lanthorn of the lighthouse. A bad sign. I have a storm-glass, too, which

gives me a warning. The moon is at her second quarter; it is the maximum
of humidity. I noticed to-day some pimpernels with their leaves shut, and a
field of clover with its stalks all stiff. The worms come out of the ground to-
day; the flies sting; the bees keep close to their hives; the sparrows chatter
together. You can hear the sound of bells from far off. I heard to-night the
Angelus at St. Lunaire. And then the sun set angry. There will be a good fog
to-morrow, mark my words. I don’t advise you to put to sea. I dread the fog
a good deal more than a hurricane. It’s a nasty neighbour that.”

BOOK VI
THE DRUNKEN STEERSMAN AND THE SOBER CAPTAIN

I
THE DOUVRES
At about five leagues out, in the open sea, to the south of Guernsey,
opposite Pleinmont Point, and between the Channel Islands and St. Malo,
there is a group of rocks, called the Douvres. The spot is dangerous.
This term Douvres, applied to rocks and cliffs, is very common. There is,
for example, near the Côtes du Nord, a Douvre, on which a lighthouse is
now being constructed, a dangerous reef; but one which must not be
confounded with the rock above referred to.
The nearest point on the French coast to the Douvres is Cape Bréhat. The
Douvres are a little further from the coast of France than from the nearest of
the Channel Islands. The distance from Jersey may be pretty nearly
measured by the extreme length of Jersey. If the island of Jersey could be
turned round upon Corbière, as upon a hinge, St. Catherine’s Point would
almost touch the Douvres, at a distance of more than four leagues.
In these civilised regions the wildest rocks are rarely desert places.
Smugglers are met with at Hagot, custom-house men at Binic, Celts at
Bréhat, oyster-dredgers at Cancale, rabbit-shooters at Césambre or Cæsar’s

Island, crab-gatherers at Brecqhou, trawlers at the Minquiers, dredgers at
Ecréhou, but no one is ever seen upon the Douvres.
The sea birds alone make their home there.
No spot in the ocean is more dreaded. The Casquets, where it is said the
Blanche Nef was lost; the Bank of Calvados; the Needles in the Isle of
Wight; the Ronesse, which makes the coast of Beaulieu so dangerous; the
sunken reefs at Préel, which block the entrance to Merquel, and which
necessitates the red-painted beacon in twenty fathoms of water, the
treacherous approaches to Etables and Plouha; the two granite Druids to the
south of Guernsey, the Old Anderlo and the Little Anderlo, the Corbière, the
Hanways, the Isle of Ras, associated with terror in the proverb:
“Si jamais tu passes le Ras,
Si tu ne meurs, tu trembleras.”
the Mortes-Femmes, the Déroute between Guernsey and Jersey, the
Hardent between the Minquiers and Chousey, the Mauvais Cheval between
Bouley Bay and Barneville, have not so evil a reputation. It would be
preferable to have to encounter all these dangers, one after the other, than
the Douvres once.
In all that perilous sea of the Channel, which is the Egean of the West, the
Douvres have no equal in their terrors, except the Paternoster between
Guernsey and Sark.
From the Paternoster, however, it is possible to give a signal—a ship in
distress there may obtain succour. To the north rises Dicard or D’Icare
Point, and to the south Grosnez. From the Douvres you can see nothing.
Its associations are the storm, the cloud, the wild sea, the desolate waste,
the uninhabited coast. The blocks of granite are hideous and enormous—
everywhere perpendicular wall—the severe inhospitality of the abyss.
It is in the open sea; the water about is very deep. A rock completely
isolated like the Douvres attracts and shelters creatures which shun the
haunts of men. It is a sort of vast submarine cave of fossil coral branches—
a drowned labyrinth. There, at a depth to which divers would find it
difficult to descend, are caverns, haunts, and dusky mazes, where monstrous
creatures multiply and destroy each other. Huge crabs devour fish and are
devoured in their turn. Hideous shapes of living things, not created to be
seen by human eyes, wander in this twilight. Vague forms of antennæ,

tentacles, fins, open jaws, scales, and claws, float about there, quivering,
growing larger, or decomposing and perishing in the gloom, while horrible
swarms of swimming things prowl about seeking their prey.
To gaze into the depths of the sea is, in the imagination, like beholding
the vast unknown, and from its most terrible point of view. The submarine
gulf is analogous to the realm of night and dreams. There also is sleep,
unconsciousness, or at least apparent unconsciousness, of creation. There,
in the awful silence and darkness, the rude first forms of life, phantom-like,
demoniacal, pursue their horrible instincts.
Forty years ago, two rocks of singular form signalled the Douvres from
afar to passers on the ocean. They were two vertical points, sharp and
curved—their summits almost touching each other. They looked like the
two tusks of an elephant rising out of the sea; but they were tusks, high as
tall towers, of an elephant huge as a mountain. These two natural towers,
rising out of the obscure home of marine monsters, only left a narrow
passage between them, where the waves rushed through. This passage,
tortuous and full of angles, resembled a straggling street between high
walls. The two twin rocks are called the Douvres. There was the Great
Douvre and the Little Douvre; one was sixty feet high, the other forty. The
ebb and flow of the tide had at last worn away part of the base of the
towers, and a violent equinoctial gale on the 26th of October, 1859,
overthrew one of them. The smaller one, which still remains, is worn and
tottering.
One of the most singular of the Douvres is a rock known as “The Man.”
This still exists. Some fisherman in the last century visiting this spot found
on the height of the rock a human body. By its side were a number of empty
sea-shells. A sailor escaped from shipwreck had found a refuge there; had
lived some time upon rock limpets, and had died. Hence its name of “The
Man.”
The solitudes of the sea are peculiarly dismal. The things which pass
there seem to have no relation to the human race; their objects are
unknown. Such is the isolation of the Douvres. All around, as far as eye can
reach, spreads the vast and restless sea.

II

AN UNEXPECTED FLASK OF BRANDY
On the Friday morning, the day after the departure of the Tamaulipas, the
Durande started again for Guernsey.
She left St. Malo at nine o’clock. The weather was fine; no haze. Old
Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau was evidently in his dotage.
Sieur Clubin’s numerous occupations had decidedly been unfavourable to
the collection of freight for the Durande. He had only taken aboard some
packages of Parisian articles for the fancy shops of St. Peter’s Port; three
cases for the Guernsey hospital, one containing yellow soap and long
candles, and the other French shoe leather for soles, and choice Cordovan
skins. He brought back from his last cargo a case of crushed sugar and three
chests of congou tea, which the French custom-house would not permit to
pass. He had embarked very few cattle; some bullocks only. These bullocks
were in the hold loosely tethered.
There were six passengers aboard; a Guernsey man, two inhabitants of
St. Malo, dealers in cattle: a “tourist,”—a phrase already in vogue at this
period—a Parisian citizen, probably travelling on commercial affairs, and
an American, engaged in distributing Bibles.
Without reckoning Clubin, the crew of the Durande amounted to seven
men; a helmsman, a stoker, a ship’s carpenter, and a cook—serving as
sailors in case of need—two engineers, and a cabin boy. One of the two
engineers was also a practical mechanic. This man, a bold and intelligent
Dutch negro, who had originally escaped from the sugar plantations of
Surinam, was named Imbrancam. The negro, Imbrancam, understood and
attended admirably to the engine. In the early days of the “Devil Boat,” his
black face, appearing now and then at the top of the engine-room stairs, had
contributed not a little to sustain its diabolical reputation.
The helmsman, a native of Guernsey, but of a family originally from
Cotentin, bore the name of Tangrouille. The Tangrouilles were an old noble
family.
This was strictly true. The Channel Islands are like England, an
aristocratic region. Castes exist there still. The castes have their peculiar
ideas, which are, in fact, their protection. These notions of caste are

everywhere similar; in Hindostan, as in Germany, nobility is won by the
sword; lost by soiling the hands with labour: but preserved by idleness. To
do nothing, is to live nobly; whoever abstains from work is honoured. A
trade is fatal. In France, in old times, there was no exception to this rule,
except in the case of glass manufacturers. Emptying bottles being then one
of the glories of gentlemen, making them was probably, for that reason, not
considered dishonourable. In the Channel archipelago, as in Great Britain,
he who would remain noble must contrive to be rich. A working man cannot
possibly be a gentleman. If he has ever been one, he is so no longer. Yonder
sailor, perhaps, descends from the Knights Bannerets, but is nothing but a
sailor. Thirty years ago, a real Gorges, who would have had rights over the
Seigniory of Gorges, confiscated by Philip Augustus, gathered seaweed,
naked-footed, in the sea. A Carteret is a waggoner in Sark. There are at
Jersey a draper, and at Guernsey a shoemaker, named Gruchy, who claim to
be Grouchys, and cousins of the Marshal of Waterloo. The old registers of
the Bishopric of Coutances make mention of a Seigniory of Tangroville,
evidently from Tancarville on the lower Seine, which is identical with
Montmorency. In the fifteenth century, Johan de Héroudeville, archer and
étoffe of the Sire de Tangroville, bore behind him “son corset et ses autres
harnois.” In May, 1371, at Pontorson, at the review of Bertrand du
Guesclin, Monsieur de Tangroville rendered his homage as Knight
Bachelor. In the Norman islands, if a noble falls into poverty, he is soon
eliminated from the order. A mere change of pronunciation is enough.
Tangroville becomes Tangrouille: and the thing is done.
This had been the fate of the helmsman of the Durande.
At the Bordagé of St. Peter’s Port, there is a dealer in old iron named
Ingrouille, who is probably an Ingroville. Under Lewis le Gros the
Ingrovilles possessed three parishes in the district of Valognes. A certain
Abbé Trigan has written an Ecclesiastical History of Normandy. This
chronicler Trigan was the curé of the Seigniory of Digoville. The Sire of
Digoville, if he had sunk to a lower grade, would have been called
Digouille.
Tangrouille, this probable Tancarville, and possible Montmorency, had an
ancient noble quality, but a grave failing for a steersman; he got drunk
occasionally.

Sieur Clubin had obstinately determined to retain him. He answered for
his conduct to Mess Lethierry.
Tangrouille the helmsman never left the vessel; he slept aboard.
On the eve of their departure, when Sieur Clubin came at a late hour to
inspect the vessel, the steersman was in his hammock asleep.
In the night Tangrouille awoke. It was his nightly habit. Every drunkard
who is not his own master has his secret hiding-place. Tangrouille had his,
which he called his store. The secret store of Tangrouille was in the hold.
He had placed it there to put others off the scent. He thought it certain that
his hiding-place was known only to himself. Captain Clubin, being a sober
man himself, was strict. The little rum or gin which the helmsman could
conceal from the vigilant eyes of the captain, he kept in reserve in this
mysterious corner of the hold, and nearly every night he had a stolen
interview with the contents of this store. The surveillance was rigorous, the
orgie was a poor one, and Tangrouille’s nightly excesses were generally
confined to two or three furtive draughts. Sometimes it happened that the
store was empty. This night Tangrouille had found there an unexpected
bottle of brandy. His joy was great; but his astonishment greater. From what
cloud had it fallen? He could not remember when or how he had ever
brought it into the ship. He soon, however, consumed the whole of it; partly
from motives of prudence, and partly from a fear that the brandy might be
discovered and seized. The bottle he threw overboard. In the morning, when
he took the helm, Tangrouille exhibited a slight oscillation of the body.
He steered, however, pretty nearly as usual.
With regard to Clubin, he had gone, as the reader knows, to sleep at the
Jean Auberge.
Clubin always wore, under his shirt, a leathern travelling belt, in which
he kept a reserve of twenty guineas; he took this belt off only at night.
Inside the belt was his name “Clubin,” written by himself on the rough
leather, with thick lithographer’s ink, which is indelible.
On rising, just before his departure, he put into this girdle the iron box
containing the seventy-five thousand francs in bank-notes; then, as he was
accustomed to do, he buckled the belt round his body.

III

CONVERSATIONS INTERRUPTED
The Durande started pleasantly. The passengers, as soon as their bags and
portmanteaus were installed upon and under the benches, took that
customary survey of the vessel which seems indispensable under the
circumstances. Two of the passengers—the tourist and the Parisian—had
never seen a steam-vessel before, and from the moment the paddles began
to revolve, they stood admiring the foam. Then they looked with
wonderment at the smoke. Then they examined one by one, and almost
piece by piece upon the upper and lower deck, all those naval appliances
such as rings, grapnels, hooks and bolts, which, with their nice precision
and adaptation, form a kind of colossal bijouterie—a sort of iron jewellery,
fantastically gilded with rust by the weather. They walked round the little
signal gun upon the upper deck. “Chained up like a sporting dog,” observed
the tourist. “And covered with a waterproof coat to prevent its taking cold,”
added the Parisian. As they left the land further behind, they indulged in the
customary observations upon the view of St. Malo. One passenger laid
down the axiom that the approach to a place by sea is always deceptive; and
that at a league from the shore, for example, nothing could more resemble
Ostend than Dunkirk. He completed his series of remarks on Dunkirk by the
observation that one of its two floating lights painted red was called
Ruytingen, and the other Mardyck.
St. Malo, meanwhile, grew smaller in the distance, and finally
disappeared from view.
The aspect of the sea was a vast calm. The furrow left in the water by the
vessel was a long double line edged with foam, and stretching straight
behind them as far as the eye could see.
A straight line drawn from St. Malo in France to Exeter in England
would touch the island of Guernsey. The straight line at sea is not always
the one chosen. Steam-vessels, however, have, to a certain extent, a power
of following the direct course denied to sailing ships.
The wind in co-operation with the sea is a combination of forces. A ship
is a combination of appliances. Forces are machines of infinite power.
Machines are forces of limited power. That struggle which we call

navigation is between these two organisations, the one inexhaustible, the
other intelligent.
Mind, directing the mechanism, forms the counterbalance to the infinite
power of the opposing forces. But the opposing forces, too, have their
organisation. The elements are conscious of where they go, and what they
are about. No force is merely blind. It is the function of man to keep watch
upon these natural agents, and to discover their laws.
While these laws are still in great part undiscovered, the struggle
continues, and in this struggle navigation, by the help of steam, is a
perpetual victory won by human skill every hour of the day, and upon every
point of the sea. The admirable feature in steam navigation is, that it
disciplines the very ship herself. It diminishes her obedience to the winds,
and increases her docility to man.
The Durande had never worked better at sea than on that day. She made
her way marvellously.
Towards eleven o’clock, a fresh breeze blowing from the nor’-nor’-west,
the Durande was off the Minquiers, under little steam, keeping her head to
the west, on the starboard tack, and close up to the wind. The weather was
still fine and clear. The trawlers, however, were making for shore.
By little and little, as if each one was anxious to get into port, the sea
became clear of the boats.
It could not be said that the Durande was keeping quite her usual course.
The crew gave no thought to such matters. The confidence in the captain
was absolute; yet, perhaps through the fault of the helmsman, there was a
slight deviation. The Durande appeared to be making rather towards Jersey
than Guernsey. A little after eleven the captain rectified the vessel’s course,
and put her head fair for Guernsey. It was only a little time lost, but in short
days time lost has its inconveniences. It was a February day, but the sun
shone brightly.
Tangrouille, in his half-intoxicated state, had not a very sure arm, nor a
very firm footing. The result was, that the helmsman lurched pretty often,
which also retarded progress.
The wind had almost entirely fallen.
The Guernsey passenger, who had a telescope in his hand, brought it to
bear from time to time upon a little cloud of grey mist, lightly moved by the

wind, in the extreme western horizon. It resembled a fleecy down sprinkled
with dust.
Captain Clubin wore his ordinary austere, Puritan-like expression of
countenance. He appeared to redouble his attention.
All was peaceful and almost joyous on board the Durande. The
passengers chatted. It is possible to judge of the state of the sea in a passage
with the eyes closed, by noting the tremolo of the conversation about you.
The full freedom of mind among the passengers answers to the perfect
tranquillity of the waters.
It is impossible, for example, that a conversation like the following could
take place otherwise than on a very calm sea.
“Observe that pretty green and red fly.”
“It has lost itself out at sea, and is resting on the ship.”
“Flies do not soon get tired.”
“No doubt; they are light; the wind carries them.”
“An ounce of flies was once weighed, and afterwards counted; and it was
found to comprise no less than six thousand two hundred and sixty-eight.”
The Guernsey passenger with the telescope had approached the St. Malo
cattle dealers; and their talk was something in this vein:
“The Aubrac bull has a round and thick buttock, short legs, and a
yellowish hide. He is slow at work by reason of the shortness of his legs.”
“In that matter the Salers beats the Aubrac.”
“I have seen, sir, two beautiful bulls in my life. The first has the legs low,
the breast thick, the rump full, the haunches large, a good length of neck to
the udder, withers of good height, the skin easy to strip. The second had all
the signs of good fattening, a thick-set back, neck and shoulders strong, coat
white and brown, rump sinking.”
“That’s the Cotentin race.”
“Yes; with a slight cross with the Angus or Suffolk bull.”
“You may believe it if you please, sir, but I assure you in the south they
hold shows of donkeys.”
“Shows of donkeys?”
“Of donkeys, on my honour. And the ugliest are the most admired.”

