CHAPTER I - THE COURTING BY THE SEA

All sweethearts like to sit on the bench at their cottage door, when night falls.

Yann and Gaud did that likewise.  Every evening they sat out together before the Moans’ cottage, on the old granite seat, and talked love.

Others have the spring-time, the soft shadow of the trees, balmy evenings, and flowering rosebushes; they had only the February twilight, which fell over the sea-beaten land, strewn with eel-grass and stones.  There was no branch of verdure above their heads or around them; nothing but the immense sky, over which passed the slowly wandering mists.  And their flowers were brown sea-weeds, drawn up from the beach by the fishers, as they dragged their nets along.

The winters are not very severe in this part of the country, being tempered by currents of the sea; but, notwithstanding that, the gloaming was often laden with invisible icy rain, which fell upon their shoulders as they sat together.  But they remained there, feeling warm and happy.  The bench, which was more than a hundred years old, did not seem in the least surprised at their love, having seen many other pairs in its time; it had listened to many soft words, which are always the same on the lips of the young, from generation to generation; and it had become used to seeing lovers sit upon it again, when they returned to it old and trembling; but in the broad day, this time, to warm themselves in the last sun they would see.

From time to time Granny Moan would put her head out at the door to have a look at them, and try to induce them to come in.  “You’ll catch cold, my good children,” said she, “and then you’ll fall ill - Lord knows, it really isn’t sensible to remain out so late.”

Cold! they cold?  Were they conscious of anything else besides the bliss of being together.

The passers-by in the evening down their pathway, heard the soft murmur of two voices mingling with the voice of the sea, down below at the foot of the cliffs.  It was a most harmonious music; Gaud’s sweet, fresh voice alternated with Yann’s, which had soft, caressing notes in the lower tones.  Their profiles could be clearly distinguished on the granite wall against which they reclined; Gaud with her white headgear and slender black-robed figure, and beside her the broad, square shoulders of her beloved.  Behind and above rose the ragged dome of the straw thatch, and the darkening, infinite, and colourless waste of the sea and sky floated over all.

Finally, they did go in to sit down by the hearth, whereupon old Yvonne immediately nodded off to sleep, and did not trouble the two lovers very much.  So they went on communing in a low voice, having to make up for two years of silence; they had to hurry on their courtship because it was to last so short a time.

It was arranged that they were to live with Granny Moan, who would leave them the cottage in her will; for the present, they made no alterations in it, for want of time, and put off their plan for embellishing their poor lonely home until the fisherman’s return from Iceland.

CHAPTER II - THE SEAMAN’S SECRET

One evening Yann amused himself by relating to his affianced a thousand things she had done, or which had happened to her since their first meeting; he even enumerated to her the different dresses she had had, and the jollifications to which she had been.

She listened in great surprise.  How did he know all this?  Who would have thought of a man ever paying any attention to such matters, and being capable of remembering so clearly?

But he only smiled at her in a mysterious way, and went on mentioning other facts to her that she had altogether forgotten.

She did not interrupt him; nay, she but let him continue, while an unexpected delicious joy welled up in her heart; she began, at length, to divine and understand everything.  He, too, had loved - loved her, through that weary time.  She had been his constant thought, as he was guilelessly confessing.  But, in this case, what had been his reason for repelling her at first and making her suffer so long?

There always remained this mystery that he had promised to explain to her - yet still seemed to elude - with a confused, incomprehensible smile.

CHAPTER III - THE OMINOUS WEDDING-DRESS

One fine day, the loving pair went over to Paimpol, with Granny Moan, to buy the wedding-dress.

Gaud could very easily have done over one of her former town-lady’s dresses for the occasion.  But Yann had wanted to make her this present, and she had not resisted too long the having a dress given by her betrothed, and paid for by the money he had earned at his fishing; it seemed as if she were already his wife by this act.

They chose black, for Gaud had not yet left off mourning for her father; but Yann did not find any of the stuffs they placed before them good enough.  He was not a little overbearing with the shopman; he, who formerly never would have set his foot inside a shop, wanted to manage everything himself, even to the very fashion of the dress.  He wished it adorned with broad beads of velvet, so that it would be very fine, in his mind.

