Эмиль Золя
The Fat and the Thin
“Twenty-five sous, isn’t it?” Madame Lecoeur leisurely inquired.
She fully perceived Lisa’s covert irritation, and greatly enjoyed the sight of it, producing her money as slowly as possible, as though, indeed, her silver had got lost amongst the coppers in her pocket. And she glanced askance at Gavard, relishing the embarrassed silence which her presence was prolonging, and vowing that she would not go off, since they were hiding some trickery or other from her. However, Lisa at last put the parcel in her hands, and she was then obliged to make her departure. She went away without saying a word, but darting a searching glance all round the shop.
“It was that Saget who sent her too!” burst out Lisa, as soon as the old woman was gone. “Is the old wretch going to send the whole market here to try to find out what we talk about? What a prying, malicious set they are! Did anyone ever hear before of crumbed cutlets and ‘assortments’ being bought at five o’clock in the afternoon? But then they’d rack themselves with indigestion rather than not find out! Upon my word, though, if La Saget sends anyone else here, you’ll see the reception she’ll get. I would bundle her out of the shop, even if she were my own sister!”
The three men remained silent in presence of this explosion of anger. Gavard had gone to lean over the brass rail of the window-front, where, seemingly lost in thought, he began playing with one of the cut-glass balusters detached from its wire fastening. Presently, however, he raised his head. “Well, for my part,” he said, “I looked upon it all as an excellent joke.”
“Looked upon what as a joke?” asked Lisa, still quivering with indignation.
“The inspectorship.”
She raised her hands, gave a last glance at Florent, and then sat down upon the cushioned bench behind the counter and said nothing further. Gavard, however, began to explain his views at length; the drift of his argument being that it was the Government which would look foolish in the matter, since Florent would be taking its money.
“My dear fellow,” he said complacently, “those scoundrels all but starved you to death, didn’t they? Well, you must make them feed you now. It’s a splendid idea; it caught my fancy at once!”
Florent smiled, but still persisted in his refusal. Quenu, in the hope of pleasing his wife, did his best to find some good arguments. Lisa, however, appeared to pay no further attention to them. For the last moment or two she had been looking attentively in the direction of the markets. And all at once she sprang to her feet again, exclaiming, “Ah! it is La Normande that they are sending to play the spy on us now! Well, so much the worse for La Normande; she shall pay for the others!”
A tall female pushed the shop door open. It was the handsome fish-girl, Louise Mehudin, generally known as La Normande. She was a bold-looking beauty, with a delicate white skin, and was almost as plump as Lisa, but there was more effrontery in her glance, and her bosom heaved with warmer life. She came into the shop with a light swinging step, her gold chain jingling on her apron, her bare hair arranged in the latest style, and a bow at her throat, a lace bow, which made her one of the most coquettish-looking queens of the markets. She brought a vague odour of fish with her, and a herring-scale showed like a tiny patch of mother-of-pearl near the little finger of one of her hands. She and Lisa having lived in the same house in the Rue Pirouette, were intimate friends, linked by a touch of rivalry which kept each of them busy with thoughts of the other. In the neighbourhood people spoke of “the beautiful Norman,” just as they spoke of “beautiful Lisa.” This brought them into opposition and comparison, and compelled each of them to do her utmost to sustain her reputation for beauty. Lisa from her counter could, by stooping a little, perceive the fish-girl amidst her salmon and turbot in the pavilion opposite; and each kept a watch on the other. Beautiful Lisa laced herself more tightly in her stays; and the beautiful Norman replied by placing additional rings on her fingers and additional bows on her shoulders. When they met they were very bland and unctuous and profuse in compliments; but all the while their eyes were furtively glancing from under their lowered lids, in the hope of discovering some flaw. They made a point of always dealing with each other, and professed great mutual affection.
“I say,” said La Normande, with her smiling air, “it’s to-morrow evening that you make your black-puddings, isn’t it?”
Lisa maintained a cold demeanour. She seldom showed any anger; but when she did it was tenacious, and slow to be appeased. “Yes,” she replied drily, with the tips of her lips.
“I’m so fond of black-puddings, you know, when they come straight out of the pot,” resumed La Normande. “I’ll come and get some of you to-morrow.”
