The little harbor of St. Sampson was asleep. A few vessels were moored there, with their sails brailed on the yards, their topsails furled, and without lights. At the far end, high and dry, were a number of boats undergoing repair: large hulls, dismasted, and with gaps in their planking, the curved ends of their timbers nakedly sticking up, looking like beetles lying on their backs with their legs in the air.
After clearing the harbor entrance Gilliatt had examined the port and the quay. There were no lights anywhere, either at Les Bravees or elsewhere. There were no passersby, except perhaps someone, a man, who had just entered or left the parsonage. It was not even possible to be sure that there was someone there, for darkness blurs all outlines and in moonlight everything is indistinct; and distance made things more difficult to distinguish. In those days the parsonage was situated on the far side of the harbor, on a site now occupied by a covered graving dock.
Gilliatt had silently put in under Les Bravees, tied up the paunch to the Durande's mooring ring under Mess Lethierry's window, and leapt ashore. Leaving the paunch behind him at the quay, he turned around the corner of the house, went along a narrow lane and then another, ignored the turning that led to the Bu de la Rue, and in a few minutes stopped at the corner of the wall where there was a wild mallow with pink flowers in June, holly, ivy, and nettles. This was the spot where, sitting on a stone, concealed behind the brambles, he had often, in summer, spent hours for whole months at a time looking over the wall--so low that he was tempted to step over it--into the garden of Les Bravees and watching through the branches of the trees the two windows of one particular room in the house. He found his stone, the brambles, the wall, still as low as ever, and the same hidden corner; and, like a wild animal returning to its lair, slipped into it and crouched down. Then he remained motionless, watching--his eyes again on the garden, the pathways, the shrubs, the flowerbeds, the house, the room with two windows. All this dream was revealed to him by the moon. It is a terrible thing to be compelled to breathe: he did what he could to stop breathing.
He felt that he was seeing a phantom paradise. He was afraid that it might all fly away. It was almost impossible to believe that these things were really under his eyes; and if they were they must necessarily, like all divine things, be on the point of disappearing. A single breath, and it would all vanish. Gilliatt trembled at the thought.
Quite close to him, on one of the garden paths, was a green-painted wooden bench. The reader will remember that bench.
Gilliatt looked at the two windows. He thought of someone who might be sleeping in the room. Beyond that wall she was lying asleep. He wished he was anywhere but where he was; but he would rather have died than go away. He thought of a breath swelling a woman's breast. She was there--that mirage, that vision of whiteness in a cloud, that obsession floating in his mind! He thought of the inaccessible being who was lying there asleep, so close, as if within reach of his ecstasy; he thought of the impossible woman slumbering there, likewise haunted by chimeras--of the creature so much desired, so distant, unattainable, her eyes closed, her hand on her forehead--of the mystery of the sleep of the ideal being--of the dreams that can be dreamed by a dream. He did not dare to carry this thought any further, and yet he continued to think. He was venturing into the impertinences of a daydream, troubled by the thought of how much of a woman's form an angel may possess: the darkness of night emboldens timid eyes to cast furtive glances. He felt guilty for pursuing such thoughts, was afraid of committing a profanation; but in spite of himself--under compulsion, trembling--he continued to look into the invisible. He felt the thrill-- almost the distress--of picturing a petticoat hung over a chair, a cloak thrown on the floor, a belt unbuckled, a fichu from a woman's bosom. He imagined a corset with its lacing trailing on the ground, stockings, garters. His soul was up among the stars.
The stars are there for the benefit of any human heart, whether the heart of a poor man like Gilliatt or the heart of a millionaire. At a certain degree of passion every man is subject to a blaze of enchantment: all the more so in rough and primitive natures. An uncultivated mind is readier to dream.
Delight is a fullness that overflows like any other. To look at these windows was almost too much for Gilliatt.
Suddenly he saw her.
From a clump of bushes, their foliage already thickened by spring, there emerged with ineffable slowness, like some specter or celestial being, a figure, a dress, a divine face, almost a shining light under the moon.
Gilliatt felt faint. It was Deruchette.