CHAPTER IV - FLOWER OF THE THORN

One evening as these lovers sat out on their stone bench in the solitude over which the night fell, they suddenly perceived a hawthorn bush, which grew solitarily between the rocks, by the side of the road, covered with tiny flowered tufts.

“It looks as if ’twas in bloom,” said Yann.

They drew near to inspect it.  It was in full flower, indeed.  As they could not see very well in the twilight, they touched the tiny blooms, wet with mist.  Then the first impression of spring came to them at the same time they noticed this; the days had already lengthened, the air was warmer, and the night more luminous.  But how forward this particular bush was!  They could not find another like it anywhere around, not one!  It had blossomed, you see, expressly for them, for the celebration of their loving plight.

“Oh! let us gather some more,” said Yann.

Groping in the dark, he cut a nosegay with the stout sailor’s knife that he always wore in his belt, and paring off all the thorns, he placed it in Gaud’s bosom.

“You look like a bride now,” said he, stepping back to judge of the effect, notwithstanding the deepening dusk.

At their feet the calm sea rose and fell over the shingle with an intermittent swash, regular as the breathing of a sleeper; for it seemed indifferent or ever favourable to the love-making going on hard by.

In expectation of these evenings the days appeared long to them, and when they bade each other good-bye at ten o’clock, they felt a kind of discouragement, because it was all so soon over.

They had to hurry with the official documents for fear of not being ready in time, and of letting their happiness slip by until the autumn, or even uncertainty.

Their evening courtship in that mournful spot, lulled by the continual even wash of the sea, with that feverish impression of the flight of time, was almost gloomy and ominous.  They were like no lovers; more serious and restless were they in their love than the common run.

Yet Yann never told her what mysterious thing had kept him away from her for these two lonely years; and after he returned home of a night, Gaud grew uneasy as before, although he loved her perfectly - this she knew.  It is true that he had loved her all along, but not as now; love grew stronger in his heart and mind, like a tide rising and overbrimming.  He never had known this kind of love before.

Sometimes on their stone seat he lay down, resting his head in Gaud’s lap like a caressing child, till, suddenly remembering propriety, he would draw himself up erect.  He would have liked to lie on the very ground at her feet, and remain there with his brow pressed to the hem of her garments.  Excepting the brotherly kiss he gave her when he came and went, he did not dare to embrace her.  He adored that invisible spirit in her, which appeared in the very sound of her pure, tranquil voice, the expression of her smile, and in her clear eye.

CHAPTER V - THE COST OF OBSTINACY

One rainy evening they were sitting side by side near the hearth, and Granny Moan was asleep opposite them.  The fire flames, dancing over the branches on the hearth, projected their magnified shadows on the beams overhead.

They spoke to one another in that low voice of all lovers.  But upon this particular evening their conversation was now and again broken by long troubled silence.  He, in particular, said very little and lowered his head with a faint smile, avoiding Gaud’s inquiring eyes.  For she had been pressing him with questions all the evening concerning that mystery that he positively would not divulge; and this time he felt himself cornered.  She was too quick for him, and had fully made up her mind to learn; no possible shifts could get him out of telling her now.

“Was it any bad tales told about me?” she asked.

He tried to answer “yes,” and faltered:  “Oh! there was always plenty of rubbish babbled in Paimpol and Ploubazlanec.”

She asked what, but he could not answer her; so then she thought of something else.  “Was it about my style of dress, Yann?”

Yes, of course, that had had something to do with it; at one time she had dressed too grandly to be the wife of a simple fisherman.  But he was obliged to acknowledge that that was not all.

“Was it because at that time we passed for very rich people, and you were afraid of being refused?”

“Oh, no! not that.”  He said this with such simple confidence that Gaud was amused.

Then fell another silence, during which the moaning of the sea-winds was heard outside.  Looking attentively at him, a fresh idea struck her, and her expression changed.

“If not anything of that sort, Yann, what was it?” demanded she, suddenly, looking at him fair in the eyes, with the irresistible questioning look of one who guesses the truth, and could dispense with confirmation.

He turned aside, laughing outright.