She was conscious of her rival’s unfriendly greeting. However, she glanced at Florent, who seemed to interest her; and then, unwilling to go off without having the last word, she was imprudent enough to add: “I bought some black-pudding of you the day before yesterday, you know, and it wasn’t quite sweet.”
“Not quite sweet!” repeated Lisa, very pale, and her lips quivering.
She might, perhaps, have once more restrained herself, for fear of La Normande imagining that she was overcome by envious spite at the sight of the lace bow; but the girl, not content with playing the spy, proceeded to insult her, and that was beyond endurance. So, leaning forward, with her hands clenched on the counter, she exclaimed, in a somewhat hoarse voice: “I say! when you sold me that pair of soles last week, did I come and tell you, before everybody that they were stinking?”
“Stinking! My soles stinking!” cried the fish dealer, flushing scarlet.
For a moment they remained silent, choking with anger, but glaring fiercely at each other over the array of dishes. All their honeyed friendship had vanished; a word had sufficed to reveal what sharp teeth there were behind their smiling lips.
“You’re a vulgar, low creature!” cried the beautiful Norman. “You’ll never catch me setting foot in here again, I can tell you!”
“Get along with you, get along with you,” exclaimed beautiful Lisa. “I know quite well whom I’ve got to deal with!”
The fish-girl went off, hurling behind her a coarse expression which left Lisa quivering. The whole scene had passed so quickly that the three men, overcome with amazement, had not had time to interfere. Lisa soon recovered herself, and was resuming the conversation, without making any allusion to what had just occurred, when the shop girl, Augustine, returned from an errand on which she had been sent. Lisa thereupon took Gavard aside, and after telling him to say nothing for the present to Monsieur Verlaque, promised that she would undertake to convince her brother-in-law in a couple of days’ time at the utmost. Quenu then returned to his kitchen, while Gavard took Florent off with him. And as they were just going into Monsieur Lebigre’s to drink a drop of vermouth together he called his attention to three women standing in the covered way between the fish and poultry pavilions.
“They’re cackling together!” he said with an envious air.
The markets were growing empty, and Mademoiselle Saget, Madame Lecoeur, and La Sarriette alone lingered on the edge of the footway. The old maid was holding forth.
“As I told you before, Madame Lecoeur,” said she, “they’ve always got your brother-in-law in their shop. You saw him there yourself just now, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes, indeed! He was sitting on a table, and seemed quite at home.”
“Well, for my part,” interrupted La Sarriette, “I heard nothing wrong; and I can’t understand why you’re making such a fuss.”
Mademoiselle Saget shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, you’re very innocent yet, my dear,” she said. “Can’t you see why the Quenus are always attracting Monsieur Gavard to their place? Well, I’ll wager that he’ll leave all he has to their little Pauline.”
“You believe that, do you?” cried Madame Lecoeur, white with rage. Then, in a mournful voice, as though she had just received some heavy blow, she continued: “I am alone in the world, and have no one to take my part; he is quite at liberty to do as he pleases. His niece sides with him too – you heard her just now. She has quite forgotten all that she cost me, and wouldn’t stir a hand to help me.”
“Indeed, aunt,” exclaimed La Sarriette, “you are quite wrong there! It’s you who’ve never had anything but unkind words for me.”
They became reconciled on the spot, and kissed one another. The niece promised that she would play no more pranks, and the aunt swore by all she held most sacred that she looked upon La Sarriette as her own daughter. Then Mademoiselle Saget advised them as to the steps they ought to take to prevent Gavard from squandering his money. And they all agreed that the Quenu-Gradelles were very disreputable folks, and required closely watching.
“I don’t know what they’re up to just now,” said the old maid, “but there’s something suspicious going on, I’m sure. What’s your opinion, now, of that fellow Florent, that cousin of Madame Quenu’s?”
The three women drew more closely together, and lowered their voices.
“You remember,” said Madame Lecoeur, “that we saw him one morning with his boots all split, and his clothes covered with dust, looking just like a thief who’s been up to some roguery. That fellow quite frightens me.”
“Well, he’s certainly very thin,” said La Sarriette, “but he isn’t ugly.”
Mademoiselle Saget was reflecting, and she expressed her thoughts aloud. “I’ve been trying to find out something about him for the last fortnight, but I can make nothing of it. Monsieur Gavard certainly knows him. I must have met him myself somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”
She was still ransacking her memory when La Normande swept up to them like a whirlwind. She had just left the pork shop.
