The Toilers of the Sea by Victor Hugo
"His name is Gilliatt," Deruchette whispered to Ebenezer.
Gilliatt spoke with a kind of authority:
"What are you waiting for? You must follow me."
"Where to?" asked Ebenezer.
"There." And Gilliatt pointed to the spire of the church.
They followed him. Gilliatt went in front, walking with a firm step. The others were unsteady on their feet.
As they drew nearer the church spire an expression dawned on these two pure and beautiful faces that would shortly turn into a smile. As they approached the church their faces lit up. In Gilliatt's hollow eyes was the darkness of night. It was like a specter leading two souls to paradise.
Ebenezer and Deruchette were barely conscious of what was happening. This man's intervention was the straw at which a drowning man clutches. They followed Gilliatt with the docility of despair, as they would have followed anyone. A man who feels himself dying is ready to accept whatever may befall him. Deruchette, more ignorant of life, was more confident. Ebenezer was thoughtful. Deruchette was of age. The formalities of marriage in England are very simple, particularly in self-governing areas where the rector of a parish has an almost discretionary power; but still, would the dean agree to celebrate the marriage without even enquiring whether her uncle agreed? They could not be sure. But at any rate they could try. They would have to wait and see.
But who was this man? If he was the man whom Mess Lethierry had declared last night to be his son-in-law, how was his present behavior to be explained? He who had seemed to be an obstacle was turning into a providence. Ebenezer was prepared to accept his help, but it was the hasty and unspoken acceptance of a man who feels that he has been rescued.
The path was uneven, and sometimes wet and difficult. Ebenezer, absorbed in his thoughts, was not watching for the pools of water and the rocks on the path. From time to time Gilliatt looked around to him, saying: "Look out for the stones. Give her your hand."
III
THE FORETHOUGHT OF ABNEGATION
The clock was striking half-past ten as they entered St. Sampson's church. Because of the time, and also because of the abandonment of the town by its inhabitants on this particular day, the church was empty.
At the far end, however, near the table which in Protestant churches replaces the altar, were three people--the dean, his curate, and the registrar. The dean, the Reverend Jaquemin Herode, was seated; the curate and the registrar stood beside him.
A Bible lay open on the table. On a side table was another book, the parish register, which was also open; an observant eye might have noticed that one page was freshly written, the ink not yet dry. A pen and a writing case lay beside the register.
Seeing the Reverend Ebenezer Caudray entering the church, the Reverend Jaquemin Herode rose.
"I have been expecting you," he said. "Everything is ready." He was already wearing his vestments.
Ebenezer looked at Gilliatt.
The dean said, "I am at your service, sir." He bowed. His bow strayed neither to right nor to left. It was evident from the direction of his eyes that for him Ebenezer alone existed. Ebenezer was a clergyman and a gentleman. The dean did not include in his bow either Deruchette, who was standing on one side, or Gilliatt, who stood behind. In his glance there was a parenthesis that included only Ebenezer. The maintenance of such distinctions is an essential part of good order in human relations, and it consolidates a society.
The dean went on, gracefully and with dignity:
"I have to congratulate you on two things, sir. Your uncle has died and you are taking a wife; you are blessed with wealth on the one hand and happiness on the other. Moreover, thanks to this steamship that is to be rebuilt, Miss Lethierry is also rich, which is as it should be. Miss Lethierry was born in this parish, and I have checked her date of birth from the register. She is of age and her own mistress. In any case her uncle, who is the only family she has, has given his consent. You want to get married at once because of your departure. I understand this, though since this is the marriage of the rector of a parish I should have liked a little ceremony. I will not detain you any longer than necessary. The essentials are soon complied with. The form of marriage has already been drawn up in the register, and only the names remain to be filled in. In terms of law and custom the marriage may be celebrated immediately after it has been entered in the register. The necessary declaration for a license has been made in due form. I take upon myself a slight irregularity, for the application for a license should have been registered seven days in advance; but I yield to necessity and the urgency of your departure. Be it so, then: I shall now proceed with the ceremony. My curate will be witness for the bridegroom; as for the bride's witness--" He turned to Gilliatt.
Gilliatt nodded.
"Good," said the dean.
Ebenezer still stood motionless. Deruchette was petrified in ecstasy.
The dean continued:
"There is still, however, an obstacle."
Deruchette started.