So at last she had, indeed, guessed aright; he never could give her a real reason, because there was none to give.  He had simply “played the mule” (as Sylvestre had said long ago).  But everybody had teased him so much about that Gaud, his parents, Sylvestre, his Iceland mates, and even Gaud herself.  Hence he had stubbornly said “no,” but knew well enough in the bottom of his heart that when nobody thought any more about the hollow mystery it would become “yes.”

So it was on account of Yann’s childishness that Gaud had been languishing, forsaken for two long years, and had longed to die.

At first Yann laughed, but now he looked at Gaud with kind eyes, questioning deeply.  Would she forgive him?  He felt such remorse for having made her suffer.  Would she forgive him?

“It’s my temper that does it, Gaud,” said he.  “At home with my folks, it’s the same thing.  Sometimes, when I’m stubborn, I remain a whole week angered against them, without speaking to anybody.  Yet you know how I love them, and I always end by doing what they wish, like a boy.  If you think that I was happy to live unmarried, you’re mistaken.  No, it couldn’t have lasted anyway, Gaud, you may be sure.”

Of course, she forgave him.  As she felt the soft tears fall, she knew they were the outflow of her last pangs vanishing before Yann’s confession.  Besides, the present never would have been so happy without all her suffering; that being over, she was almost pleased at having gone through that time of trial.

Everything was finally cleared up between them, in a very unexpected though complete manner; there remained no clouds between their souls.  He drew her towards him, and they remained some time with their cheeks pressed close, requiring no further explanations.  So chaste was their embrace, that the old grandam suddenly awaking, they remained before her as they were without any confusion or embarrassment.

CHAPTER VI - THE BRIDAL

It was six days before the sailing for Iceland.  Their wedding procession was returning from Ploubazlanec Church, driven before a furious wind, under a sombre, rain-laden sky.

They looked very handsome, nevertheless, as they walked along as in a dream, arm-in-arm, like king and queen leading a long cortege.  Calm, reserved, and grave, they seemed to see nothing about them; as if they were above ordinary life and everybody else.  The very wind seemed to respect them, while behind them their “train” was a jolly medley of laughing couples, tumbled and buffeted by the angry western gale.

Many people were present, overflowing with young life; others turning gray, but these still smiled as they thought of their wedding-day and younger years.  Granny Yvonne was there and following, too, panting a little, but something like happy, hanging on the arm of an old uncle of Yann’s, who was paying her old-fashioned compliments.  She wore a grand new cap, bought for the occasion, and her tiny shawl, which had been dyed a third time, and black, because of Sylvestre.

The wind worried everybody; dresses and skirts, bonnets and coiffes, were similarly tossed about mercilessly.

At the church door, the newly married couple, pursuant to custom, had bought two nosegays of artificial flowers, to complete their bridal attire.  Yann had fastened his on anyhow upon his broad chest, but he was one of those men whom anything becomes.  As for Gaud, there was still something of the lady about the manner in which she had placed the rude flowers in her bodice, as of old very close fitting to her unrivalled form.

The violin player, who led the whole band, bewildered by the wind, played at random; his tunes were heard by fits and starts betwixt the noisy gusts, and rose as shrill as the screaming of a sea-gull.  All Ploubazlanec had turned out to look at them.  This marriage seemed to excite people’s sympathy, and many had come from far around; at each turn of the road there were groups stationed to see them pass.  Nearly all Yann’s mates, the Icelanders of Paimpol, were there.  They cheered the bride and bridegroom as they passed; Gaud returned their greeting, bowing slightly like a town lady, with serious grace; and all along the way she was greatly admired.

The darkest and most secluded hamlets around, even those in the woods, had been emptied of all their beggars, cripples, wastrels, poor, and idiots on crutches; these wretches scattered along the road, with accordions and hurdy-gurdies; they held out their hands and hats to receive the alms that Yann threw to them with his own noble look and Gaud with her beautiful queenly smile.  Some of these poor waifs were very old and wore gray locks on heads that had never held much; crouching in the hollows of the roadside, they were of the same colour as the earth from which they seemed to have sprung, but so unformed as soon to be returned without ever having had any human thoughts.  Their wandering glances were as indecipherable as the mystery of their abortive and useless existences.  Without comprehending, they looked at the merrymakers’ line pass by.  It went on beyond Pors-Even and the Gaoses’ home.  They meant to follow the ancient bridal tradition of Ploubazlanec and go to the chapel of La Trinité, which is situated at the very end of the Breton country.

