Deruchette still heard the sound of the bagpipes from time to time. Mess Lethierry heard them, too. After a time he had become aware of this persistent musician playing under Deruchette's windows. That the music was tender in tone made matters worse. A nocturnal gallant of this kind was not to his taste. He wanted to see Deruchette married in due time, when she wanted it and he wanted it--plainly and simply, without any romantic trappings and without music. Irritated, he kept watch, and thought that he had glimpsed Gilliatt. He combed his side-whiskers with his fingers--with him a sign of anger--and grumbled: "What has he to pipe about, that fellow? He's in love with Deruchette, it seems. You're wasting your time, young man. Anyone who wants to marry Deruchette must apply to me--and not by playing the flute."
An event of great importance, long anticipated, now came to pass. It was made known that the Reverend Jaquemin Herode had been appointed suffragan to the bishop of Winchester, dean of Guernsey, and rector of St. Peter Port, and that he would leave St. Sampson for St. Peter Port immediately after his successor was installed.
The new rector soon arrived. He was a gentleman of Norman extraction, Mr. Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, anglicized as Cawdry.
The information that now became available about the future rector was given a very different gloss by those who were well disposed and those who were not. He was said to be young and poor, but his youth was tempered by the soundness of his doctrine and his poverty by great expectations. In the special language used in discussing inheritance and wealth, death is called expectations. He was the nephew and heir of the old and well-to-do dean of St. Asaph's, and when the dean died he would be rich. Ebenezer Caudray was well connected; he was almost entitled to the style of Honorable. As to his doctrine, there were different views. He was an Anglican, but, to use Bishop Tillotson's term, very much of a "libertine": that is to say, very strict. He repudiated pharisaism, and he believed in the presbytery rather than the episcopate. He dreamed of the primitive church, when Adam had the right to choose Eve, and when Frumentanus, bishop of Hierapolis, carried off a girl to make her his wife, saying to her parents: "She wants it and I want it. You are no longer her father and you are no longer her mother. I am the angel of Hierapolis, and she is my wife. Her father is God." If you could believe what people said, Monsieur Ebenezer Caudray thought the text "Honor thy father and thy mother" less important than that other text: "The woman is the flesh of the man. The woman shall leave her father and her mother to cleave to her husband." This tendency to circumscribe paternal authority and favor all methods of forming the conjugal bond is characteristic of all Protestant faiths, particularly in England and most notably in America.
V
WELL-EARNED SUCCESS ALWAYS ATTRACTS HATRED
At that time this was the state of Mess Lethierry's affairs: The Durande had fully lived up to her promise. Mess Lethierry had paid off his debts, repaired the breaches in his fortune, settled his accounts in Bremen, and paid his bills in Saint-Malo. He had cleared the mortgages on Les Bravees and redeemed all the small charges on the house. He was the owner of a valuable and productive capital asset, the Durande. The net annual income from the ship was a thousand pounds sterling and was still increasing. The Durande was in fact the sole source of his fortune. It also made the fortune of the district. Since the transport of cattle was the ship's main source of profit, it had been necessary, in order to improve the arrangements for the stowage of cargo and facilitate the loading and unloading of cattle, to dispense with the davits and the two dinghies. This was perhaps unwise. The Durande now had only one boat, the longboat--though this was an excellent craft.
It was ten years since Rantaine had made off with Mess Lethierry's money.
The weak point in the Durande's success was that people had no confidence in it; it was thought to be merely a lucky chance. Mess Lethierry's prosperity was accepted, but it was regarded as an exception. He was seen as having embarked on a crazy scheme that had turned out well. Someone who had imitated him at Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, had failed, and the shareholders in the venture had been ruined. Lethierry said that this was because the ship was badly built. But people still shook their heads. New ideas suffer from the disadvantage that everyone is against them, and the slightest thing that goes wrong discredits them. One of the commercial oracles of the Norman archipelago, a banker named Jauge who came from Paris, was once consulted about investing money in steamships. He is said to have replied, turning his back on the enquirer: "The proposition you have in mind is a conversion--the conversion of money into smoke." Sailing ships, on the other hand, could find any number of people ready to invest in them. Capital was firmly in favor of canvas as against a boiler. On Guernsey the Durande was a fact, but steam was not a principle that people were ready to accept: so strong is the prejudice against progress. People said of Lethierry: "All right, it has turned out well; but he wouldn't do it again." The example he had given did not encourage others but alarmed them. No one would have ventured on a second Durande.
