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 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 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
