It was one morning, as we were entering the Celebean Sea, that the owl
which was Yves' parrot died, a morning of high wind on which we took in
the second reef of the topsail. It was accidentally crushed between the
mast and the yard.
Yves, who heard its hoarse cry, rushed to its assistance, but too late.
He came down from the crow's nest carrying the poor thing in his hand,
dead, flattened out, having no longer the shape of a bird, a mash of
blood and grey feathers, out of which emerged, moving still, one poor
curled-up claw.
I could see that Yves was very much upset. But he did no more than show
it to me without a word, biting his disdainful underlip. Then he threw
it into the sea, and the shark which was following us swallowed it as if
it had been an ablet.