VI
SHIPWRECKED MARINERS ARE LUCKY IN ENCOUNTERING A SLOOP
The equinox arrives early in the Channel. It is a narrow sea that hampers and irritates the wind. Westerly winds begin to blow in the month of February, and the waves are churned in all directions. Seafarers become apprehensive; the people of the coast keep an eye on the signal mast; there are worries about ships that may be in distress. The sea lies in ambush; an invisible bugle sounds, as if calling men to war; fierce gusts of air overwhelm the horizon; the wind increases in fury. The darkness is filled with whistling and howling. Far up in the clouds the black face of the storm puffs out its cheeks.
The wind is one danger; fog is another.
Seamen have always feared fog. Some fogs hold in suspension microscopic prisms of ice, to which Mariotte117 attributed such effects as haloes, parhelia, and paraselenae. Fogs during a storm are composite; in them various vapors of differing specific gravity combine with water vapor, superimposed in an order that divides the fog into zones, giving it a regular structure; at the bottom is iodine, above this is sulfur, above this is bromine, and above this again is phosphorus. To some extent this structure, allowing for electrical and magnetic tension, explains a number of phenomena--the Saint Elmo's fire observed by Columbus and Magellan, the shooting stars raining down on ships of which Seneca speaks, the two flames called Castor and Pollux that are mentioned by Plutarch, the Roman legions whose javelins seemed to Caesar to be catching fire, the pike in Duino Castle in Friuli that sent out sparks when the sentry on duty touched it with his lance, and perhaps even the thunderings down below that the ancients called the "terrestrial lightnings of Saturn." On the equator there seems to be a permanent band of mist around the globe, the cloud ring. The function of the cloud ring is to cool down the Tropics, as that of the Gulf Stream is to warm up the Pole. Under the cloud ring are the dangerous fogs. These are the horse latitudes, in which in past centuries sailors threw horses into the sea, with the object in stormy weather of lightening the ship and in calm weather of husbanding their water. Columbus said: "Nube abaxo es muerte," "Low cloud is death." The Etruscans, who were to meteorology what the Chaldeans were to astronomy, had two priesthoods, the priesthood of thunder and the priesthood of the clouds; the fulguratores observed lightning and the aquileges observed fog and mist. The college of priest-augurs of Tarquinia was consulted by the Tyrians, the Phoenicians, the Pelasgians, and all the primitive seamen of the ancient Mediterranean. They had some inkling of the way in which storms were generated; it is intimately connected with the method of generation of fog, and is indeed the same phenomenon. There are three foggy zones on the ocean: an equatorial zone and two polar zones: seamen give them the same name, the "black pot."
In all waters, and particularly in the Channel, the equinoctial fogs are dangerous. They suddenly bring night over the sea. One of the dangers of fog, even when it is not particularly dense, is that it prevents sailors from recognizing changes in the seabed from changes in the color of the wa
ter, resulting in a dangerous concealment of approaching breakers or shallows. You can suddenly come on a reef without any warning. Frequently fog leaves a vessel with no alternative but to lay to or drop anchor. Fog causes as many shipwrecks as wind.
After a heavy gale that followed one of these days of fog the mail sloop Cashmere nevertheless arrived safely from England. It entered St. Peter Port at first light, just as Castle Cornet was firing its cannon to greet the sun. The sky had cleared. The Cashmere had been eagerly awaited, since it was believed to be bringing St. Sampson's new rector. Soon after its arrival the rumor spread in the town that during the night it had picked up a boat containing the crew of a vessel that had suffered shipwreck.
VII
A STRANGER IS LUCKY IN BEING SEEN BY A FISHERMAN
That night, when the wind died down, Gilliatt went out fishing, though without going too far from the coast.
Coming back on the rising tide about two o'clock in the afternoon, on a fine sunny day, as he was passing the Beast's Horn on his way to the creek at the Bu de la Rue, he thought he saw a shadow on the Seat of Gild-Holm-'Ur, a shadow that was not the shadow of the rock. He brought his boat closer in and saw that there was a man sitting in the seat. The tide was already high and the rock was surrounded by the sea; escape was impossible. Gilliatt waved vigorously to the man, but he remained motionless. Gilliatt drew nearer. The man was asleep.
