He was far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so well understood his passional errors.
He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore.
He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic.

It was always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal promenade through the _rue de Siam_, or a bored stay in the cafes full of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.
He went through the public establishments night and day; he made investigations in the hotels; he hired carriages in order to visit the more picturesque suburbs.

For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any result.
He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity.

Perhaps he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter.

But the recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a supposition....