At the foot of the outermost cliff, it rests on a threshold of low-lying rocks close to the water, and seems almost to belong to the sea already.  A narrow goat’s path leads down to it through masses of granite.

The wedding party spread over the incline of the forsaken cape head; and among the rocks and stones, happy words were lost in the roar of the wind and the surf.

It was useless to try and reach the chapel; in this boisterous weather the path was not safe, the sea came too close with its high rollers.  Its white-crested spouts sprang up in the air, so as to break over everything in a ceaseless shower.

Yann, who had advanced the farthest with Gaud on his arm, was the first to retreat before the spray.  Behind, his wedding party had remained strewn about the rocks, in a semicircle; it seemed as if he had come to present his wife to the sea, which received her with scowling, ill-boding aspect.

Turning round, he caught sight of the violinist perched on a gray rock, trying vainly to play his dance tunes between gusts of wind.

“Put up your music, my lad,” said Yann; “old Neptune is playing us a livelier tune than yours.”

A heavily beating shower, which had threatened since morning, began to fall.  There was a mad rush then, accompanied by outcries and laughter, to climb up the bluff and take refuge at the Gaoses’.

CHAPTER VII - THE DISCORDANT NOTE

The wedding breakfast was given at Yann’s parents’, because Gaud’s home was so poor.  It took place upstairs in the great new room.  Five-and-twenty guests sat down round the newly married pair - sisters and brothers, cousin Gaos the pilot, Guermeur, Keraez, Yvon Duff, all of the old Marie’s crew, who were now the Leopoldine’s; four very pretty bridesmaids, with their hair-plaits wound round their ears, like the empresses’ in ancient Byzantium, and their modern white caps, shaped like sea-shells; and four best men, all broad-shouldered Icelanders, with large proud eyes.

Downstairs, of course, there was eating and cooking going on; the whole train of the wedding procession had gathered there in disorder; and the extra servants, hired from Paimpol, well-nigh lost their senses before the mighty lumbering up of the capacious hearth with pots and pans.

Yann’s parents would have wished a richer wife for their son, naturally, but Gaud was known now as a good, courageous girl; and then, in spite of her lost fortune, she was the greatest beauty in the country, and it flattered them to see the couple so well matched.

The old father was inclined to be merry after the soup, and spoke of the bringing up of his fourteen little Gaoses; but they were all doing well, thanks to the ten thousand francs that had made them well off.

Neighbour Guermeur related the tricks he played in the navy, yarns about China, the West Indies, and Brazil, making the young ones who would be off some day, open their eyes in wonderment.

“There is a cry against the sea-service,” said the old sailor, laughing, “but a man can have fine fun in it.”

The weather did not clear up; on the contrary, the wind and rain raged through the gloomy night; and in spite of the care taken, some of the guests were fidgety about their smacks anchored in the harbour, and spoke of getting up to go and see if all was right.  But here a more jovial sound than ever was heard from downstairs, where the younger members of the party were supping together; cheers of joy and peals of laughter ascended.  The little cousins were beginning to feel exhilarated by the cider.

Boiled and roasted meats had been served up with poultry, different kinds of fish, omelets and pancakes.

The debate had turned upon fishery and smuggling, and the best means of fooling the coast-guardsmen, who, as we all know, are the sworn enemies of honest seafarers.

Upstairs, at the grand table, old circumnavigators went so far as to relate droll stories, in the vernacular.

But the wind was raging altogether too strong; for the windows shook with a terrible clatter, and the man telling the tale had hurriedly ended to go and see to his smack.

