“You ought to let me carry the money to him,
father,” she had said. “I shall be
pleased to see Marie Gaos. I never have been so
far in Ploubazlanec, either, and I shall enjoy the
long walk.”
To speak the truth, she was curiously anxious to know
Yann’s family, which she might some day enter;
and she also wanted to see the house and village.
In one of their last chats, before his departure,
Sylvestre had explained to her, in his own way, his
friend’s shyness.
“D’ye see, Gaud, he’s like this,
he won’t marry anybody, that’s his idea;
he only loves the sea, and one day even, in fun, he
said he had promised to be wedded to it.”
Whereupon, she forgave him all his peculiar ways,
and remembered only his beautiful open smile on the
night of the ball, and she hoped on and on.
If she were to meet him in his home, of course she
would say nothing; she had no intention of being so
bold. But if he saw her closely again, perhaps
he might speak.
She had been walking for the last hour, lightly yet
oppressed, inhaling the healthy open breeze whistling
up the roads to where they crossed and Calvaires
were erected, ghastly highway ornaments of our Saviour
on His cross, to which Bretons are given.
From time to time she passed through small fishing
villages, which are beaten about by the winds the
whole year through till of the colour of the rocks.
In one of these hamlets, where the path narrows suddenly
between dark walls, and between the whitewashed roofs,
high and pointed like Celtic huts, a tavern sign-board
made her smile. It was “The Chinese Cider
Cellars.” On it were painted two grotesque
figures, dressed in green and pink robes, with pigtails,
drinking cider. No doubt the whim of some old
sailor who had been in China. She saw all on her
way; people who are greatly engrossed in the object
of a journey always find more amusement than others
in its thousand details.
The tiny village was far behind her now, and as she
advanced in this last promontory of the Breton land,
the trees around her became more scarce, and the country
more mournful.
The ground was undulating and rocky, and from all
the heights the open sea could be seen. No more
trees now; nothing but the shorn heaths with their
green reeds, and here and there the consecrated crosses
rose, their outstretched arms outlined against the
sky, giving the whole country the aspect of a cemetery.
At one of the cross-ways, guarded by a colossal image
of Christ, she hesitated between two roads running
among thorny slopes.
A child happening to pass, came to her rescue:
“Good-day, Mademoiselle Gaud!”
It was one of the little Gaoses, one of Yann’s
wee sisters. Gaud kissed her and asked her if
her parents were at home.
“Father and mother are, yes. But brother
Yann,” said the little one, without intent,
of course, “has gone to Loguivy; but I don’t
think he’ll be very late home again.”