“Ha! it is the same as with the mule shows. The ugly ones are considered
best.”
“Exactly. Take also the Poitevin mares; large belly, thick legs.”
“The best mule known is a sort of barrel upon four posts.”
“Beauty in beasts is a different thing from beauty in men.”
“And particularly in women.”
“That is true.”
“As for me, I like a woman to be pretty.”
“I am more particular about her being well dressed.”
“Yes; neat, clean, and well set off.”
“Looking just new. A pretty girl ought always to appear as if she had just
been turned out by a jeweller.”
“To return to my bulls; I saw these two sold at the market at Thouars.”
“The market at Thouars; I know it very well. The Bonneaus of La
Rochelle, and the Babas corn merchants at Marans, I don’t know whether
you have heard of them attending that market.”
The tourist and the Parisian were conversing with the American of the
Bibles.
“Sir,” said the tourist, “I will tell you the tonnage of the civilised world.
France 716,000 tons; Germany 1,000,000; the United States, 5,000,000;
England, 5,500,000; add the small vessels. Total 12,904,000 tons, carried in
145,000 vessels scattered over the waters of the globe.”
The American interrupted:
“It is the United States, sir, which have 5,500,000.”
“I agree,” said the tourist. “You are an American?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I agree again.”
There was a pause. The American missionary was considering whether
this was a case for the offer of a Bible.
“Is it true, sir,” asked the tourist, “that you have a passion for nicknames
in America, so complete, that you confer them upon all your celebrated
men, and that you call your famous Missouri banker, Thomas Benton, ‘Old
Lingot’?”

“Yes; just as we call Zachary Taylor ‘Old Zach.’”
“And General Harrison, ‘Old Tip;’ am I right? and General Jackson, ‘Old
Hickory?’”
“Because Jackson is hard as hickory wood; and because Harrison beat the
redskins at Tippecanoe.”
“It is an odd fashion that of yours.”
“It is our custom. We call Van Buren ‘The Little Wizard;’ Seward, who
introduced the small bank-notes, ‘Little Billy;’ and Douglas, the democrat
senator from Illinois, who is four feet high and very eloquent, ‘The Little
Giant.’ You may go from Texas to the State of Maine without hearing the
name of Mr. Cass. They say the ‘Great Michiganer.’ Nor the name of Clay;
they say ‘The miller’s boy with the scar.’ Clay is the son of a miller.”
“I should prefer to say ‘Clay’ or ‘Cass,’” said the Parisian. “It’s shorter.”
“Then you would be out of the fashion. We call Corwin, who is the
Secretary of the Treasury, ‘The Waggoner-boy;’ Daniel Webster, ‘Black
Dan.’ As to Winfield Scott, as his first thought after beating the English at
Chippeway, was to sit down to dine, we call him ‘Quick—a basin of soup.’”
The small white mist perceived in the distance had become larger. It
filled now a segment of fifteen degrees above the horizon. It was like a
cloud loitering along the water for want of wind to stir it. The breeze had
almost entirely died away. The sea was glassy. Although it was not yet
noon, the sun was becoming pale. It lighted but seemed to give no warmth.
“I fancy,” said the tourist, “that we shall have a change of weather.”
“Probably rain,” said the Parisian.
“Or fog,” said the American.
“In Italy,” remarked the tourist, “Molfetta is the place where there falls
the least rain; and Tolmezzo, where there falls the most.”
At noon, according to the usage of the Channel Islands, the bell sounded
for dinner. Those dined who desired. Some passengers had brought with
them provisions, and were eating merrily on the after-deck. Clubin did not
eat.
While this eating was going on, the conversations continued.
The Guernsey man, having probably a scent for Bibles, approached the
American. The latter said to him:

“You know this sea?”
“Very well; I belong to this part.”
“And I, too,” said one of the St. Malo men.
The native of Guernsey followed with a bow and continued:
“We are fortunately well out at sea now; I should not have liked a fog
when we were off the Minquiers.”
The American said to the St. Malo man:
“Islanders are more at home on the sea than the folks of the coast.”
“True; we coast people are only half dipped in salt water.”
“What are the Minquiers?” asked the American.
The St. Malo man replied:
“They are an ugly reef of rocks.”
“There are also the Grelets,” said the Guernsey man.
“Parbleu!” ejaculated the other.
“And the Chouas,” added the Guernsey man.
The inhabitant of St. Malo laughed.
“As for that,” said he, “there are the Savages also.”
“And the Monks,” observed the Guernsey man.
“And the Duck,” cried the St. Maloite.
“Sir,” remarked the inhabitant of Guernsey, “you have an answer for
everything.”
The tourist interposed with a question:
“Have we to pass all that legion of rocks?”
“No; we have left it to the sou’-south-east. It is behind us.”
And the Guernsey passenger continued:
“Big and little rocks together, the Grelets have fifty-seven peaks.”
“And the Minquiers forty-eight,” said the other.
The dialogue was now confined to the St. Malo and the Guernsey
passenger.
“It strikes me, Monsieur St. Malo, that there are three rocks which you
have not included.”

“I mentioned all.”
“From the Derée to the Maître Ile.”
“And Les Maisons?”
“Yes; seven rocks in the midst of the Minquiers.”
“I see you know the very stones.”
“If I didn’t know the stones, I should not be an inhabitant of St. Malo.”
“It is amusing to hear French people’s reasonings.”
The St. Malo man bowed in his turn, and said:
“The Savages are three rocks.”
“And the Monks two.”
“And the Duck one.”
“The Duck; this is only one, of course.”
“No: for the Suarde consists of four rocks.”
“What do you mean by the Suarde?” asked the inhabitant of Guernsey.
“We call the Suarde what you call the Chouas.”
“It is a queer passage, that between the Chouas and the Duck.”
“It is impassable except for the birds.”
“And the fish.”
“Scarcely: in bad weather they give themselves hard knocks against the
walls.”
“There is sand near the Minquiers?”
“Around the Maisons.”
“There are eight rocks visible from Jersey.”
“Visible from the strand of Azette; that’s correct: but not eight; only
seven.”
“At low water you can walk about the Minquiers?”
“No doubt; there would be sand above water.”
“And what of the Dirouilles?”
“The Dirouilles bear no resemblance to the Minquiers.”
“They are very dangerous.”
“They are near Granville.”

“I see that you St. Malo people, like us, enjoy sailing in these seas.”
“Yes,” replied the St. Malo man, “with the difference that we say, ‘We
have the habit,’ you, ‘We are fond.’”
“You make good sailors.”
“I am myself a cattle merchant.”
“Who was that famous sailor born of St. Malo?”
“Surcouf?”
“Another?”
“Duguay-Trouin.”
Here the Parisian commercial man chimed in:
“Duguay-Trouin? He was captured by the English. He was as agreeable
as he was brave. A young English lady fell in love with him. It was she who
procured him his liberty.”
At this moment a voice like thunder was heard crying out:
“You are drunk, man!”

IV

CAPTAIN CLUBIN DISPLAYS ALL HIS GREAT QUALITIES
Everybody turned.
It was the captain calling to the helmsman.
Sieur Clubin’s tone and manner evidenced that he was extremely angry,
or that he wished to appear so.
A well-timed burst of anger sometimes removes responsibility, and
sometimes shifts it on to other shoulders.
The captain, standing on the bridge between the two paddle-boxes, fixed
his eyes on the helmsman. He repeated, between his teeth, “Drunkard.” The
unlucky Tangrouille hung his head.
The fog had made progress. It filled by this time nearly one-half of the
horizon. It seemed to advance from every quarter at the same time. There is

something in a fog of the nature of a drop of oil upon the water. It enlarged
insensibly. The light wind moved it onward slowly and silently. By little
and little it took possession of the ocean. It was coming chiefly from the
north-west, dead ahead: the ship had it before her prow, like a line of cliff
moving vast and vague. It rose from the sea like a wall. There was an exact
point where the wide waters entered the fog, and were lost to sight.
This line of the commencement of the fog was still above half-a-league
distant. The interval was visibly growing less and less. The Durande made
way; the fog made way also. It was drawing nearer to the vessel, while the
vessel was drawing nearer to it.
Clubin gave the order to put on more steam, and to hold off the coast.
Thus for some time they skirted the edge of the fog; but still it advanced.
The vessel, meanwhile, sailed in broad sunlight.
Time was lost in these manœuvres, which had little chance of success.
Nightfall comes quickly in February. The native of Guernsey was
meditating upon the subject of this fog. He said to the St. Malo men:
“It will be thick!”
“An ugly sort of weather at sea,” observed one of the St. Malo men.
The other added:
“A kind of thing which spoils a good passage.”
The Guernsey passenger approached Clubin, and said:
“I’m afraid, Captain, that the fog will catch us.”
Clubin replied:
“I wished to stay at St. Malo, but I was advised to go.”
“By whom?”
“By some old sailors.”
“You were certainly right to go,” said the Guernsey man. “Who knows
whether there will not be a tempest to-morrow? At this season you may wait
and find it worse.”
A few moments later, the Durande entered the fog bank.
The effect was singular. Suddenly those who were on the after-deck
could not see those forward. A soft grey medium divided the ship in two.

Then the entire vessel passed into the fog. The sun became like a dull red
moon. Everybody suddenly shivered. The passengers put on their overcoats,
and the sailors their tarpaulins. The sea, almost without a ripple, was the
more menacing from its cold tranquillity. All was pale and wan. The black
funnel and the heavy smoke struggled with the dewy mist which
enshrouded the vessel.
Dropping to westward was now useless. The captain kept the vessel’s
head again towards Guernsey, and gave orders to put on the steam.
The Guernsey passenger, hanging about the engine-room hatchway,
heard the negro Imbrancam talking to his engineer comrade. The passenger
listened. The negro said:
“This morning, in the sun, we were going half steam on; now, in the fog,
we put on steam.”
The Guernsey man returned to Clubin.
“Captain Clubin, a look-out is useless; but have we not too much steam
on?”
“What can I do, sir? We must make up for time lost through the fault of
that drunkard of a helmsman.”
“True, Captain Clubin.”
And Clubin added:
“I am anxious to arrive. It is foggy enough by day: it would be rather too
much at night.”
The Guernsey man rejoined his St. Malo fellow-passengers, and
remarked:
“We have an excellent captain.”
At intervals, great waves of mist bore down heavily upon them, and
blotted out the sun; which again issued out of them pale and sickly. The
little that could be seen of the heavens resembled the long strips of painted
sky, dirty and smeared with oil, among the old scenery of a theatre.
The Durande passed close to a cutter which had cast anchor for safety. It
was the Shealtiel of Guernsey. The master of the cutter remarked the high
speed of the steam-vessel. It struck him also, that she was not in her exact
course. She seemed to him to bear to westward too much. The apparition of
this vessel under full steam in the fog surprised him.

Towards two o’clock the weather had become so thick that the captain
was obliged to leave the bridge, and plant himself near the steersman. The
sun had vanished, and all was fog. A sort of ashy darkness surrounded the
ship. They were navigating in a pale shroud. They could see neither sky nor
water.
There was not a breath of wind.
The can of turpentine suspended under the bridge, between the paddle-
boxes, did not even oscillate.
The passengers had become silent.
The Parisian, however, hummed between his teeth the song of Béranger
—“Un jour le bon Dieu s’éveillant.”
One of the St. Malo passengers addressed him:
“You are from Paris, sir?”
“Yes, sir. Il mit la tête à la fenêtre.”
“What do they do in Paris?”
“Leur planète a péri, peut-être.—In Paris, sir, things are going on very
badly.”
“Then it’s the same ashore as at sea.”
“It is true; we have an abominable fog here.”
“One which might involve us in misfortunes.”
The Parisian exclaimed:
“Yes; and why all these misfortunes in the world? Misfortunes! What are
they sent for, these misfortunes? What use do they serve? There was the fire
at the Odéon theatre, and immediately a number of families thrown out of
employment. Is that just? I don’t know what is your religion, sir, but I am
puzzled by all this.”
“So am I,” said the St. Malo man.
“Everything that happens here below,” continued the Parisian, “seems to
go wrong. It looks as if Providence, for some reason, no longer watched
over the world.”
The St. Malo man scratched the top of his head, like one making an effort
to understand. The Parisian continued:

“Our guardian angel seems to be absent. There ought to be a decree
against celestial absenteeism. He is at his country-house, and takes no
notice of us; so all gets in disorder. It is evident that this guardian is not in
the government; he is taking holiday, leaving some vicar—some seminarist
angel, some wretched creature with sparrows’-wings—to look after affairs.”
Captain Clubin, who had approached the speakers during this
conversation, laid his hand upon the shoulder of the Parisian.
“Silence, sir,” he said. “Keep a watch upon your words. We are upon the
sea.”
No one spoke again aloud.
After a pause of five minutes, the Guernsey man, who had heard all this,
whispered in the ear of the St. Malo passenger:
“A religious man, our captain.”
It did not rain, but all felt their clothing wet. The crew took no heed of
the way they were making; but there was increased sense of uneasiness.
They seemed to have entered into a doleful region. The fog makes a deep
silence on the sea; it calms the waves, and stifles the wind. In the midst of
this silence, the creaking of the Durande communicated a strange,
indefinable feeling of melancholy and disquietude.
They passed no more vessels. If afar off, in the direction of Guernsey or
in that of St. Malo, any vessels were at sea outside the fog, the Durande,
submerged in the dense cloud, must have been invisible to them; while her
long trail of smoke attached to nothing, looked like a black comet in the
pale sky.
Suddenly Clubin roared out:
“Hang-dog! you have played us an ugly trick. You will have done us
some damage before we are out of this. You deserve to be put in irons. Get
you gone, drunkard!”
And he seized the helm himself.
The steersman, humbled, shrunk away to take part in the duties forward.
The Guernsey man said:
“That will save us.”
The vessel was still making way rapidly.

Towards three o’clock, the lower part of the fog began to clear, and they
could see the sea again.
A mist can only be dispersed by the sun or the wind. By the sun is well;
by the wind is not so well. At three o’clock in the afternoon, in the month of
February, the sun is always weak. A return of the wind at this critical point
in a voyage is not desirable. It is often the forerunner of a hurricane.
If there was any breeze, however, it was scarcely perceptible.
Clubin with his eye on the binnacle, holding the tiller and steering,
muttered to himself some words like the following, which reached the ears
of the passengers:
“No time to be lost; that drunken rascal has retarded us.”
His visage, meanwhile, was absolutely without expression.
The sea was less calm under the mist. A few waves were distinguishable.
Little patches of light appeared on the surface of the water. These luminous
patches attract the attention of the sailors. They indicate openings made by
the wind in the overhanging roof of fog. The cloud rose a little, and then
sunk heavier. Sometimes the density was perfect. The ship was involved in
a sort of foggy iceberg. At intervals this terrible circle opened a little, like a
pair of pincers; showed a glimpse of the horizon, and then closed again.
Meanwhile the Guernsey man, armed with his spyglass, was standing
like a sentinel in the fore part of the vessel.
An opening appeared for a moment, and was blotted out again.
The Guernsey man returned alarmed.
“Captain Clubin!”
“What is the matter?”
“We are steering right upon the Hanways.”
“You are mistaken,” said Clubin, coldly.
The Guernsey man insisted.
“I am sure of it.”
“Impossible.”
“I have just seen the rock in the horizon.”
“Where?”
“Out yonder.”

“It is the open sea there. Impossible.”
And Clubin kept the vessel’s head to the point indicated by the passenger.
The Guernsey man seized his spyglass again.
A moment later he came running aft again.
“Captain!”
“Well.”
“Tack about!”
“Why?”
“I am certain of having seen a very high rock just ahead. It is the Great
Hanway.”
“You have seen nothing but a thicker bank of fog.”
“It is the Great Hanway. Tack, in the name of Heaven!”
Clubin gave the helm a turn.

V

CLUBIN REACHES THE CROWNING-POINT OF GLORY
A crash was heard. The ripping of a vessel’s side upon a sunken reef in
open sea is the most dismal sound of which man can dream. The Durande’s
course was stopped short.
Several passengers were knocked down with the shock and rolled upon
the deck.
The Guernsey man raised his hands to heaven:
“We are on the Hanways. I predicted it.”
A long cry went up from the ship.
“We are lost.”
The voice of Clubin, dry and short, was heard above all.
“No one is lost! Silence!”

