And he made up his mind to go and sit on the jetty as he had done that other night.

As he approached the harbour he heard, out at sea, a lugubrious and sinister wail like the bellowing of a bull, but more long-drawn and steady.

It was the roar of a fog-horn, the cry of a ship lost in the fog.

A shiver ran through him, chilling his heart; so deeply did this cry of distress thrill his soul and nerves that he felt as if he had uttered it himself.
Another and a similar voice answered with such another moan, but farther away; then, close by, the fog-horn on the pier gave out a fearful sound in answer.

Pierre made for the jetty with long steps, thinking no more of anything, content to walk on into this ominous and bellowing darkness.
When he had seated himself at the end of the breakwater he closed his eyes, that he might not see the two electric lights, now blurred by the fog, which make the harbour accessible at night, and the red glare of the light on the south pier, which was, however, scarcely visible.
Turning half-round, he rested his elbows on the granite and hid his face in his hands.
Though he did not pronounce the words with his lips, his mind kept repeating: "Marechal--Marechal," as if to raise and challenge the shade.
And on the black background of his closed eyelids, he suddenly saw him as he had known him: a man of about sixty, with a white beard cut in a point and very thick eyebrows, also white.