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 pa.s.s 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 denouement 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 ma.s.s 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 p.o.o.p 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 Bravees.
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 a.s.semblage, 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 Deruchette 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!
Deruchette, 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 pa.s.sive. 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 pa.s.s 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.