A Drama on the Seashore | Page 8

a remorse,--remorse sunk in the
waves of prayer, the ceaseless supplication of a mute despair. This
fisherman, this mariner, this hard, coarse Breton, was sublime through
some hidden emotion. Had those eyes wept? That hand, moulded for an
unwrought statue, had it struck? That ragged brow, where savage honor
was imprinted, and on which strength had left vestiges of the gentleness
which is an attribute of all true strength, that forehead furrowed with
wrinkles, was it in harmony with the heart within? Why was this man
in the granite? Why was the granite in the man? Which was the man,
which was the granite? A world of fancies came into our minds. As our
guide had prophesied, we passed in silence, rapidly; when he met us he
saw our emotion of mingled terror and astonishment, but he made no
boast of the truth of his prediction; he merely said,--
"You have seen him."
"Who is that man?"
"They call him the Man of the Vow."
You can imagine the movement with which our two heads turned at
once to our guide. He was a simple-hearted fellow; he understood at
once our mute inquiry, and here follows what he told us; I shall try to
give it as best I can in his own language, retaining his popular parlance.
"Madame, folks from Croisic and those from Batz think this man is
guilty of something, and is doing a penance ordered by a famous rector
to whom he confessed his sin somewhere beyond Nantes. Others think
that Cambremer, that's his name, casts an evil fate on those who come
within his air, and so they always look which way the wind is before
they pass this rock. If it's nor'-westerly they wouldn't go by, no, not if
their errand was to get a bit of the true cross; they'd go back, frightened.
Others--they are the rich folks of Croisic--they say that Cambremer has
made a vow, and that's why people call him the Man of the Vow. He is

there night and day, he never leaves the place. All these sayings have
some truth in them. See there," he continued, turning round to show us
a thing we had not remarked, "look at that wooden cross he has set up
there, to the left, to show that he has put himself under the protection of
God and the holy Virgin and the saints. But the fear that people have of
him keeps him as safe as if he were guarded by a troop of soldiers. He
has never said one word since he locked himself up in the open air in
this way; he lives on bread and water, which is brought to him every
morning by his brother's daughter, a little lass about twelve years old to
whom he has left his property, a pretty creature, gentle as a lamb, a nice
little girl, so pleasant. She has such blue eyes, long as THAT," he
added, marking a line on his thumb, "and hair like the cherubim. When
you ask her: 'Tell me, Perotte' (That's how we say Pierette in these
parts," he remarked, interrupting himself; "she is vowed to Saint Pierre;
Cambremer is named Pierre, and he was her godfather)--'Tell me,
Perotte, what does your uncle say to you?'--'He says nothing to me,
nothing.'--'Well, then, what does he do to you?' 'He kisses me on the
forehead, Sundays.'--'Are you afraid of him?'--'Ah, no, no; isn't he my
godfather? he wouldn't have anybody but me bring him his food.'
Perotte declares that he smiles when she comes; but you might as well
say the sun shines in a fog; he's as gloomy as a cloudy day."
"But," I said to him, "you excite our curiosity without satisfying it. Do
you know what brought him there? Was it grief, or repentance; is it a
mania; is it crime, is it--"
"Eh, monsieur, there's no one but my father and I who know the real
truth. My late mother was servant in the family of a lawyer to whom
Cambremer told all by order of the priest, who wouldn't give him
absolution until he had done so--at least, that's what the folks of the
port say. My poor mother overheard Cambremer without trying to; the
lawyer's kitchen was close to the office, and that's how she heard. She's
dead, and so is the lawyer. My mother made us promise, my father and
I, not to talk about the matter to the folks of the neighborhood; but I can
tell you my hair stood on end the night she told us the tale."
"Well, my man, tell it to us now, and we won't speak of it."
The fisherman looked at us; then he continued:
"Pierre Cambremer, whom you have seen there, is the eldest