But as he ascended the steep fortifications of the promontory, his heart expanded. Too much accustomed to solitude to find enjoyment in the society of men, the watchman was happy only when he was on the summit of his rock, where he listened in sweet meditation to the distant roaring of the sea and the terrible bursts of the tempest.
Nothing is more absolute, nothing is more imperious, than the habit of isolation, especially among those who find inexhaustible resources in their own power of observation or in the varied extravagance of their own imagination.
It was with a profound feeling of satisfaction that the watchman set foot upon the esplanade of Cape l’Aigle.
He approached his sentry-box, and there found the worthy Luquin fast asleep.
Peyrou’s first act was to scan the horizon with an anxious look, then to examine it with the aid of his telescope. Happily, he saw nothing suspicious, and his countenance took on rather a cheerful than a severe expression, when, roughly shaking the captain of The Holy Terror to the Moors, he called to him, in a loud voice:
“Wake up, wake up! the pirates!”
Luquin made a bound and stood on his feet, rubbing his eyes.
“Ah, well, my boy,” said the watchman, “so your great activity has fallen asleep. To hear you talk, one would think a doree or a mullet could not have made a leap in the sea without you knowing it. Ah, young man, young man, the old Provençal proverb, Proun paillou, prou gran,—Much straw, little grain.”
Luquin looked at the watchman with a bewildered expression, and was hardly able to collect his faculties; finally, reeling like a drunken man, he said, stretching his arms: “It is true, Master Peyrou, I slept like a cabin-boy on the watch, but I did keep my eyes open with all my strength.”
“That is the reason, my boy, sleep got into them so easily. But I am here now, and you can go down into the city. There will be more than one bottle of wine emptied without your help at the tavern of the Golden Anchor.”,