Deruchette came closer, then stopped. She turned back, stopped again, and then returned and sat down on the wooden bench. The moon shone through the trees, a few clouds were drifting about among the pale stars, the sea was murmuring to the world of darkness, the town was asleep, a haze was rising on the horizon, there was an atmosphere of profound melancholy. Deruchette's head was bent forward, with the pensive glance that stares at nothing. She was sitting sideways to Gilliatt, and was almost bareheaded, wearing only a loose bonnet that left the nape of her delicate neck and the first strands of hair exposed. She was mechanically twining a ribbon of her bonnet around one of her fingers. Shadows in the half-light of evening modeled her hands like those of a statue; her dress was of a shade that appeared white in the darkness. The trees stirred, as if moved by the enchantment that she diffused. The tip of one foot could be seen. Her lowered eyelids had the slight contraction that betokens a tear checked in its course or a thought repressed. Her arms had a charming indecision, as if finding no support to lean on; there was something fluid about her posture; she was a gleam rather than a light, one of the Graces rather than a goddess. The folds in her skirt were exquisite. Her adorable face was sunk in virginal meditation. She was so close that it was almost unendurable; he could hear her very breathing.
Somewhere in the darkness a nightingale was singing. The passing of the wind through the branches brought the ineffable silence of night into movement. Deruchette--beautiful, divine--seemed in this twilight a creation of these rays and these perfumes; this immense diffused charm was mysteriously centered and concentrated in her, and she was its embodiment. She seemed the flower at the heart of all this world of shadow.
All this shadow, floating in the person of Deruchette, weighed on Gilliatt. He was in a daze. His feelings could not be expressed in words. Emotion is always new, and words are well worn: hence the impossibility of expressing emotion. Delight can overwhelm a man. To see Deruchette, to see her in person, to see her dress, to see her bonnet, to see the ribbon she was twisting around her finger: could one imagine such a thing? To be close to her: was that really possible? To hear her breathing, to think that she actually breathed: then the stars must also breathe! Gilliatt trembled. He was the most miserable and the most enraptured of men. He did not know what to do. The delirious joy of seeing her prostrated him. Was it really she who was there and he who was here? His thoughts, dazzled and unwavering, were centered on this being as on a precious stone. He looked at her neck and her hair, saying to himself that all this was now his and that soon--perhaps tomorrow--he would have the right to undo that bonnet and untie that ribbon. He would not for a moment have had the audacity to think of doing so. Touching in thought was almost the same as touching with the hand. For Gilliatt love was like honey to a bear, an exquisite, delicate dream. His thoughts were in confusion. He did not know what possessed him. The nightingale was singing. He felt as if he were expiring.
The idea of getting up, stepping over the wall, approaching Deruchette, saying "Here I am!" and speaking to her did not even occur to him. If she had come up to him he would have turned and fled. If anything resembling a thought had shaped itself in his mind, it was this: that Deruchette was there, that he wanted nothing more, and that eternity was beginning. Suddenly a noise roused Deruchette from her reverie and Gilliatt from his ecstasy. Someone was walking in the garden. Because of the trees it was not possible to see who it was. It was a man's footstep.
Deru
chette raised her eyes.
The footsteps drew nearer and then ceased. The walker had paused. He must be quite near.
The path on which the bench stood ran between two clumps of trees. Somewhere in there was the stranger, only a few steps from the bench.
Chance had so arranged the branches of the trees that Deruchette could see him but Gilliatt could not.
The moon projected a shadow on the ground between the trees and the bench. Gilliatt saw the shadow. He looked at Deruchette.
She was very pale, and her lips were half open, as if in a cry of surprise. She had half risen from the bench and then sunk back again; her attitude suggested both flight and fascination. Her astonishment reflected delight mingled with fear. On her lips there was almost the dawning of a smile, in her eyes the gleaming of tears. She was as if transfigured by a presence, as if the being whom she saw was not of this earth. Her glance seemed to be reflecting the vision of an angel.
