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“Do you earn enough to live on?” I asked the man, in order to discover the cause of his evident penury.

“With great hardships, and always poorly,” he replied. “Fishing on the coast, when one hasn’t a boat or deep-sea nets, nothing but pole and line, is a very uncertain business. You see we have to wait for the fish, or the shell-fish; whereas a real fisherman puts out to sea for them. It is so hard to earn a living this way that I’m the only man in these parts who fishes along-shore. I spend whole days without getting anything. To catch a crab, it must go to sleep, as this one did, and a lobster must be silly enough to stay among the rocks. Sometimes after a high tide the mussels come in and I grab them.”

“Well, taking one day with another, how much do you earn?”

“Oh, eleven or twelve sous. I could do with that if I were alone; but I have got my old father to keep, and he can’t do anything, the good man, because he’s blind.”

At these words, said simply, Pauline and I looked at each other without a word; then I asked,–

“Haven’t you a wife, or some good friend?”

He cast upon us one of the most lamentable glances that I ever saw as he answered,–

“If I had a wife I must abandon my father; I could not feed him and a wife and children too.”

“Well, my poor lad, why don’t you try to earn more at the salt marshes, or by carrying the salt to the harbor?”

“Ah, monsieur, I couldn’t do that work three months. I am not strong enough, and if I died my father would have to beg. I am forced to take a business which only needs a little knack and a great deal of patience.”

“But how can two persons live on twelve sous a day?”

“Oh, monsieur, we eat cakes made of buckwheat, and barnacles which I get off the rocks.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Did you ever leave Croisic?”

“I went once to Guerande to draw for the conscription; and I went to Savenay to the messieurs who measure for the army. If I had been half an inch taller they’d have made me a soldier. I should have died of my first march, and my poor father would to-day be begging his bread.”

I had thought out many dramas; Pauline was accustomed to great emotions beside a man so suffering as myself; well, never had either of us listened to words so moving as these. We walked on in silence, measuring, each of us, the silent depths of that obscure life, admiring the nobility of a devotion which was ignorant of itself. The strength of that feebleness amazed us; the man’s unconscious generosity belittled us. I saw that poor being of instinct chained to that rock like a galley-slave to his ball; watching through twenty years for shell-fish to earn a living, and sustained in his patience by a single sentiment. How many hours wasted on a lonely shore! How many hopes defeated by a change of weather! He was hanging there to a granite rock, his arm extended like that of an Indian fakir, while his father, sitting in their hovel, awaited, in silence and darkness, a meal of the coarsest bread and shell-fish, if the sea permitted.

“Do you ever drink wine?” I asked.

“Three or four times a year,” he replied.

“Well, you shall drink it to-day,–you and your father; and we will send you some white bread.”

“You are very kind, monsieur.”

“We will give you your dinner if you will show us the way along the shore to Batz, where we wish to see the tower which overlooks the bay between Batz and Croisic.”

“With pleasure,” he said. “Go straight before you, along the path you are now on, and I will follow you when I have put away my tackle.”

We nodded consent, and he ran off joyfully toward the town. This meeting maintained us in our previous mental condition; but it lessened our gay lightheartedness.