Then another went on:  “When I was bo’s’n’s mate aboard of the Zenobie, a-lying at Aden, and a-doing the duty of a corporal of marines, by the same token, you ought to ha’ seen the ostridge feather traders a-trying to scramble up over the side. [Imitating the broken talk] ’Bon-joo, cap’n! we’re not thiefs - we’re honest merchants’ - Honest, my eye! with a sweep of the bucket, a purtending to draw some water up, I sent ’em all flying back an oar’s length.  ‘Honest merchants, are ye,’ says I, ’then send us up a bunch of honest feathers first - with a hard dollar or two in the core of it, d’ye see, and then I’ll believe in your honesty!’ Why, I could ha’ made my fortun’ out of them beggars, if I hadn’t been born and brought up honest myself, and but a sucking-dove in wisdom, saying nothing of my having a sweetheart at Toulon in the millinery line, who could have used any quantity of feathers - ”

Ha! here’s one of Yann’s little brothers, a future Iceland fisherman, with a fresh pink face and bright eyes, who is suddenly taken ill from having drunk too much cider.  So little Laumec has to be carried off, which cuts short the story of the milliner and the feathers.

The wind wailed in the chimney like an evil spirit in torment; with fearful strength, it shook the whole house on its stone foundation.

“It strikes me the wind is stirred up, acos we’re enjoying of ourselves,” said the pilot cousin.

“No, it’s the sea that’s wrathy,” corrected Yann, smiling at Gaud, “because I’d promised I’d be wedded to her.”

A strange languor seemed to envelop them both; they spoke to one another in a low voice, apart, in the midst of the general gaiety.  Yann, knowing thoroughly the effect of wine, did not drink at all.  Now and then he turned dull too, thinking of Sylvestre.  It was an understood thing that there was to be no dancing, on account of him and of Gaud’s dead father.

It was the dessert now; the singing would soon begin.  But first there were the prayers to say, for the dead of the family; this form is never omitted, at all wedding-feasts, and is a solemn duty.  So when old Gaos rose and uncovered his white head, there was a dead silence around.

“This,” said he, “is for Guillaume Gaos, my father.”  Making the sign of the cross, he began the Lord’s prayer in Latin:  “Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tumm - ”

The silence included all, even to the joyful little ones downstairs, and every voice was repeating in an undertone the same eternal words.

“This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the Sea of Iceland.  This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard the Zelie.”  When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned towards grandmother Moan, saying, “This one is for Sylvestre Moan.”

Yann wept as he recited another prayer.

“Sed libera nos a malo.  Amen!”

Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle, where we all know there are rare good vocalists.

“Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves,” etc.

A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for bravery, The sailor stands, I trow.  Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him, Whose glory never can grow dim!

This was sung by one of the bride’s supporters, in a feeling tone that went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly voices.

But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance.  When they looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like that of transparently shaded lamps.  They spoke in even a lower voice, and still held each other’s hands.  Gaud bent her head, too, gradually overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.

The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own; he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which ought not to be shaken, he said.  He told the story of it.  One day out fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had, with most of its contents.  It was impossible to take all, so they had signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had flocked round the flotsam.

“And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy when we got back to Pors-Even at night!” he chuckled liquorishly.

The wind still went on with its fearful din.

Downstairs the children were dancing in rings; except some of the youngest, sent to bed; but the others, who were romping about, led by little Fantec (Francis) and Laumec (Guillaume), wanted to go and play outside.  Every minute they were opening the door and letting in furious gusts, which blew out the candles.

The pilot cousin went on with his story.  Forty bottles had fallen to his lot, he said.  He begged them all to say nothing about it, because of “Monsieur lé Commissaire de l’Inscription Maritime,” who would surely make a fuss over the undeclared find.

“But, d’ye see,” he went on, “it sarved the lubbers right to heave over such a vallyble cask or let it ’scape the lashings, for it’s superior quality, with sartinly more jinywine grape-juice in it than in all the wine-merchants’ cellars of Paimpol.  Goodness knows whence it came - this here castaway liquor.”

It was very strong and rich in colour, dashed with sea-water, and had the flavour of cod-pickle, but in spite of that, relishable; and several bottles were emptied.

Some heads began to spin; the Babel of voices became more confused, and the lads kissed the lasses less surreptitiously.

The songs joyously continued; but the winds would not moderate, and the seamen exchanged tokens of apprehension about the bad weather increasing.

