the village; the road beneath his feet a pool of
mud--and then blackness again, utter, impenetrable, absolute.

Jean passed the last of the cottages--there were but four on that side
of the Bas Rhone--and kept on, following the curve of the beach toward
the eastern headland. But now, the lightness of spirit that had been
with him but a few moments before was gone, and a restlessness,
bordering on depression, took its place. What was it? The storm? No;
it could not very well be that, for it had come often to him before,
unbidden, unwelcomed, that same mood--even in the glorious sunlight,
even in the midst of song as he fished the blue, sparkling waters that,
more than anything else, had been his home ever since he could
remember. It seemed, and it was a very strange and absurd fancy, but
it was always the same, that a voice, wordless, without sound, talked
speciously to him, talked him into a state of discontent that robbed
him of all delight in his work, his environment and his surroundings,
and, arrived at that stage, would suddenly bid him peremptorily to
follow--and that was all. Follow! Where? He did not know. It made
him angry, but it did not in any way lighten the mood that was forced
upon him in spite of himself.

And now, as it always came, unsought and unexpected, this mood was upon
him again; and, as he plunged through the storm, drawing the collar of
his jacket more closely around his throat against the sheets of rain,
he fought with himself to shake it off. It was absurd. And why should
he be unhappy for something that was absurd? That was still more
absurd! He was not sick, there was nothing the matter with him. He
was strong--none was stronger than he, and he had matched himself
against them all in Bernay-sur-Mer. True, it was a hard life, and
there were not riches to be found in the nets--but there were
friends--he was rich in friends--all Bernay-sur-Mer was his friend.
There were the Fregeaus, with whom he had lived at the Bas Rhone for
over ten years now since his father had died. Madame Fregeau was a
mother to him, and Jacques was the biggest-hearted man in the whole
south of France. And, _mon Dieu_!--he began to smile now--there
were--should he name every family in the village?--even to the children
for whom he made the clay _poupees_, the dolls that in their play lives
were, in turn, veritable children to them? Ah, to be in ugly mind--it
was no less than a sin! There were candles