The black form of Imbrancam, naked down to the waist, issued from the
hatchway of the engine-room.
The negro said with self-possession:
“The water is gaining, Captain. The fires will soon be out.”
The moment was terrible.
The shock was like that of a suicide. If the disaster had been wilfully
sought, it could not have been more terrible. The Durande had rushed upon
her fate as if she had attacked the rock itself. A point had pierced her sides
like a wedge. More than six feet square of planking had gone; the stem was
broken, the prow smashed, and the gaping hull drank in the sea with a
horrible gulping noise. It was an entrance for wreck and ruin. The rebound
was so violent that it had shattered the rudder pendants; the rudder itself
hung unhinged and flapping. The rock had driven in her keel. Round about
the vessel nothing was visible except a thick, compact fog, now become
sombre. Night was gathering fast.
The Durande plunged forward. It was like the effort of a horse pierced
through the entrails by the horns of a bull. All was over with her.
Tangrouille was sobered. Nobody is drunk in the moment of a shipwreck.
He came down to the quarter-deck, went up again, and said:
“Captain, the water is gaining rapidly in the hold. In ten minutes it will
be up to the scupper-holes.”
The passengers ran about bewildered, wringing their hands, leaning over
the bulwarks, looking down in the engine-room, and making every other
sort of useless movement in their terror. The tourist had fainted.
Clubin made a sign with his hand, and they were silent. He questioned
Imbrancam:
“How long will the engines work yet?”
“Five or six minutes, sir.”
Then he interrogated the Guernsey passenger:
“I was at the helm. You saw the rock. On which bank of the Hanways are
we?”
“On the Mauve. Just now, in the opening in the fog, I saw it clearly.”
“If we’re on the Mauve,” remarked Clubin, “we have the Great Hanway
on the port side, and the Little Hanway on the starboard bow; we are a mile

from the shore.”
The crew and passengers listened, fixing their eyes anxiously and
attentively on the captain.
Lightening the ship would have been of no avail, and indeed would have
been hardly possible. In order to throw the cargo overboard, they would
have had to open the ports and increase the chance of the water entering. To
cast anchor would have been equally useless: they were stuck fast. Besides,
with such a bottom for the anchor to drag, the chain would probably have
fouled. The engines not being injured, and being workable while the fires
were not extinguished, that is to say, for a few minutes longer, they could
have made an effort, by help of steam and her paddles, to turn her astern off
the rocks; but if they had succeeded, they must have settled down
immediately. The rock, indeed, in some degree stopped the breach and
prevented the entrance of the water. It was at least an obstacle; while the
hole once freed, it would have been impossible to stop the leak or to work
the pumps. To snatch a poniard from a wound in the heart is instant death to
the victim. To free the vessel from the rock would have been simply to
founder.
The cattle, on whom the water was gaining in the hold, were lowing
piteously.
Clubin issued orders:
“Launch the long boat.”
Imbrancam and Tangrouille rushed to execute the order. The boat was
eased from her fastenings. The rest of the crew looked on stupefied.
“All hands to assist,” cried Clubin.
This time all obeyed.
Clubin, self-possessed, continued to issue his orders in that old sea
dialect, which French sailors of the present day would scarcely understand.
“Haul in a rope—Get a cable if the capstan does not work—Stop heaving
—Keep the blocks clear—Lower away there—- Bring her down stern and
bows—Now then, all together, lads—Take care she don’t lower stern first—
There’s too much strain on there—Hold the laniard of the stock tackle—
Stand by there!”
The long boat was launched.

At that instant the Durande’s paddles stopped, and the smoke ceased—
the fires were drowned.
The passengers slipped down the ladder, and dropped hurriedly into the
long boat. Imbrancam lifted the fainting tourist, carried him into the boat,
and then boarded the vessel again.
The crew made a rush after the passengers—the cabin boy was knocked
down, and the others were trampling upon him.
Imbrancam barred their passage.
“Not a man before the lad,” he said.
He kept off the sailors with his two black arms, picked up the boy, and
handed him down to the Guernsey man, who was standing upright in the
boat.
The boy saved, Imbrancam made way for the others, and said:
“Pass on!”
Meanwhile Clubin had entered his cabin, and had made up a parcel
containing the ship’s papers and instruments. He took the compass from the
binnacle, handed the papers and instruments to Imbrancam, and the
compass to Tangrouille, and said to them:
“Get aboard the boat.”
They obeyed. The crew had taken their places before them.
“Now,” cried Clubin, “push off.”
A cry arose from the long boat.
“What about yourself, Captain?”
“I will remain here.”
Shipwrecked people have little time to deliberate, and not much for
indulging in tender feeling. Those who were in the long boat and in
comparative safety, however, felt an emotion which was not altogether
selfish. All the voices shouted together:
“Come with us, Captain.”
“No: I remain here.”
The Guernsey man, who had some experience of the sea, replied:
“Listen to me, Captain. You are wrecked on the Hanways. Swimming,
you would have only a mile to cross to Pleinmont. In a boat you can only

land at Rocquaine, which is two miles. There are breakers, and there is the
fog. Our boat will not get to Rocquaine in less than two hours. It will be a
dark night. The sea is rising—the wind getting fresh. A squall is at hand. We
are now ready to return and bring you off; but if bad weather comes on, that
will be out of our power. You are lost if you stay there. Come with us.”
The Parisian chimed in:
“The long boat is full—too full, it is true, and one more will certainly be
one too many; but we are thirteen—a bad number for the boat, and it is
better to overload her with a man than to take an ominous number. Come,
Captain.”
Tangrouille added:
“It was all my fault—not yours, Captain. It isn’t fair for you to be left
behind.”
“I have decided to remain here,” said Clubin. “The vessel must inevitably
go to pieces in the tempest to-night. I won’t leave her. When the ship is lost,
the captain is already dead. People shall not say I didn’t do my duty to the
end. Tangrouille, I forgive you.”
Then, folding his arms, he cried:
“Obey orders! Let go the rope, and push off.”
The long-boat swayed to and fro. Imbrancam had seized the tiller. All the
hands which were not rowing were raised towards the captain—every
mouth cried, “Cheers for Captain Clubin.”
“An admirable fellow!” said the American.
“Sir,” replied the Guernsey man, “he is one of the worthiest seamen
afloat.”
Tangrouille shed tears.
“If I had had the courage,” he said, “I would have stayed with him.”
The long-boat pushed away, and was lost in the fog.
Nothing more was visible.
The beat of the oars grew fainter, and died away.
Clubin remained alone.

VI

THE INTERIOR OF AN ABYSS SUDDENLY REVEALED
When Clubin found himself upon this rock, in the midst of the fog and
the wide waters, far from all sound of human life, left for dead, alone with
the tide rising around him, and night settling down rapidly, he experienced a
feeling of profound satisfaction.
He had succeeded.
His dream was realised. The acceptance which he had drawn upon
destiny at so long a date had fallen due at last.
With him, to be abandoned there was, in fact, to be saved.
He was on the Hanways, one mile from the shore; he had about him
seventy-five thousand francs. Never was shipwreck more scientifically
accomplished. Nothing had failed. It is true, everything had been foreseen.
From his early years Clubin had had an idea to stake his reputation for
honesty at life’s gaming-table; to pass as a man of high honour, and to make
that reputation his fulcrum for other things; to bide his time, to watch his
opportunity; not to grope about blindly, but to seize boldly; to venture on
one great stroke, only one; and to end by sweeping off the stakes, leaving
fools behind him to gape and wonder. What stupid rogues fail in twenty
times, he meant to accomplish at the first blow; and while they terminated a
career on the gallows, he intended to finish with a fortune. The meeting
with Rantaine had been a new light to him. He had immediately laid his
plan—to compel Rantaine to disgorge; to frustrate his threatened
revelations by disappearing; to make the world believe him dead, the best of
all modes of concealment; and for this purpose to wreck the Durande. The
shipwreck was necessary to his designs. Lastly, he had the satisfaction of
vanishing, leaving behind him a great renown, the crowning point of his
existence. As he stood meditating on these things amid the wreck, Clubin
might have been taken for some demon in a pleasant mood.
He had lived a lifetime for the sake of this one minute.
His whole exterior was expressive of the two words, “At last.” A devilish
tranquillity reigned in that sallow countenance.
His dull eye, the depth of which generally seemed to be impenetrable,
became clear and terrible. The inward fire of his dark spirit was reflected

there.
Man’s inner nature, like that external world about him, has its electric
phenomena. An idea is like a meteor; at the moment of its coming, the
confused meditations which preceded it open a way, and a spark flashes
forth. Bearing within oneself a power of evil, feeling an inward prey, brings
to some minds a pleasure which is like a sparkle of light. The triumph of an
evil purpose brightens up their visages. The success of certain cunning
combinations, the attainment of certain cherished objects, the gratification
of certain ferocious instincts, will manifest themselves in sinister but
luminous appearances in their eyes. It is like a threatening dawn, a gleam of
joy drawn out of the heart of a storm. These flashes are generated in the
conscience in its states of cloud and darkness.
Some such signs were then exhibiting themselves in the pupils of those
eyes. They were like nothing else that can be seen shining either above or
here below.
All Clubin’s pent-up wickedness found full vent now.
He gazed into the vast surrounding darkness, and indulged in a low,
irrepressible laugh, full of sinister significance.
He was rich at last! rich at last!
The unknown future of his life was at length unfolding; the problem was
solved.
Clubin had plenty of time before him. The sea was rising, and
consequently sustained the Durande, and even raised her at last a little. The
vessel kept firmly in its place among the rocks; there was no danger of her
foundering. Besides, he determined to give the long-boat time to get clear
off—to go to the bottom, perhaps. Clubin hoped it might.
Erect upon the deck of the shipwrecked vessel, he folded his arms,
apparently enjoying that forlorn situation in the dark night.
Hypocrisy had weighed upon this man for thirty years. He had been evil
itself, yoked with probity for a mate. He detested virtue with the feeling of
one who has been trapped into a hateful match. He had always had a wicked
premeditation; from the time when he attained manhood he had worn the
cold and rigid armour of appearances. Underneath this was the demon of
self. He had lived like a bandit in the disguise of an honest citizen. He had
been the soft-spoken pirate; the bond-slave of honesty. He had been

confined in garments of innocence, as in oppressive mummy cloths; had
worn those angel wings which the devils find so wearisome in their fallen
state. He had been overloaded with public esteem. It is arduous passing for
a shining light. To preserve a perpetual equilibrium amid these difficulties,
to think evil, to speak goodness—here had been indeed a labour. Such a life
of contradictions had been Clubin’s fate. It had been his lot—not the less
onerous because he had chosen it himself—to preserve a good exterior, to
be always presentable, to foam in secret, to smile while grinding his teeth.
Virtue presented itself to his mind as something stifling. He had felt,
sometimes, as if he could have gnawed those finger-ends which he was
compelled to keep before his mouth.
To live a life which is a perpetual falsehood is to suffer unknown tortures.
To be premeditating indefinitely a diabolical act, to have to assume
austerity; to brood over secret infamy seasoned with outward good fame; to
have continually to put the world off the scent; to present a perpetual
illusion, and never to be one’s self—is a burdensome task. To be
constrained to dip the brush in that dark stuff within, to produce with it a
portrait of candour; to fawn, to restrain and suppress one’s self, to be ever
on the qui vive; watching without ceasing to mask latent crimes with a face
of healthy innocence: to transform deformity into beauty; to fashion
wickedness into the shape of perfection; to tickle, as it were, with the point
of a dagger, to put sugar with poison, to keep a bridle on every gesture and
keep a watch over every tone, not even to have a countenance of one’s own
—what can be harder, what can be more torturing. The odiousness of
hypocrisy is obscurely felt by the hypocrite himself. Drinking perpetually of
his own imposture is nauseating. The sweetness of tone which cunning
gives to scoundrelism is repugnant to the scoundrel compelled to have it
ever in the mouth; and there are moments of disgust when villainy seems on
the point of vomiting its secret. To have to swallow that bitter saliva is
horrible. Add to this picture his profound pride. There are strange moments
in the history of such a life, when hypocrisy worships itself. There is always
an inordinate egotism in roguery. The worm has the same mode of gliding
along as the serpent, and the same manner of raising its head. The
treacherous villain is the despot curbed and restrained, and only able to
attain his ends by resigning himself to play a secondary part. He is
summed-up littleness capable of enormities. The perfect hypocrite is a Titan
dwarfed.

Clubin had a genuine faith that he had been ill-used. Why had not he the
right to have been born rich? It was from no fault of his that it was
otherwise. Deprived as he had been of the higher enjoyments of life, why
had he been forced to labour—in other words, to cheat, to betray, to
destroy? Why had he been condemned to this torture of flattering, cringing,
fawning; to be always labouring for men’s respect and friendship, and to
wear night and day a face which was not his own? To be compelled to
dissimulate was in itself to submit to a hardship. Men hate those to whom
they have to lie. But now the disguise was at an end. Clubin had taken his
revenge.
On whom? On all! On everything!
Lethierry had never done him any but good services; so much the greater
his spleen. He was revenged upon Lethierry.
He was revenged upon all those in whose presence he had felt constraint.
It was his turn to be free now. Whoever had thought well of him was his
enemy. He had felt himself their captive long enough.
Now he had broken through his prison walls. His escape was
accomplished. That which would be regarded as his death, would be, in
fact, the beginning of his life. He was about to begin the world again. The
true Clubin had stripped off the false. In one hour the spell was broken. He
had kicked Rantaine into space; overwhelmed Lethierry in ruin; human
justice in night, and opinion in error. He had cast off all humanity; blotted
out the whole world.
The name of God, that word of three letters, occupied his mind but little.
He had passed for a religious man. What was he now?
There are secret recesses in hypocrisy; or rather the hypocrite is himself a
secret recess.
When Clubin found himself quite alone, that cavern in which his soul had
so long lain hidden, was opened. He enjoyed a moment of delicious liberty.
He revelled for that moment in the open air. He gave vent to himself in one
long breath.
The depth of evil within him revealed itself in his visage. He expanded,
as it were, with diabolical joy. The features of Rantaine by the side of his at
that moment would have shown like the innocent expression of a new-born
child.

What a deliverance was this plucking off of the old mask. His conscience
rejoiced in the sight of its own monstrous nakedness, as it stepped forth to
take its hideous bath of wickedness. The long restraint of men’s respect
seemed to have given him a peculiar relish for infamy. He experienced a
certain lascivious enjoyment of wickedness. In those frightful moral
abysses so rarely sounded, such natures find atrocious delights—they are
the obscenities of rascality. The long-endured insipidity of the false
reputation for virtue gave him a sort of appetite for shame. In this state of
mind men disdain their fellows so much that they even long for the
contempt which marks the ending of their unmerited homage. They feel a
satisfaction in the freedom of degradation, and cast an eye of envy at
baseness, sitting at its ease, clothed in ignominy and shame. Eyes that are
forced to droop modestly are familiar with these stealthy glances at sin.
From Messalina to Marie-Alacoque the distance is not great. Remember the
histories of La Cadière and the nun of Louviers. Clubin, too, had worn the
veil. Effrontery had always been the object of his secret admiration. He
envied the painted courtesan, and the face of bronze of the professional
ruffian. He felt a pride in surpassing her in artifices, and a disgust for the
trick of passing for a saint. He had been the Tantalus of cynicism. And now,
upon this rock, in the midst of this solitude, he could be frank and open. A
bold plunge into wickedness—what a voluptuous sense of relief it brought
with it. All the delights known to the fallen angels are summed up in this;
and Clubin felt them in that moment. The long arrears of dissimulations
were paid at last. Hypocrisy is an investment; the devil reimburses it.
Clubin gave himself up to the intoxication of the idea, having no longer any
eye upon him but that of Heaven. He whispered within himself, “I am a
scoundrel,” and felt profoundly satisfied.
Never had human conscience experienced such a full tide of emotions.
He was glad to be entirely alone, and yet would not have been sorry to
have had some one there. He would have been pleased to have had a
witness of his fiendish joy; gratified to have had opportunity of saying to
society, “Thou fool.”
The solitude, indeed, assured his triumph; but it made it less.
He was not himself to be spectator of his glory. Even to be in the pillory
has its satisfaction, for everybody can see your infamy.

To compel the crowd to stand and gape is, in fact, an exercise of power. A
malefactor standing upon a platform in the market-place, with the collar of
iron around his neck, is master of all the glances which he constrains the
multitude to turn towards him. There is a pedestal on yonder scaffolding. To
be there—the centre of universal observation—is not this, too, a triumph?
To direct the pupil of the public eye, is this not another form of supremacy?
For those who worship an ideal wickedness, opprobrium is glory. It is a
height from whence they can look down; a superiority at least of some kind;
a pre-eminence in which they can display themselves royally. A gallows
standing high in the gaze of all the world is not without some analogy with
a throne. To be exposed is, at least, to be seen and studied.
Herein we have evidently the key to the wicked reigns of history. Nero
burning Rome, Louis Quatorze treacherously seizing the Palatinate, the
Prince Regent killing Napoleon slowly, Nicholas strangling Poland before
the eyes of the civilised world, may have felt something akin to Clubin’s
joy. Universal execration derives a grandeur even from its vastness.
To be unmasked is a humiliation; but to unmask one’s self is a triumph.
There is an intoxication in the position, an insolent satisfaction in its
contempt for appearances, a flaunting insolence in the nakedness with
which it affronts the decencies of life.
These ideas in a hypocrite appear to be inconsistent, but in reality are not.
All infamy is logical. Honey is gall. A character like that of Escobar has
some affinity with that of the Marquis de Sade. In proof, we have Léotade.
A hypocrite, being a personification of vice complete, includes in himself
the two poles of perversity. Priest-like on one side, he resembles the
courtesan on the other. The sex of his diabolical nature is double. It
engenders and transforms itself. Would you see it in its pleasing shape?
Look at it. Would you see it horrible? Turn it round.
All this multitude of ideas was floating confusedly in Clubin’s mind. He
analysed them little, but he felt them much.
A whirlwind of flakes of fire borne up from the pit of hell into the dark
night, might fitly represent the wild succession of ideas in his soul.
Clubin remained thus some time pensive and motionless. He looked
down upon his cast-off virtues as a serpent on its old skin.
Everybody had had faith in that virtue; even he himself a little.

