"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, 9th July, 1881.
We reach port at last, however, and this is my last day of duty on board. I disembark to-morrow.
We are in the heart of the Brest docks, where the Sèvre comes from time to time to rest between two high walls. High gloomy-looking buildings overlook us; around us courses of native rock support the ramparts, a roundway, a whole heavy pile of granite, oozing sadness and humidity. I know all these things by heart.