The Man Who Laughs. Виктор Мари Гюго

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СКАЧАТЬ once reach the Gulf of Gascony, and I answer for our safety. Ah! I should say I am at home there. I know it well, my Gulf of Gascony. It is a little basin, often very boisterous; but there, I know every sounding in it and the nature of the bottom—mud opposite San Cipriano, shells opposite Cizarque, sand off Cape Peñas, little pebbles off Boncaut de Mimizan, and I know the colour of every pebble."

      The skipper broke off; the doctor was no longer listening.

      The doctor gazed at the north-east. Over that icy face passed an extraordinary expression. All the agony of terror possible to a mask of stone was depicted there. From his mouth escaped this word, "Good!"

      His eyeballs, which had all at once become quite round like an owl's, were dilated with stupor on discovering a speck on the horizon. He added—

      "It is well. As for me, I am resigned."

      The skipper looked at him. The doctor went on talking to himself, or to some one in the deep—

      "I say, Yes."

      Then he was silent, opened his eyes wider and wider with renewed attention on that which he was watching, and said—

      "It is coming from afar, but not the less surely will it come."

      The arc of the horizon which occupied the visual rays and thoughts of the doctor, being opposite to the west, was illuminated by the transcendent reflection of twilight, as if it were day. This arc, limited in extent, and surrounded by streaks of grayish vapour, was uniformly blue, but of a leaden rather than cerulean blue. The doctor, having completely returned to the contemplation of the sea, pointed to this atmospheric arc, and said—

      "Skipper, do you see?"

      "What?"

      "That."

      "What?"

      "Out there."

      "A blue spot? Yes."

      "What is it?"

      "A niche in heaven."

      "For those who go to heaven; for those who go elsewhere it is another affair." And he emphasized these enigmatical words with an appalling expression which was unseen in the darkness.

      A silence ensued. The skipper, remembering the two names given by the chief to this man, asked himself the question—

      "Is he a madman, or is he a sage?"

      The stiff and bony finger of the doctor remained immovably pointing, like a sign-post, to the misty blue spot in the sky.

      The skipper looked at this spot.

      "In truth," he growled out, "it is not sky but clouds."

      "A blue cloud is worse than a black cloud," said the doctor; "and," he added, "it's a snow-cloud."

      "La nube de la nieve," said the skipper, as if trying to understand the word better by translating it.

      "Do you know what a snow-cloud is?" asked the doctor.

      "No."

      "You'll know by-and-by."

      The skipper again turned his attention to the horizon.

      Continuing to observe the cloud, he muttered between his teeth—

      "One month of squalls, another of wet; January with its gales, February with its rains—that's all the winter we Asturians get. Our rain even is warm. We've no snow but on the mountains. Ay, ay; look out for the avalanche. The avalanche is no respecter of persons. The avalanche is a brute."

      "And the waterspout is a monster," said the doctor, adding, after a pause, "Here it comes." He continued, "Several winds are getting up together—a strong wind from the west, and a gentle wind from the east."

      "That last is a deceitful one," said the skipper.

      The blue cloud was growing larger.

      "If the snow," said the doctor, "is appalling when it slips down the mountain, think what it is when it falls from the Pole!"

      His eye was glassy. The cloud seemed to spread over his face and simultaneously over the horizon. He continued, in musing tones—

      "Every minute the fatal hour draws nearer. The will of Heaven is about to be manifested."

      The skipper asked himself again this question—"Is he a madman?"

      "Skipper," began the doctor, without taking his eyes off the cloud, "have you often crossed the Channel?"

      "This is the first time."

      The doctor, who was absorbed by the blue cloud, and who, as a sponge can take up but a definite quantity of water, had but a definite measure of anxiety, displayed no more emotion at this answer of the skipper than was expressed by a slight shrug of his shoulders.

      "How is that?"

      "Master Doctor, my usual cruise is to Ireland. I sail from Fontarabia to Black Harbour or to the Achill Islands. I go sometimes to Braich-y-Pwll, a point on the Welsh coast. But I always steer outside the Scilly Islands. I do not know this sea at all."

      "That's serious. Woe to him who is inexperienced on the ocean! One ought to be familiar with the Channel—the Channel is the Sphinx. Look out for shoals."

      "We are in twenty-five fathoms here."

      "We ought to get into fifty-five fathoms to the west, and avoid even twenty fathoms to the east."

      "We'll sound as we get on."

      "The Channel is not an ordinary sea. The water rises fifty feet with the spring tides, and twenty-five with neap tides. Here we are in slack water. I thought you looked scared."

      "We'll sound to-night."

      "To sound you must heave to, and that you cannot do."

      "Why not?"

      "On account of the wind."

      "We'll try."

      "The squall is close on us."

      "We'll sound, Master Doctor."

      "You could not even bring to."

      "Trust in God."

      "Take care what you say. Pronounce not lightly the awful name."

      "I will sound, I tell you."

      "Be sensible; you will have a gale of wind presently."

      "I say that I will try for soundings."

      "The resistance of the water will prevent the lead from sinking, and the line will break. Ah! so this is your first time in these waters?"

      "The СКАЧАТЬ