He laughed again.
Society would imagine him dead, while he was rich. They would believe
him drowned, while he was saved. What a capital trick to have played off
on the stupidity of the world.
Rantaine, too, was included in that universal stupidity. Clubin thought of
Rantaine with an unmeasured disdain: the disdain of the marten for the
tiger. The trick had failed with Rantaine; it had succeeded with him.—
Rantaine had slunk away abashed; Clubin disappeared in triumph. He had
substituted himself for Rantaine—stepped between him and his mistress,
and carried off her favours.
As to the future, he had no well-settled plan. In the iron tobacco-box in
his girdle he had the three bank-notes. The knowledge of that fact was
enough. He would change his name. There are plenty of countries where
sixty thousand francs are equal to six hundred thousand. It would be no bad
solution to go to one of those corners of the world, and live there honestly
on the money disgorged by that scoundrel Rantaine. To speculate, to
embark in commerce, to increase his capital, to become really a millionaire,
that, too, would be no bad termination to his career.
For example. The great trade in coffee from Costa Rica was just
beginning to be developed. There were heaps of gold to be made. He would
see.
It was of little consequence. He had plenty of time to think of it. The
hardest part of the enterprise was accomplished. Stripping Rantaine, and
disappearing with the wreck of the Durande, were the grand achievements.
All the rest was for him simple. No obstacle henceforth was likely to stop
him. He had nothing more to fear. He could reach the shore with certainty
by swimming. He would land at Pleinmont in the darkness; ascend the
cliffs; go straight to the old haunted house; enter it easily by the help of the
knotted cord, concealed beforehand in a crevice of the rocks; would find in
the house his travelling-bag containing provisions and dry clothing. There
he could await his opportunity. He had information. A week would not pass
without the Spanish smugglers, Blasquito probably, touching at Pleinmont.
For a few guineas he would obtain a passage, not to Torbay—as he had said
to Blasco, to confound conjecture, and put him off the scent—but to Bilbao
or Passages. Thence he could get to Vera Cruz or New Orleans. But the
moment had come for taking to the water. The long boat was far enough by

this time. An hour’s swimming was nothing for Clubin. The distance of a
mile only separated him from the land, as he was on the Hanways.
At this point in Clubin’s meditations, a clear opening appeared in the fog
bank, the formidable Douvres rocks stood before him.

VII

AN UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENT
Clubin, haggard, stared straight ahead.
It was indeed those terrible and solitary rocks.
It was impossible to mistake their misshapen outlines. The two twin
Douvres reared their forms aloft, hideously revealing the passage between
them, like a snare, a cut-throat in ambush in the ocean.
They were quite close to him. The fog, like an artful accomplice, had
hidden them until now.
Clubin had mistaken his course in the dense mist. Notwithstanding all his
pains, he had experienced the fate of two other great navigators, Gonzalez
who discovered Cape Blanco, and Fernandez, who discovered Cape Verd.
The fog had bewildered him. It had seemed to him, in the confidence of his
seamanship, to favour admirably the execution of his project; but it had its
perils. In veering to westward he had lost his reckoning. The Guernsey man,
who fancied that he recognised the Hanways, had decided his fate, and
determined him to give the final turn to the tiller. Clubin had never doubted
that he had steered the vessel on the Hanways.
The Durande, stove in by one of the sunken rocks of the group, was only
separated from the two Douvres by a few cables’ lengths.
At two hundred fathoms further was a massive block of granite. Upon the
steep sides of this rock were some hollows and small projections, which
might help a man to climb. The square corners of those rude walls at right
angles indicated the existence of a plateau on the summit.
It was the height known by the name of “The Man.”

“The Man Rock” rose even higher still than the Douvres. Its platform
commanded a view over their two inaccessible peaks. This platform,
crumbling at its edges, had every kind of irregularity of shape. No place
more desolate or more dangerous could be imagined. The hardly perceptible
waves of the open sea lapped gently against the square sides of that dark
enormous mass; a sort of rest-place for the vast spectres of the sea and
darkness.
All around was calm. Scarcely a breath of air or a ripple. The mind
guessed darkly the hidden life and vastness of the depths beneath that quiet
surface.
Clubin had often seen the Douvres from afar.
He satisfied himself that he was indeed there.
He could not doubt it.
A sudden and hideous change of affairs. The Douvres instead of the
Hanways. Instead of one mile, five leagues of sea! The Douvres to the
solitary shipwrecked sailor is the visible and palpable presence of death, the
extinction of all hope of reaching land.
Clubin shuddered. He had placed himself voluntarily in the jaws of
destruction. No other refuge was left to him than “The Man Rock.” It was
probable that a tempest would arise in the night, and that the long-boat,
overloaded as she was, would sink. No news of the shipwreck then would
come to land. It would not even be known that Clubin had been left upon
the Douvres. No prospect was now before him but death from cold and
hunger. His seventy-five thousand francs would not purchase him a
mouthful of bread. All the scaffolding he had built up had brought him only
to this snare. He alone was the laborious architect of this crowning
catastrophe. No resource—no possible escape; his triumph transformed into
a fatal precipice. Instead of deliverance, a prison; instead of the long
prosperous future, agony. In the glance of an eye, in the moment which the
lightning occupies in passing, all his construction had fallen into ruins. The
paradise dreamed of by this demon had changed to its true form of a
sepulchre.
Meanwhile there had sprung up a movement in the air. The wind was
rising. The fog, shaken, driven in, and rent asunder, moved towards the
horizon in vast shapeless masses. As quickly as it had disappeared before,
the sea became once more visible.

The cattle, more and more invaded by the waters, continued to bellow in
the hold.
Night was approaching, probably bringing with it a storm.
The Durande, filling slowly with the rising tide, swung from right to left,
then from left to right, and began to turn upon the rock as upon a pivot.
The moment could be foreseen when a wave must move her from her
fixed position, and probably roll her over on her beam-ends.
It was not even so dark as at the instant of her striking the rocks. Though
the day was more advanced, it was possible to see more clearly. The fog had
carried away with it some part of the darkness. The west was without a
cloud. Twilight brings a pale sky. Its vast reflection glimmered on the sea.
The Durande’s bows were lower than her stern. Her stern was, in fact,
almost out of the water. Clubin mounted on the taffrail, and fixed his eyes
on the horizon.
It is the nature of hypocrisy to be sanguine. The hypocrite is one who
waits his opportunity. Hypocrisy is nothing, in fact, but a horrible
hopefulness; the very foundation of its revolting falsehood is composed of
that virtue transformed into a vice.
Strange contradiction. There is a certain trustfulness in hypocrisy. The
hypocrite confides in some power, unrevealed even to himself, which
permits the course of evil.
Clubin looked far and wide over the ocean.
The position was desperate, but that evil spirit did not yet despair.
He knew that after the fog, vessels that had been lying-to or riding at
anchor would resume their course; and he thought that perhaps one would
pass within the horizon.
And, as he had anticipated, a sail appeared.
She was coming from the east and steering towards the west.
As it approached the cut of the vessel became visible. It had but one
mast, and was schooner-rigged. Her bowsprit was almost horizontal. It was
a cutter.
Before a half-hour she must pass not very far from the Douvres.
Clubin said within himself, “I am saved!”
In a moment like this, a man thinks at first of nothing but his life.

The cutter was probably a strange craft. Might it not be one of the
smuggling vessels on its way to Pleinmont? It might even be Blasquito
himself. In that case, not only life, but fortune, would be saved; and the
accident of the Douvres, by hastening the conclusion, by dispensing with
the necessity for concealment in the haunted house, and by bringing the
adventure to a dénouement at sea, would be turned into a happy incident.
All his original confidence of success returned fanatically to his sombre
mind.
It is remarkable how easily knaves are persuaded that they deserve to
succeed.
There was but one course to take.
The Durande, entangled among the rocks, necessarily mingled her outline
with them, and confounded herself with their irregular shapes, among
which she formed only one more mass of lines. Thus become indistinct and
lost, she would not suffice, in the little light which remained, to attract the
attention of the crew of the vessel which was approaching.
But a human form standing up, black against the pale twilight of the sky,
upon “the Man Rock,” and making signs of distress, would doubtless be
perceived, and the cutter would then send a boat to take the shipwrecked
man aboard.
“The Man” was only two hundred fathoms off. To reach it by swimming
was simple, to climb it easy.
There was not a minute to lose.
The bows of the Durande being low between the rocks, it was from the
height of the poop where Clubin stood that he had to jump into the sea. He
began by taking a sounding, and discovered that there was great depth just
under the stern of the wrecked vessel. The microscopic shells of
foraminifera which the adhesive matter on the lead-line brought up were
intact, indicating the presence of very hollow caves under the rocks, in
which the water was tranquil, however great the agitation of the surface.
He undressed, leaving his clothing on the deck. He knew that he would
be able to get clothing when aboard the cutter.
He retained nothing but his leather belt.
As soon as he was stripped he placed his hand upon this belt, buckled it
more securely, felt for the iron tobacco-box, took a rapid survey in the

direction which he would have to follow among the breakers and the waves
to gain “the Man Rock;” then precipitating himself head first, he plunged
into the sea.
As he dived from a height, he plunged heavily.
He sank deep in the water, touched the bottom, skirted for a moment the
submarine rocks, then struck out to regain the surface.
At that moment he felt himself seized by one foot.

BOOK VII
THE DANGER OF OPENING A BOOK AT RANDOM

I

THE PEARL AT THE FOOT OF THE PRECIPICE
A few moments after his short colloquy with Sieur Landoys, Gilliatt was
at St. Sampson.
He was troubled, even anxious. What could it be that had happened.
There was a murmur in St. Sampson like that of a startled hive.
Everybody was at his door. The women were talking loud. There were
people who seemed relating some occurrence and who were gesticulating.
A group had gathered around them. The words could be heard, “What a
misfortune!” Some faces wore a smile.
Gilliatt interrogated no one. It was not in his nature to ask questions. He
was, moreover, too much moved to speak to strangers. He had no
confidence in rumours. He preferred to go direct to the Bravées.
His anxiety was so great that he was not even deterred from entering the
house.
The door of the great lower room opening upon the Quay, moreover,
stood quite open. There was a swarm of men and women on the threshold.
Everybody was going in, and Gilliatt went with the rest.

Entering he found Sieur Landoys standing near the doorposts.
“You have heard, no doubt, of this event?”
“No.”
“I did not like to call it out to you on the road. It makes me like a bird of
evil omen.”
“What has happened?”
“The Durande is lost.”
There was a crowd in the great room.
The various groups spoke low, like people in a sick chamber.
The assemblage, which consisted of neighbours, the first comers, curious
to learn the news, huddled together near the door with a sort of timidity,
leaving clear the bottom of the room, where appeared Déruchette sitting and
in tears. Mess Lethierry stood beside her.
His back was against the wall at the end of the room. His sailor’s cap
came down over his eyebrows. A lock of grey hair hung upon his cheek. He
said nothing. His arms were motionless; he seemed scarcely to breathe. He
had the look of something lifeless placed against the wall.
It was easy to see in his aspect a man whose life had been crushed within
him. The Durande being gone, Lethierry had no longer any object in his
existence. He had had a being on the sea; that being had suddenly
foundered. What could he do now? Rise every morning: go to sleep every
night. Never more to await the coming of the Durande; to see her get under
way, or steer again into the port. What was a remainder of existence without
object? To drink, to eat, and then?—He had crowned the labours of his life
by a masterpiece: won by his devotion a new step in civilisation. The step
was lost; the masterpiece destroyed. To live a few vacant years longer!
where would be the good? Henceforth nothing was left for him to do. At his
age men do not begin life anew. Besides, he was ruined. Poor old man!
Déruchette, sitting near him on a chair and weeping, held one of Mess
Lethierry’s hands in hers. Her hands were joined: his hand was clenched
fast. It was the sign of the shade of difference in their two sorrows. In
joined hands there is still some token of hope, in the clenched fist none.
Mess Lethierry gave up his arm to her, and let her do with it what she
pleased. He was passive. Struck down by a thunderbolt, he had scarcely a

spark of life left within him.
There is a degree of overwhelmment which abstracts the mind entirely
from its fellowship with man. The forms which come and go within your
room become confused and indistinct. They pass by, even touch you, but
never really come near you. You are far away; inaccessible to them, as they
to you. The intensities of joy and despair differ in this. In despair, we take
cognisance of the world only as something dim and afar off: we are
insensible to the things before our eyes; we lose the feeling of our own
existence. It is in vain, at such times, that we are flesh and blood; our
consciousness of life is none the more real: we are become, even to
ourselves, nothing but a dream.
Mess Lethierry’s gaze indicated that he had reached this state of
absorption.
The various groups were whispering together. They exchanged
information as far as they had gathered it. This was the substance of their
news.
The Durande had been wrecked the day before in the fog on the Douvres,
about an hour before sunset. With the exception of the captain, who refused
to leave his vessel, the crew and passengers had all escaped in the long-
boat. A squall from the south-west springing up as the fog had cleared, had
almost wrecked them a second time, and had carried them out to sea beyond
Guernsey. In the night they had had the good fortune to meet with the
Cashmere, which had taken them aboard and landed them at St. Peter’s
Port. The disaster was entirely the fault of the steersman Tangrouille, who
was in prison. Clubin had behaved nobly.
The pilots, who had mustered in great force, pronounced the words “The
Douvres” with a peculiar emphasis. “A dreary half-way house that,” said
one.
A compass and a bundle of registers and memorandum-books lay on the
table; they were doubtless the compass of the Durande and the ship’s
papers, handed by Clubin to Imbrancam and Tangrouille at the moment of
the departure of the long-boat. They were the evidences of the magnificent
self-abnegation of that man who had busied himself with saving these
documents even in the presence of death itself—a little incident full of
moral grandeur; an instance of sublime self-forgetfulness never to be
forgotten.

They were unanimous in their admiration of Clubin; unanimous also in
believing him to be saved after all. The Shealtiel cutter had arrived some
hours after the Cashmere. It was this vessel which had brought the last
items of intelligence. She had passed four-and-twenty hours in the same
waters as the Durande. She had lain-to in the fog, and tacked about during
the squall. The captain of the Shealtiel was present among the company.
This captain had just finished his narrative to Lethierry as Gilliatt
entered. The narrative was a true one. Towards the morning, the storm
having abated, and the wind becoming manageable, the captain of the
Shealtiel had heard the lowing of oxen in the open sea. This rural sound in
the midst of the waves had naturally startled him. He steered in that
direction, and perceived the Durande among the Douvres. The sea had
sufficiently subsided for him to approach. He hailed the wreck; the
bellowing of the cattle was the sole reply. The captain of the Shealtiel was
confident that there was no one aboard the Durande. The wreck still held
together well, and notwithstanding the violence of the squall, Clubin could
have passed the night there. He was not the man to leave go his hold very
easily. He was not there, however; and therefore he must have been rescued.
It was certain that several sloops and luggers, from Granville and St. Malo,
must, after laying-to in the fog on the previous evening, have passed pretty
near the rocks. It was evident that one of these had taken Clubin aboard. It
was to be remembered that the long-boat of the Durande was full when it
left the unlucky vessel; that it was certain to encounter great risks; that
another man aboard would have overloaded her, and perhaps caused her to
founder; and that these circumstances had no doubt weighed with Clubin in
coming to his determination to remain on the wreck. His duty, however,
once fulfilled, and a vessel at hand, Clubin assuredly would not have
scrupled to avail himself of its aid. A hero is not necessarily an idiot. The
idea of a suicide was absurd in connection with a man of Clubin’s
irreproachable character. The culprit, too, was Tangrouille, not Clubin. All
this was conclusive. The captain of the Shealtiel was evidently right, and
everybody expected to see Clubin reappear very shortly. There was a
project abroad to carry him through the town in triumph.
Two things appeared certain from the narrative of the captain: Clubin was
saved, the Durande lost.

