The Man Who Laughs. A Romance of English History. Виктор Мари Гюго
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bridge to him whose burden is the heaviest.”
He added,-
“Knowledge is a weight added to conscience.”
He continued,-
“How much time have we still?”
Galdeazun looked at the water-mark, and answered,-
“A little more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Good,” said the doctor.
The low hood of the companion on which he leant his elbows made a sort of table; the doctor took from his pocket his inkhorn and pen, and his pocket-book out of which he drew a parchment, the same one on the back of which he had written, a few hours before, some twenty cramped and crooked lines.
“A light,” he said.
The snow, falling like the spray of a cataract, had extinguished the torches one after another; there was but one left. Ave Maria took it out of the place where it had been stuck, and holding it in his hand, came and stood by the doctor’s side.
The doctor replaced his pocket-book in his pocket, put down the pen and inkhorn on the hood of the companion, unfolded the parchment, and said,-
“Listen.”
Then in the midst of the sea, on the failing bridge (a sort of shuddering flooring of the tomb), the doctor began a solemn reading, to which all the shadows seemed to listen. The doomed men bowed their heads around him. The flaming of the torch intensified their pallor. What the doctor read was written in English. Now and then, when one of those woebegone looks seemed to ask an explanation, the doctor would stop, to repeat-whether in French, or Spanish, Basque, or Italian-the passage he had just read. Stifled sobs and hollow beatings of the breast were heard. The wreck was sinking more and more.
The reading over, the doctor placed the parchment flat on the companion, seized his pen, and on a clear margin which he had carefully left at the bottom of what he had written, he signed himself, GERNARDUS GEESTEMUNDE: Doctor.
Then, turning towards the others, he said,-
“Come, and sign.”
The Basque woman approached, took the pen, and signed herself, ASUNCION.
She handed the pen to the Irish woman, who, not knowing how to write, made a cross.
The doctor, by the side of this cross, wrote, BARBARA FERMOY, of Tyrrif Island, in the Hebrides.
Then he handed the pen to the chief of the band.
The chief signed, GAIZDORRA: Captal.
The Genoese signed himself under the chief’s name. GIANGIRATE.
The Languedocian signed, JACQUES QUARTOURZE: alias, the Narbonnais.
The Provençal signed, LUC-PIERRE CAPGAROUPE, of the Galleys of Mahon.
Under these signatures the doctor added a note:-
“Of the crew of three men, the skipper having been washed overboard by a sea, but two remain, and they have signed.”
The two sailors affixed their names underneath the note. The northern Basque signed himself, GALDEAZUN.
The southern Basque signed, AVE MARIA: Robber.
Then the doctor said,-
“Capgaroupe.”
“Here,” said the Provençal.
“Have you Hardquanonne’s flask?”
“Yes.”
“Give it me.”
Capgaroupe drank off the last mouthful of brandy, and handed the flask to the doctor.
The water was rising in the hold; the wreck was sinking deeper and deeper into the sea. The sloping edges of the ship were covered by a thin gnawing wave, which was rising. All were crowded on the centre of the deck.
The doctor dried the ink on the signatures by the heat of the torch, and folding the parchment into a narrower compass than the diameter of the neck, put it into the flask. He called for the cork.
“I don’t know where it is,” said Capgaroupe.
“Here is a piece of rope,” said Jacques Quartourze.
The doctor corked the flask with a bit of rope, and asked for some tar. Galdeazun went forward, extinguished the signal light with a piece of tow, took the vessel in which it was contained from the stern, and brought it, half full of burning tar, to the doctor.
The flask holding the parchment which they had all signed was corked and tarred over.
“It is done,” said the doctor.
And from out all their mouths, vaguely stammered in every language, came the dismal utterances of the catacombs.
“Ainsi soit-il!”
“Mea culpa!”
“Asi sea!”
“Aro raï!”
“Amen!”
It was as though the sombre voices of Babel were scattered through the shadows as Heaven uttered its awful refusal to hear them.
The doctor turned away from his companions in crime and distress, and took a few steps towards the gunwale. Reaching the side, he looked into space, and said, in a deep voice,-
“Bist du bei mir? [8]”
Perchance he was addressing some phantom.
The wreck was sinking.
Behind the doctor all the others were in a dream. Prayer mastered them by main force. They did not bow, they were bent. There was something involuntary in their condition; they wavered as a sail flaps when the breeze fails. And the haggard group took by degrees, with clasping of hands and prostration of foreheads, attitudes various, yet of humiliation. Some strange reflection of the deep seemed to soften their villainous features.
The doctor returned towards them. Whatever had been his past, the old man was great in the presence of the catastrophe.
The deep reserve of nature which enveloped him preoccupied without disconcerting him. He was not one to be taken unawares. Over him was the calm of a silent horror: on his countenance the majesty of God’s will comprehended.
This old and thoughtful outlaw unconsciously assumed the air of a pontiff.
He said,-
“Attend to me.”
He contemplated for a moment the waste of water, and added,-
“Now we are going to die.”
Then he took the torch from the hands of Ave Maria, and waved it.
A spark broke from it and flew into the night.
Then the doctor cast the torch into the sea.
The torch was extinguished: all light disappeared. Nothing left but the huge, unfathomable shadow. It was like the filling up of the grave.
In the darkness the doctor was heard saying,-
“Let us pray.”
All knelt down.
It was no longer on the snow, but in the water, that they knelt.
They had but a few minutes more.
The doctor alone remained standing.
The flakes of snow falling on him had sprinkled him with white tears, and made him visible on the background of darkness. He might have been the speaking statue of the shadow.
The doctor made the sign of the cross and raised his voice, while beneath his feet he felt that almost imperceptible oscillation which prefaces the moment in which a wreck is about to founder. He said,-
“Pater noster qui es in coelis.”
The Provençal repeated in French,-
“Notre Père qui êtes aux cieux.”
The
Art thou near me?