It is all one to her. For twice a day she recaptures the Mont. She encircles it with the strong arm of her tides; with the might of her waters she makes it once more a thing of the sea.
The tide was rising now.
The fringe of the downs had dabbled in the shoals till they had become one. We had left behind the last of the shepherd lads, come out to the edge of the land to search for a wandering kid. We were all at once plunging into high water. Our road was sunk out of sight; we were driving through waves as high as our cart-wheels. Fend l'Air was shivering; he was as a-tremble as a woman. The height of the rivers was not to his liking.
"Sacré fainéant!" yelled his owner, treating the tremor to a mighty crack of the whip.
"Is he afraid?"
"Yes—when the water is as high as that, he is always afraid. Ah, there he is—diantre, but he took his time!" he growled, but the growl was set in the key of relief. He was pointing toward a figure that was leaping toward us through the water. "It is the guide!" he added, in explanation.
The guide was at Fend l'Air's shoulder. Very little of him was above water, but that little was as brown as an Egyptian. He was puffing and blowing like unto a porpoise. In one hand he held a huge pitchfork—the trident of this watery Mercury.
"Shall I conduct you?" he asked, dipping the trident as if in salute, into the water, as he still puffed and gasped.
"If you please," as gravely responded our driver. For though up to our cart-wheels and breasts in deep water, the formalities were not to be dispensed with, you understand. The guide placed himself at once in front of Fend l'Air, whose shivers as quickly disappeared.
"You see, mesdames—the guide gives him courage—and he now knows no fear," cried out with pride our whip on the outer bench. "And what news, Victor—is there any?" It was of the Mont he was asking. And the guide replied, taking an extra plunge into deep water: