One Sunday in December I returned to Brest unannounced and made my way
into the low-lying quarters of the Grand 'Rue, looking for Yves' house.
Reading the numbers on the doors, I passed all those high granite
buildings which once were houses of the rich and now are fallen into the
hands of the people; below, everywhere open taverns; above, the
curtained windows of poverty, with last sickly flowers on the sills;
dead chrysanthemums in pots.
It was morning. Bands of sailors were about already, looking very smart
in their clean clothes, singing, beginning already the Sunday holiday.
One breathed a white mist, a damp coldness--a first sensation of winter.
Newly-arrived as I was from the Adriatic, where the sun was still
shining, the colours of Brest seemed to me greyer than ever.
At number 154--above the sign: _À la pensée du beau canonnier_--I
climbed three flights of stairs in an old wide staircase, and came upon
the room of the Kermadecs.
I could hear through the door the regular sound of a cradle. Little
Pierre, very spoilt in spite of all, had retained this habit of being
rocked to sleep, and Yves, alone with his son, was sitting near him,
rocking the cradle with one hand, very slowly.
He raised pathetic eyes, moved at seeing me, but hesitating to come to
me, his expression saying:
"Ah, yes, brother, I know. You have come to take me away; it is true
that this is what I asked of you; but . . . but I did not expect you
perhaps so soon; and to go away . . . that will be very hard to
bear. . . ."
Physically, Yves had greatly changed. He had become paler, sheltered as
he had been from the tanning of the sea; his expression was different,
less assured, almost mournful. It was plain that he had suffered; but on
his face, marmorean still and colourless, vice had not succeeded yet in
imprinting any trace.
I looked around with an impression of surprise, and a contraction of the
heart. I had not, in fact, foreseen what the dwelling of my brother
Yves, on shore and in a town, would be like. It was very different from
that sea dwelling in which I had so long known him: the masthead, full
of wind and sun. Here, now, amid this reality of poverty I felt as he no
doubt felt himself, out of place and ill at ease.
Marie was outside, at the pump, and little Pierre was sound asleep, his
long baby's eyelashes resting on his cheeks. We were alone together and
as he was uncomfortable in my presence, he began hurriedly to talk of
embarking, of departure.
A change in the list had called me to Brest prepared for immediate
departure: two or three ships were about to be put into commission--for
the China station, for the Southern Seas, for the Levant--and it was
necessary to hold myself in readiness, from hour to hour, for one of
these destinations.
The week which followed was one of those agitated periods which are
common enough in a sailor's life: living at the hotel as in a flying
camp, amid the disorder of half-unpacked trunks, not knowing to-morrow's
destination; busy with a number of things, official business at the port
and preparations for the voyage;--and then these comings and goings,
applications on Yves' behalf, in order to secure his withdrawal from the
Reserve, and to keep him near me, ready to depart with me.
The December days, very short, very gloomy, sped quickly. I climbed
often, three steps at a time, the sordid old staircase of the Kermadecs;
and Marie, anxious always about the first words I might say, smiled at
me sadly, with a respectful and resigned confidence, awaiting the
decision I should bring.