He went on:
"Mess Lethierry's representative, here present, who asked for the license and signed the declaration in the register"--he indicated Gilliatt with the thumb of his left hand, thus avoiding the necessity of mentioning his outlandish name--"told me this morning that Mess Lethierry, being too busy to come in person, desired that the marriage should be performed at once. But a mere verbal expression of this desire is not sufficient. In consequence of the dispensations required and the irregularity I am taking on myself I cannot overlook this difficulty without asking Mess Lethierry himself, or at least having his signature. However accommodating I am prepared to be, I cannot be content with a statement at second hand. I must have something in writing."
"There is no difficulty about that," said Gilliatt, handing the dean a sheet of paper.
The dean took the paper, glanced quickly through it, appeared to pass over the first few lines, which seemed to be of less consequence, and then read aloud:
"You must go to see the dean about a license. I want the marriage to take place as soon as possible: immediately would be best."
He put the paper down on the table, and went on:
"Signed Lethierry. It would have been more respectful to address the letter to me; but since it is the marriage of a colleague I am satisfied with this."
Ebenezer looked at Gilliatt again. There are moments of understanding between two souls. Ebenezer sensed that there was some deceit; but he had not the strength, and perhaps not the desire, to expose it. Perhaps from respect for a latent heroism of which he had gained some inkling or because his conscience was deadened by the lightning stroke of happiness, he said nothing.
The dean took up the pen and, with the help of the registrar, filled in the blanks on the page written in the register. Then he stood up and, with a gesture of his hand, invited Ebenezer and Deruchette to come up to the table.
The ceremony began.
It was a strange moment. Ebenezer and Deruchette were standing side by side in front of the minister. Anyone who has had a dream of being married will have experienced what they were experiencing.
Gilliatt was standing back in the obscurity of the pillars.
On rising that morning Deruchette, in despair, with her mind on graves and grave clothes, had dressed in white. White, the color of mourning, was also right for a marriage. A white dress at once turns a girl into a bride. The grave is also a betrothal.
Deruchette emitted a kind of radiance. She had never before been as she was at this moment. Her fault was perhaps to be too pretty and not sufficiently beautiful. The defect of her beauty, if it is a defect, was an excess of grace. In a state of repose--that is, disturbed neither by passion nor by grief--her charm lay mainly in her sweetness. A charming girl, transfigured, becomes the ideal virgin. Deruchette, matured by love and suffering, had--if the phrase be permitted--undergone this promotion. She still had the same candor, with more dignity, and the same freshness, with more fragrance. It was like a daisy turnin
The moisture of the tears that were no longer flowing had dried on her cheeks, though there was perhaps still a tear in the corner of her smile. Dried tears, barely visible, are a sweet, somber adornment of happiness.
The dean, standing by the table, laid a finger on the open Bible and asked in a loud voice:
"Does any man know of any impediment to this marriage?"
There was no reply.
"Amen," said the dean.
Ebenezer and Deruchette advanced toward the table.
The dean said:
"Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?"
Ebenezer responded:
"I will."
The dean continued:
"Durande Deruchette Lethierry, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?"
Deruchette, in the agony of her soul from excess of joy, like a lamp with too much oil in it, murmured rather than spoke:
"I will."
Then, following the beautiful Anglican marriage service, the dean looked around him and asked solemnly, in the darkness of the church:
"Who giveth this woman to be married unto this man?"
"I do," said Gilliatt.
There was a silence. Ebenezer, in the midst of their delight, felt a vague sense of oppression.
The dean put Deruchette's right hand in Ebenezer's right hand, and Ebenezer said to Deruchette:
"I take thee, Deruchette, to my wedded wife, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death us do part, and thereto I plight thee my troth."
The dean put Ebenezer's right hand in Deruchette's right hand, and Deruchette said to Ebenezer:
"I take thee, Ebenezer, to my wedded husband, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to obey until death us do part, and thereto I plight thee my troth."
The dean asked:
"Where is the ring?"
This was a request they had not been prepared for. Ebenezer had no ring.
Gilliatt took off the gold ring that he had on his little finger and presented it to the dean.
It was probably the wedding ring that had been bought that morning from the jeweler in the Commercial Arcade.
The dean laid the ring on the Bible, and then handed it to Ebenezer.
Ebenezer took Deruchette's little left hand, now trembling, and put the ring on her fourth finger, saying:
"With this ring I thee wed."
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," said the dean.
"Amen," said the curate.
The dean raised his voice:
"You are now man and wife."
"Amen," said the curate.
The dean said:
"Let us pray."
Ebenezer and Deruchette turned toward the table and knelt.
Gilliatt remained standing, with bent head.
They were kneeling before God. He was bending under destiny.
IV
"FOR YOUR WIFE, WHEN YOU MARRY"
When they left the church they saw that the Cashmere was making preparations for departure.
