And we continued to travel very quickly and very erratically, zigzagging over the road among these crowds of people, between very tall hawthorns forming green hedges, and under the tufted vault of the trees. And presently Brest appeared, with its great solemn air, its great granite ramparts, its great grey walls, on which also grass and pink foxgloves were growing. It was as it were intoxicated, this mournful town, at having by chance a real summer's day, an evening clear and warm; it was full of noise and movement and people, of white head-dresses and sailors singing. CHAPTER LXXII 5_th July_, 1881. _At Sea._--We are returning from the Channel. The _Sèvre_ is proceeding very slowly in a thick fog, blowing every now and then its whistle which sounds like a cry of distress in this damp shroud which envelops us. The grey solitudes of the sea are all about us and we feel them without seeing them. It seems as if we were dragging with us long veils of darkness; we long to break through them; we are oppressed as it were to feel that we have been so long enclosed within them, and the impression grows that this curtain is immense, infinite, that it stretches for league on league without end, in the same dull greyness, in the same watery atmosphere. And then there is the endless roll of the waters, slow, smooth, regular, patient, exasperating. It is as if great polished and shining backs heaved and pushed us with their shoulders, raising us up and letting us fall. Suddenly in the evening the fog lifts and there appears before us a dark thing, surprising, unexpected, like a tall phantom emerging from the sea: "Ar Men Du (the Black Rocks)!" says our old Breton pilot. And, at the same time, the veil is rent all round us. Ushant appears: all its dark rocks, all its reefs are outlined in dark grey, beaten by high-flung showers of white foam, under a sky which seems as heavy as a globe of lead. Immediately we straighten our course, and taking advantage of the clearing, the _Sèvre_ stands in for Brest, whistling no longer, but hastening and with every hope of reaching port. But the curtain slowly closes again and falls. We can see no longer, darkness comes, and we have to stand out for the open sea. And for three long days we continue thus, unable to see anything. Our eyes are weary with watching. This is my last voyage on the _Sèvre_, which I am due to leave as soon as we reach Brest. Yves, with his Breton superstition, sees something unnatural in this fog, which persists in midsummer as if to delay my departure. It seems to him a warning and a bad omen. CHAPTER LXXIII BREST, 9_th July_, 1881. We reach port at last, however, and this is my last day of duty on board. I disembark to-morrow.