One day, I received a letter which called me to his assistance.
It was very simple, very much like a letter from a child:
"MY DEAR BROTHER,--I do not know how to tell you, but it is true, I have taken to drink again. Also I do not want to remain in Brest, as you will understand, for I am afraid of this thing.
"I have already been punished three times with irons in the Reserve, and now I do not know how to get away from the ship, for I realize that if I remain on board some misfortune will happen to me.
"But it seems to me that if I could embark once more with you, that would be exactly what I need. My dear brother, since you will soon be going away again, if you would come to Brest and take me with you, it would be much better for me than here, and I feel sure that that would save me.
"You have done me a great wrong in saying in your letter that I did not love my wife or my son; because for her and little Pierre there is nothing I would not do.
"Yes, my dear brother, I have wept and I am weeping now as I write, and I cannot see for the tears that are in my eyes.
"I only hope that you will be able to come. I embrace you with all my heart, and beg you not to forget your brother, in spite of all the disappointments he has caused you.
One Sunday in December I returned to Brest unannounced and made my way into the low-lying quarters of the Grand 'Rue, looking for Yves' house. Reading the numbers on the doors, I passed all those high granite buildings which once were houses of the rich and now are fallen into the hands of the people; below, everywhere open taverns; above, the curtained windows of poverty, with last sickly flowers on the sills; dead chrysanthemums in pots.
It was morning. Bands of sailors were about already, looking very smart in their clean clothes, singing, beginning already the Sunday holiday.
One breathed a white mist, a damp coldness--a first sensation of winter. Newly-arrived as I was from the Adriatic, where the sun was still shining, the colours of Brest seemed to me greyer than ever.
At number 154--above the sign: _À la pensée du beau canonnier_--I climbed three flights of stairs in an old wide staircase, and came upon the room of the Kermadecs.
I could hear through the door the regular sound of a cradle. Little Pierre, very spoilt in spite of all, had retained this habit of being rocked to sleep, and Yves, alone with his son, was sitting near him, rocking the cradle with one hand, very slowly.