"You are in time," said Gilliatt.
They took the same path back to Havelet Bay. Ebenezer and Deruchette walked in front, with Gilliatt following behind. They were two sleepwalkers. It was as if they had moved from one daze to another. They did not know where they were or what they were doing; they hurried mechanically on their way, forgetting the existence of everything else, feeling only that they belonged to each other, and incapable of stringing two ideas together. One no more thinks when in ecstasy than one would try to swim in a torrent. From the midst of shadows they had suddenly fallen into a Niagara of joy. It could be said that they were in process of being emparadised. They did not speak to each other, having too much to communicate with their souls. Deruchette hung on Ebenezer's arm.
Gilliatt's footsteps behind them reminded them from time to time that he was there. They were deeply moved, but said no word to each other: an excess of emotion brings on a kind of stupor. Their stupor was delightful, but overwhelming. They were married: everything else could wait. They would see Gilliatt again; meanwhile all that he was doing was for the best. From the bottom of their hearts they thanked him, ardently but vaguely. Deruchette thought to herself that there was something that needed to be cleared up, later. In the meantime they accepted the situation. They felt themselves under the control of this man, so decisive and so sudden, who was conferring happiness on them with such an air of authority. To ask him questions, to talk to him, was impossible. Too many impressions were crowding in on their minds at the same time. Their absorption could be excused.
Facts are sometimes like a hailstorm. They bombard you; they deafen you. Events falling unexpectedly into existences that are normally calm soon make the events unintelligible to those who suffer by them or benefit from them. You cannot keep up with the adventure of your life. You are crushed without suspecting why; you are crowned without understanding why. In the last few hours Deruchette in particular had undergone every kind of shock: first delight, Ebenezer in the garden; then the nightmare, that monster declared her husband; then despair, the angel spreading his wings and preparing to depart; and now it was joy, a joy such as she had never known before, originating from something inexplicable; the monster giving her the angel; anguish giving place to marriage; this Gilliatt, yesterday a catastrophe, today her salvation. She could make nothing of all this. It was clear that since this morning Gilliatt had had no other concern than to see them married; he had done everything; he had answered for Mess Lethierry, seen the dean, applied for the license, signed the necessary declaration; and this was how the marriage had come about. But Deruchette did not understand it; and even if she had understood how it had happened she would not have understood why.
All that was left to her was to close her eyes, give thanks mentally, allow herself to be carried off to heaven by this good demon. An explanation would have taken too long; an expression of thanks was too little. She remained silent in a gentle daze of happiness.
What little power of thought the couple retained was sufficient only to carry them on their way. Under water there are parts of a sponge that remain white. They had just the degree of lucidity necessary to allow them to distinguish the sea from the land and the Cashmere from any other vessel.
In a short time they were in Havelet Bay.
Ebenezer got into the boat first. Then, just as Deruchette was following him, she felt a gentle pull on her sleeve. It was Gilliatt laying a finger on a fold in her dress.
"Madame," he said, "you did not expect to be going away. I thought that you might perhaps need something to wear. On the Cashmere you will find a trunk containing some woman's things. It came to me from my mother. It was meant for the woman I married. Will you accept it from me?"
Deruchette, half roused from her dream, turned toward him. In a low, barely audible voice, Gilliatt went on:
"I don't want to hold you back, but I think I must explain something to you. On the day the misfortune happened you were sitting in the ground-floor room, and you said something. You don't remember: it is easy to forget. You can't be expected to remember every word you say. Mess Lethierry was in great distress. It was a fine boat, that's certain, and one that had served him well. A catastrophe had occurred, and everyone was upset. These are things, of course, that are afterward forgotten. It wasn't the only vessel to be lost on the rocks. You cannot keep thinking about accidents that happen. Only I wanted to tell you that, when people were saying that no one would go there, I went. They said that it was impossible; but it wasn't. Thank you for listening to me for a moment. You must understand that in going there I had no idea of displeasing you. Besides, it was long ago. I know that you are in a hurry. If we had time, if we could talk about it, you might remember; but what's the use? The thing goes back to a time when there was snow on the ground. And one day when I passed you I
"I am thinking about the trunk," said Deruchette. "Why don't you keep it for your wife when you get married?"
"I shall probably never marry," said Gilliatt.
"That would be a pity, for you are so good and kind. Thank you!"
Deruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned her smile, then helped her into the boat.
In less than a quarter of an hour the boat carrying Ebenezer and Deruchette was alongside the Cashmere.