As regarded the Durande, there was nothing for it but to accept the fact;
the catastrophe was irremediable. The captain of the Shealtiel had witnessed
the last moments of the wreck. The sharp rock on which the vessel had
been, as it were, nailed, had held her fast during the night, and resisted the
shock of the tempest as if reluctant to part with its prey; but in the morning,
at the moment when the captain of the Shealtiel had convinced himself that
there was no one aboard to be saved, and was about to wear off again, one
of those seas which are like the last angry blows of a tempest had struck
her. The wave lifted her violently from her place, and with the swiftness and
directness of an arrow from a bow had thrown her against the two Douvres
rocks. “An infernal crash was heard,” said the captain. The vessel, lifted by
the wave to a certain height, had plunged between the two rocks up to her
midship frame. She had stuck fast again; but more firmly than on the
submarine rocks. She must have remained there suspended, and exposed to
every wind and sea.
The Durande, according to the statements of the crew of the Shealtiel,
was already three parts broken up. She would evidently have foundered
during the night, if the rocks had not kept her up. The captain of the
Shealtiel had watched her a long time with his spyglass. He gave, with
naval precision, the details of her disaster. The starboard quarter beaten in,
the masts maimed, the sails blown from the bolt-ropes, the shrouds torn
away, the cabin sky-lights smashed by the falling of one of the booms, the
dome of the cuddy-house beaten in, the chocks of the long-boat struck
away, the round-house overturned, the hinges of the rudder broken, the
trusses wrenched away, the quarter-cloths demolished, the bits gone, the
cross-beam destroyed, the shear-rails knocked off, the stern-post broken. As
to the parts of the cargo made fast before the foremast, all destroyed, made
a clean sweep of, gone to ten thousand shivers, with top ropes, iron pulleys,
and chains. The Durande had broken her back; the sea now must break her
up piecemeal. In a few days there would be nothing of her remaining.
It appeared that the engine was scarcely injured by all these ravages—a
remarkable fact, and one which proved its excellence. The captain of the
Shealtiel thought he could affirm that the crank had received no serious
injury. The vessel’s masts had given way, but the funnel had resisted
everything. Only the iron guards of the captain’s gangway were twisted; the
paddle boxes had suffered, the frames were bruised, but the paddles had not
a float missing. The machinery was intact. Such was the conviction of the

captain of the Shealtiel. Imbrancam, the engineer, who was among the
crowd, had the same conviction. The negro, more intelligent than many of
his white companions, was proud of his engines. He lifted up his arms,
opening the ten fingers of his black hands, and said to Lethierry, as he sat
there silent, “Master, the machinery is alive still!”
The safety of Clubin seeming certain, and the hull of the Durande being
already sacrificed, the engines became the topic of conversation among the
crowd. They took an interest in it as in a living thing. They felt a delight in
praising its good qualities. “That’s what I call a well-built machine,” said a
French sailor. “Something like a good one,” cried a Guernsey fisherman.
“She must have some good stuff in her,” said the captain of the Shealtiel,
“to come out of that affair with only a few scratches.”
By degrees the machinery of the Durande became the absorbing object of
their thoughts. Opinions were warm for and against. It had its enemies and
its friends. More than one who possessed a good old sailing cutter, and who
hoped to get a share of the business of the Durande, was not sorry to find
that the Douvres rock had disposed of the new invention. The whispering
became louder. The discussion grew noisy, though the hubbub was
evidently a little restrained; and now and then there was a simultaneous
lowering of voices out of respect to Lethierry’s death-like silence.
The result of the colloquy, so obstinately maintained on all sides, was as
follows:—
The engines were the vital part of the vessel. To rescue the Durande was
impossible; but the machinery might still be saved. These engines were
unique. To construct others similar, the money was wanting; but to find the
artificer would have been still more difficult. It was remembered that the
constructor of the machinery was dead. It had cost forty thousand francs.
No one would risk again such a sum upon such a chance: particularly as it
was now discovered that steamboats could be lost like other vessels. The
accident of the Durande destroyed the prestige of all her previous success.
Still, it was deplorable to think that at that very moment this valuable
mechanism was still entire and in good condition, and that in five or six
days it would probably go to pieces, like the vessel herself. As long as this
existed, it might almost be said that there was no shipwreck. The loss of the
engines was alone irreparable. To save the machinery would be almost to
repair the disaster.

Save the machinery! It was easy to talk of it; but who would undertake to
do it? Was it possible, even? To scheme and to execute are two different
things; as different as to dream and to do. Now if ever a dream had
appeared wild and impracticable, it was that of saving the engines then
embedded between the Douvres. The idea of sending a ship and a crew to
work upon those rocks was absurd. It could not be thought of. It was the
season of heavy seas. In the first gale the chains of the anchors would be
worn away and snapped upon the submarine peaks, and the vessel must be
shattered on the rocks. That would be to send a second shipwreck to the
relief of the first. On the miserable narrow height where the legend of the
place described the shipwrecked sailor as having perished of hunger, there
was scarcely room for one person. To save the engines, therefore, it would
be necessary for a man to go to the Douvres, to be alone in that sea, alone in
that desert, alone at five leagues from the coast, alone in that region of
terrors, alone for entire weeks, alone in the presence of dangers foreseen
and unforeseen—without supplies in the face of hunger and nakedness,
without succour in the time of distress, without token of human life around
him save the bleached bones of the miserable being who had perished there
in his misery, without companionship save that of death. And besides, how
was it possible to extricate the machinery? It would require not only a
sailor, but an engineer; and for what trials must he not prepare. The man
who would attempt such a task must be more than a hero. He must be a
madman: for in certain enterprises, in which superhuman power appears
necessary, there is a sort of madness which is more potent than courage.
And after all, would it not be a folly to immolate oneself for a mass of
rusted iron. No: it was certain that nobody would undertake to go to the
Douvres on such an errand. The engine must be abandoned like the rest.
The engineer for such a task would assuredly not be forthcoming. Where,
indeed, should they look for such a man?
All this, or similar observations, formed the substance of the confused
conversations of the crowd.
The captain of the Shealtiel, who had been a pilot, summed up the views
of all by exclaiming aloud:—
“No; it is all over. The man does not exist who could go there and rescue
the machinery of the Durande.”
“If I don’t go,” said Imbrancam, “it is because nobody could do it.”

The captain of the Shealtiel shook his left hand in the air with that sudden
movement which expresses a conviction that a thing is impossible.
“If he existed—” continued the captain.
Déruchette turned her head impulsively, and interrupted.
“I would marry him,” she said, innocently.
There was a pause.
A man made his way out of the crowd, and standing before her, pale and
anxious, said:
“You would marry him, Miss Déruchette?”
It was Gilliatt.
All eyes were turned towards him. Mess Lethierry had just before stood
upright, and gazed about him. His eyes glittered with a strange light.
He took off his sailor’s cap, and threw it on the ground: then looked
solemnly before him, and without seeing any of the persons present, said:
“Déruchette should be his. I pledge myself to it in God’s name.”

II

MUCH ASTONISHMENT ON THE WESTERN COAST
The full moon rose at ten o’clock on the following night; but however
fine the night, however favourable the wind and sea, no fisherman thought
of going out that evening either from Hogue la Perre, or Bourdeaux
harbour, or Houmet Benet, or Platon, or Port Grat, or Vazon Bay, or Perrelle
Bay, or Pezeries, or the Tielles or Saints’ Bay, or Little Bo, or any other port
or little harbour in Guernsey; and the reason was very simple. A cock had
been heard to crow at noonday.
When the cock is heard to crow at an extraordinary hour, fishing is
suspended.
At dusk on that evening, however, a fisherman returning to Omptolle,
met with a remarkable adventure. On the height above Houmet Paradis,
beyond the Two Brayes and the Two Grunes, stands to the left the beacon of

the Plattes Tougères, representing a tub reversed; and to the right, the
beacon of St. Sampson, representing the face of a man. Between these two,
the fisherman thought that he perceived for the first time a third beacon.
What could be the meaning of this beacon? When had it been erected on
that point? What shoal did it indicate? The beacon responded immediately
to these interrogations. It moved, it was a mast. The astonishment of the
fisherman did not diminish. A beacon would have been remarkable; a mast
was still more so: it could not be a fishing-boat. When everybody else was
returning, some boat was going out. Who could it be? and what was he
about?
Ten minutes later the vessel, moving slowly, came within a short distance
of the Omptolle fisherman. He did not recognise it. He heard the sound of
rowing: there were evidently only two oars. There was probably, then, only
one man aboard. The wind was northerly. The man, therefore, was evidently
paddling along in order to take the wind off Point Fontenelle. There he
would probably take to his sails. He intended then to double the Ancresse
and Mount Crevel. What could that mean?
The vessel passed, the fisherman returned home. On that same night, at
different hours, and at different points, various persons scattered and
isolated on the western coast of Guernsey, observed certain facts.
As the Omptolle fisherman was mooring his bark, a carter of seaweed
about half-a-mile off, whipping his horses along the lonely road from the
Clôtures near the Druid stones, and in the neighbourhood of the Martello
Towers 6 and 7, saw far off at sea, in a part little frequented, because it
requires much knowledge of the waters, and in the direction of North Rock
and the Jablonneuse, a sail being hoisted. He paid little attention to the
circumstance, not being a seaman, but a carter of seaweed.
Half-an-hour had perhaps elapsed since the carter had perceived this
vessel, when a plasterer returning from his work in the town, and passing
round Pelée Pool, found himself suddenly opposite a vessel sailing boldly
among the rocks of the Quenon, the Rousse de Mer, and the Gripe de
Rousse. The night was dark, but the sky was light over the sea, an effect
common enough; and he could distinguish a great distance in every
direction. There was no sail visible except this vessel.
A little lower, a gatherer of crayfish, preparing his fish wells on the beach
which separates Port Soif from the Port Enfer, was puzzled to make out the

movements of a vessel between the Boue Corneille and the Moubrette. The
man must have been a good pilot, and in great haste to reach some
destination to risk his boat there.
Just as eight o’clock was striking at the Catel, the tavern-keeper at Cobo
Bay observed with astonishment a sail out beyond the Boue du Jardin and
the Grunettes, and very near the Susanne and the Western Grunes.
Not far from Cobo Bay, upon the solitary point of the Houmet of Vason
Bay, two lovers were lingering, hesitating before they parted for the night.
The young woman addressed the young man with the words, “I am not
going because I don’t care to stay with you: I’ve a great deal to do.” Their
farewell kiss was interrupted by a good sized sailing boat which passed
very near them, making for the direction of the Messellettes.
Monsieur le Peyre des Norgiots, an inhabitant of Cotillon Pipet, was
engaged about nine o’clock in the evening in examining a hole made by
some trespassers in the hedge of his property called La Jennerotte, and his
“friquet planted with trees.” Even while ascertaining the amount of the
damage, he could not help observing a fishing-boat audaciously making its
way round the Crocq Point at that hour of night.
On the morrow of a tempest, when there is always some agitation upon
the sea, that route was extremely unsafe. It was rash to choose it, at least,
unless the steersman knew all the channels by heart.
At half-past nine o’clock, at L’Equerrier, a trawler carrying home his net
stopped for a time to observe between Colombelle and the Soufleresse
something which looked like a boat. The boat was in a dangerous position.
Sudden gusts of wind of a very dangerous kind are very common in that
spot. The Soufleresse, or Blower, derives its name from the sudden gusts of
wind which it seems to direct upon the vessels, which by rare chance find
their way thither.
At the moment when the moon was rising, the tide being high and the sea
being quiet, in the little strait of Li-Hou, the solitary keeper of the island of
Li-Hou was considerably startled. A long black object slowly passed
between the moon and him. This dark form, high and narrow, resembled a
winding-sheet spread out and moving. It glided along the line of the top of
the wall formed by the ridges of rock. The keeper of Li-Hou fancied that he
had beheld the Black Lady.

The White Lady inhabits the Tau de Pez d’Amont; the Grey Lady, the
Tau de Pez d’Aval; the Red Lady, the Silleuse, to the north of the Marquis
Bank; and the Black Lady, the Grand Etacré, to the west of Li-Houmet. At
night, when the moon shines, these ladies stalk abroad, and sometimes
meet.
That dark form might undoubtedly be a sail. The long groups of rocks on
which she appeared to be walking, might in fact be concealing the hull of a
bark navigating behind them, and allowing only her sail to be seen. But the
keeper asked himself, what bark would dare, at that hour, to venture herself
between Li-Hou and the Pécheresses, and the Anguillières and Lérée Point?
And what object could she have? It seemed to him much more probable that
it was the Black Lady.
As the moon was passing the clock-tower of St. Peter in the Wood, the
serjeant at Castle Rocquaine, while in the act of raising the drawbridge of
the castle, distinguished at the end of the bay beyond the Haute Canée, but
nearer than the Sambule, a sailing-vessel which seemed to be steadily
dropping down from north to south.
On the southern coast of Guernsey behind Pleinmont, in the curve of a
bay composed entirely of precipices and rocky walls rising peak-shaped
from the sea, there is a singular landing-place, to which a French
gentleman, a resident of the island since 1855, has given the name of “The
Port on the Fourth Floor,” a name now generally adopted. This port, or
landing-place, which was then called the Moie, is a rocky plateau half-
formed by nature, half by art, raised about forty feet above the level of the
waves, and communicating with the water by two large beams laid parallel
in the form of an inclined plane. The fishing-vessels are hoisted up there by
chains and pulleys from the sea, and are let down again in the same way
along these beams, which are like two rails. For the fishermen there is a
ladder. The port was, at the time of our story, much frequented by the
smugglers. Being difficult of access, it was well suited to their purposes.
Towards eleven o’clock, some smugglers—perhaps the same upon whose
aid Clubin had counted—stood with their bales of goods on the summit of
this platform of the Moie. A smuggler is necessarily a man on the look out,
it is part of his business to watch. They were astonished to perceive a sail
suddenly make its appearance beyond the dusky outline of Cape Pleinmont.
It was moonlight. The smugglers observed the sail narrowly, suspecting that

it might be some coast-guard cutter about to lie in ambush behind the Great
Hanway. But the sail left the Hanways behind, passed to the north-west of
the Boue Blondel, and was lost in the pale mists of the horizon out at sea.
“Where the devil can that boat be sailing?” asked the smuggler.
That same evening, a little after sunset, some one had been heard
knocking at the door of the old house of the Bû de la Rue. It was a boy
wearing brown clothes and yellow stockings, a fact that indicated that he
was a little parish clerk. An old fisherwoman prowling about the shore with
a lantern in her hand, had called to the boy, and this dialogue ensued
between the fisherwoman and the little clerk, before the entrance to the Bû
de la Rue:—
“What d’ye want, lad?”
“The man of this place.”
“He’s not there.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will he be there to-morrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he gone away?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve come, good woman, from the new rector of the parish, the
Reverend Ebenezer Caudray, who desires to pay him a visit.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“The rector sent me to ask if the man who lives at the Bû de la Rue
would be at home to-morrow morning.”
“I don’t know.”

III

A QUOTATION FROM THE BIBLE

During the twenty-four hours which followed, Mess Lethierry slept not,
ate nothing, drank nothing. He kissed Déruchette on the forehead, asked
after Clubin, of whom there was as yet no news, signed a declaration
certifying that he had no intention of preferring a charge against anyone,
and set Tangrouille at liberty.
All the morning of the next day he remained half supporting himself on
the table of the office of the Durande, neither standing nor sitting:
answering kindly when anyone spoke to him. Curiosity being satisfied, the
Bravées had become a solitude. There is a good deal of curiosity generally
mingled with the haste of condolences. The door had closed again, and left
the old man again alone with Déruchette. The strange light that had shone in
Lethierry’s eyes was extinguished. The mournful look which filled them
after the first news of the disaster had returned.
Déruchette, anxious for his sake, had, on the advice of Grace and Douce,
laid silently beside him a pair of stockings, which he had been knitting,
sailor fashion, when the bad news had arrived.
He smiled bitterly, and said:
“They must think me foolish.”
After a quarter of an hour’s silence, he added:
“These things are well when you are happy.”
Déruchette carried away the stockings, and took advantage of the
opportunity to remove also the compass and the ship’s papers which
Lethierry had been brooding over too long.
In the afternoon, a little before tea-time, the door opened and two
strangers entered, attired in black. One was old, the other young.
The young one has, perhaps, already been observed in the course of this
story.
The two men had each a grave air; but their gravity appeared different.
The old man possessed what might be called state gravity; the gravity of the
young man was in his nature. Habit engenders the one; thought the other.
They were, as their costume indicated, two clergymen, each belonging to
the Established Church.
The first fact in the appearance of the younger man which might have
first struck the observer was, that his gravity, though conspicuous in the

expression of his features, and evidently springing from the mind, was not
indicated by his person. Gravity is not inconsistent with passion, which it
exalts by purifying it; but the idea of gravity could with difficulty be
associated with an exterior remarkable above all for personal beauty. Being
in holy orders, he must have been at least four-and-twenty, but he seemed
scarcely more than eighteen. He possessed those gifts at once in harmony
with, and in opposition to, each other. A soul which seemed created for
exalted passion, and a body created for love. He was fair, rosy-fresh, slim,
and elegant in his severe attire, and he had the cheeks of a young girl, and
delicate hands. His movements were natural and lively, though subdued.
Everything about him was pleasing, elegant, almost voluptuous. The beauty
of his expression served to correct this excess of personal attraction. His
open smile, which showed his teeth, regular and white as those of a child,
had something in it pensive, even devotional. He had the gracefulness of a
page, mingled with the dignity of a bishop.
His fair hair, so fair and golden as to be almost effeminate, clustered over
his white forehead, which was high and well-formed. A slight double line
between the eyebrows awakened associations with studious thought.
Those who saw him felt themselves in the presence of one of those
natures, benevolent, innocent, and pure, whose progress is in inverse sense
with that of vulgar minds; natures whom illusion renders wise, and whom
experience makes enthusiasts.
His older companion was no other than Doctor Jaquemin Hérode. Doctor
Jaquemin Hérode belonged to the High Church; a party whose system is a
sort of popery without a pope. The Church of England was at that epoch
labouring with the tendencies which have since become strengthened and
condensed in the form of Puseyism. Doctor Jaquemin Hérode belonged to
that shade of Anglicanism which is almost a variety of the Church of Rome.
He was haughty, precise, stiff, and commanding. His inner sight scarcely
penetrated outwardly. He possessed the letter in the place of the spirit. His
manner was arrogant; his presence imposing. He had less the appearance of
a “Reverend” than of a Monsignore. His frock-coat was cut somewhat in
the fashion of a cassock. His true centre would have been Rome. He was a
born Prelate of the Antechamber. He seemed to have been created expressly
to fill a part in the Papal Court, to walk behind the Pontifical litter, with all
the Court of Rome in abitto paonazzo. The accident of his English birth and

