_December_, 1882.
I was walking on the quay at Bordeaux. A very smart person came up to
me, hat doffed, holding out his hand: Barrada! A Barrada transformed,
having shed his beard and his one-and-thirty years at the same time, no
doubt, as he laid aside his blue collar, with cheeks carefully shaved, a
budding moustache, and the air of a young lover of twenty.
The old distinction and beauty of line were still there, but his face
now was happier and kinder, as if brightened by a deep joy.
He had married at last his little Spanish sweetheart. The gold he used
to carry in his belt had furnished their home; and he had found
occupation as a stevedore, a very lucrative calling, it seems, in which
he could use to perfection his great strength and instinctive
"handiness." He made me promise solemnly that on the return of the
_Primauguet_ I would call at Bordeaux with Yves and come and see him.
He, at any rate, was happy!
And the end of this wanderer over the sea made me think. I asked myself
whether my poor Yves, who, with a heart as good, had offended far less
against the laws of decent society, might not also find one day a little
happiness. . . .