On the day before we sailed, Yves had obtained a special permission to go ashore during the day in order that he might see, in the naval hospital, his eldest brother, Gildas, the fisher of whales, who had just arrived in a half dead condition, and whom he had not seen for ten years.
Gildas Kermadec was a man of about forty, tall, with features more regular than Yves'. In his eyes there was still a kind of dead fire. He must at one time have been exceedingly handsome.
He was paralysed and dying, destroyed by alcohol and excess of all kinds; he had lived a life of pleasure, sown his wild oats, and spent his strength on all the world's highways.
He came forward slowly, leaning on a stick, upright and well-set still, but dragging a leg, and with haggard eyes.
"Oh, Yves!" he said, and he repeated it three times: "Oh, Yves! Oh, Yves!"
It was scarcely articulate; for he was paralysed in speech also. He opened his arms to embrace Yves and tears ran down his bronzed cheeks.
There were tears in Yves' eyes also. . . . And then, quick, it was time to go. The leave that had been given him was only for an hour.
For that matter, Gildas found nothing more to say. He had made Yves sit down beside him on a hospital bench, and, holding his hand, looked at him with bewildered eyes that were near to dying. At first indeed he did try to say many things which seemed to press in his head; but there issued from his lips only inarticulate sounds, hoarse, deep, painful to hear. No, he could speak no more; and he contented himself with holding Yves' hand and gazing at him with an infinite sadness.
. . . . . . . . . .
Yves carried away a profound impression of this last interview with his brother Gildas. They had only seen each other twice since Gildas had gone to sea. But they were brothers, brothers of the same cottage and of the same blood, and in that there is something mysterious, a bond which nothing can break.