"I do not love her."
Lethierry laughed that idea to scorn. He was wild with joy. Gilliatt,
his son, his preserver, should marry Dérouchette--he, and none other.
Neighbours had begun to flock in, roused by the bell. The room was
crowded. Dérouchette presently glided in, and was espied by Lethierry in
the crowd. He seized her; told her the news. "We are rich again! And you
shall marry the prodigy who has done this thing." His eye fell upon the
man who had followed Dérouchette into the room; it was the young priest
whom Gilliatt had rescued from the seat in the rock. "Ah, you are there,
Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed the old man; "you will marry these young
people for us. There's a fine fellow!" he cried, and pointed to
Gilliatt.
Gilliatt's appearance was hideous. He was in the condition in which he
had that morning set sail from the rocks--in rags, his bare elbows
showing through his sleeves, his beard long, his hair rough and wild,
his eyes bloodshot, his skin peeling, his hands covered with wounds, his
feet naked and torn. Some of the blisters left by the devil-fish were
still visible upon his arms.
"This is my son-in-law!" cried Lethierry. "How he has struggled with the
sea! He is all in rags. What shoulders! What hands! There's a splendid
fellow!"
But Lethierry did not know Gilliatt. The poor broken creature escaped
from the room. He himself made all the arrangements for the marriage of
the priest and Dérouchette; he placed the special license in their
hands, secured a priest for the purpose, and secured passages for them
in the ship waiting in the roads for England.
When he had done all this, he made his way to the seat in the cliff, and
sat there waiting to see the ship appear round the bight and disappear
on the horizon.
The ship appeared with the slowness of a phantom. Gilliatt watched it.
Suddenly a touch and a sensation of cold caused him to look down. The
sea had reached his feet.
He lowered his eyes, then raised them again. The ship was quite near.
The rock in which the rains had hollowed out this giant's seat was so
completely vertical, and there was so much water at its base, that in
calm weather vessels were able to pass without danger within a few
cables' length.
The ship was already abreast of the rock. Gilliatt could see the stir of
life on the sunlit deck. The deck was as visible as if he had stood upon
it. He saw bride and bridegroom sitting side by side, like two birds,
warming themselves in the noonday sun. A celestial light was in those
two faces formed by innocence. The silence was like the calm of heaven.
The vessel passed. He watched her till her masts and sails formed only a
white obelisk, gradually decreasing against the horizon. He felt that
the water had reached his waist. Sea-mews and cormorants flew about him
restlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his danger.
The ship was rapidly growing less.
There was no foam around the rock where he sat; no wave beat against its
granite sides. The water rose peacefully. It was nearly level with
Gilliatt's shoulders.
The birds were hovering about him, uttering short cries. Only his head
was now visible. The tide was nearly at the full. Evening was
approaching.
Gilliatt's eyes continued fixed upon the vessel on the horizon. Their
expression resembled nothing earthly. A strange lustre shone in their
calm and tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished hopes,
the calm but sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from his
dreams. By degrees the dusk of heaven began to dawn in them, though
gazing still upon the point in space. At the same moment the wide waters
round the rock and the vast gathering twilight closed upon them.
At the moment when the vessel vanished on the horizon, the head of
Gilliatt disappeared. Nothing now was visible but the sea.
* * * * *