December, 1882.
I was walking on the quay at Bordeaux. A very smart person came up to me, hat doffed, holding out his hand: Barrada! A Barrada transformed, having shed his beard and his one-and-thirty years at the same time, no doubt, as he laid aside his blue collar, with cheeks carefully shaved, a budding moustache, and the air of a young lover of twenty.
The old distinction and beauty of line were still there, but his face now was happier and kinder, as if brightened by a deep joy.
He had married at last his little Spanish sweetheart. The gold he used to carry in his belt had furnished their home; and he had found occupation as a stevedore, a very lucrative calling, it seems, in which he could use to perfection his great strength and instinctive "handiness." He made me promise solemnly that on the return of the Primauguet I would call at Bordeaux with Yves and come and see him.
He, at any rate, was happy!
And the end of this wanderer over the sea made me think. I asked myself whether my poor Yves, who, with a heart as good, had offended far less against the laws of decent society, might not also find one day a little happiness. . . .
[CHAPTER XCVIII]
Telegram: "Toulon, 3rd April, 1883.—To Yves Kermadec, on board the Primauguet, Brest. You have been appointed mate. All good wishes.
"PIERRE."
It was his joyous welcome, his home-coming feast, for, only twenty-four hours before, the Primauguet, returned from its distant cruise in the Pacific, had come to anchor in the waters of France.
And these golden stripes which I sent to Yves by telegraph, he did not water them, as he had watered formerly his stripes of wool. No, times had changed; he took refuge in the spar-deck, in the corner where his sack and locker were, which he regarded as his little home; he hurried down to this quiet spot in order that he might be alone to contemplate this happiness which had come to him, to read and read again this blessed little blue paper which had opened before him an entirely new era.