The sinister clamour without was indeed worse than ever.  It had become one continuous howl, deep and threatening, as if a thousand mad creatures were yelling with full throats and out-stretched necks.

One might imagine heavy sea-guns shooting out their deafening boom in the distance, but that was only the sea hammering the coast of Ploubazlanec on all points; undoubtedly it did not appear contented, and Gaud felt her heart shrink at this dismal music, which no one had ordered for their wedding-feast.

Towards midnight, during a calm, Yann, who had risen softly, beckoned his wife to come to speak with him.

It was to go home.  She blushed, filled with shame, and confused at having left her seat so promptly.  She said it would be impolite to go away directly and leave the others.

“Not a bit on it,” replied Yann, “my father allows it; we may go,” and away he carried her.

They hurried away stealthily.  Outside they found themselves in the cold, the bitter wind, and the miserable, agitated night.  They began to run hand-in-hand.

From the height of the cliff-path, one could imagine, without seeing it, the furious open sea, whence arose all this hubbub.  They ran along, the wind cutting their faces, both bowed before the angry gusts, and obliged to put their hands over their mouths to cover their breathing, which the wind had completely taken away at first.

He held her up by the waist at the outset, to keep her dress from trailing on the ground, and her fine new shoes from being spoiled in the water, which streamed about their feet, and next he held her round the neck, too, and continued to run on still faster.  He could hardly realize that he loved her so much!  To think that she was now twenty-three and he nearly twenty-eight; that they might have been married two years ago, and as happy then as to-night!

At last they arrived at home, that poor lodging, with its damp flooring and moss-grown roof.  They lit the candle, which the wind blew out twice.

Old grandam Moan, who had been taken home before the singing began, was there.  She had been sleeping for the last two hours in her bunk, the flaps of which were shut.  They drew near with respect and peeped through the fretwork of her press, to bid her good-night, if by chance she were not asleep.  But they only perceived her still venerable face and closed eyes; she slept, or she feigned to do so, not to disturb them.

They felt they were alone then.  Both trembled as they clasped hands.  He bent forward to kiss her lips; but Gaud turned them aside, through ignorance of that kind of kiss; and as chastely as on the evening of their betrothal, she pressed hers to Yann’s cheek, which was chilled, almost frozen, by the wind.

It was bitterly cold in their poor, low-roofed cottage.  If Gaud had only remained rich, what happiness she would have felt in arranging a pretty room, not like this one on the bare ground!  She was scarcely yet used to these rugged granite walls, and the rough look of all things around; but her Yann was there now, and by his presence everything was changed and transfigured.  She saw only her husband.  Their lips met now; no turning aside.  Still standing with their arms intertwined tightly to draw themselves together, they remained dumb, in the perfect ecstasy of a never-ending kiss.  Their fluttering breath commingled, and both quivered as if in a burning fever.  They seemed without power to tear themselves apart, and knew nothing and desired nothing beyond that long kiss of consecrated love.

She drew herself away, suddenly agitated.  “Nay, Yann!  Granny Yvonne might see us,” she faltered.

But he, with a smile, sought his wife’s lips again and fastened his own upon them, like a thirsty man whose cup of fresh water had been taken from him.

The movement they had made broke the charm of delightful hesitation.  Yann, who, at the first, was going to kneel to her as before a saint, felt himself fired again.  He glanced stealthily towards the old oaken bunk, irritated at being so close to the old woman, and seeking some way not to be spied upon, but ever without breaking away from those exquisite lips.

He stretched forth his arm behind him, and with the back of his hand dashed out the light, as if the wind had done it.  Then he snatched her up in his arms.  Still holding her close, with his mouth continually pressed to hers, he seemed like a wild lion with his teeth embedded in his prey.  For her part she gave herself up entirely, to that body and soul seizure that was imperious and without possible resistance, even though it remained soft as a great all-comprising embrace.

Around them, for their wedding hymn, the same invisible orchestra, played on - “Hoo-ooh-hoo!” At times the wind bellowed out in its deep noise, with a tremolo of rage; and again repeated its threats, as if with refined cruelty, in low sustained tones, flute-like as the hoot of an owl.

