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The waves to which this flask had been flung watching over that past
which contained a future; the whirlwind breathing kindly on it; the
currents directing the frail waif across the fathomless wastes of water;
the caution exercised by seaweed, the swells, the rocks; the vast froth
of the abyss, taking under its protection an innocent child; the wave
imperturbable as a conscience; chaos re-establishing order; the
worldwide shadows ending in radiance; darkness employed to bring to
light the star of truth; the exile consoled in his tomb; the heir given
back to his inheritance; the crime of the king repaired; divine
premeditation obeyed; the little, the weak, the deserted child with
infinity for a guardian--all this Barkilphedro might have seen in the
event on which he triumphed. This is what he did not see. He did not
believe that it had all been done for Gwynplaine. He fancied that it had
been effected for Barkilphedro, and that he was well worth the trouble.
Thus it is ever with Satan.
Moreover, ere we feel astonished that a waif so fragile should have
floated for fifteen years undamaged, we should seek to understand the
tender care of the ocean. Fifteen years is nothing. On the 4th of
October 1867, on the coast of Morbihan, between the Isle de Croix, the
extremity of the peninsula de Gavres, and the Rocher des Errants, the
fishermen of Port Louis found a Roman amphora of the fourth century,
covered with arabesques by the incrustations of the sea. That amphora
had been floating fifteen hundred years.
Whatever appearance of indifference Barkilphedro tried to exhibit, his
wonder had equalled his joy. Everything he could desire was there to his
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