“That big booby Lisa has got nice manners, I must say!” she cried, delighted to be able to relieve herself. “Fancy her telling me that I sold nothing but stinking fish! But I gave her as good as she deserved, I can tell you! A nice den they keep, with their tainted pig meat which poisons all their customers!”
“But what had you been saying to her?” asked the old maid, quite frisky with excitement, and delighted to hear that the two women had quarrelled.
“I! I’d said just nothing at all – no, not that! I just went into the shop and told her very civilly that I’d buy some black-pudding to-morrow evening, and then she overwhelmed me with abuse. A dirty hypocrite she is, with her saint-like airs! But she’ll pay more dearly for this than she fancies!”
The three women felt that La Normande was not telling them the truth, but this did not prevent them from taking her part with a rush of bad language. They turned towards the Rue Rambuteau with insulting mien, inventing all sorts of stories about the uncleanliness of the cookery at the Quenu’s shop, and making the most extraordinary accusations. If the Quenus had been detected selling human flesh the women could not have displayed more violent and threatening anger. The fish-girl was obliged to tell her story three times over.
“And what did the cousin say?” asked Mademoiselle Saget, with wicked intent.
“The cousin!” repeated La Normande, in a shrill voice. “Do you really believe that he’s a cousin? He’s some lover or other, I’ll wager, the great booby!”
The three others protested against this. Lisa’s honourability was an article of faith in the neighbourhood.
“Stuff and nonsense!” retorted La Normande. “You can never be sure about those smug, sleek hypocrites.”
Mademoiselle Saget nodded her head as if to say that she was not very far from sharing La Normande’s opinion. And she softly added: “Especially as this cousin has sprung from no one knows where; for it’s a very doubtful sort of account that the Quenus give of him.”
“Oh, he’s the fat woman’s sweetheart, I tell you!” reaffirmed the fish-girl; “some scamp or vagabond picked up in the streets. It’s easy enough to see it.”
“She has given him a complete outfit,” remarked Madame Lecoeur. “He must be costing her a pretty penny.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered the old maid; “perhaps you are right. I must really get to know something about him.”
Then they all promised to keep one another thoroughly informed of whatever might take place in the Quenu-Gradelle establishment. The butter dealer pretended that she wished to open her brother-in-law’s eyes as to the sort of places he frequented. However, La Normande’s anger had by this time toned down, and, a good sort of girl at heart, she went off, weary of having talked so much on the matter.
“I’m sure that La Normande said something or other insolent,” remarked Madame Lecoeur knowingly, when the fish-girl had left them. “It is just her way; and it scarcely becomes a creature like her to talk as she did of Lisa.”
The three women looked at each other and smiled. Then, when Madame Lecoeur also had gone off, La Sarriette remarked to Mademoiselle Saget: “It is foolish of my aunt to worry herself so much about all these affairs. It’s that which makes her so thin. Ah! she’d have willingly taken Gavard for a husband if she could only have got him. Yet she used to beat me if ever a young man looked my way.”
Mademoiselle Saget smiled once more. And when she found herself alone, and went back towards the Rue Pirouette, she reflected that those three cackling hussies were not worth a rope to hang them. She was, indeed, a little afraid that she might have been seen with them, and the idea somewhat troubled her, for she realised that it would be bad policy to fall out with the Quenu-Gradelles, who, after all, were well-to-do folks and much esteemed. So she went a little out of her way on purpose to call at Taboureau the baker’s in the Rue Turbigo – the finest baker’s shop in the whole neighbourhood. Madame Taboureau was not only an intimate friend of Lisa’s, but an accepted authority on every subject. When it was remarked that “Madame Taboureau had said this,” or “Madame Taboureau had said that,” there was no more to be urged. So the old maid, calling at the baker’s under pretence of inquiring at what time the oven would be hot, as she wished to bring a dish of pears to be baked, took the opportunity to eulogise Lisa, and lavish praise upon the sweetness and excellence of her black-puddings. Then, well pleased at having prepared this moral alibi and delighted at having done what she could to fan the flames of a quarrel without involving herself in it, she briskly returned home, feeling much easier in her mind, but still striving to recall where she had previously seen Madame Quenu’s so-called cousin.