The broad, fathomless grave of all sailors lay nigh to them, restless and ravenous, drumming against the cliffs with its muffled boom.

One night or another Yann would have to be caught in that maw, and battle with it in the midst of the terror of ice as well.  Both knew this plainly.

But what mattered that now to them on land, sheltered from the sea’s futile fury.  In their poor gloomy cottage, over which tempest rushed, they scorned all that was hostile, intoxicated and delightfully fortified against the whole by the eternal magic of love.

CHAPTER VIII - THE BLISSFUL WEEK

For six days they were husband and wife.  In this time of leave-taking the preparations for the Iceland season occupied everybody.  The women heaped up the salt for the pickle in the holds of the vessels; the men saw to the masts and rigging.  Yann’s mother and sisters worked from morning till night at the making of the sou’westers and oilskin waterproofs.

The weather was dull, and the sea, forefeeling the approach of the equinoctial gales, was restless and heaving.

Gaud went through these inexorable preparations with agony; counting the fleeting hours of the day, and looking forward to the night, when the work was over, and she would have her Yann to herself.

Would he leave her every year in this way?

She hoped to be able to keep him back, but she did not dare to speak to him about this wish as yet.  He loved her passionately, too; he never had known anything like this affection before; it was such a fresh, trusting tenderness that the same caresses and fondlings always seemed as if novel and unknown heretofore; and their intoxication of love continued to increase, and never seemed - never was satiated.

What charmed and surprised her in her mate was his tenderness and boyishness.  This the Yann in love, whom she had sometimes seen at Paimpol most contemptuous towards the girls.  On the contrary, to her he always maintained that kindly courtesy that seemed natural to him, and she adored that beautiful smile that came to him whenever their eyes met.  Among these simple folk there exists the feeling of absolute respect for the dignity of the wife; there is an ocean between her and the sweetheart.  Gaud was essentially the wife.  She was sorely troubled in her happiness, however, for it seemed something too unhoped for, as unstable as a joyful dream.  Besides, would this love be lasting in Yann?  She remembered sometimes his former flames, his fancies and different love adventures, and then she grew fearful.  Would he always cherish that infinite tenderness and sweet respect for her?

Six days of a wedded life, for such a love as theirs, was nothing; only a fevered instalment taken from the married life term, which might be so long before them yet!  They had scarcely had leisure to be together at all and understand that they really belonged to one another.  All their plans of life together, of peaceful joy, and settling down, was forcedly put off till the fisherman’s return.

No! at any price she would stop him from going to this dreadful Iceland another year!  But how should she manage?  And what could they do for a livelihood, being both so poor?  Then again he so dearly loved the sea.  But in spite of all, she would try and keep him home another season; she would use all her power, intelligence, and heart to do so.  Was she to be the wife of an Icelander, to watch each spring-tide approach with sadness, and pass the whole summer in painful anxiety? no, now that she loved him, above everything that she could imagine, she felt seized with an immense terror at the thought of years to come thus robbed of the better part.

They had one spring day together - only one.  It was the day before the sailing; all the stores had been shipped, and Yann remained the whole day with her.  They strolled along, arm-in-arm, through the lanes, like sweethearts again, very close to one another, murmuring a thousand tender things.  The good folk smiled, as they saw them pass, saying: 

“It’s Gaud, with long Yann from Pors-Even.  They were married only t’other day!”

This last day was really spring.  It was strange and wonderful to behold this universal serenity.  Not a single cloud marred the lately flecked sky.  The wind did not blow anywhere.  The sea had become quite tranquil, and was of a pale, even blue tint.  The sun shone with glaring white brilliancy, and the rough Breton land seemed bathed in its light, as in a rare, delicate ether; it seemed to brighten and revive even in the utmost distance.  The air had a delicious, balmy scent, as of summer itself, and seemed as if it were always going to remain so, and never know any more gloomy, thunderous days.  The capes and bays over which the changeful shadows of the clouds no longer passed, were outlined in strong steady lines in the sunlight, and appeared to rest also in the long-during calm.  All this made their loving festival sweeter and longer drawn out.  The early flowers already appeared:  primroses, and frail, scentless violets grew along the hedgerows.

