Sunday, a day of great "boozing" in Brest.
Ten o'clock. A calm night, with a moonlit, tranquil sea; on board the Médée the sailors have finished singing their endless songs and silence has supervened.
Since the fall of darkness my eyes have been turned in the direction of the lights of the town. I am awaiting with uneasiness the return of the cutter of which Yves is in charge: it went ashore and has not returned.
At last I see its red light approaching, two hours late!
The sea is sonorous at night; in the distance I can hear cries mingling with the sound of the oars; strange things seem to be happening in the cutter.
She has scarcely come alongside when three drunken petty officers, in a state of fury, hasten on board and demand of me the head of Yves:
"He must be put in irons straightway; he must be tried and shot afterwards, for he has struck his superior officers."
Yves was standing there, trembling from the conflict in which just now he was engaged. These three petty officers have fought with him, or at any rate have tried to make him fight.
"They wanted to put me in the wrong!" he said disdainfully; and he swore that he had not returned the blows of the three men; for that matter he could have knocked all three of them over with his open hand. No; he let them lay hold of him and pull him about; they scratched his face and tore his clothes into ribbons, because he refused to allow them to take charge of the cutter, drunk as they were.
All the crew of the cutter were drunk also, by the fault of Yves, who had allowed them to drink.