V
THE GREAT TOMB
Gilliatt took the path along the shore, passed quickly through St. Peter Port and then turned toward St. Sampson along the coast, and, anxious to avoid meeting anyone, kept off the roads, which were crowded with people on his account.
He had long had his own way of moving about the countryside in all directions without being seen. He knew all the footpaths and had worked out solitary, winding routes for himself. He had the retiring habits of a man who felt himself to be unloved, and remained a being apart. While still a child, seeing few welcoming looks in people's faces, he had developed this habit of isolating himself that had now become instinctive.
He passed the Esplanade, and then the Salerie. From time to time he turned around and looked back to see the Cashmere in the roads, now beginning to set sail. There was very little wind, and Gilliatt made faster progress than the Cashmere, walking with bent head on the rocks at the water's edge. The tide was beginning to come in.
At one point he stopped and, turning his back on the sea, looked for some minutes at a clump of oak trees beyond some rocks that concealed the road to the Vale. These were the oaks at the Basses Maisons. There, under these trees, Deruchette had once written Gilliatt's name in the snow--snow that had long since melted.
He continued on his way.
It was a beautiful day--the finest that year so far. The morning had something of a nuptial air. It was one of those spring days when May pours forth all its profusion, when the creation seems to have no other thought than to rejoice and be happy. Under all the sounds of forest and village, of sea and air, could be heard a murmur like the cooing of doves. The first butterflies were settling on the first roses. Everything in nature was new--the grass, the moss, the leaves, the perfumes, the rays of light. The sun shone as if it had never shone before. The very pebbles were freshly washed. The deep song in the trees was sung by birds born only yesterday. Probably their shells, broken by their little beaks, were still lying in the nest. Amid the quivering of the branches was the fluttering of their newfound wings. They were singing their first songs and launching on their first flights. It was a sweet jargoning, all together, of hoopoes, tits, woodpeckers, goldfinches, bullfinches, sparrows, and thrushes. Lilacs, lily-of-the-valley, daphnes, and wisterias made a varied show of color in the thickets. A very pretty kind of duckweed that grows in Guernsey covered ponds and pools with emerald green. Wagtails and tree-creepers, which make such graceful little nests, came down to bathe in them. Through all the interstices in the vegetation could be seen the blue of the sky. A few wanton clouds pursued one another in the azure depths with the undulating movements of nymphs. There was a feeling of kisses from invisible mouths passing through the air. No old wall but had, like a bridegroom, its bouquet of wallflowers. The plum trees and the laburnums were in blossom, their white and yellow masses gleaming through the interlacing branches. Spring showered all its silver and gold into the immense openwork basket of the woods. The new shoots were green and fresh. Cries of welcome could be heard in the air. Summer was hospitably opening its doors to birds from afar. It was the swallows' time of arrival. The banks edging sunk lanes were lined by the inflorescences of the furze, to be followed soon by those of the hawthorn. The beautiful and the merely pretty rubbed shoulders; grandeur and grace complemented each other; small things were not put out of countenance by large ones. Not a note in the great concert was lost; microscopic splendors had their place in the vast universal beauty; and everything could be clearly distinguished as in a pool of limpid water. Everywhere a divine fullness and a mysterious swelling betokened the panic216 and sacred working of the sap. What shone, shone more brightly; who loved, loved more tenderly. There was something of the quality of a hymn in a flower, something of brilliance in a noise. The great diffuse harmony of nature was manifest everywhere. What was beginning to shoot provoked what was ready to burst forth. Hearts, vulnerable to the scattered subterranean influences of germinating seeds, were troubled by a vague feeling of unsettlement, coming from below but also from above. Flowers gave promise of the coming fruit; maidens dreamed; the reproduction of life, premeditated by the immense soul of the shadow world, was being accomplished in the irradiation of things. There were betrothals everywhere, marriages without end. Life, which is the female, was coupling with the infinite, which is the male. It was fine, it was bright, it was warm. In the fields, through the hedges, could be seen laughing children. Some of them were playing at hopscotch. The apple trees, peach trees, cherry trees, and pear trees were covering the orchards with their tufts of white and pink blossom. In the grass were primroses, periwinkles, yarrow, daisies, amaryllis, bluebells, violets, and speedwells. There was a profusion of blue borage, yellow irises, and the beautiful little pink stars that always flower in great masses and are accordingly known as companions. Little creatures, all golden, scurried between the stones. Thatched roofs were gay with flowering houseleeks. The women working with the hives were out and about, and the bees were foraging. Everywhere there was the murmur of the sea and the buzzing of flies. All nature, lying open to permeation by spring, was moist with desire.