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. . . . CHAPTER XCVIII _Telegram_: "Toulon, 3rd April, 1883.--To Yves Kermadec, on board the _Primauguet_, Brest. You have been appointed mate. All good wishes. "PIERRE." It was his joyous welcome, his home-coming feast, for, only twenty-four hours before, the _Primauguet_, returned from its distant cruise in the Pacific, had come to anchor in the waters of France. And these golden stripes which I sent to Yves by telegraph, he did not water them, as he had watered formerly his stripes of wool. No, times had changed; he took refuge in the spar-deck, in the corner where his sack and locker were, which he regarded as his little home; he hurried down to this quiet spot in order that he might be alone to contemplate this happiness which had come to him, to read and read again this blessed little blue paper which had opened before him an entirely new era. It was so wonderful, so unexpected, after his past bad conduct! I had been to Paris to ask this favour, intriguing hard for my adopted brother, and making myself answerable for his future conduct. A woman friend had been good enough to exert in my cause her very powerful influence, and, with her help, the promotion of Yves was carried by assault, difficult though it was. And Yves could not cease from contemplating his good fortune in all its aspects. . . . First, instead of asking for a short leave which might perhaps have been given to him very grudgingly, now, with his gold stripes he could depart straightway for Toulven; he would be put on the reserve list for three months at least, perhaps for four; he would have the whole summer to spend with his wife and son, in the little house which was now completed, and where they were only waiting for him to enter into occupation. . . . And secondly, they were quite rich, which was by no means a drawback. . . . Never in the life of this poor wandering toiler had there come an hour so happy, a joy so deep as that which his brother Pierre had just sent him by telegraph. . . . CHAPTER XCIX When the winds brought me back to Brittany again, it was in the last days of May, when the Breton spring was at its fairest. Yves had already been six weeks in his little house at Toulven, arranging my room, and preparing everything for my arrival.