At daybreak of the twenty-first day the boat was still fishing. Like
the herring, she had moved southward insensibly, but without leaving
the neighborhood of Scotland. At every hour of the day Elise searched
the horizon for the corvette and Firmin, but saw no trace of them.
Always bad luck. In twenty days they had not only not seen the
corvette, but not even a coaster from some English port. They were so
near one another, they wished for one another so much, and yet could
not meet.
Well, she would force fortune to yield yet; she would discover the
corvette if she put out her eyes in trying to pierce the horizon. She
passed all her spare moments standing on the gunwale peering into
space, but it gave no answer to her heart’s desire. At first she had
tried to watch at night, too, but she simply used herself up uselessly,
for she could not distinguish between the lanterns, and thought she
recognized the corvette by the cut of her sails, only to find out,
after a long examination, that in the half light she had mistaken a
small boat for a large vessel.
Then she had given up night watching as useless, but every morning,
before the first rays of dawn had pierced the shadows, she was on the
deck and there she stayed until the last glimmer of light.
She began to be desperate, because the boat was slowly filling its
bunks, and the end of the cruise was near at hand.
She was on duty that morning at the helm, and was tacking about waiting
until it was time to cast the nets. Silvere was below asleep, but
Barbet watched beside his mistress. Unhappy Barbet. He did not like it
on board at all, for it was his first voyage. He had passed through a
wretched novitiate. Sick at heart, he lay stretched among the piles of
nets, groaning at each movement of the boat, and hardly having strength
to open his eyes at Elise’s voice.
For five days he had counted his shirts, as the sailors mockingly say.
Then he had become used to it all, and after that Barbet feared the
motion no more than any old hand. At that moment he raised his nose and
ears and yelped, to advise Elise that she was nearing something unusual.
She thought at first that he saw the corvette and was announcing
Firmin, but though she looked all about, she could see nothing like the
government boat.
Until then they had come across trading steamers only, and especially
coal ships, heavy in their build, and a solid mass of black. They are
clumsy to handle, have a small crew, and cannot easily change their
course. They go right on without regard to other vessels, and small
boats must look sharp and keep out of their way. They do not mind a
collision in the least, for they cannot be capsized. They are afraid
of one another only.
They can be seen in these seas in troops. Elise kept a sharp lookout
for them while she was at the helm. She had told Barbet to announce
them, but it was not one of these which he was signalling now.
“What is it then, Barbet. Is it those breakers that we can just make
out before us? They look like a floating island.”
The dog yelped louder.
“Don’t be impatient. We will run down to them. As well go there as
elsewhere. Misery! They look like nets. You say, yes, Barbet? I
think that a boat must have been lost. Tell me, is it one of ours?
You are not telling the truth! No! do not deceive me. It is not the
_Bon-Pêcheur_--I should be too wretched if any harm came to Florimond.
Quick, Barbet, go and bring Silvere!”
The dog made one bound to the forecastle, and returned at once,
dragging by his trouser’s leg big Silvere, who was still half asleep.
“Tell the captain to order a boat, to go and see what is floating
there.”
When the captain was asleep he did not like to be waked. The boat was
in the water towing behind.
On his own responsibility Silvere dropped into it with two men. They
quickly reached the nets, which were so snarled together that they
seemed like a heap of rocks.
Nets and floats drifted at the pleasure of the current like a raft. The
men climbed on them as securely as on a projecting reef. They walked
across them, digging and prodding with their boat-hooks.
“Not a man under them,” cried Silvere to Elise.
He lifted one of the floats and read the marks painted around its
middle.
S. V. S. S. 1234.
Is it Florimond’s number? Yes. Barbet was right. Twelve hundred and
thirty-four was the number of the _Bon-Pêcheur_. The four letters
indicated Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. There was no question about it.
“Look further, Silvere. I am surprised, if his sloop were uninjured,
that my cousin should have abandoned his nets. He would sooner have
towed them into some English port.”
Fresh examination brought no other results. The herring, fast here and
there in the meshes and quite fresh, showed that the accident had been
recent.
