I have said that Captain Nemo wept while watching the waves;
his grief was great. It was the second companion he had
lost since our arrival on board, and what a death!
That friend, crushed, stifled, bruised by the dreadful
arms of a poulp, pounded by his iron jaws, would not
rest with his comrades in the peaceful coral cemetery!
In the midst of the struggle, it was the despairing cry
uttered by the unfortunate man that had torn my heart.
The poor Frenchman, forgetting his conventional language,
had taken to his own mother tongue, to utter a last appeal!
Amongst the crew of the Nautilus, associated with
the body and soul of the Captain, recoiling like him
from all contact with men, I had a fellow-countryman. Did
he alone represent France in this mysterious association,
evidently composed of individuals of divers nationalities?
It was one of these insoluble problems that rose up unceasingly
before my mind!
Captain Nemo entered his room, and I saw him no more for some time.
But that he was sad and irresolute I could see by the vessel,
of which he was the soul, and which received all his impressions.
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