But with each turn of the screw Laurent felt himself losing a little of his security and confidence. The "0ù peut on être mieux" receded, died away in the distance like a murmur.
It was the same promontory from which Laurent had watched the faery sunset on the Scheldt some years before. Today it was gray, foggy, overcast; instead of jewels, the river was rolling in slime; the embankments of the Polder sent down yellowed grass; the sadness of the season harmonized with that of the people. The carillon seemed heavier to him, and the seagulls of former days, the hieratic and welcoming priestesses, shrieked and cried like sybils of misfortune.
When the hulk of the boat has disappeared behind a bend in the Flanders shore, Laurent continued to watch the smoke-stack, a travelling landmark above the dikes; then, gradually, it became only a black line, and finally the last banner of smoke was lost in the desolation of a January fog.
When an insidious and glacial fine rain awoke the young man from this coma, he noticed that he was not the only observer at the end of the promontory.
The curé of Willeghem was still looking for the track and the backwater of The Gina. Two big tears fell slowly down his cheeks and he traced in the air the sign of the cross. But the scattering flight of the seamews, their shrieks of hailing scorceresses seemed to parody that gentle professional gesture in the four corners of the heavens. Unnerved by this final sarcasm, Laurent turned back toward the city. The noise of pickaxes and of crumbling blended with the grumbling of the harbor cranes, with the rumble