his theological education, directed more towards the Old than the New
Testament, had deprived him of that destiny. All his splendours were
comprised in his preferments as Rector of St. Peter’s Port, Dean of the
Island of Guernsey, and Surrogate of the Bishop of Winchester. These were,
undoubtedly, not without their glories. These glories did not prevent M.
Jaquemin Hérode being, on the whole, a worthy man.
As a theologian he was esteemed by those who were able to judge of
such matters; he was almost an authority in the Court of Arches—that
Sorbonne of England.
He had the true air of erudition; a learned contraction of the eyes;
bristling nostrils; teeth which showed themselves at all times; a thin upper
lip and a thick lower one. He was the possessor of several learned degrees,
a valuable prebend, titled friends, the confidence of the bishop, and a Bible,
which he carried always in his pocket.
Mess Lethierry was so completely absorbed that the entrance of the two
priests produced no effect upon him, save a slight movement of the
eyebrows.
M. Jaquemin Hérode advanced, bowed, alluded in a few sober and
dignified words to his recent promotion, and mentioned that he came
according to custom to introduce among the inhabitants, and to Mess
Lethierry in particular, his successor in the parish, the new Rector of St.
Sampson, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, henceforth the pastor of Mess
Lethierry.
Déruchette rose.
The young clergyman, who was the Rev. Ebenezer, saluted her.
Mess Lethierry regarded Monsieur Ebenezer Caudray, and muttered, “A
bad sailor.”
Grace placed chairs. The two visitors seated themselves near the table.
Doctor Hérode commenced a discourse. It had reached his ears that a
serious misfortune had befallen his host. The Durande had been lost. He
came as Lethierry’s pastor to offer condolence and advice. This shipwreck
was unfortunate, and yet not without compensations. Let us examine our
own hearts. Are we not puffed up with prosperity? The waters of felicity are
dangerous. Troubles must be submitted to cheerfully. The ways of
Providence are mysterious. Mess Lethierry was ruined, perhaps. But riches

were a danger. You may have false friends; poverty will disperse them, and
leave you alone. The Durande was reported to have brought a revenue of
one thousand pounds sterling per annum. It was more than enough for the
wise. Let us fly from temptations; put not our faith in gold; bow the head to
losses and neglect. Isolation is full of good fruits. It was in solitude that
Ajah discovered the warm springs while leading the asses of his father
Zibeon. Let us not rebel against the inscrutable decrees of Providence. The
holy man Job, after his misery, had put faith in riches. Who can say that the
loss of the Durande may not have its advantages even of a temporal kind.
He, for instance, Doctor Jaquemin Hérode had invested some money in an
excellent enterprise, now in progress at Sheffield. If Mess Lethierry, with
the wealth which might still remain to him, should choose to embark in the
same affair, he might transfer his capital to that town. It was an extensive
manufactory of arms for the supply of the Czar, now engaged in repressing
insurrection in Poland. There was a good prospect of obtaining three
hundred per cent. profit.
The word Czar appeared to awaken Lethierry. He interrupted Dr. Hérode.
“I want nothing to do with the Czar.”
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode replied:
“Mess Lethierry, princes are recognised by God. It is written, ‘Render
unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s.’ The Czar is Cæsar.”
Lethierry partly relapsed into his dream and muttered:
“Cæsar? who is Cæsar? I don’t know.”
The Rev. Jaquemin Hérode continued his exhortations. He did not press
the question of Sheffield.
To contemn a Cæsar was republicanism. He could understand a man
being a republican. In that case he could turn his thoughts towards a
republic. Mess Lethierry might repair his fortune in the United States, even
better than in England. If he desired to invest what remained to him at great
profit, he had only to take shares in the great company for developing the
resources of Texas, which employed more than twenty thousand negroes.
“I want nothing to do with slavery,” said Lethierry.
“Slavery,” replied the Reverend Hérode, “is an institution recognised by
Scripture. It is written, ‘If a man smite his slave, he shall not be punished,
for he is his money.’”

Grace and Douce at the door of the room listened in a sort of ecstacy to
the words of the Reverend Doctor.
The doctor continued. He was, all things considered, as we have said, a
worthy man; and whatever his differences, personal or connected with
caste, with Mess Lethierry, he had come very sincerely to offer him that
spiritual and even temporal aid which he, Doctor Jaquemin Hérode,
dispensed.
If Mess Lethierry’s fortune had been diminished to that point that he was
unable to take a beneficial part in any speculation, Russian or American,
why should he not obtain some government appointment suited to him?
There were many very respectable places open to him, and the reverend
gentleman was ready to recommend him. The office of Deputy-Vicomte
was just vacant. Mess Lethierry was popular and respected, and the
Reverend Jaquemin Hérode, Dean of Guernsey and Surrogate of the
Bishop, would make an effort to obtain for Mess Lethierry this post. The
Deputy-Vicomte is an important officer. He is present as the representative
of His Majesty at the holding of the Sessions, at the debates of the Cohue,
and at executions of justice.
Lethierry fixed his eye upon Doctor Hérode.
“I don’t like hanging,” he said.
Doctor Hérode, who, up to this point, had pronounced his words with the
same intonation, had now a fit of severity; his tone became slightly
changed.
“Mess Lethierry, the pain of death is of divine ordination. God has placed
the sword in the hands of governors. It is written, ‘An eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth.’”
The Reverend Ebenezer imperceptibly drew his chair nearer to the
Reverend Doctor and said, so as to be heard only by him:
“What this man says, is dictated to him.”
“By whom? By what?” demanded the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode, in the
same tone.
The young man replied in a whisper, “By his conscience.”
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode felt in his pocket, drew out a thick little
bound volume with clasps, and said aloud:

“Conscience is here.”
The book was a Bible.
Then Doctor Hérode’s tone became softer. “His wish was to render a
service to Mess Lethierry, whom he respected much. As his pastor, it was
his right and duty to offer counsel. Mess Lethierry, however, was free.”
Mess Lethierry, plunged once more in his overwhelming absorption, no
longer listened. Déruchette, seated near him, and thoughtful, also did not
raise her eyes, and by her silent presence somewhat increased the
embarrassment of a conversation not very animated. A witness who says
nothing is a species of indefinable weight. Doctor Hérode, however, did not
appear to feel it.
Lethierry no longer replying, Doctor Hérode expatiated freely. Counsel is
from man; inspiration is from God. In the counsels of the priests there is
inspiration. It is good to accept, dangerous to refuse them. Sochoh was
seized by eleven devils for disdaining the exhortations of Nathaniel.
Tiburianus was struck with a leprosy for having driven from his house the
Apostle Andrew. Barjesus, a magician though he was, was punished with
blindness for having mocked at the words of St. Paul. Elxai and his sisters,
Martha and Martena, are in eternal torments for despising the warnings of
Valentianus, who proved to them clearly that their Jesus Christ, thirty-eight
leagues in height, was a demon. Aholibamah, who is also called Judith,
obeyed the Councils, Reuben and Peniel listened to the counsels from on
high, as their names indeed indicate. Reuben signifies son of the vision; and
Peniel, “the face of God.”
Mess Lethierry struck the table with his fist.
“Parbleu!” he cried; “it was my fault.”
“What do you mean?” asked M. Jaquemin Hérode.
“I say that it is my fault.”
“Your fault? Why?”
“Because I allowed the Durande to return on Fridays.”
M. Jaquemin Hérode whispered in Caudray’s ear:
“This man is superstitious.”
He resumed, raising his voice, and in a didactic tone:

“Mess Lethierry, it is puerile to believe in Fridays. You ought not to put
faith in fables. Friday is a day just like any other. It is very often a
propitious day. Melendez founded the city of Saint Augustin on a Friday; it
was on a Friday that Henry the Seventh gave his commission to John Cabot;
the Pilgrims of the Mayflower landed at Province Town on a Friday.
Washington was born on Friday, the 22nd of February 1732; Christopher
Columbus discovered America on Friday, the 12th of October 1492.”
Having delivered himself of these remarks, he rose.
Caudray, whom he had brought with him, rose also.
Grace and Douce, perceiving that the two clergymen were about to take
their leave, opened the folding-doors.
Mess Lethierry saw nothing; heard nothing.
M. Jaquemin Hérode said, apart to M. Caudray:
“He does not even salute us. This is not sorrow; it is vacancy. He must
have lost his reason.”
He took his little Bible, however, from the table, and held it between his
hands outstretched, as one holds a bird in fear that it may fly away. This
attitude awakened among the persons present a certain amount of attention.
Grace and Douce leaned forward eagerly.
His voice assumed all the solemnity of which it was capable.
“Mess Lethierry,” he began, “let us not part without reading a page of the
Holy Book. It is from books that wise men derive consolation in the
troubles of life. The profane have their oracles; but believers have their
ready resource in the Bible. The first book which comes to hand, opened by
chance may afford counsel; but the Bible, opened at any page, yields a
revelation. It is, above all, a boon to the afflicted. Yes, Holy Scripture is an
unfailing balm for their wounds. In the presence of affliction, it is good to
consult its sacred pages—to open even without choosing the place, and to
read with faith the passage which we find. What man does not choose is
chosen by God. He knoweth best what suiteth us. His finger pointeth
invisibly to that which we read. Whatever be the page, it will infallibly
enlighten. Let us seek, then, no other light; but hold fast to His. It is the
word from on high. In the text which is evoked with confidence and
reverence, often do we find a mysterious significance in our present
troubles. Let us hearken, then, and obey. Mess Lethierry, you are in

affliction, but I hold here the book of consolation. You are sick at heart, but
I have here the book of spiritual health.”
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode touched the spring of the clasp, and let
his finger slip between the leaves. Then he placed his hand a moment upon
the open volume, collected his thoughts, and, raising his eyes impressively,
began to read in a loud voice.
The passage which he had lighted on was as follows:
“And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide, and he lifted
up his eyes and saw and beheld the camels were coming.
“And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac she lighted off
the camel.
“For she had said unto the servant, What man is this that walketh in the
field to meet us?
“And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah,
and she became his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted after
his mother’s death.”
Caudray and Déruchette glanced at each other.

PART II.—MALICIOUS GILLIATT

BOOK I
THE ROCK

I
THE PLACE WHICH IS DIFFICULT TO REACH, AND
DIFFICULT TO LEAVE
The bark which had been observed at so many points on the coast of
Guernsey on the previous evening was, as the reader has guessed, the old
Dutch barge or sloop. Gilliatt had chosen the channel along the coast among
the rocks. It was the most dangerous way, but it was the most direct. To take
the shortest route was his only thought. Shipwrecks will not wait; the sea is
a pressing creditor; an hour’s delay may be irreparable. His anxiety was to
go quickly to the rescue of the machinery in danger.
One of his objects in leaving Guernsey was to avoid arousing attention.
He set out like one escaping from justice, and seemed anxious to hide from
human eyes. He shunned the eastern coast, as if he did not care to pass in
sight of St. Sampson and St. Peter’s Port, and glided silently along the
opposite coast, which is comparatively uninhabited. Among the breakers, it
was necessary to ply the oars; but Gilliatt managed them on scientific
principles; taking the water quietly, and dropping it with exact regularity, he

was able to move in the darkness with as little noise and as rapidly as
possible. So stealthy were his movements, that he might have seemed to be
bent upon some evil errand.
In truth, though embarking desperately in an enterprise which might well
be called impossible, and risking his life with nearly every chance against
him, he feared nothing but the possibility of some rival in the work which
he had set before him.
As the day began to break, those unknown eyes which look down upon
the world from boundless space might have beheld, at one of the most
dangerous and solitary spots at sea, two objects, the distance between which
was gradually decreasing, as the one was approaching the other. One, which
was almost imperceptible in the wide movement of the waters, was a sailing
boat. In this was a man. It was the sloop. The other, black, motionless,
colossal, rose above the waves, a singular form. Two tall pillars issuing
from the sea bore aloft a sort of cross-beam which was like a bridge
between them. This bridge, so singular in shape that it was impossible to
imagine what it was from a distance, touched each of the two pillars. It
resembled a vast portal. Of what use could such an erection be in that open
plain, the sea, which stretched around it far and wide? It might have been
imagined to be a Titanic Cromlech, planted there in mid-ocean by an
imperious whim, and built up by hands accustomed to proportion their
labours to the great deep. Its wild outline stood well-defined against the
clear sky.
The morning light was growing stronger in the east; the whiteness in the
horizon deepened the shadow on the sea. In the opposite sky the moon was
sinking.
The two perpendicular forms were the Douvres. The huge mass held fast
between them, like an architrave between two pillars, was the wreck of the
Durande.
The rock, thus holding fast and exhibiting its prey, was terrible to behold.
Inanimate things look sometimes as if endowed with a dark and hostile
spirit towards man. There was a menace in the attitude of the rocks. They
seemed to be biding their time.
Nothing could be more suggestive of haughtiness and arrogance than
their whole appearance: the conquered vessel; the triumphant abyss. The
two rocks, still streaming with the tempest of the day before, were like two

wrestlers sweating from a recent struggle. The wind had sunk; the sea
rippled gently; here and there the presence of breakers might be detected in
the graceful streaks of foam upon the surface of the waters. A sound came
from the sea like the murmuring of bees. All around was level except the
Douvres, rising straight, like two black columns. Up to a certain height they
were completely bearded with seaweed; above this their steep haunches
glittered at points like polished armour. They seemed ready to commence
the strife again. The beholder felt that they were rooted deep in mountains
whose summits were beneath the sea. Their aspect was full of a sort of
tragic power.
Ordinarily the sea conceals her crimes. She delights in privacy. Her
unfathomable deeps keep silence. She wraps herself in a mystery which
rarely consents to give up its secrets. We know her savage nature, but who
can tell the extent of her dark deeds? She is at once open and secret; she
hides away carefully, and cares not to divulge her actions; wrecks a vessel,
and, covering it with the waves, engulfs it deep, as if conscious of her guilt.
Among her crimes is hypocrisy. She slays and steals, conceals her booty,
puts on an air of unconsciousness, and smiles.
Here, however, was nothing of the kind. The Douvres, lifting above the
level of the waters the shattered hull of the Durande, had an air of triumph.
The imagination might have pictured them as two monstrous arms, reaching
upwards from the gulf, and exhibiting to the tempest the lifeless body of the
ship. Their aspect was like that of an assassin boasting of his evil deeds.
The solemnity of the hour contributed something to the impression of the
scene. There is a mysterious grandeur in the dawn, as of the border-land
between the region of consciousness and the world of our dreams. There is
something spectral in that confused transition time. The immense form of
the two Douvres, like a capital letter H, the Durande forming its cross
stroke, appeared against the horizon in all their twilight majesty.
Gilliatt was attired in his seaman’s clothing: a Guernsey shirt, woollen
stockings, thick shoes, a homespun jacket, trousers of thick stuff, with
pockets, and a cap upon his head of red worsted, of a kind then much in use
among sailors, and known in the last century as a galérienne.
He recognised the rocks, and steered towards them.
The situation of the Durande was exactly the contrary of that of a vessel
gone to the bottom: it was a vessel suspended in the air.

No problem more strange was ever presented to a salvor.
It was broad daylight when Gilliatt arrived in the waters about the rock.
As we have said, there was but little sea. The slight agitation of the water
was due almost entirely to its confinement among the rocks. Every passage,
small or large, is subject to this chopping movement. The inside of a
channel is always more or less white with foam. Gilliatt did not approach
the Douvres without caution.
He cast the sounding lead several times.
He had a cargo to disembark.
Accustomed to long absences, he had at home a number of necessaries
always ready. He had brought a sack of biscuit, another of rye-meal, a
basket of salt fish and smoked beef, a large can of fresh water; a Norwegian
chest painted with flowers, containing several coarse woollen shirts, his
tarpaulin and his waterproof overalls, and a sheepskin which he was
accustomed to throw at night over his clothes. On leaving the Bû de la Rue
he had put all these things hastily into the barge, with the addition of a large
loaf. In his hurry he had brought no other tools but his huge forge-hammer,
his chopper and hatchet, and a knotted rope. Furnished with a grappling-
iron and with a ladder of that sort, the steepest rocks become accessible, and
a good sailor will find it possible to scale the rudest escarpment. In the
island of Sark the visitor may see what the fishermen of the Havre Gosselin
can accomplish with a knotted cord.
His nets and lines and all his fishing apparatus were in the barge. He had
placed them there mechanically and by habit; for he intended, if his
enterprise continued, to sojourn for some time in an archipelago of rocks
and breakers, where fishing nets and tackle are of little use.
At the moment when Gilliatt was skirting the great rock the sea was
retiring; a circumstance favourable to his purpose. The departing tide laid
bare, at the foot of the smaller Douvre, one or two table-rocks, horizontal,
or only slightly inclined, and bearing a fanciful resemblance to boards
supported by crows. These table-rocks, sometimes narrow, sometimes
broad, standing at unequal distances along the side of the great
perpendicular column, were continued in the form of a thin cornice up to a
spot just beneath the Durande, the hull of which stood swelling out between
the two rocks. The wreck was held fast there as in a vice.

