His heart contracted so painfully and so strongly that he wanted to cry aloud, as a little boy does when he is beaten.
He rose and held her at arm’s length; then, seizing her head in his great sailor paws, he gazed intently into her face.
Little by little he recognized in her the small, slender, merry maiden he had left at home with those others whose eyes it had been her lot to close.
“Yes, you are Françoise! My sister!” he exclaimed. And suddenly sobs—the sobs of a strong man, sounding like the hiccups of a drunkard—rose in his throat. He let go of her head, and striking the table so that the glasses upset and broke to atoms, he cried out in a wild voice.
His comrades, astonished, turned towards him.
“See how he’s swaggering,” said one.
“Stop that shouting,” said another.
“Eh, Duclos! What are you bawling about? Let’s get upstairs again,” said a third, plucking Celestin by the sleeve with one hand while his other arm encircled a flushed, laughing, black-eyed lass, in a rose-coloured, low cut, silk dress.
Duclos suddenly became quiet, and holding his breath looked at his comrades. Then, with the same strange and resolute expression with which he used to enter on a fight, he staggered up to the sailor who was embracing the girl, and struck down with his hand—dividing them apart.
“Away! Do you not see that she is your sister! Each of them is someone’s sister. See, here is my sister, Françoise! Ha, ha … ha … and he broke into sobs that almost sounded like laughter. Then he staggered, raised his hands, and fell with a crash to the floor, where he rolled about, striking the floor with his hands and feet and choking as though about to die.