CHAPTER LXV At Paimpol Marie, with her son, has climbed into the diligence which moves off and is bearing them away. Through the door she watches her mother-in-law who has had the grace to accompany them from Plouherzel to see them off, but who has said good-bye briefly and coldly, a good-bye to chill the heart. She watches her and is puzzled; for the old woman is running now, running after the diligence--and her face, too, is working; she seems to be making some kind of grimace. What can she want of them? And as she watches Marie becomes almost afraid. For she is grimacing still. And see! now she is crying! Her poor features are quite contorted, and her tears fall fast. . . . And now she understands! "For the love of heaven! stop the diligence, sir, if you please," says Marie to an Icelander, who is sitting near her and who, too, has understood; for he passes his arm through the little window in front and pulls the conductor by the sleeve. The diligence stops. The grandmother, who has continued to run, is at the back, almost on the step; she stretches out her hands to them, and her face is bathed in tears. Marie gets down and the old woman throws her arms round her, embraces her, embraces little Pierre. "My dear child! may God in His goodness be with you." And she weeps and sobs. "My child, with Yves, you know, you must be very gentle, you must take him by the heart; you will see that you can be happy with him. Perhaps I was too hard with his poor father. God bless you, my dear daughter!" And there they stand, united in the same love for Yves, and weeping together. "Now then, my good women!" cries the conductor, "when will you have finished rubbing noses?" They had to drag them apart. And Marie, seated once more in her corner, watches as she draws away, with eyes filled with tears, the old woman, who has sunk down, sobbing, on a milestone, while little Pierre waves good-bye with his plump little hand from the window. CHAPTER LXVI 1_st January_, 1881. In the heart of the docks at Brest, a little before dawn, on the first morning of the year 1881. A mournful place, these docks; the _Sèvre_ has been moored there now for a week. Above, the sky has begun to brighten between the high granite walls which enclose us. The lamps, few and far between, shed in the mist their last meagre yellow light. And already one may discern the silhouettes of formidable things which are taking shape, awakening ideas of a grim and cruel rigidity; machines high perched, enormous anchors upturning their black arms; all sorts of vague and ugly shapes; and, in addition, laid-up ships, with their outline of gigantic fishes, motionless on their chains, like large dead monsters.