The three men searched a long time for the end of the hawser to find
out whether it was cut or torn. If it were cut it was the work of
thieves; if it were torn it would show that there had been a collision.
But it was hidden away in the tangle of cordage and rope, and they
could not find it.
“Count the floats, Silvere. I should say at a glance that they were all
there.”
_Parbleu!_ There are a hundred at least here--as many over
there--thirty more--there are so many they cannot count them.
The whole outfit was there, adrift.
“It is very perplexing, Silvere. I am of opinion that the _Bon-Pêcheur_
is a bad risk.”
While the three men were returning Elise consulted Barbet.
“Barbet, can you tell me where Cousin Florimond is?”
The dog, who was seated quietly on his hind quarters, rose on his
four feet. He placed himself face to the wind, which came from the
north-east, and for a long time tried to scent something. But he could
not. He scowled, sniffed contemptuously, and appeared dissatisfied
with the weather and himself. He turned slowly a quarter or third of a
circle, trimming himself in the wind.
In the west he could perceive nothing. In the north-west he thought he
had a trace, his hair bristled up as he barked loudly; then he stopped
discouraged, and sat down again, shaking his big head as if to say: “It
is useless to try. In these half-breezes of summer the air lies still,
and the scent does not travel at all.”
“Come, Barbet, I never knew you to weary over your work. You have not
smelled in every direction.”
The dog walked about idly.
“Barbet, I beg you. It is wicked not to do your best to help others. I
beg you.”
He started again at the north-west, and scented afresh without
perceiving anything, and, simply to please his mistress, turned slowly
around like the needle of a compass on its dial. No trace was to be
found in the west or south, and he sat down again.
“Barbet, you are bad. You put no heart in your work. If you cannot act
honorably I will not have you any longer for my shipmate.”
Elise and Barbet were shipmates, that is, they slept together. Sailors
sleep two in a bunk, and the number of bunks being limited she had
great difficulty in arranging that Barbet should share hers. For him,
it was the pleasantest moment of the cruise. When the time came for
sleep he let Elise lie at the back, while he stretched himself, his
head on his paws, facing outward.
As long as there was any noise in the place he lay thus, sleeping that
half-sleep of dogs who know how to watch with their eyes shut. But
after each relief, when those who had come down last were sleeping in
their turn, and he heard their heavy snores, then, easy in his mind,
he slipped up to Elise, laid his head on her and gave himself up to
pleasant dreams.
The rolling of the boat rocked him softly, and Barbet abandoned himself
to the joy of feeling under his head the rise and fall of her warm
breast.
For nothing in the world would he have risked so delightful a place. At
Elise’s threat he sprang up, ready for anything rather than lose his
shipmate. He began turning about again.
West-south-west--nothing. South-west--south-south-west--nothing.
South-south a quarter east.
“Have you gone crazy, Barbet? You are upsetting me.”
The dog pulled Elise by the leg. Seeing that she did not understand
he threw himself on the tiller, as if to push it in the direction he
wished.
When she was steering as he wished, he ran forward to the jib, and by
leaps and snaps forced the sailor on duty there to shift the sheet.
The boat tacked and ran south a quarter south-east.
Then, proud as a commander on his deck, Barbet with a leap settled
himself on a cask not far from Elise, and from there watched at the
same time the helm, the sails, and the horizon, to see that the boat
should not make leeway from the strength of a current.
Elise had a fresh cause for anxiety. She had been sent to the helm, and
was responsible for carrying out the orders given her.
She had no right to deviate from them without fresh directions from the
captain. She called Silvere:
“Wake up Poidevin. We have no right to change our course unless he
directs it.”
Silvere hesitated. He knew what he would get by disturbing Poidevin’s
sleep; insults and a refusal, nothing more.
“Very well, then I will awake him myself. Perhaps he will be less
disagreeable to a woman.”
And confiding the boat to Silvere, Elise started down the ladder.
Barbet tried to follow her.
“No, stay behind, Barbet. You know that the skipper does not like you
since the day when you upset his grog. One should not be clumsy if they
want to make friends.”