This series of platforms was convenient for approaching and surveying
the position. It was convenient also for disembarking the contents of the
barge provisionally; but it was necessary to hasten, for it was only above
water for a few hours. With the rising tide the table-rocks would be again
beneath the foam.
It was before these table-rocks, some level, some slanting, that Gilliatt
pushed in and brought the barge to a stand. A thick mass of wet and slippery
sea-wrack covered them, rendered more slippery here and there by their
inclined surfaces.
Gilliatt pulled off his shoes and sprang bare-footed on to the slimy
weeds, and made fast the barge to a point of rock.
Then he advanced as far as he could along the granite cornice, reached
the rock immediately beneath the wreck, looked up, and examined it.
The Durande had been caught suspended, and, as it were, fitted in
between the two rocks, at about twenty feet above the water. It must have
been a heavy sea which had cast her there.
Such effects from furious seas have nothing surprising for those who are
familiar with the ocean. To cite one example only:—On the 25th January
1840, in the Gulf of Stora, a tempest struck with its expiring force a brig,
and casting it almost intact completely over the broken wreck of the
corvette La Marne, fixed it immovable, bowsprit first, in a gap between the
cliffs.
The Douvres, however, held only a part of the Durande.
The vessel snatched from the waves had been, as it were, uprooted from
the waters by the hurricane. A whirlwind had wrenched it against the
counteracting force of the rolling waves, and the vessel thus caught in
contrary directions by the two claws of the tempest had snapped like a lath.
The after-part with the engine and the paddles, lifted out of the foam and
driven by all the fury of the cyclone into the defile of the Douvres, had
plunged in up to her midship beam, and remained there. The blow had been
well directed. To drive it in this fashion between the two rocks, the storm
had struck it as with an enormous hammer. The forecastle carried away and
rolled down by the sea, had gone to fragments among the breakers.
The hold, broken in, had scattered out the bodies of the drowned cattle
upon the sea.

A large portion of the forward side and bulwarks still hung to the riders
by the larboard paddle-box, and by some shattered braces easy to strike off
with the blow of a hatchet.
Here and there, among beams, planks, rags of canvas, pieces of chains,
and other remains of wreck were seen lying about among the rugged
fragments of shattered rock.
Gilliatt surveyed the Durande attentively. The keel formed a roofing over
his head.
A serene sky stretched far and wide over the waters, scarcely wrinkled
with a passing breath. The sun rose gloriously in the midst of the vast azure
circle.
From time to time a drop of water was detached from the wreck and fell
into the sea.

II
A CATALOGUE OF DISASTERS
The Douvres differed in shape as well as in height.
Upon the Little Douvre, which was curved and pointed, long veins of
reddish-coloured rock, of a comparatively soft kind, could be seen
branching out and dividing the interior of the granite. At the edges of these
red dykes were fractures, favourable to climbing. One of these fractures,
situated a little above the wreck, had been so laboriously worn and scooped
out by the splashing of the waves, that it had become a sort of niche, in
which it would have been quite possible to place a statue. The granite of the
Little Douvre was rounded at the surface, and, to the feel at least, soft like
touchstone; but this feeling detracted nothing from its durability. The Little
Douvre terminated in a point like a horn. The Great Douvre, polished,
smooth, glossy, perpendicular, and looking as if cut out by the builder’s
square, was in one piece, and seemed made of black ivory. Not a hole, not a
break in its smooth surface. The escarpment looked inhospitable. A convict
could not have used it for escape, nor a bird for a place for its nest. On the

summit there was a horizontal surface as upon “The Man Rock;” but the
summit of the Great Douvre was inaccessible.
It was possible to scale the Little Douvre, but not to remain on the
summit; it would have been possible to rest on the summit of the Great
Douvre, but impossible to scale it.
Gilliatt, having rapidly surveyed the situation of affairs, returned to the
barge, landed its contents upon the largest of the horizontal cornice rocks,
made of the whole compact mass a sort of bale, which he rolled up in
tarpaulin, fitted a sling rope to it with a hoisting block, pushed the package
into a corner of the rocks where the waves could not reach it, and then
clutching the Little Douvre with his hands, and holding on with his naked
feet, he clambered from projection to projection, and from niche to niche,
until he found himself level with the wrecked vessel high up in the air.
Having reached the height of the paddles, he sprang upon the poop.
The interior of the wreck presented a mournful aspect.
Traces of a great struggle were everywhere visible. There were plainly to
be seen the frightful ravages of the sea and wind. The action of the tempest
resembles the violence of a band of pirates. Nothing is more like the victim
of a criminal outrage than a wrecked ship violated and stripped by those
terrible accomplices, the storm-cloud, the thunder, the rain, the squall, the
waves, and the breakers.
Standing upon the dismantled deck, it was natural to dream of the
presence of something like a furious stamping of the spirits of the storm.
Everywhere around were the marks of their rage. The strange contortions of
certain portions of the ironwork bore testimony to the terrific force of the
winds. The between-decks were like the cell of a lunatic, in which
everything has been broken.
No wild beast can compare with the sea for mangling its prey. The waves
are full of talons. The north wind bites, the billows devour, the waves are
like hungry jaws. The ocean strikes like a lion with its heavy paw, seizing
and dismembering at the same moment.
The ruin conspicuous in the Durande presented the peculiarity of being
detailed and minute. It was a sort of horrible stripping and plucking. Much
of it seemed done with design. The beholder was tempted to exclaim,
“What wanton mischief!” The ripping of the planking was edged here and

there artistically. This peculiarity is common with the ravages of the
cyclone. To chip and tear away is the caprice of the great devastator. Its
ways are like those of the professional torturer. The disasters which it
causes wear a look of ingenious punishments. One might fancy it actuated
by the worst passions of man. It refines in cruelty like a savage. While it is
exterminating it dissects bone by bone. It torments its victim, avenges itself,
and takes delight in its work. It even appears to descend to petty acts of
malice.
Cyclones are rare in our latitudes, and are, for that reason, the more
dangerous, being generally unexpected. A rock in the path of a heavy wind
may become the pivot of a storm. It is probable that the squall had thus
rotated upon the point of the Douvres, and had turned suddenly into a
waterspout on meeting the shock of the rocks, a fact which explained the
casting of the vessel so high among them. When the cyclone blows, a vessel
is of no more weight in the wind than a stone in a sling.
The damage received by the Durande was like the wound of a man cut in
twain. It was a divided trunk from which issued a mass of débris like the
entrails of a body. Various kinds of cordage hung floating and trembling,
chains swung chattering; the fibres and nerves of the vessel were there
naked and exposed. What was not smashed was disjointed.
Fragments of the sheeting resembled currycombs bristling with nails;
everything bore the appearance of ruin; a handspike had become nothing
but a piece of iron; a sounding-lead, nothing but a lump of metal; a dead-
eye had become a mere piece of wood; a halliard, an end of rope; a strand
of cord, a tangled skein; a bolt-rope, a thread in the hem of a sail. All
around was the lamentable work of demolition. Nothing remained that was
not unhooked, unnailed, cracked, wasted, warped, pierced with holes,
destroyed: nothing hung together in the dreadful mass, but all was torn,
dislocated, broken. There was that air of drift which characterises the scene
of all struggles—from the melées of men, which are called battles, to the
melées of the elements, to which we give the name of chaos. Everything
was sinking and dropping away; a rolling mass of planks, panelling,
ironwork, cables, and beams had been arrested just at the great fracture of
the hull, whence the least additional shock must have precipitated them into
the sea. What remained of her powerful frame, once so triumphant, was

cracked here and there, showing through large apertures the dismal gloom
within.
The foam from below spat its flakes contemptuously upon this broken
and forlorn outcast of the sea.

III
SOUND; BUT NOT SAFE
Gilliatt did not expect to find only a portion of the ship existing. Nothing
in the description, in other respects so precise, of the captain of the Shealtiel
had led him to anticipate this division of the vessel in the centre. It was
probable that the “diabolical crash” heard by the captain of the Shealtiel
marked the moment when this destruction had taken place under the blows
of a tremendous sea. The captain had, doubtless, worn ship just before this
last heavy squall; and what he had taken for a great sea was probably a
waterspout. Later, when he drew nearer to observe the wreck, he had only
been able to see the stern of the vessel—the remainder, that is to say, the
large opening where the fore-part had given way, having been concealed
from him among the masses of rock.
With that exception, the information given by the captain of the Shealtiel
was strictly correct. The hull was useless, but the engine remained intact.
Such chances are common in the history of shipwreck. The logic of
disaster at sea is beyond the grasp of human science.
The masts having snapped short, had fallen over the side; the chimney
was not even bent. The great iron plating which supported the machinery
had kept it together, and in one piece. The planks of the paddle-boxes were
disjointed, like the leaves of wooden sunblinds; but through their apertures
the paddles themselves could be seen in good condition. A few of their
floats only were missing.
Besides the machinery, the great stern capstan had resisted the
destruction. Its chain was there, and, thanks to its firm fixture in a frame of
joists, might still be of service, unless the strain of the voyal should break

away the planking. The flooring of the deck bent at almost every point, and
was tottering throughout.
On the other hand, the trunk of the hull, fixed between the Douvres, held
together, as we have already said, and it appeared strong.
There was something like derision in this preservation of the machinery;
something which added to the irony of the misfortune. The sombre malice
of the unseen powers of mischief displays itself sometimes in such bitter
mockeries. The machinery was saved, but its preservation did not make it
any the less lost. The ocean seemed to have kept it only to demolish it at
leisure. It was like the playing of the cat with her prey.
Its fate was to suffer there and to be dismembered day by day. It was to
be the plaything of the savage amusements of the sea. It was slowly to
dwindle, and, as it were, to melt away. For what could be done? That this
vast block of mechanism and gear, at once massive and delicate,
condemned to fixity by its weight, delivered up in that solitude to the
destructive elements, exposed in the gripe of the rock to the action of the
wind and wave, could, under the frown of that implacable spot, escape from
slow destruction, seemed a madness even to imagine.
The Durande was the captive of the Douvres.
How could she be extricated from that position?
How could she be delivered from her bondage?
The escape of a man is difficult; but what a problem was this—the escape
of a vast and cumbrous machine.

IV

A PRELIMINARY SURVEY
Gilliatt was pressed on all sides by demands upon his labours. The most
pressing, however, was to find a safe mooring for the barge; then a shelter
for himself.
The Durande having settled down more on the larboard than on the
starboard side, the right paddle-box was higher than the left.

Gilliatt ascended the paddle-box on the right. From that position,
although the gut of rocks stretching in abrupt angles behind the Douvres
had several elbows, he was able to study the ground-plan of the group.
This survey was the preliminary step of his operations.
The Douvres, as we have already described them, were like two high
gable-ends, forming the narrow entrance to a straggling alley of small cliffs
with perpendicular faces. It is not rare to find in primitive submarine
formations these singular kinds of passages, which seem cut out with a
hatchet.
This defile was extremely tortuous, and was never without water even in
the low tides. A current, much agitated, traversed it at all times from end to
end. The sharpness of its turnings was favourable or unfavourable,
according to the nature of the prevailing wind; sometimes it broke the swell
and caused it to fall; sometimes it exasperated it. This latter effect was the
most frequent. An obstacle arouses the anger of the sea, and pushes it to
excesses. The foam is the exaggeration of the waves.
The stormy winds in these narrow and tortuous passages between the
rocks are subjected to a similar compression, and acquire the same
malignant character. The tempest frets in its sudden imprisonment. Its bulk
is still immense, but sharpened and contracted; and it strikes with the
massiveness of a huge club and the keenness of an arrow. It pierces even
while it strikes down. It is a hurricane contracted, like the draught through
the crevice of a door.
The two chains of rocks, leaving between them this kind of street in the
sea, formed stages at a lower level than the Douvres, gradually decreasing,
until they sunk together at a certain distance beneath the waves.
There was another such gullet of less height than the gullet of the
Douvres, but narrower still, and which formed the eastern entrance of the
defile. It was evident that the double prolongation of the ridge of rocks
continued the kind of street under the water as far as “The Man Rock,”
which stood like a square citadel at the extremity of the group.
At low water, indeed, which was the time at which Gilliatt was observing
them, the two rows of sunken rock showed their tips, some high and dry,
and all visible and preserving their parallel without interruption.

“The Man” formed the boundary, and buttressed on the eastern side the
entire mass of the group, which was protected on the opposite side by the
two Douvres.
The whole, from a bird’s-eye view, appeared like a winding chaplet of
rocks, having the Douvres at one extremity and “The Man” at the other.
The Douvres, taken together, were merely two gigantic shafts of granite
protruding vertically and almost touching each other, and forming the crest
of one of the mountainous ranges lying beneath the ocean. Those immense
ridges are not only found rising out of the unfathomable deep. The surf and
the squall had broken them up and divided them like the teeth of a saw.
Only the tip of the ridge was visible; this was the group of rocks. The
remainder, which the waves concealed, must have been enormous. The
passage in which the storm had planted the Durande was the way between
these two colossal shafts.
This passage, zigzag in form as the forked lightning, was of about the
same width in all parts. The ocean had so fashioned it. Its eternal
commotion produces sometimes those singular regularities. There is a sort
of geometry in the action of the sea.
From one extremity to the other of the defile, the two parallel granite
walls confronted each other at a distance which the midship frame of the
Durande measured exactly. Between the two Douvres, the widening of the
Little Douvre, curved and turned back as it was, had formed a space for the
paddles. In any other part they must have been shattered to fragments.
The high double façade of rock within the passage was hideous to the
sight. When, in the exploration of the desert of water which we call the
ocean, we come upon the unknown world of the sea, all is uncouth and
shapeless. So much as Gilliatt could see of the defile from the height of the
wreck, was appalling. In the rocky gorges of the ocean we may often trace a
strange permanent impersonation of shipwreck. The defile of the Douvres
was one of these gorges, and its effect was exciting to the imagination. The
oxydes of the rock showed on the escarpment here and there in red places,
like marks of clotted blood; it resembled the splashes on the walls of an
abattoir. Associations of the charnel-house haunted the place. The rough
marine stones, diversely tinted—here by the decomposition of metallic
amalgams mingling with the rock, there by the mould of dampness,
manifested in places by purple scales, hideous green blotches, and ruddy

splashes, awakened ideas of murder and extermination. It was like the
unwashed walls of a chamber which had been the scene of an assassination;
or it might have been imagined that men had been crushed to death there,
leaving traces of their fate. The peaked rocks produced an indescribable
impression of accumulated agonies. Certain spots appeared to be still
dripping with the carnage; here the wall was wet, and it looked impossible
to touch it without leaving the fingers bloody. The blight of massacre
seemed everywhere. At the base of the double parallel escarpment, scattered
along the water’s edge, or just below the waves, or in the worn hollows of
the rocks, were monstrous rounded masses of shingle, some scarlet, others
black or purple, which bore a strange resemblance to internal organs of the
body; they might have been taken for human lungs, or heart, or liver,
scattered and putrefying in that dismal place. Giants might have been
disembowelled there. From top to bottom of the granite ran long red lines,
which might have been compared to oozings from a funeral bier.
Such aspects are frequent in sea caverns.

