From that day on they took their meals at the same table, in a little saloon situated well forward on the boat. Through the large portholes could be seen the whole extent of the restless line of the horizon. A bright, hard light beat in upon the captain and the passenger seated opposite each other at the table.

‘Here,’ said Suger, throwing himself back in his chair, ‘you really feel that you’re at sea. We can’t turn our heads without seeing it.’

And he confided to his passenger that, of all the saloons and cabins on the boat, it was the one he liked the best. He was, as it were, born to the sea. He did not like dry land and cities. He enjoyed only the solitude of his ship.

‘You think I’m gay, I suppose, because I joke,’ he said. ‘In reality, I have the gaiety of melancholy people.’ And, as if that confidence deserved another, he looked up abruptly and exclaimed: ‘But what about yourself? Tell me about yourself. You’re not saying a word.’

It was true. The man said nothing. He ate in silence, watching the captain through his glasses, nodded his head, but did not speak. Nevertheless, he did not appear to be timid; his eyes had that bold expression characteristic of near-sighted people who take for granted that everybody is acquainted with their infirmity and with their need of staring at people in order to see them clearly. Occasionally, however, something went over his face, but it was too rapid for the captain to think of noticing it. Was it the effect of a sudden indisposition? Suddenly his pupils would grow misty, seem to become larger, and his head would drop. A horrible despair spread over his features, remained a moment, and then disappeared immediately in a contraction of his whole face. It was like a nervous twitch. Whenever this happened the passenger always took off his eyeglasses and bowed his head a little.

They had reached the dessert and the captain was playing with his knife, balancing it on his forefinger.

‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘you never say anything. However, I don’t despair. A few days more at sea and you’ll be more loquacious.’

The passenger shrugged his shoulders, removed his glasses, and began to wipe them.

‘We shall see,’ he seemed to say.

Certainly the captain was right. A week on board a freighter, meaning almost complete solitude for a passenger, transforms a man. Even the melancholy cannot resist it. One must speak, become acquainted with someone, make friends, even if it is only to abandon them on arriving at port. But is it not curious that after five or six days at sea a person begins to think less of his destination and tends to forget it entirely in proportion as he approaches it? The monotony of the voyage pervades one and with it the singular idea that what has lasted for so many days can never come to an end. If only there were a moment’s diversion, if only one were to pass an island, or to perceive in the distance the last cape of a continent! But nothing comes to interrupt the infinite line of the sea, which is there when one awakes, during meals, and all day long. For a person of nervous temperament, the monotony of the scene is a trial, almost a torture. And so it is that people on board ship turn, as if toward their salvation, to the company of their fellows, even if they have contempt for them, even if they hate them. For they have to live, they have to escape from the consuming boredom of the days, from the sea, and from that leviathan, ever lying in wait, which silently accompanies them.

III

Have I said that the Bonne Espérance was going from France to America? It was taking the longest route and shaping its course straight for Savannah. The captain was perfectly contented. For a long time he had been resigned to the sea, availing himself, to break his solitude, of conversations with the sailors or, when there were any, with the passengers. A passenger was a windfall. Like many people of mediocre intelligence who have read a few novels, the captain prided himself on knowing a great