to do with Coqueville; that it was M. Mouchel's business to look
into matters, that she should take a partner if he allowed himself to be
played with again by the fishermen. In a word, much disquieted, he sent
Rouget and La Queue to the devil. Perhaps, after all, they would come
tomorrow.

The next day, Thursday, neither the one nor the other appeared.
Toward evening, M. Mouchel, desperate, climbed the rock to the left of
Grandport, from which one could see in the distance Coqueville, with
its yellow spot of beach. He gazed at it a long time. The village had a
tranquil look in the sun, light smoke was rising from the chimneys; no
doubt the women were preparing the soup. M. Mouchel was satisfied that
Coqueville was still in its place, that a rock from the cliff had not
crushed it, and he understood less and less. As he was about to descend
again, he thought he could make out two black points on the gulf; the
"Baleine" and the "Zephir." After that he went back to calm the Widow
Dufeu. Coqueville was fishing. The night passed. Friday was here. Still
nothing of Coqueville. M. Mouchel climbed to his rock more than ten
times. He was beginning to lose his head; the Widow Dufeu behaved
abominably to him, without his finding anything to reply. Coqueville was
always there, in the sun, warming itself like a lazy lizard. Only, M.
Mouchel saw no more smoke. The village seemed dead. Had they all died in
their holes? On the beach, there was quite a movement, but that might
be seaweed rocked by the tide. Saturday, still no one. The Widow Dufeu
scolded no more; her eyes were fixed, her lips white. M. Mouchel passed
two hours on the rock. A curiosity grew in him, a purely personal need
of accounting to himself for the strange immobility of the village. The
old walls sleeping beatifically in the sun ended by worrying him. His
resolution was taken; he would set out that Monday very early in the
morning and try to get down there near nine o'clock.

It was not a promenade to go to Coqueville. M. Mouchel preferred to
follow the route by land, in that way he would come upon the village
without their expecting him. A wagon carried him as far as Robineux,
where he left it under a shed, for it would not have been prudent to
risk it in the middle of the gorge. And he set off bravely, having to
make nearly seven kilometers over the most abominable of roads. The
route was otherwise of a wild beauty; it descended by continual turns
between two enor