V
A WORD UPON THE SECRET CO-OPERATIONS OF THE
ELEMENTS
Those who, by the disastrous chances of sea-voyages, happen to be
condemned to a temporary habitation upon a rock in mid-ocean, find that
the form of their inhospitable refuge is by no means a matter of
indifference. There is the pyramidal-shaped rock, a single peak rising from
the water; there is the circle rock somewhat resembling a round of great
stones; and there is the corridor-rock. The latter is the most alarming of all.
It is not only the ceaseless agony of the waves between its walls, or the
tumult of the imprisoned sea; there are also certain obscure meteorological
characteristics which appear to appertain to this parallelism of two marine
rocks. The two straight sides seem a veritable electric battery.
The first result of the peculiar position of these corridor-rocks is an action
upon the air and the water. The corridor-rock acts upon the waves and the

wind mechanically by its form; galvanically, by the different magnetic
action rendered possible by its vertical height, its masses in juxtaposition
and contrary to each other.
This form of rock attracts to itself all the forces scattered in the winds,
and exercises over the tempest a singular power of concentration.
Hence there is in the neighbourhood of these breakers a certain
accentuation of storms.
It must be borne in mind that the wind is composite. The wind is believed
to be simple; but it is by no means simple. Its power is not merely dynamic,
it is chemical also; but this is not all, it is magnetic. Its effects are often
inexplicable. The wind is as much electrical as aerial. Certain winds
coincide with the aurores boreales. The wind blowing from the bank of the
Aiguilles rolls the waves one hundred feet high; a fact observed with
astonishment by Dumont-d’Urville. The corvette, he says, “knew not what
to obey.”
In the south seas the waters will sometimes become inflated like an
outbreak of immense tumours; and at such times the ocean becomes so
terrible that the savages fly to escape the sight of it. The blasts in the north
seas are different. They are mingled with sharp points of ice; and their
gusts, unfit to breathe, will blow the sledges of the Esquimaux backwards in
the snow. Other winds burn. The simoon of Africa is the typhoon of China
and the samiel of India. Simoon, typhoon, and samiel, are believed to be the
names of demons. They descend from the heights of the mountains. A storm
vitrified the volcano of Toluca. This hot wind, a whirlwind of inky colour,
rushing upon red clouds, is alluded to in the Vedas: “Behold the black god,
who comes to steal the red cows.” In all these facts we trace the presence of
the electric mystery.
The wind indeed is full of it; so are the waves. The sea, too, is composite
in its nature. Under its waves of water which we see, it has its waves of
force which are invisible. Its constituents are innumerable. Of all the
elements the ocean is the most indivisible and the most profound.
Endeavour to conceive this chaos so enormous that it dwarfs all other
things to one level. It is the universal recipient, reservoir of germs of life,
and mould of transformations. It amasses and then disperses, it accumulates
and then sows, it devours and then creates. It receives all the waste and
refuse waters of the earth, and converts them into treasure. It is solid in the

iceberg, liquid in the wave, fluid in the estuary. Regarded as matter, it is a
mass; regarded as a force, it is an abstraction. It equalises and unites all
phenomena. It may be called the infinite in combination. By force and
disturbance, it arrives at transparency. It dissolves all differences, and
absorbs them into its own unity. Its elements are so numerous that it
becomes identity. One of its drops is complete, and represents the whole.
From the abundance of its tempests, it attains equilibrium. Plato beheld the
mazy dances of the spheres. Strange fact, though not the less real, the
ocean, in the vast terrestrial journey round the sun, becomes, with its flux
and reflux, the balance of the globe.
In a phenomenon of the sea, all other phenomena are resumed. The sea is
blown out of a waterspout as from a syphon; the storm observes the
principle of the pump; the lightning issues from the sea as from the air.
Aboard ships dull shocks are sometimes felt, and an odour of sulphur issues
from the receptacles of chain cables. The ocean boils. “The devil has put the
sea in his cauldron,” said De Ruyter. In certain tempests, which characterise
the equinoxes and the return to equilibrium of the prolific power of nature,
vessels breasting the foam seem to give out a kind of fire, phosphoric lights
chase each other along the rigging, so close sometimes to the sailors at their
work that the latter stretch forth their hands and try to catch, as they fly,
these birds of flame. After the great earthquake of Lisbon, a blast of hot air,
as from a furnace, drove before it towards the city a wave sixty feet high.
The oscillation of the ocean is closely related to the convulsions of the
earth.
These immeasurable forces produce sometimes extraordinary
inundations. At the end of the year 1864, one of the Maldive Islands, at a
hundred leagues from the Malabar coast, actually foundered in the sea. It
sunk to the bottom like a shipwrecked vessel. The fishermen who sailed
from it in the morning, found nothing when they returned at night; scarcely
could they distinguish their villages under the sea. On this occasion boats
were the spectators of the wrecks of houses.
In Europe, where nature seems restrained by the presence of civilisation,
such events are rare and are thought impossible. Nevertheless, Jersey and
Guernsey originally formed part of Gaul, and at the moment while we are
writing these lines, an equinoctial gale has demolished a great portion of the
cliff of the Firth of Forth in Scotland.

Nowhere do these terrific forces appear more formidably conjoined than
in the surprising strait known as the Lyse-Fiord. The Lyse-Fiord is the most
terrible of all the gut rocks of the ocean. Their terrors are there complete. It
is in the northern sea, near the inhospitable Gulf of Stavanger, and in the
59th degree of latitude. The water is black and heavy, and subject to
intermitting storms. In this sea, and in the midst of this solitude, rises a
great sombre street—a street for no human footsteps. None ever pass
through there; no ship ever ventures in. It is a corridor ten leagues in length,
between two rocky walls of three thousand feet in height. Such is the
passage which presents an entrance to the sea. The defile has its elbows and
angles like all these streets of the sea—never straight, having been formed
by the irregular action of the water. In the Lyse-Fiord, the sea is almost
always tranquil; the sky above is serene; the place terrible. Where is the
wind? Not on high. Where is the thunder? Not in the heavens. The wind is
under the sea; the lightnings within the rock. Now and then there is a
convulsion of the water. At certain moments, when there is perhaps not a
cloud in the sky, nearly half way up the perpendicular rock, at a thousand or
fifteen hundred feet above the water, and rather on the southern than on the
northern side, the rock suddenly thunders, lightnings dart forth, and then
retire like those toys which lengthen out and spring back again in the hands
of children. They contract and enlarge; strike the opposite cliff, re-enter the
rock, issue forth again, recommence their play, multiply their heads and tips
of flame, grow bristling with points, strike wherever they can, recommence
again, and then are extinguished with a sinister abruptness. Flocks of birds
fly wide in terror. Nothing is more mysterious than that artillery issuing out
of the invisible. One cliff attacks the other, raining lightning blows from
side to side. Their war concerns not man. It signals the ancient enmity of
two rocks in the impassable gulf.
In the Lyse-Fiord, the wind whirls like the water in an estuary; the rock
performs the function of the clouds; and the thunder breaks forth like
volcanic fire. This strange defile is a voltaic pile; the plates of which are the
double line of cliffs.

VI

A STABLE FOR THE HORSE
Gilliatt was sufficiently familiar with marine rocks to grapple in earnest
with the Douvres. Before all, as we have just said, it was necessary to find a
safe shelter for the barge.
The double row of reefs, which stretched in a sinuous form behind the
Douvres, connected itself here and there with other rocks, and suggested the
existence of blind passages and hollows opening out into the straggling
way, and joining again to the principal defile like branches to a trunk.
The lower part of these rocks was covered with kelp, the upper part with
lichens. The uniform level of the seaweed marked the line of the water at
the height of the tide, and the limit of the sea in calm weather. The points
which the water had not touched presented those silver and golden hues
communicated to marine granite by the white and yellow lichen.
A crust of conoidical shells covered the rock at certain points, the dry rot
of the granite.
At other points in the retreating angles, where fine sand had accumulated,
ribbed on its surface rather by the wind than by the waves, appeared tufts of
blue thistles.
In the indentations, sheltered from the winds, could be traced the little
perforations made by the sea-urchin. This shelly mass of prickles, which
moves about a living ball, by rolling on its spines, and the armour of which
is composed of ten thousand pieces, artistically adjusted and welded
together—the sea-urchin, which is popularly called, for some unknown
reason, “Aristotle’s lantern,” wears away the granite with his five teeth, and
lodges himself in the hole. It is in such holes that the samphire gatherers
find them. They cut them in halves and eat them raw, like an oyster. Some
steep their bread in the soft flesh. Hence its other name, “Sea-egg.”
The tips of the further reefs, left out of the water by the receding tide,
extended close under the escarpment of “The Man” to a sort of creek,
enclosed nearly on all sides by rocky walls. Here was evidently a possible
harbourage. It had the form of a horse-shoe, and opened only on one side to
the east wind, which is the least violent of all winds in that sea labyrinth.
The water was shut in there, and almost motionless. The shelter seemed
comparatively safe. Gilliatt, moreover, had not much choice.

If he wished to take advantage of the low water, it was important to make
haste.
The weather continued to be fine and calm. The insolent sea was for a
while in a gentle mood.
Gilliatt descended, put on his shoes again, unmoored the cable, re-
embarked, and pushed out into the water. He used the oars, coasting the side
of the rock.
Having reached “The Man Rock,” he examined the entrance to the little
creek.
A fixed, wavy line in the motionless sea, a sort of wrinkle, imperceptible
to any eye but that of a sailor, marked the channel.
Gilliatt studied for a moment its lineament, almost indistinct under the
water; then he held off a little in order to veer at ease, and steer well into
channel; and suddenly with a stroke of the oars he entered the little bay.
He sounded.
The anchorage appeared to be excellent.
The sloop would be protected there against almost any of the
contingencies of the season.
The most formidable reefs have quiet nooks of this sort. The ports which
are thus found among the breakers are like the hospitality of the fierce
Bedouin—friendly and sure.
Gilliatt placed the sloop as near as he could to “The Man,” but still far
enough to escape grazing the rock; and he cast his two anchors.
That done, he crossed his arms, and reflected on his position.
The sloop was sheltered. Here was one problem solved. But another
remained. Where could he now shelter himself?
He had the choice of two places: the sloop itself, with its corner of cabin,
which was scarcely habitable, and the summit of “The Man Rock,” which
was not difficult to scale.
From one or other of these refuges it was possible at low water, by
jumping from rock to rock, to gain the passage between the Douvres where
the Durande was fixed, almost without wetting the feet.
But low water lasts but a short while, and all the rest of the time he would
be cut off either from his shelter or from the wreck by more than two

hundred fathoms. Swimming among breakers is difficult at all times; if
there is the least commotion in the sea it is impossible.
He was driven to give up the idea of shelter in the sloop or on “The
Man.”
No resting-place was possible among the neighbouring rocks.
The summits of the lower ones disappeared twice a day beneath the
rising tide.
The summits of the higher ones were constantly swept by the flakes of
foam, and promised nothing but an inhospitable drenching.
No choice remained but the wreck itself.
Was it possible to seek refuge there?
Gilliatt hoped it might be.

VII

A CHAMBER FOR THE VOYAGER
Half-an-hour afterwards, Gilliatt having returned to the wreck, climbed to
the deck, went below, and descended into the hold, completing the
summary survey of his first visit.
By the help of the capstan he had raised to the deck of the Durande the
package which he had made of the lading of the sloop. The capstan had
worked well. Bars for turning it were not wanting. Gilliatt had only to take
his choice among the heap of wreck.
He found among the fragments a chisel, dropped, no doubt, from the
carpenter’s box, and which he added to his little stock of tools.
Besides this—for in poverty of appliances so complete everything counts
for a little—he had his jack-knife in his pocket.
Gilliatt worked the whole day long on the wreck, clearing away,
propping, arranging.
At nightfall he observed the following facts:

The entire wreck shook in the wind. The carcass trembled at every step
he took. There was nothing stable or strong except the portion of the hull
jammed between the rocks which contained the engine. There the beams
were powerfully supported by the granite walls.
Fixing his home in the Durande would be imprudent. It would increase
the weight; but far from adding to her burden, it was important to lighten it.
To burden the wreck in any way was indeed the very contrary of what he
wanted.
The mass of ruin required, in fact, the most careful management. It was
like a sick man at the approach of dissolution. The wind would do sufficient
to help it to its end.
It was, moreover, unfortunate enough to be compelled to work there. The
amount of disturbance which the wreck would have to withstand would
necessarily distress it, perhaps beyond its strength.
Besides, if any accident should happen in the night while Gilliatt was
sleeping, he must necessarily perish with the vessel. No assistance was
possible; all would be over. In order to help the shattered vessel, it was
absolutely necessary to remain outside it.
How to be outside and yet near it, this was the problem.
The difficulty became more complicated as he considered it.
Where could he find a shelter under such conditions?
Gilliatt reflected.
There remained nothing but the two Douvres. They seemed hopeless
enough.
From below, it was possible to distinguish upon the upper plateau of the
Great Douvre a sort of protuberance.
High rocks with flattened summits, like the Great Douvre and “The
Man,” are a sort of decapitated peaks. They abound among the mountains
and in the ocean. Certain rocks, particularly those which are met with in the
open sea, bear marks like half-felled trees. They have the appearance of
having received blows from a hatchet. They have been subjected, in fact, to
the blows of the gale, that indefatigable pioneer of the sea.
There are other still more profound causes of marine convulsions. Hence
the innumerable bruises upon these primeval masses of granite. Some of

these sea giants have their heads struck off.
Sometimes these heads, from some inexplicable cause, do not fall, but
remain shattered on the summit of the mutilated trunk. This singularity is by
no means rare. The Devil’s Rock, at Guernsey, and the Table, in the Valley
of Anweiler, illustrate some of the most surprising features of this strange
geological enigma.
Some such phenomena had probably fashioned the summit of the Great
Douvre.
If the protuberance which could be observed on the plateau were not a
natural irregularity in the stone, it must necessarily be some remaining
fragment of the shattered summit.
Perhaps the fragment might contain some excavation—some hole into
which a man could creep for cover. Gilliatt asked for no more.
But how could he reach the plateau? How could he scale that
perpendicular wall, hard and polished as a pebble, half covered with the
growth of glutinous confervæ, and having the slippery look of a soapy
surface?
The ridge of the plateau was at least thirty feet above the deck of the
Durande.
Gilliatt took out of his box of tools the knotted cord, hooked it to his belt
by the grapnel, and set to work to scale the Little Douvre. The ascent
became more difficult as he climbed. He had forgotten to take off his shoes,
a fact which increased the difficulty. With great labour and straining,
however, he reached the point. Safely arrived there, he raised himself and
stood erect. There was scarcely room for his two feet. To make it his
lodging would be difficult. A Stylite might have contented himself there;
Gilliatt, more luxurious in his requirements, wanted something more
commodious.
The Little Douvre, leaning towards the great one, looked from a distance
as if it was saluting it, and the space between the Douvres, which was some
score of feet below, was only eight or ten at the highest points.
From the spot to which he had climbed, Gilliatt saw more distinctly the
rocky excrescence which partly covered the plateau of the Great Douvre.
This plateau rose three fathoms at least above his head.

A precipice separated him from it. The curved escarpment of the Little
Douvre sloped away out of sight beneath him.
He detached the knotted rope from his belt, took a rapid glance at the
dimensions of the rock, and slung the grapnel up to the plateau.
The grapnel scratched the rock, and slipped. The knotted rope with the
hooks at its end fell down beneath his feet, swinging against the side of the
little Douvre.
He renewed the attempt; slung the rope further, aiming at the granite
protuberance, in which he could perceive crevices and scratches.
The cast was, this time, so neat and skilful, that the hooks caught.
He pulled from below. A portion of the rock broke away, and the knotted
rope with its heavy iron came down once more, striking the escarpment
beneath his feet.
He slung the grapnel a third time.
It did not fall.
He put a strain upon the rope; it resisted. The grapnel was firmly
anchored.
The hooks had caught in some fracture of the plateau which he could not
see.
It was necessary to trust his life to that unknown support.
He did not hesitate.
The matter was urgent. He was compelled to take the shortest route.
Moreover, to descend again to the deck of the Durande, in order to devise
some other step, was impossible. A slip was probable, and a fall almost
certain. It was easier to climb than to descend.
Gilliatt’s movements were decisive, as are those of all good sailors. He
never wasted force. He always proportioned his efforts to the work in hand.
Hence the prodigies of strength which he executed with ordinary muscles.
His biceps were no more powerful than that of ordinary men; but his heart
was firmer. He added, in fact, to strength which is physical, energy which
belongs to the moral faculties.
The feat to be accomplished was appalling.
It was to cross the space between the two Douvres, hanging only by this
slender line.

Oftentimes in the path of duty and devotedness, the figure of death rises
before men to present these terrible questions:
Wilt thou do this? asks the shadow.
Gilliatt tested the cord again; the grappling-iron held firm.
Wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief, he grasped the knotted cord
with his right hand, which he covered with his left; then stretching out one
foot, and striking out sharply with the other against the rock, in order that
the impetus might prevent the rope twisting, he precipitated himself from
the height of the Little Douvre on to the escarpment of the great one.
The shock was severe.
There was a rebound.
His clenched fists struck the rocks in their turn; the handkerchief had
loosened, and they were scratched; they had indeed narrowly escaped being
crushed.
Gilliatt remained hanging there a moment dizzy.
He was sufficiently master of himself not to let go his hold of the cord.
A few moments passed in jerks and oscillations before he could catch the
cord with his feet; but he succeeded at last.
Recovering himself, and holding the cord at last between his naked feet
as with two hands, he gazed into the depth below.
He had no anxiety about the length of the cord, which had many a time
served him for great heights. The cord, in fact, trailed upon the deck of the
Durande.
Assured of being able to descend again, he began to climb hand over
hand, and still clinging with his feet.
In a few moments he had gained the summit.
Never before had any creature without wings found a footing there. The
plateau was covered in parts with the dung of birds. It was an irregular
trapezium, a mass struck off from the colossal granitic prism of the Great
Douvre. This block was hollowed in the centre like a basin—a work of the
rain.
Gilliatt, in fact, had guessed correctly.
At the southern angle of the block, he found a mass of superimposed
rocks, probably fragments of the fallen summit. These rocks, looking like a