Oh! to see him as he was at this very moment—him, or even what remained of him! If only the Virgin, prayed to so often, or some other such power, would grant her the blessing of showing him to her, by some sort of second-sight—her Yann—him—living, struggling to return to her—or else his body surrendered by the sea, so that she might at least be sure, that she might know.
Sometimes she would suddenly have the feeling that a sail was appearing on the rim of the horizon: the Léopoldine approaching, hastening home! Then she would make the first involuntary movement to rise, and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true.
She would fall back. Alas! where was the Léopoldine now? Where could it be? Out afar, doubtless, at that awful distance of Iceland, abandoned, crushed, lost!
And this ended in that never-fading vision, always the same: a wreck, gaping and empty, rocked upon the silent sea of gray and rose—rocked slowly, slowly, without sound—with an extreme of gentleness quite ironical—in the midst of the vast calm of the dead waters.
Two o’clock in the morning.
It was at night especially that she held herself attentive to all the steps that approached; at the least stir, at the slightest unaccustomed sound, her temples vibrated; from being overstrained that they might sense things from without, they had become terribly sensitive.
Two o’clock in the morning. This night as on others, hands clasped and eyes open in the dark, she listened to the wind making its well-nigh eternal moan over the earth.
Suddenly the steps of a man—rapid steps on the path! At such an hour, who could be passing? She drew herself up, stirred to the deeps of her soul, her heart ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door; some one mounted the small stone steps.