When Yves arrived, his face had changed and he was smiling as I had not seen him smile for many a long day. I took his hand, his poor topman's hand, in mine; it was necessary to squeeze it very hard to make it feel the pressure, for work had greatly hardened it. "But why did you do that? It wasn't kind, you know." And this was all he found to say to me by way of reproach. The guard at night on the _Sèvre_ was not very strict. "Look here, Yves, we are going to spend this first night of the New Year on shore, in Brest, and you are going to have dinner with me, as my guest. That is a thing we have never done and it will be fun. Quickly, go and brush your clothes (for he had got very dirty in irons in the hold), and let us go." "Oh! but we must be quick, though. Let me rather brush myself when we get on shore. The gun will sound directly, and we shall not have time to get out." We were in a remote part of the docks, very far from the gates, and we started off at once almost running. But, as luck would have it, when we were but half-way, the gun sounded and we were too late. There was nothing for it but to return to the _Sèvre_, where it was cold and dark. In the wardroom there was a pitiful lantern in a wire cage, which had been lit by the fireman patrol, but no fire. And it was there we passed the first night of the new year, dinnerless through our own fault, but content nevertheless that we had found each other again and had made friends. Nevertheless something still worried Yves. "I did not think of it before: but perhaps it would have been better if you had left me in irons until the morning, on account of the others, you know, who won't be able to make out what has happened. . . ." But about his future conduct, he had no misgiving at all; to-night he felt very sure of himself. "In the first place," he said, "I have found a sure method; I will never go ashore again except with you, and you will take me where you will. In that way, you see. . . ." CHAPTER LXVIII _Sunday_, 31_st March_, 1881. Toulven, in spring; the lanes full of primroses. A first warm breeze stirs the air, a surprise and a delight; it stirs the branches of the oaks and beeches, and the great leafless woods; it brings us, in this grey Brittany, the scent of distant places, memories of sunlit lands. A pale summer is at hand, with long, mild evenings. We are all outside at the cottage door, the two old Keremenens, Yves, his wife, and Anne, little Corentine, and little Pierre. Religious chants, which we had first heard in the distance, are slowly drawing near. It is the procession coming with rhythmic step, the first procession of spring. It is now in the green lane. It is going to pass in front of us. "Lift me, godfather, lift me!" says little Pierre, holding out his hands for me to take him in my arms, so that he may see better.