That same evening, after dinner, Florent went out and strolled for some time in one of the covered ways of the markets. A fine mist was rising, and a grey sadness, which the gas lights studded as with yellow tears, hung over the deserted pavilions. For the first time Florent began to feel that he was in the way, and to recognise the unmannerly fashion in which he, thin and artless, had tumbled into this world of fat people; and he frankly admitted to himself that his presence was disturbing the whole neighbourhood, and that he was a source of discomfort to the Quenus – a spurious cousin of far too compromising appearance. These reflections made him very sad; not, indeed, that they had noticed the slightest harshness on the part of his brother or Lisa: it was their very kindness, rather, that was troubling him, and he accused himself of a lack of delicacy in quartering himself upon them. He was beginning to doubt the propriety of his conduct. The recollection of the conversation in the shop during the afternoon caused him a vague disquietude. The odour of the viands on Lisa’s counter seemed to penetrate him; he felt himself gliding into nerveless, satiated cowardice. Perhaps he had acted wrongly in refusing the inspectorship offered him. This reflection gave birth to a stormy struggle in his mind, and he was obliged to brace and shake himself before he could recover his wonted rigidity of principles. However, a moist breeze had risen, and was blowing along the covered way, and he regained some degree of calmness and resolution on being obliged to button up his coat. The wind seemingly swept from his clothes all the greasy odour of the pork shop, which had made him feel so languid.
He was returning home when he met Claude Lantier. The artist, hidden in the folds of his greenish overcoat, spoke in a hollow voice full of suppressed anger. He was in a passion with painting, declared that it was a dog’s trade, and swore that he would not take up a brush again as long as he lived. That very afternoon he had thrust his foot through a study which he had been making of the head of that hussy Cadine.
Claude was subject to these outbursts, the fruit of his inability to execute the lasting, living works which he dreamed of. And at such times life became an utter blank to him, and he wandered about the streets, wrapped in the gloomiest thoughts, and waiting for the morning as for a sort of resurrection. He used to say that he felt bright and cheerful in the morning, and horribly miserable in the evening.8 Each of his days was a long effort ending in disappointment. Florent scarcely recognised in him the careless night wanderer of the markets. They had already met again at the pork shop, and Claude, who knew the fugitive’s story, had grasped his hand and told him that he was a sterling fellow. It was very seldom, however, that the artist went to the Quenus’.
“Are you still at my aunt’s?” he asked. “I can’t imagine how you manage to exist amidst all that cookery. The places reeks with the smell of meat. When I’ve been there for an hour I feel as though I shouldn’t want anything to eat for another three days. I ought not to have gone there this morning; it was that which made me make a mess of my work.”
Then, after he and Florent had taken a few steps in silence, he resumed:
“Ah! the good people! They quite grieve me with their fine health. I had thought of painting their portraits, but I’ve never been able to succeed with such round faces, in which there is never a bone. Ah! You wouldn’t find my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pans! I was an idiot to have destroyed Cadine’s head! Now that I come to think of it, it wasn’t so very bad, perhaps, after all.”
Then they began to talk about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his mother9 had not seen anything of her for a long time, and he hinted that the pork butcher’s wife was somewhat ashamed of her sister having married a common working man; moreover, she wasn’t at all fond of unfortunate folks. Speaking of himself, he told Florent that a benevolent gentleman had sent him to college, being very pleased with the donkeys and old women that he had managed to draw when only eight years old; but the good soul had died, leaving him an income of a thousand francs, which just saved him from perishing of hunger.
“All the same, I would rather have been a working man,” continued Claude. “Look at the carpenters, for instance. They are very happy folks, the carpenters. They have a table to make, say; well, they make it, and then go off to bed, happy at having finished the table, and perfectly satisfied with themselves. Now I, on the other hand, scarcely get any sleep at nights. All those confounded pictures which I can’t finish go flying about my brain. I never get anything finished and done with – never, never!”
His voice almost broke into a sob. Then he attempted to laugh; and afterwards began to swear and pour forth coarse expressions, with the cold rage of one who, endowed with a delicate, sensitive mind, doubts his own powers, and dreams of wallowing in the mire. He ended by squatting down before one of the gratings which admit air into the cellars beneath the markets – cellars where the gas is continually kept burning. And in the depths below he pointed out Marjolin and Cadine tranquilly eating their supper, whilst seated on one of the stone blocks used for killing the poultry. The two young vagabonds had discovered a means of hiding themselves and making themselves at home in the cellars after the doors had been closed.
