“Would you mind giving me your address?  If he should grow worse, I could go and get you.”

THE PENGUINS’ ROCK

This is the season for penguins.

From April to the end of May, before the Parisian visitors arrive, one sees, all at once, on the little beach at Etretat several old gentlemen, booted and belted in shooting costume.  They spend four or five days at the Hotel Hauville, disappear, and return again three weeks later.  Then, after a fresh sojourn, they go away altogether.

One sees them again the following spring.

These are the last penguin hunters, what remain of the old set.  There were about twenty enthusiasts thirty or forty years ago; now there are only a few of the enthusiastic sportsmen.

The penguin is a very rare bird of passage, with peculiar habits.  It lives the greater part of the year in the latitude of Newfoundland and the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon.  But in the breeding season a flight of emigrants crosses the ocean and comes every year to the same spot to lay their eggs, to the Penguins’ Rock near Etretat.  They are found nowhere else, only there.  They have always come there, have always been chased away, but return again, and will always return.  As soon as the young birds are grown they all fly away, and disappear for a year.

Why do they not go elsewhere?  Why not choose some other spot on the long white, unending cliff that extends from the Pas-de-Calais to Havre?  What force, what invincible instinct, what custom of centuries impels these birds to come back to this place?  What first migration, what tempest, possibly, once cast their ancestors on this rock?  And why do the children, the grandchildren, all the descendants of the first parents always return here?

There are not many of them, a hundred at most, as if one single family, maintaining the tradition, made this annual pilgrimage.

And each spring, as soon as the little wandering tribe has taken up its abode an the rock, the same sportsmen also reappear in the village.  One knew them formerly when they were young; now they are old, but constant to the regular appointment which they have kept for thirty or forty years.  They would not miss it for anything in the world.

It was an April evening in one of the later years.  Three of the old sportsmen had arrived; one was missing—­M. d’Arnelles.

He had written to no one, given no account of himself.  But he was not dead, like so many of the rest; they would have heard of it.  At length, tired of waiting for him, the other three sat down to table.  Dinner was almost over when a carriage drove into the yard of the hotel, and the late corner presently entered the dining room.

He sat down, in a good humor, rubbing his hands, and ate with zest.  When one of his comrades remarked with surprise at his being in a frock-coat, he replied quietly: