“‘You did!’ I exclaimed. Still gazing at his hands, he pursed his lips a little, but this time made no hissing sound. ‘It was judged proper,’ he said, lifting his eyebrows dispassionately, ‘that one of the officers should remain to keep an eye open (pour ouvrir l’œil)’…he sighed idly…’and for communicating by signals with the towing ship—do you see?—and so on. For the rest, it was my opinion, too. We made our boats ready to drop over—and I also on that ship took measures…Enfin! One has done one’s possible. It was a delicate position. Thirty hours. They prepared me some food. As for the wine—go and whistle for it—not a drop.’ In some extraordinary way, without any marked change in his inert attitude and in the placid expression of his face, he managed to convey the idea of profound disgust. ‘I—you know—when it comes to eating without my glass of wine—I am nowhere.’
“I was afraid he would enlarge upon the grievance, for though he didn’t stir a limb or twitch a feature, he made one aware how much he was irritated by the recollection. But he seemed to forget all about it. They delivered their charge to the ‘port authorities,’ as he expressed it. He was struck by the calmness with which it had been received. ‘One might have thought they had such a droll find (drôle de trouvaille) brought them every day. You are extraordinary-you others,’ he commented, with his back propped against the wall, and looking himself as incapable of an emotional display as a sack of meal. There happened to be a man-of-war and an Indian Marine steamer in the harbour at the time, and he did not conceal his admiration of the efficient manner in which the boats of these two ships cleared the Patna of her passengers. Indeed his torpid demeanour concealed nothing: it had that mysterious, almost miraculous, power of producing striking effects by means impossible of detection which is the last word of the highest art. ‘Twenty-five minutes—watch in hand—twenty-five, no more.’…He unclasped and clasped again his fingers without removing his hands from his stomach, and made it infinitely more effective than if he had thrown up his arms to heaven in amazement…’All that lot (tout ce monde) on shore—with their little affairs—nobody left but a guard of seamen (marins de l’État) and that interesting corpse (cet intéressant cadavre). Twenty-five minutes.’…With downcast eyes and his head tilted slightly on one side he seemed to roll knowingly on his tongue the savour of a smart bit of work. He persuaded one without any further demonstration that his approval was eminently worth having, and resuming his hardly interrupted immobility, he went on to inform me that, being under orders to make the best of their way to Toulon, they left in two hours’ time, ‘so that (de sorte que) there are many things in this incident of my life (dans cet épisode de ma vie) which have remained obscure.'”
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Chapter Thirteen
“AFTER these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak, submitted himself passively to a state of silence. I kept him company; and suddenly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived for his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he pronounced, ‘Mon Dieu! how the time passes!’ Nothing could have been more commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me with a moment of vision. It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dulness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much—everything—in a flash—before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I raised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen him before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his coat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive of his having been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had overtaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with a few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned face, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those steady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputations, one of those uncounted lives that are buried without drums and trumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. ‘I am now third lieutenant of the Victorieuse’ (she was the flagship of the French Pacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from the wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my side of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present anchored in Rushcutters’ Bay. He had ‘remarked’ her,—a pretty little craft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated, breathing visibly the while, ‘Ah, yes. A little craft painted black—very pretty—very pretty (trièss coquet).’ After a time he twisted his body slowly to face the glass door on our right. ‘A dull town (triste ville),’ he observed, staring into the street. It was a brilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls of dust. ‘I descended on shore,’ he said, ‘to stretch my legs a little, but…’ He didn’t finish, and sank into the depths of his repose. ‘Pray—tell me,’ he began, coming up ponderously, ‘what was there at the bottom of this affair—precisely (au juste)? It is curious. That dead man, for instance—and so on.’