I went on deck, and began to look for Mac Elwin. Corsican had just told me that Fabian had left his cabin, and I wanted, without intruding myself on him, to draw him out of his isolation. I found him at the bows; we talked for some time, but he made no allusion to his past life. At times he was silent and pensive, absorbed in his thoughts, no longer listening to me, and pressing his breast, as if to restrain a painful spasm.
Whilst we were walking together, Harry Drake passed us several times, always the same noisy, gesticulating man, obstructive as would be a windmill in a ball-room. Was I mistaken? I could not say; for I had already anticipated it in my mind; but it seemed to me that Harry Drake stared at Fabian with a persistency which the latter must have noticed; for he said to me,—
“Who is that man?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“I don’t like his looks,” added Fabian.
Put two ships in the open sea, without wind or tide, and, at last, they will come together. Throw two planets into space, and they will fall one on the other. Place two enemies in the midst of a crowd, and they will inevitably meet; it is a fatality, a question of time, that is all.
In the evening the concert took place according to the programme; the grand saloon, filled with the audience, was brilliantly lighted. Through the half-open hatchways might be seen the broad, sunburnt faces, and the great black hands of the sailors; the doorways were crowded with stewards; the greater part of the audience—men and women—were seated on side sofas, and in the centre of the saloon, in arm-chairs and lounges, all facing the piano, firmly fastened between the two doors, which opened into the ladies’ saloon. From time to time a rolling motion disturbed the audience; arm-chairs and folding-chairs glided about, a kind of swell caused a similar undulatory movement to all; they caught hold of one another silently, and without making any joke; but upon the whole there was not much fear of falling, thanks to the subsidence.
The concert opened with the “Ocean Times.” The “Ocean Times” was a daily newspaper, political, commercial, and literary, which certain passengers had started for the requirements on board. Americans and English took to this sort of pastime; they wrote out their sheet during the day; and let me say, that if the editors were not particular, as to the quality of their articles, their readers were not more so. They were content with little, even with “not enough.”
This number for the 1st of April contained a “Great Eastern” leader—tame enough, on general politics—also various facts quite uninteresting to a Frenchman; articles on the money-markets, not particularly comic; curious telegrams, and some rather insipid home news. After all this kind of fun is only amusing to those who make it. The Honourable Mac Alpine, a dogmatical American, read, with earnest gravity, some rather dull lucubrations, which were received by his audience with great applause. He finished his reading with the following news:—
“It is announced that President Johnson has resigned in favour of General Grant.”