“What a magnificent animal he is, eh!” exclaimed Claude, with envious admiration, speaking of Marjolin. “He and Cadine are happy, at all events! All they care for is eating and kissing. They haven’t a care in the world. Ah, you do quite right, after all, to remain at the pork shop; perhaps you’ll grow sleek and plump there.”
Then he suddenly went off. Florent climbed up to his garret, disturbed by Claude’s nervous restlessness, which revived his own uncertainty. On the morrow, he avoided the pork shop all the morning, and went for a long walk on the quays. When he returned to lunch, however, he was struck by Lisa’s kindliness. Without any undue insistence she again spoke to him about the inspectorship, as of something which was well worth his consideration. As he listened to her, with a full plate in front of him, he was affected, in spite of himself, by the prim comfort of his surroundings. The matting beneath his feet seemed very soft; the gleams of the brass hanging lamp, the soft, yellow tint of the wallpaper, and the bright oak of the furniture filled him with appreciation of a life spent in comfort, which disturbed his notions of right and wrong. He still, however, had sufficient strength to persist in his refusal, and repeated his reasons; albeit conscious of the bad taste he was showing in thus ostentatiously parading his animosity and obstinacy in such a place. Lisa showed no signs of vexation; on the contrary, she smiled, and the sweetness of her smile embarrassed Florent far more than her suppressed irritation of the previous evening. At dinner the subject was not renewed; they talked solely of the great winter saltings, which would keep the whole staff of the establishment busily employed.
The evenings were growing cold, and as soon as they had dined they retired into the kitchen, where it was very warm. The room was so large, too, that several people could sit comfortably at the square central table, without in any way impeding the work that was going on. Lighted by gas, the walls were coated with white and blue tiles to a height of some five or six feet from the floor. On the left was a great iron stove, in the three apertures of which were set three large round pots, their bottoms black with soot. At the end was a small range, which, fitted with an oven and a smoking-place, served for the broiling; and up above, over the skimming-spoons, ladles, and long-handled forks, were several numbered drawers, containing rasped bread, both fine and coarse, toasted crumbs, spices, cloves, nutmegs, and pepper. On the right, leaning heavily against the wall, was the chopping-block, a huge mass of oak, slashed and scored all over. Attached to it were several appliances, an injecting pump, a forcing-machine, and a mechanical mincer, which, with their wheels and cranks, imparted to the place an uncanny and mysterious aspect, suggesting some kitchen of the infernal regions.
Then, all round the walls upon shelves, and even under the tables, were iron pots, earthenware pans, dishes, pails, various kinds of tin utensils, a perfect battery of deep copper saucepans, and swelling funnels, racks of knives and choppers, rows of larding-pins and needles – a perfect world of greasy things. In spite of the extreme cleanliness, grease was paramount; it oozed forth from between the blue and white tiles on the wall, glistened on the red tiles of the flooring, gave a greyish glitter to the stove, and polished the edges of the chopping-block with the transparent sheen of varnished oak. And, indeed, amidst the ever-rising steam, the continuous evaporation from the three big pots, in which pork was boiling and melting, there was not a single nail from ceiling to floor from which grease did not exude.
The Quenu-Gradelles prepared nearly all their stock themselves. All that they procured from outside were the potted meats of celebrated firms, with jars of pickles and preserves, sardines, cheese, and edible snails. They consequently became very busy after September in filling the cellars which had been emptied during the summer. They continued working even after the shop had been closed for the night. Assisted by Auguste and Leon, Quenu would stuff sausages-skins, prepare hams, melt down lard, and salt the different sorts of bacon. There was a tremendous noise of cauldrons and cleavers, and the odour of cooking spread through the whole house. All this was quite independent of the daily business in fresh pork, pate de fois gras, hare patty, galantine, saveloys and black-puddings.
That evening, at about eleven o’clock, Quenu, after placing a couple of pots on the fire in order to melt down some lard, began to prepare the black-puddings. Auguste assisted him. At one corner of the square table Lisa and Augustine sat mending linen, whilst opposite to them, on the other side, with his face turned towards the fireplace, was Florent. Leon was mincing some sausage-meat on the oak block in a slow, rhythmical fashion.
