Outside, beyond doubt, lay the sea and the night; but one could not be quite sure of that, for a single opening in the deck was closed by its weather-hatch, and the only light came from an old hanging-lamp, swinging to and fro.  A fire shone in the stove, at which their saturated clothes were drying, and giving out steam that mingled with the smoke from their clay pipes.

Their massive table, fitted exactly to its shape, occupied the whole space; and there was just enough room for moving around and sitting upon the narrow lockers fastened to the sides.  Thick beams ran above them, very nearly touching their heads, and behind them yawned the berths, apparently hollowed out of the solid timbers, like recesses of a vault wherein to place the dead.  All the wainscoting was rough and worn, impregnated with damp and salt, defaced and polished by the continual rubbings of their hands.

They had been drinking wine and cider in their pannikins, and the sheer enjoyment of life lit up their frank, honest faces.  Now, they lingered at table chatting, in Breton tongue, on women and marriage.  A china statuette of the Virgin Mary was fastened on a bracket against the midship partition, in the place of honour.  This patron saint of our sailors was rather antiquated, and painted with very simple art; yet these porcelain images live much longer than real men, and her red and blue robe still seemed very fresh in the midst of the sombre greys of the poor wooden box.  She must have listened to many an ardent prayer in deadly hours; at her feet were nailed two nosegays of artificial flowers and a rosary.

These half-dozen men were dressed alike; a thick blue woollen jersey clung to the body, drawn in by the waist-belt; on the head was worn the waterproof helmet, known as the sou’-wester.  These men were of different ages.  The skipper might have been about forty; the three others between twenty-five and thirty.  The youngest, whom they called Sylvestre or “Lurlu,” was only seventeen, yet already a man for height and strength; a fine curly black beard covered his cheeks; still he had childlike eyes, bluish-grey in hue, and sweet and tender in expression.

Huddled against one another, for want of space, they seemed to feel downright comfort, snugly packed in their dark home.

Outside spread the ocean and night—­the infinite solitude of dark fathomless waters.  A brass watch, hung on the wall, pointed to eleven o’clock—­doubtless eleven at night—­and upon the deck pattered the drizzling rain.

Among themselves, they treated these questions of marriage very merrily; but without saying anything indecent.  No, indeed, they only sketched plans for those who were still bachelors, or related funny stories happening at home at wedding-feasts.  Sometimes with a happy laugh they made some rather too free remarks about the fun in love-making.  But love-making, as these men understand it, is always a healthy sensation, and for all its coarseness remains tolerably chaste.