When Gaud asked:  “How long then are you going to love me, Yann?”

He answered, surprisedly, looking at her full in the face with his frank eyes:  “Why, for ever, Gaud.”

That word, spoken so simply by his fierce lips, seemed to have its true sense of eternity.

She leaned on his arm.  In the enchantment of her realized dream, she pressed close to him, always anxious, feeling that he was as flighty as a wild sea-bird.  To-morrow he would take his soaring on the open sea.  And it was too late now, she could do nothing to stop him.

From the cliff-paths where they wandered, they could see the whole of this sea-bound country; which seems almost treeless, strewn with low, stunted bush and boulders.  Here and there fishers’ huts were scattered over the rocks, their high battered thatches made green by the cropping up of new mosses; and in the extreme distance, the sea, like a boundless transparency, stretched out in a never-ending horizon, which seemed to encircle everything.

She enjoyed telling him about all the wonderful things she had seen in Paris, but he was very contemptuous, and was not interested.

“It’s so far from the coast,” said he, “and there is so much land between, that it must be unhealthy.  So many houses and so many people, too, about!  There must be lots of ills and ails in those big towns; no, I shouldn’t like to live there, certain sure!”

She smiled, surprised to see this giant so simple a fellow.

Sometimes they came across hollows where trees grew and seemed to defy the winds.  There was no view here, only dead leaves scattered beneath their feet and chilly dampness; the narrow way, bordered on both sides by green reeds, seemed very dismal under the shadow of the branches; hemmed in by the walls of some dark, lonely hamlet, rotting with old age, and slumbering in this hollow.

A crucifix arose inevitably before them, among the dead branches, with its colossal image of Our Saviour in weather-worn wood, its features wrung with His endless agony.

Then the pathway rose again, and they found themselves commanding the view of immense horizons - and breathed the bracing air of sea-heights once more.

He, to match her, spoke of Iceland, its pale, nightless summers and sun that never set.  Gaud did not understand and asked him to explain.

“The sun goes all round,” said he, waving his arm in the direction of the distant circle of the blue waters.  “It always remains very low, because it has no strength to rise; at midnight, it drags a bit through the water, but soon gets up and begins its journey round again.  Sometimes the moon appears too, at the other side of the sky; then they move together, and you can’t very well tell one from t’other, for they are much alike in that queer country.”

To see the sun at midnight!  How very far off Iceland must be for such marvels to happen!  And the fjords?  Gaud had read that word several times written among the names of the dead in the chapel of the shipwrecked, and it seemed to portend some grisly thing.

“The fjords,” said Yann, “they are not broad bays, like Paimpol, for instance; only they are surrounded by high mountains - so high that they seem endless, because of the clouds upon their tops.  It’s a sorry country, I can tell you, darling.  Nothing but stones.  The people of Iceland know of no such things as trees.  In the middle of August, when our fishery is over, it’s quite time to return, for the nights begin again then, and they lengthen out very quickly; the sun falls below the earth without being able to get up, and that night lasts all the winter through.  Talking of night,” he continued, “there’s a little burying-ground on the coast in one of the fjords, for Paimpol men who have died during the season or went down at sea; it’s consecrated earth, just like at Pors-Even, and the dead have wooden crosses just like ours here, with their names painted on them.  The two Goazdious from Ploubazlanec lie there, and Guillaume Moan, Sylvestre’s grandfather.”

She could almost see the little churchyard at the foot of the solitary capes, under the pale rose-coloured light of those never-ending days, and she thought of those distant dead, under the ice and dark winding sheets of the long night-like winters.

“Do you fish the whole time?” she asked, “without ever stopping?”

“The whole time, though we somehow get on with work on deck, for the sea isn’t always fine out there.  Well! of course we’re dead beat when the night comes, but it gives a man an appetite - bless you, dearest, we regularly gobble down our meals.”

“Do you never feel sick of it?”

“Never,” returned he, with an air of unshaken faith which pained her; “on deck, on the open sea, the time never seems long to a man - never!”

She hung her head, feeling sadder than ever, and more and more vanquished by her only enemy, the sea.