The stranger, who was for Gilliatt no more than a shadow, now spoke. A voice emerged from the trees; it was gentler than a woman's voice and yet it was a man's. Gilliatt heard what he said:
"Mademoiselle, I see you every Thursday and every Sunday. I have been told that you did not use to come so often. It is what people say: I beg your pardon for mentioning it. I have never spoken to you: it was my duty not to. I speak to you today: it is now my duty to speak. It is right that I should speak to you first. The Cashmere sails tomorrow, and so I have come here today. You walk in your garden every evening. It would be wrong of me to know your habits but for the thought that is in my mind. Mademoiselle, you are poor: from this morning I have been rich. Will you take me as your husband?"
Deruchette clasped her hands together as if in entreaty and looked at the speaker--silent, her eyes fixed, trembling from head to foot.
The voice went on:
"I love you. God did not make the heart of a man to be silent. Since God promises us eternity, it means that He wants man and woman to be joined. For me there is only one woman on the earth: it is you. I think of you as of a prayer. My faith is in God and my hope is in you. What wings I have, it is you who bear them. You are my life; already you are my heaven."
"Oh, sir!" said Deruchette: "there is no one in the house to answer."
The stranger spoke again:
"I have had this sweet dream. God has not forbidden us to dream. You are like a glory in my eyes. I love you passionately, mademoiselle. To me you are blessed innocence itself. I know that this is a time when people in your house are asleep, but I had not the choice of any other time. Do you remember the passage in the Bible that was read to us in church? Genesis, chapter twenty-five. I have kept thinking about it ever since, and have read it often. The Reverend Mr. Herode used to say to me: 'You need a rich wife.' I replied: 'No: I need a poor wife.' Mademoiselle, I am speaking to you without venturing to come close to you, and I will draw even farther away if you do not want my shadow to touch your feet. You are sovereign; you will come to me if such is your will. I love and wait. You are the living form of a benediction."
"I did not know, sir," stammered Deruchette, "that I had been seen on Sundays and Thursdays."
The voice continued:
"Man is powerless against things celestial. The whole of the law is love. Marriage is the land of Canaan. You are the promised beauty. Hail to thee, full of grace as thou art!"
Deruchette replied:
"I did not think that I did wrong more than others who went regularly to church."
The voice went on:
"God has manifested His intentions in flowers, in the dawn, in spring, and He desires that we should love. In this sacred obscurity of night you are beautiful. This garden has been tended by you, and in its perfumes there is something of your breath. Mademoiselle, meetings between souls do not depend on themselves. It is not our fault. You were present, that is all; I was there, that is all. I did nothing but feel that I loved you. Sometimes my eyes looked upon you. I was wrong, but how could I help it? It all happened because I looked at you. We cannot help ourselves. There are mysterious wills operating above us. The chief of all temples is the heart. To have your soul in my house: that is the terrestrial paradise I aspire to. Will you have me? When I was poor I did not speak. I know how old you are. You are twenty-one; I am twenty-six. I leave tomorrow; if you refuse me I shall not come back. Will you become my betrothed? More than once, in spite of myself, my eyes have put that question to yours. I love you: you must give me an answer. I shall speak to your uncle as soon as he is ready to see me; but I turn first to you. One must plead for Rebecca to Rebecca. Unless you do not love me."
Deruchette, looking down, murmured: "Ah! I do love him," in such a low voice that only Gilliatt heard the words.
She was still looking down, as if the face that was shrouded in shadow was committing its thoughts to the shadows.
There was a pause. Not a leaf in the trees stirred. It was the quiet and solemn time when things as well as living creatures are asleep and the night seems to be listening to the beating heart of nature. This mood of quiet contemplation was broken only, like a harmony complementing a silence, by the mighty roar of the sea.
The voice was heard again:
"Mademoiselle!"
Deruchette started.
The voice went on:
"Ah! I am waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
"Your answer."
"God has heard it," said Deruchette.
Then the voice became almost sonorous, and at the same time still softer than before. From the clump of trees, as from a burning bush, there emerged these words:
"You are my betrothed. Arise and come to me. Let this blue ceiling above us with all the stars be present at this acceptance by your soul of my soul, and may our first kiss mingle with the firmament!"
Deruchette rose and stayed for an instant motionless, looking straight ahead of her, no doubt meeting another glance. Then, slowly, her head held high, her arms hanging loose, and her fingers outspread as when we are walking on unfamiliar ground, she moved toward the clump of trees and disappeared into it.
