_November_, 1880.
A little more than two years later.
Little Pierre was cold. He cried as he clasped his two little hands,
which he tried to hide under his pinafore. He was in a street in Brest,
before daybreak, on a November morning. A fine rain was falling. He
pressed close to his mother who, also, was weeping.
There, at a street corner, Marie Kermadec was waiting, loitering in the
darkness like some unfortunate. Would Yves come home? . . . Where was
he? . . . Where had he spent the night? In what low tavern? Would he
return to his ship at any rate, when the gun sounded, in time for the
roll-call.
And other women were waiting also.
One passed with her husband, a petty officer like Yves; he came out of a
tavern which had just been opened. He was drunk. He tried to walk,
staggered a few steps and then fell heavily to the ground. His head made
a sickening sound as it struck the hard granite.
"Oh! my God!" wailed his wife. "Jesus, Holy Virgin Mary, have pity on
us! Never have I seen him like this before! . . ."
Marie Kermadec helped her to get him on his feet again. He was a good
looking man, kindly and serious.
"Thank you, madam!"
And his wife contrived to make him walk, supporting him with all her
strength.
Little Pierre was crying quietly, as if he understood already that
something shameful overshadowed them and that it behoved him not to make
a noise. He bowed his little head and continued to hide under his
pinafore his little hands which were so cold. He was well enough wrapped
up, but he had been standing for a long time, without moving, at this
damp street corner. The gas lamps had just been extinguished and it was
very dark. Poor little plant, healthy and fresh, born in the woods of
Toulven, how came it, to be stranded in the misery of this town? For his
part he saw no sense in the change; he could not understand why his
mother had wanted to follow her husband to this Brest, and to live in a
cold and dismal lodging, at the end of a court, in one of the low-lying
streets abutting on the harbour.
Another passed; he was struggling with his wife, this one, he was not
going to be taken home. It was a horrible sight. Marie uttered a cry as
she heard the dull sound of a blow struck by a fist; and covered her
face, unable to bear more. Yves at any rate had never done that! But
would it come to that in time? Would it come to pass, one of these days,
that they would sink to this last misery?