She knew this man’s smile, his gentle ways of love, but not his godlike fury in the storm. She might snare him in a fragile net of music, love, and flowers, but, at each departure, he would break forth without, it seemed to her, the least regret.

He opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.”

“How’s the weather?”

“I don’t know.”

He rose and, stretching himself, walked to the window. “Won’t be too cold. What’s the wind?”

“How should I know?”

He leaned out. “Southerly. That’s tophole. It’ll hold as far as Brazil anyhow.”

He looked at the moon and reckoned up his riches and then his gaze fell upon the town below. Not warm or kind or bright it seemed to him; already in his mind’s eye its worthless, shining sands were running out.

“What are you thinking about?”

He was thinking of the fog he might encounter toward Porto Allegre.

“I’ve made my plans. I know exactly where to turn.”

He still was bending down, inhaling deeply like a man about to plunge, naked, into the sea.

“You don’t even seem to mind it! How long will you be away?” she asked.

A week or ten days, he couldn’t say. “Mind it?” Why should he? All those cities, plains, and mountains.... In freedom he was going out to conquer them. In under an hour, he thought, he would have annexed Buenos Aires and tossed it aside!

He smiled at his thoughts. This town ... it will soon be left behind. It’s fine starting out at night. One opens out the gas, facing south, and ten seconds later swings the landscape roundabout, heading up north. The town looks like the bottom of the sea.

She thought of all a man must lay aside to conquer. “So you don’t like your home?”

“I do like my home.”

But his wife knew that he was already on his way and even now his sturdy shoulders were pressing up against the sky.

She pointed to the sky. “A fine night. See, your road is paved with stars!”

He laughed. “Yes.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder and its moist warmth disquieted her; did some danger threaten this young flesh of his?

“I know how strong you are, but—do take care!”

“Of course I’ll take care.”

Then he began dressing. For the occasion he chose the coarsest, roughest fabrics, the heaviest of leather—a peasant’s kit. The heavier he grew, the more she admired him. Herself she buckled his belt, helped to pull his boots on.

“These boots pinch me!”

“Here are the others.”

“Bring a cord for my emergency lamp.”

She looked at him, set to rights the last flaw in his armor; all fell into place.

“You look splendid.”

Then she noticed that he was carefully brushing his hair.

“For the benefit of the stars?” she questioned.

“I don’t want to feel old.”

“I’m jealous.”

He laughed again and kissed her, pressing her to his heavy garments. Then he lifted her from the ground between his outstretched arms, like a little girl, and, laughing still, deposited her on the bed.

“Go to sleep!”

He shut the door behind him and, passing amongst the indistinguishable folk of night, took the first step toward his conquests.

She remained, sadly looking at these flowers and books, little friendly things which meant for him no more than the bottom of the sea.

XI

Rivière greeted him.

“That’s a nice trick you played on me, your last trip! You turned back though the weather reports were good. You could have pushed through all right. Got the wind up?”

Surprised, the pilot found no answer. He slowly rubbed his hands one on the other. Then, raising his head, he looked Rivière in the eyes.

“Yes,” he answered.

Deep in himself Rivière felt sorry for this brave fellow who had been afraid.