Around the approaches to the wharves it is impossible to move. There is a suppressed shuffling of feet; only jackets and uniforms can get through to the boats. I slip in. On the sidewalk a Breton woman is weeping softly into the corner of her apron; her four little children, lost in the forest of legs, press round her skirt, clutching the cloth with their fingers; heads turned upward, they watch through great limpid eyes the endless flow of people. Each step reveals a similar scene; women clasp for the last time their beloved son, lover, or husband; their frail arms cannot let him go, and their tongues are stammering inexpressible things. Yet, as I listen, I hear in all this chorus of despair not a single word of revolt. These women comprehend everything. They nod their heads approvingly at the words of those who are leaving them. Their last kiss holds even a smile, a heavenly smile, which the fighting man is to carry with him on the sea, and recall at the instant of death. But when the sailor has disappeared toward the boats, the smile slowly fades; the women bite their lips, their faces grow distorted, and the tears, more sublime for having been held back so long, trickle through lids which for many months will not cease to weep. As becomes naval tragedies, the farewell took place in a splendid setting. The twilight was glorious with an incomparable splendor of sky, and the purple evening seemed to vibrate in unison with the city. On the edge of the quay, between the boats and the crowd, I could watch the faces, both of those who had to stay behind, and of those who were leaving. As long as the sailors were forcing their way along between those parting embraces and the boats, they were pale beneath their tan, and only with difficulty restrained their sobs. But hardly had they jumped to the benches of the launches, hardly had their comrades greeted them with hearty blows on shoulders and hips, when their color returned, their mouths let forth sonorous pleasantries, and they thought no more of anything but the sea and the adventure. At my feet hundreds of sailors are laughing and singing; they intoxicate themselves with anticipation in order not to betray their tenderness and their grief. On the quay, overshadowing this gayety, stands a forlorn crowd; those in front smile vaguely, but those behind are silently choking back their tears. And over there in the gold-flaked roadstead, the gray ships sparkle in the setting sun. All faces turn towards them. They are the geniuses of the moment. Entrusted with a portion of the honor of France, they await their orders. Before their prows, the country has swung open the gates of glory. Their guns and their sailors are made of the same steel. _3 August._ In the morning I went with some friends to the top of Cape Capet to see the departure of the “naval army.”