Auguste first of all went out into the yard to fetch a couple of jug-like cans full of pigs’ blood. It was he who stuck the animals in the slaughter house. He himself would carry away the blood and interior portions of the pigs, leaving the men who scalded the carcasses to bring them home completely dressed in their carts. Quenu asserted that no assistant in all Paris was Auguste’ equal as a pig-sticker. The truth was that Auguste was a wonderfully keen judge of the quality of the blood; and the black-pudding proved good every time that he said such would be the case.
“Well, will the black-pudding be good this time?” asked Lisa.
August put down the two cans and slowly answered: “I believe so, Madame Quenu; yes, I believe so. I tell it at first by the way the blood flows. If it spurts out very gently when I pull out the knife, that’s a bad sign, and shows that the blood is poor.”
“But doesn’t that depend on how far the knife has been stuck in?” asked Quenu.
A smile came over Auguste’s pale face. “No,” he replied; “I always let four digits of the blade go in; that’s the right way to measure. But the best sign of all is when the blood runs out and I beat it with my hand when it pours into the pail; it ought to be of a good warmth, and creamy, without being too thick.”
Augustine had put down her needle, and with her eyes raised was now gazing at Auguste. On her ruddy face, crowned by wiry chestnut hair, there was an expression of profound attention. Lisa and even little Pauline were also listening with deep interest.
“Well, I beat it, and beat it, and beat it,” continued the young man, whisking his hand about as though he were whipping cream. “And then, when I take my hand out and look at it, it ought to be greased, as it were, by the blood and equally coated all over. And if that’s the case, anyone can say without fear of mistake that the black-puddings will be good.”
He remained for a moment in an easy attitude, complacently holding his hand in the air. This hand, which spent so much of its time in pails of blood, had brightly gleaming nails, and looked very rosy above his white sleeve. Quenu had nodded his head in approbation, and an interval of silence followed. Leon was still mincing. Pauline, however, after remaining thoughtful for a little while, mounted upon Florent’s feet again, and in her clear voice exclaimed: “I say, cousin, tell me the story of the gentleman who was eaten by the wild beasts!”
It was probably the mention of the pig’s blood which had aroused in the child’s mind the recollection of “the gentleman who had been eaten by the wild beasts.” Florent did not at first understand what she referred to, and asked her what gentleman she meant. Lisa began to smile.
“She wants you to tell her,” she said, “the story of that unfortunate man – you know whom I mean – which you told to Gavard one evening. She must have heard you.”
At this Florent grew very grave. The little girl got up, and taking the big cat in her arms, placed it on his knees, saying that Mouton also would like to hear the story. Mouton, however, leapt on to the table, where, with rounded back, he remained contemplating the tall, scraggy individual who for the last fortnight had apparently afforded him matter for deep reflection. Pauline meantime began to grow impatient, stamping her feet and insisting on hearing the story.
“Oh, tell her what she wants,” said Lisa, as the child persisted and became quite unbearable; “she’ll leave us in peace then.”
Florent remained silent for a moment longer, with his eyes turned towards the floor. Then slowly raising his head he let his gaze rest first on the two women who were plying their needles, and next on Quenu and Auguste, who were preparing the pot for the black-puddings. The gas was burning quietly, the stove diffused a gentle warmth, and all the grease of the kitchen glistened in an atmosphere of comfort such as attends good digestion
Then, taking little Pauline upon his knee, and smiling a sad smile, Florent addressed himself to the child as follows10: —
“Once upon a time there was a poor man who was sent away, a long, long way off, right across the sea. On the ship which carried him were four hundred convicts, and he was thrown among them. He was forced to live for five weeks amidst all those scoundrels, dressed like them in coarse canvas, and feeding at their mess. Foul insects preyed on him, and terrible sweats robbed him of all his strength. The kitchen, the bakehouse, and the engine-room made the orlop deck so terribly hot that ten of the convicts died from it. In the daytime they were sent up in batches of fifty to get a little fresh air from the sea; and as the crew of the ship feared them, a couple of cannons were pointed at the little bit of deck where they took exercise. The poor fellow was very glad indeed when his turn to go up came. His terrible perspiration then abated somewhat; still, he could not eat, and felt very ill. During the night, when he was manacled again, and the rolling of the ship in the rough sea kept knocking him against his companions, he quite broke down, and began to cry, glad to be able to do so without being seen.”
