A Drama on the Seashore | Page 7

either the fall of the ground or the necessity of
rounding some breastwork of rock. By mid-day, we were only half
way.
"We will stop to rest over there," I said, pointing to a promontory of
rocks sufficiently high to make it probable we should find a grotto.
The fisherman, who heard me and saw the direction in which I pointed,
shook his head, and said,--
"Some one is there. All those who come from the village of Batz to
Croisic, or from Croisic to Batz, go round that place; they never pass
it."
These words were said in a low voice, and seemed to indicate a
mystery.
"Who is he,--a robber, a murderer?"
Our guide answered only by drawing a deep breath, which redoubled
our curiosity.
"But if we pass that way, would any harm happen to us?"
"Oh, no!"
"Will you go with us?"
"No, monsieur."
"We will go, if you assure us there is no danger."
"I do not say so," replied the fisherman, hastily. "I only say that he who
is there will say nothing to you, and do you no harm. He never so much
as moves from his place."
"Who is it?"
"A man."
Never were two syllables pronounced in so tragic a manner. At this
moment we were about fifty feet from the rocky eminence, which
extended a long reef into the sea. Our guide took a path which led him

round the base of the rock. We ourselves continued our way over it; but
Pauline took my arm. Our guide hastened his steps in order to meet us
on the other side, where the two paths came together again.
This circumstance excited our curiosity, which soon became so keen
that our hearts were beating as if with a sense of fear. In spite of the
heat of the day, and the fatigue caused by toiling through the sand, our
souls were still surrendered to the softness unspeakable of our exquisite
ecstasy. They were filled with that pure pleasure which cannot be
described unless we liken it to the joy of listening to enchanting music,
Mozart's "Audiamo mio ben," for instance. When two pure sentiments
blend together, what is that but two sweet voices singing? To be able to
appreciate properly the emotion that held us, it would be necessary to
share the state of half sensuous delight into which the events of the
morning had plunged us. Admire for a long time some pretty dove with
iridescent colors, perched on a swaying branch above a spring, and you
will give a cry of pain when you see a hawk swooping down upon her,
driving its steel claws into her breast, and bearing her away with
murderous rapidity. When we had advanced a step or two into an open
space which lay before what seemed to be a grotto, a sort of esplanade
placed a hundred feet above the ocean, and protected from its fury by
buttresses of rock, we suddenly experienced an electrical shudder,
something resembling the shock of a sudden noise awaking us in the
dead of night.
We saw, sitting on a vast granite boulder, a man who looked at us. His
glance, like that of the flash of a cannon, came from two bloodshot eyes,
and his stoical immobility could be compared only to the immutable
granite masses that surrounded him. His eyes moved slowly, his body
remaining rigid as though he were petrified. Then, having cast upon us
that look which struck us like a blow, he turned his eyes once more to
the limitless ocean, and gazed upon it, in spite of its dazzling light, as
eagles gaze at the sun, without lowering his eyelids. Try to remember,
dear uncle, one of those old oaks, whose knotty trunks, from which the
branches have been lopped, rise with weird power in some lonely place,
and you will have an image of this man. Here was a ruined Herculean
frame, the face of an Olympian Jove, destroyed by age, by hard sea toil,
by grief, by common food, and blackened as it were by lightning.
Looking at his hard and hairy hands, I saw that the sinews stood out

like cords of iron. Everything about him denoted strength of
constitution. I noticed in a corner of the grotto a quantity of moss, and
on a sort of ledge carved by nature on the granite, a loaf of bread,
which covered the mouth of an earthenware jug. Never had my
imagination, when it carried me to the deserts where early Christian
anchorites spent their lives, depicted to my mind a form more grandly
religious nor more horribly repentant than that of this man. You, who
have a life-long experience of the confessional, dear uncle, you may
never, perhaps, have seen so awful