A moment later, in place of one shadow on the sand there were two mingling into one, and Gilliatt saw at his feet the embrace of these two shadows.
Time flows from us as from an hourglass, and we are not conscious of its flight, particularly in certain supreme moments. On one side there was this couple, who were unaware of this witness and could not see him, and on the other the witness, who could not see the couple but knew that they were there: how many minutes did they remain thus, in this mysterious state of suspension? Impossible to say. Suddenly there was a burst of noise in the distance, a voice was heard crying "Help!" and the harbor bell began to ring. The tumult was probably not heard by the happy pair, drunk with celestial bliss.
The bell continued to ring. Anyone looking for Gilliatt in his corner by the wall would have found him no longer there.
BOOK II
GRATITUDE IN A DESPOTISM
I
JOY SURROUNDED BY ANGUISH
Mess Lethierry tugged vigorously at the bell; then suddenly stopped. A man had turned the corner of the quay. It was Gilliatt.
Mess Lethierry ran up to him, or rather flung himself upon him, took Gilliatt's hand in both of his, and looked into his eyes for a moment in silence--one of those silences that reflect an explosion unable to find a way out.
Then, shaking him and embracing him, he pulled Gilliatt into the ground-floor room of Les Bravees, kicking the door with his foot and leaving it half open, and sat down, or rather sank into a chair beside a large table illuminated by the moon, the reflection of which gave a vague pallor to Gilliatt's face, and cried, in a voice mingling laughter and tears: "Oh, my son! the man with the bagpipes! Gilliatt! I knew it was you! That paunch of yours--tell me all about it! So you went there? A hundred years ago you would have been burned at the stake! It is pure magic! There's not a screw missing. I've examined it all, recognized it all, handl
ed it all. I guessed that the paddle wheels were in the two crates. And so here you are at last! I have been looking for you in your cabin. I rang the bell. I was looking for you. I was saying to myself, 'Where is he? I want to eat him!' Well, I must say, the most extraordinary things do happen. Here's this fellow back from the Douvres. He brings me back my life. Heavens above! You are an angel. Yes, yes, yes: it's my engines. Nobody will believe it. They'll look at it, they'll say, 'It's not true.' It's all there, too! It's all there! There's not a tap, not a pin missing! The feed pipe has not moved an inch. You just can't believe that there's no damage! All it needs is a little oil. But how did you manage it? And to think that the Durande is going to sail again! The paddle-wheel axle has been dismantled by a proper craftsman! Tell me, on your word of honor, that I'm not crazy!"
He stood up, drew breath, and went on:
"Swear it! What a revolution! I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. You are my child, you are my boy, you are my God! Oh, my son! To go out to get that brute of a machine! In the open sea, too! To that devilish reef! I've seen some pretty queer things in my life, but never anything to equal this. I've seen Parisians who were real Satans, but I'll warrant they could never do this. It beats the Bastille. I've seen gauchos plowing in the pampas: all they have for a plow is a crooked branch of a tree, and for a harrow a bunch of thornbushes drawn by a leather rope, and yet they manage to harvest grains of corn the size of a hazelnut. But that's nothing compared with what you have done. It was a miracle--a real miracle. What a rascal you are! I must hug you. You've made the fortune of the whole district. And aren't they going to gripe in St. Sampson! I'm going to set about rebuilding the boat at once. It's astonishing: the crank is none the worse. Just think of it! He has been to the Douvres. To the Douvres, I say! There isn't a worse rock in the sea. Have you heard, Gilliatt? It's proved, Clubin wrecked the Durande on purpose to swindle me out of the money he was supposed to bring me. He made Tangrouille drunk. It's a long story: I'll tell you another day about his pirate's trick. What a fool I was to have confidence in Clubin! But he was caught, the villain, for he can't have got away with it. There is a God after all, you blackguard! So we're going to rebuild the Durande, Gilliatt--at once, double-quick, right away! We'll make her twenty feet longer. They build them longer these days. I'll buy wood at Danzig and Bremen. Now that I have the engines, I'll be able to get credit. They'll have confidence in me again."