The hurricane was sucked into the little valley of Yport; it whistled and moaned, tearing the slates from the roofs, smashing the shutters, throwing down chimneys, hurling such violent gusts along the streets that it was impossible to walk without clinging to the walls, and children would have been swept away like leaves and whisked over the houses into the fields.
The fishing-boats had been hauled up on dry land, for fear of the sea that at high tide would strip the beach clean, and some sailors, sheltered behind the round bellies of the vessels lying on their sides, were watching the fury of sky and sea.
Gradually they went away, for night was falling on the storm, wrapping in darkness the raging ocean and all the strife of angry elements.
Two men still remained, their hands in their pockets, their backs stooped under the squalls, their woollen caps crammed down to their eyes, two tall Norman fishermen, their necks fringed with bristling beards, their skins burnt by the salt gusts of the open sea, their eyes blue, with a black speck in the centre, the piercing eyes of sailors who see to the edge of the horizon, like birds of prey.
“Come along, Jérémie,” said one of them. “We’ll pass away the time playing dominoes. I’ll pay.”
But the other still hesitated, tempted by the game and the brandy, knowing well that he would get drunk again if he went into Parmelle’s, and held back, too, by the thought of his wife left all alone in the cottage.
“Anyone would say you’d made a bet to fuddle me every night. Tell me, now, what good does it do you, for you always pay?” he asked.
He laughed none the less at the idea of all the brandy he had drunk at another’s expense; he laughed the happy laugh of a Norman getting something for nothing.
His friend Mathurin still held him by the arm.
“Come along, Jérémie. It’s no night to go home with nothing warm in your belly. What are you afraid of? Won’t your old woman warm your bed for you?”
“Only the other night I couldn’t find the door at all,” replied Jérémie. “They pretty well fished me out of the brook in front of our place.”
The old scoundrel laughed again at the thought of it, and went quietly towards Parmelle’s café, where the lighted windows gleamed; he went forward, dragged by Mathurin and pushed by the wind, incapable of resisting the double force.
The low room was full of sailors, smoke, and clamour. All the men, clad in woollen jerseys, their elbows on the tables, were shouting to make themselves heard. The more drinkers that came in, the louder it was necessary to yell through the din of voices and the click of dominoes on marble, with the inevitable result that the uproar grew worse and worse.
Jérémie and Mathurin went and sat down in a corner and began a game; one after another the glasses of brandy disappeared in the depths of their throats.
Then they played more games, drank more brandy. Mathurin went on pouring it out, winking at the proprietor, a stout man with a face as red as fire, who was chuckling delightedly as if he were enjoying an interminable joke; and Jérémie went on swallowing the brandy, nodding his head, giving vent to a laughter like the roaring of a wild beast, staring at his comrade with a besotted, happy air.
All the company were going home. Each time that one of them opened the outer door in order to leave, a gust of wind entered the café, driving the thick smoke from the pipes into mad swirls, swinging the lamps at the end of their chains until the flames flickered; and then suddenly they would hear the heavy shock of a breaking wave and the howling of the gale.
Jérémie, his collar unfastened, was lolling drunkenly, one leg thrust out and one arm hanging down; in the other hand he held his dominoes.
They were by now left alone with the proprietor, who had come up to them with the sharpest interest.
“Well, Jérémie,” he asked, “does it feel good, inside? Has all the stuff you’ve poured down freshened you up, eh?”
“The more goes down,” spluttered Jérémie, “the drier it gets, in there.”
The innkeeper cast a sly glance at Mathurin.
“And what about your brother, Mathurin?” he said. “Where is he at the moment?”
“He’s warm all right, don’t you worry,” replied the sailor, shaking with silent laughter.
And the two of them looked at Jérémie, who triumphantly put down the double six, announcing:
“There’s the boss.”
When they had finished their game, the proprietor announced:
“Well, boys, I’m going to pack up. I’ll leave you the lamp and the bottle; there’s a franc’s worth of stuff still left in it. Lock the street door, Mathurin, won’t you, and slip the key under the shutter like you did the other night?”
“Right you are, don’t worry,” replied Mathurin.
Parmelle shook hands with his two belated customers, and stumped up the wooden stairs. For several minutes his heavy step resounded through the little house; then a loud bump announced that he had just got into bed.
The two men went on playing; from time to time the fury of the gale momentarily increased in violence; it shook the door and made the walls tremble. The two tipplers would raise their heads as though someone were coming in; then Mathurin would take the bottle and fill up Jérémie’s glass. But suddenly the clock over the counter struck twelve. Its husky chime resembled the clashing of saucepans, and the strokes resounded for a long time, jingling like old iron.
Promptly Mathurin rose, like a sailor whose watch is finished:
“Come along, Jérémie, we must vamose.”
The other set himself in motion with more difficulty, got his balance by leaning on the table; then reached the door and opened it while his companion was turning out the lamp.
When they were in the street Mathurin locked up the tavern and said:
“Well, good