The man was dressed in black. "He looks like a priest," Gilliatt thought. He drew closer still and saw that the man was quite young. The face was unknown to him.
Fortunately the rock fell steeply down to the sea and there was plenty of depth. Gilliatt moved close in and was able to come alongside the rock. The tide now brought the boat so high that Gilliatt, standing on the gunwale, could reach the man's feet. He stood to his full height and stretched up his hands. If he had slipped he would have had little chance of coming to the surface again. The waves were lashing the rock, and he would inevitably have been crushed between the boat and the rock.
He tugged the sleeping man's foot. "What are you doing here?"
The man woke up. "I have been enjoying the view," he said.
A moment later, now wide awake, he went on: "I have just arrived on Guernsey, and took a walk along this way. I had spent the night at sea. I thought, What a beautiful view! I was tired, and I fell asleep."
"Ten minutes more, and you would have been drowned," said Gilliatt.
"Really?"
"Jump into my boat."
Gilliatt kept the boat in position with his foot, clung to the rock with one hand, and held out the other to the young man in black, who sprang lightly into the boat. He was a very handsome young man.
Gilliatt took up the oars, and in two minutes the boat ran into the creek at the Bu de la Rue.
The young man wore a round hat and a white cravat. His long black frock coat was buttoned up to the neck. He had fair hair cut in the form of a tonsure, a rather feminine face, a clear eye, an air of gravity.
The boat had now run into land. Gilliatt passed the cable through the mooring ring and turned round, to see the young man holding out a golden sovereign in a hand of extreme whiteness.
Gilliatt put the hand gently aside.
There was a silence, which was broken by the young man.
"You have saved my life."
"Maybe," said Gilliatt.
The boat was now made fast, and they landed.
The young man continued:
"I owe you my life, sir."
"What of that?"
There was a further silence.
"Are you of this parish?" asked the young man.
"No," said Gilliatt.
"What parish do you belong to?"
Gilliatt raised his right hand, pointed to the heavens and said, "That one."
The young man bowed, and left him. After walking a few paces he stopped, felt in his pocket, drew out a book, and returned to Gilliatt, holding out the book.
"Allow me to offer you this."
Gilliatt took the book. It was a Bible.
A moment later Gilliatt, leaning on his garden wall, saw the young man turning the corner of the path leading to St. Sampson.
Gradually he lowered his head, forgot the stranger, forgot that the Seat of Gild-Holm-'Ur existed. Everything else disappeared in his immersion in the depths of his reverie. This abyss of Gilliatt's was Deruchette.
He was roused from this shadowland by a voice calling his name:
"Hey there, Gilliatt!"
Recognizing the voice, he raised his eyes.
"What is it, Sieur Landoys?"
Sieur Landoys was driving along the road, a hundred paces from the Bu de la Rue, in his phaeton, drawn by his small horse. He had stopped to call to Gilliatt, but he seemed to be preoccupied and in a hurry.
"There is news, Gilliatt."
"Where?"
"At Les Bravees."
"What is it?"
"I'm too far away to tell you about it."
Gilliatt felt a tremor.
"Is Miss Deruchette going to be married?"
"No. It's not that at all."
"What do you mean?"
"Go to Les Bravees and you'll find out."
And Sieur Landoys whipped up his horse.
BOOK V
THE REVOLVER
I
CONVERSATIONS AT THE INN
Sieur Clubin was a man who was always looking out for an opportunity.
He was small and sallow-faced and had the strength of a bull. The sea had never managed to give him a weather-beaten air. His flesh looked as if it were made of wax. He was the color of a wax candle, and there was the discreet glimmer of a candle in his eyes. He had a wonderfully retentive memory. If he had once seen a man he had him placed, as if he had made a note in a ledger. His laconic glance seized hold of you. His eye took in an image of a face and retained it; even if the face had aged, Sieur Clubin could recognize it. There was no deceiving this tenacious memory. Sieur Clubin was a man of few words, sober and cold in manner, with never so much as a gesture. His frank and open air won over everyone at once.
