As they danced the men cast sidelong glances at us, half in shy curiosity, half in scornful disdain. They had some of those tricks of physiognomy which sea-going men have preserved from our primitive ancestors; and comical gestures at every turn, an excessive mimicry, like animals in the wild state. Sometimes they threw themselves back, cambering their bodies; sometimes, by virtue of natural suppleness and their habits of stratagem, they crouched down, arching their backs, in the manner of wild beasts when they walk in the light of day. Round and round they went, to the sound of the fluted music, of the little jigging, infantine tol-de-rol-lol; very serious, dancing very well, with graceful poses of arms and circular movements of legs. But Yves and Goulven continued to walk up and down together. They had many things still to say to each other, and they were making the most of these last final minutes, for they knew that I was about to leave. They had seen each other once, fifteen years before, while Yves was still quite a little fellow, on that day which Goulven had spent at Plouherzel, in hiding like a fugitive, and, as far as could be seen, they would never meet again. Suddenly, we saw two of the dancers seize each other round the waist, throw themselves to the ground, still close grappled one with the other, and then begin to fight, to throttle one another, taken with a sudden rage; they tried to use their knives and already there were red marks of blood on the deck. The captain with the river god head separated them by lashing them both with a whip of hippopotamus hide. "No matter," he said in English; "they are drunk!" It was time to go. Goulven and Yves embraced each other, and I saw tears in Goulven's eyes. As we were returning over the tranquil sea, the first southern stars enkindling on high, Yves spoke to me of his brother: "He is not very happy. Although he earns a good deal of money and has a little house in California, to which he hopes to return. But there it is; it is the longing for his home country which is killing him." This captain promised to bring his _chola_ to have dinner with me on the following day on my ship. But, during the night, the whaler put to sea, vanished into the empty immensity; we never saw her again. CHAPTER LXXXVIII "And so you have come to get your allowance, too Madame Quéméneur?" "And you, too, Madame Kerdoncuff?" "And where is your husband now, Madam Quéméneur?" "In China, Madame Kerdoncuff, on the _Kerguelen_." "And mine, too, you know, Madame Quéméneur; he is there, too, on the _Vénus_." It is in the Rue des Voutes, in Brest, with a fine rain falling, that this dialogue of strangely shrill, falsetto voices takes place.