My mind became filled with vague ideas on society, its blessings and its evils. An indefinite sadness overtook me; I left the mast on which I was sitting, walked up the Penfeld, which runs into the port, and reached a turn where the port disappeared from view. Here, with nothing before me except a turfy valley, but with the confused murmur of the sea and human voices still in my ears, I lay down upon the bank of the little river. Watching by turns the rippling of the water and the flight of the sea-mew, enjoying the silence around me or listening to the strokes of the calker's hammer, I fell into the deepest musing. In the midst of this reverie, if the wind carried to me the sound of the gun of a ship leaving port, I started, and tears moistened my eyes.
One day I had walked in the direction of the outer extremity of the harbor, to the side of the sea: it was warm; I lay down upon the beach and fell asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a grand noise; I opened my eyes like Augustus to see the triremes in the anchorage of Sicily after the victory over Sextus Pompey: reports of artillery followed one upon the other; the roads were crowded with men-of-war; the great French squadron was returning after the signing of peace[142]. The ships manœuvred under full sail, bathed themselves in flame, hoisted ensigns, turned their poops, bows, broadsides towards the shore, stopped short by dropping anchor while still under sail, or continued to skim over the billows. Nothing ever gave me a higher idea of the human intelligence: man seemed at that moment to borrow something from Him who said to the sea, "Thus far shalt thou go and no further."
All Brest hastened to the port. Boats left the fleet and landed at the mole. The officers with whom they were crowded, their faces bronzed by the sun, had that foreign look which is brought back from another atmosphere, and the indescribable air of gaiety, of pride, of daring, worn by men who had restored the honour of the national ensign. These officers, so deserving, so illustrious, these companions of Suffren[143], Lamotte-Piquet[144], Couëdic, d'Estaing[145], had escaped from the blows of the enemy only to fall beneath those of Frenchmen!
I meet Gesril.
I was watching the gallant troop march by, when one of the officers disengaged himself from the others and fell upon my neck: it was Gesril. He seemed taller, but weak and ailing from a sword-thrust he had received in the chest. He left Brest the same evening to join his family. I only saw him once since, shortly before his heroic death: I will tell the occasion of the meeting later.
Gesril's sudden appearance and departure made me take a resolve which changed the course of my life: it was written that that young man should have an absolute empire over my destiny. One can see how my character was shaping, the turn my ideas were taking, the first attacks of my genius; for I can speak of that genius as a malady, whatever it may have been, rare or vulgar, worthy or unworthy of the name I give it for want of a word wherewith to express myself. Had I been more like the rest of mankind, I should have been happier: any one who could have succeeded, without depriving me of my intelligence, in killing what is called my talent would have treated me as a friend.
When the Comte de Boisteilleul took me to M. d'Hector, I heard old and young sailors discuss their campaigns and talk of the countries they had visited: one had returned from India, another from America; this one was to set sail to go round the world, the other was about to join the Mediterranean station, to visit the shores of Greece. My uncle pointed out La Pérouse[146] to me in the crowd, a new Cook, the manner of whose death has remained the secret of the tempests. I listened to everything, I looked at everything, without uttering a word; but there was no sleep for me that night: I spent it, in imagination, in delivering combats or discovering unknown lands.
Be that as it may, on seeing Gesril return to his parents, I thought that there was nothing to prevent me from going home to my own. I should have much liked the naval service, if my spirit of independence had not disinclined me to service of any kind: I was born with an incapacity for obedience. Voyages tempted me, but I felt that I should enjoy them only in solitude, left free to follow my own will. At last, giving my first proof of fickleness, without telling my uncle Ravenel, without writing to my parents, without asking permission of anybody, without waiting for my cadet's commission, I left one morning for Combourg, where I dropped as though from the clouds.
I am to this day astonished to think how, in view of the terror with which my father inspired me, I could have dared to take such a resolve; and what is quite as astonishing is the manner in which I was welcomed. I had every reason to expect transports of the most furious anger, and I was gently received. My father was content to shake his head, as though to say, "Here's a pretty trick!" My mother embraced me with all her heart, grumbling the while, and my Lucile kissed me in an ecstasy of joy.