Many people thought he was naive: there were creases at the corners of his eyes that gave him an extraordinarily simpleminded look. As we have said, there was no better seaman than Sieur Clubin; no one better at reefing a sail, at keeping a vessel to the wind or the sails well set. No one had a higher reputation for religion and integrity. Anyone who suspected him of any failing would himself have been suspect. He was friendly with Monsieur Rebuchet, the money changer in Rue Saint-Vincent in Saint-Malo, next door to the gunsmith. Monsieur Rebuchet used to say: "I would trust Clubin to look after my shop."
Sieur Clubin was a widower. His wife had been an honest woman as he was an honest man. She had died with a reputation for unassailable virtue. If the bailiff had tried to trifle with her she would have reported him to the king. If the good Lord himself had been in love with her she would have told the cure. The couple, Sieur and Dame Clubin, were regarded in Torteval as the very epitome of the English virtue of respectability. Dame Clubin had the whiteness of the swan, Sieur Clubin of the ermine. He would have died from any spot on his coat. If he found a pin he would try to return it to its owner. If he had picked up a box of matches he would have proclaimed the fact around the town. One day he had gone into a tavern in Saint-Servan 118 and said to the owner: "I had lunch here three years ago, and you made a mistake in the bill," handing over sixty-five centimes. He had a tremendous air of probity, with a watchful pursing of the lips.
He seemed always to be pointing like a game dog. Whom was he after? Probably rogues.
Every Tuesday he sailed the Durande from Guernsey to Saint-Malo. He arrived on the Tuesday evening, stayed there for two days to load his cargo and returned to Guernsey on the Friday morning.
In those days there was a little hostelry on the harbor at Saint-Malo, the Auberge Jean. It was pulled down when the present quays were built. At that time the sea came up to the Porte Saint-Vin
cent and the Porte Dinan. At low tide carts and light carriages ran between Saint-Malo and Saint-Servan, weaving their way between vessels lying high and dry, avoiding buoys, anchors, and cables and sometimes risking damage to their leather hoods from a low yard or a flying jib. Between high and low tides drivers whipped their horses over sand on which six hours later the wind was whipping up the waves. On these same sands there used to roam the twenty-four guard dogs of Saint-Malo, which in 1770 ate a naval officer--an excess of zeal that led to their demise. Nowadays you no longer hear nocturnal barking between the Grand Talard and the Petit Talard.
Sieur Clubin always stayed at the Auberge Jean, which housed the French office of the Durande.
The local customs officers and coastguards ate and drank in the Auberge Jean, where they had their own table. There the customs officers from Binic met the customs officers of Saint-Malo, to the advantage of the service.
The masters of ships also patronized the inn, but they ate at a separate table.
Sieur Clubin sometimes sat at one table, sometimes at the other; but he preferred the customs officers' table to the sea captains'. He was welcome at both.
The fare at these tables was excellent. There were all sorts of strange foreign drinks for seamen far from home. A dandyish young sailor from Bilbao could have had an helada. Stout was drunk as at Greenwich, and brown Gueuze beer as at Antwerp.
The captains of oceangoing vessels and shipowners sometimes appeared at the captains' table. There was much exchanging of news: "How are sugars doing?"--"You can only get refined sugar in small lots. But unrefined sugars are doing well; three thousand sacks from Bombay and five hundred barrels from Sagua."--"You'll see: the conservatives will throw out Villele."--"And what about indigo?"--"There were only seven bales from Guatemala."--"The Nanine-Julie has arrived. A fine three-master from Brittany."--"The two towns on the River Plate119 are quarreling again."--"When Montevideo grows fat Buenos Aires grows thin."--"They have had to tranship the cargo of the Regina Coeli, which has been condemned in Callao."--"Cocoas are brisk; sacks of Caracas are quoted at two hundred and thirty-four, Trinidad at seventy-three."--"I hear that at the review in the Champ de Mars there were shouts of 'Down with the government.' "--"Green salted Saladero hides are selling at sixty francs for ox hides and forty-eight for cow hides."--"Have they got past the Balkans? What is Diebitsch doing?"-- "At San Francisco there is a shortage of aniseed. Plagniol olive oil is quiet. Gruyere cheese in keg, thirty-two francs the hundredweight."-- "Well, is Leo XII120 dead yet?"--and so on, and so on.