Another time, one stormy evening, when it was so dark that nothing could be distinguished, Gilliatt was near the Catiau Roque—a double row of rocks where witches, goats, and other diabolical creatures assemble and dance on Fridays—and here, it is firmly believed, that the voice of Gilliatt was heard mingling in the following terrible conversation:—
“How is Vesin Brovard?” (This was a mason who had fallen from the roof of a house.)
“He is getting better.”
“Ver dia! he fell from a greater height than that of yonder peak. It is delightful to think that he was not dashed to pieces.”
“Our folks had a fine time for the seaweed gathering last week.”
“Ay, finer than to-day.”
“I believe you. There will be little fish at the market to-day.”
“It blows too hard.”
“They can’t lower their nets.”
“How is Catherine?”