And above all, I realized that I still loved my poor Yves as a brother. . . . I went back to my room and began hurriedly to write to him; for this must be the only means of communication between us; with our characters, explanations would never be successful. I wrote quickly, in large letters, so that he could still read them: darkness was coming on quickly, and, in the dockyard, a light is a thing forbidden.
Then I said to the sergeant-at-arms:
"Bring Kermadec to speak to the Officer of the Watch, here in my room."
I had written:
"DEAR BROTHER,—I forgive you and I ask that you too will forgive me. You know well that we are now brothers, and that, in spite of everything, we must stick together through thick and thin. Are you willing that all that we have done and said on the Sèvre should be forgotten, and are you willing to make one more firm resolution to be sober? I ask this of you in the name of your mother. If you will write 'Yes' at the bottom of this paper, all will be over and we will not speak of it again.
"PIERRE."
When Yves came in, without looking at him, and without waiting for a reply, I said to him simply:
"Read this which I have just written for you." And I went out, leaving him alone.
He came out quickly, as if he had been afraid of my return, and, as soon as I heard that he was some distance away, I re-entered my room to see what he had answered.
At the bottom of my letter—in letters still larger than mine, for it was growing darker—he had written: "Yes, brother," and signed: "YVES."