Eight days afterwards our frigate was completely disarmed and laid up in
a remote part of the dockyard, the crew was paid off and the _Médée_
might be described as a dead ship.
I was going away, and Yves accompanied me to the railway. The station
was crowded with sailors; all those of the _Médée_ who also were
leaving; and others again who, taking French leave, had come to see them
off.
Amongst them were many old acquaintances of ours, protégés and friends
of Yves. And all these good fellows, rather tight, doffed their caps and
bade us good-bye with effusion. It was a scene such as is usual when a
ship is paid off; for a ship which finishes in this way is something
apart; it marks the end of so many acquaintances, so many rancours, so
many hates, so many sympathies.
At the entrance to the waiting-room, as I gripped Yves' hand, I said to
him:
"You will write to me at any rate?"
And he replied:
"I was going to explain to you," and he hesitated still, with an
amiable, shamefaced smile. "Well, here goes! I was going to explain to
you that I do not know what to put at the beginning."
And it was true that the appellations "Captain, Dear Captain," and
others of the same kind, would scarcely any longer do. What should it
be, then? I replied:
"Why, but that's very simple," and I cast about for a long time for this
simple thing and could not find it. "That's very simple. Put . . . put:
'My dear brother'; that will be true in the first place, and, for the
purpose of a letter, very suitable."