Under his show of gaiety, Beautrelet concealed a real anguish of mind. He did not sleep until the morning, but lay pondering over the most impracticable schemes, one after the other.
Ganimard had left him in order to go to Yport, six or seven miles from Étretat, where, for prudence’s sake, he had told his men to meet him, and where he chartered twelve fishing smacks, with the ostensible object of taking soundings along the coast.
At a quarter to ten, escorted by a body of twelve stalwart men, he met Isidore at the foot of the road that goes up the cliff.
At ten o’clock exactly, they reached the skirt of wall. It was the decisive moment.
At ten o’clock exactly.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Beautrelet?” jeered Ganimard. “You’re quite green in the face!”
“It’s as well you can’t see yourself, Ganimard,” the boy retorted. “One would think your last hour had come!”
They both had to sit down and Ganimard swallowed a few mouthfuls of rum.
“It’s not funk,” he said, “but, by Jove, this is an exciting business! Each time that I’m on the point of catching him, it takes me like that in the pit of the stomach. A dram of rum?”
“No.”