Then the quartermaster who held up the things to be
sold drew out two small buddhas, taken in some pagoda
to give to Gaud, and so funny were they that they
were greeted with a general burst of laughter, when
they appeared as the last lot. But the sailors
laughed, not for want of heart, but only through thoughtlessness.
To conclude, the bags were sold, and the buyer immediately
struck out the name on them to substitute his own.
A careful sweep of the broom was afterward given to
clear the scrupulously clean deck of the dust and
odds and ends, while the sailors returned merrily
to play with their parrots and monkeys.
One day, in the first fortnight of June, as old Yvonne
was returning home, some neighbours told her that
she had been sent for by the Commissioner from the
Naval Registry Office. Of course it concerned
her grandson, but that did not frighten her in the
least. The families of seafarers are used to
the Naval Registry, and she, the daughter, wife, mother,
and grandmother of seamen, had known that office for
the past sixty years.
Doubtless it had to do with his “delegation”;
or perhaps there was a small prize-money account from
La Circe to take through her proxy. As
she knew what respect was due to “Monsieur
le Commissaire,” she put on her best gown
and a clean white cap, and set out about two o’clock.
Trotting along swiftly on the pathways of the cliff,
she neared Paimpol; and musing upon these two months
without letters, she grew a bit anxious.
She met her old sweetheart sitting out at his door.
He had greatly aged since the appearance of the winter
cold.
“Eh, eh! When you’re ready, you know,
don’t make any ceremony, my beauty!” That
“suit of deal” still haunted his mind.
The joyous brightness of June smiled around her.
On the rocky heights there still grew the stunted
reeds with their yellow blossoms; but passing into
the hollow nooks sheltered against the bitter sea winds,
one met with high sweet-smelling grass. But the
poor old woman did not see all this, over whose head
so many rapid seasons had passed, which now seemed
as short as days.
Around the crumbling hamlet with its gloomy walls
grew roses, pinks, and stocks; and even up on the
tops of the whitewashed and mossy roofs, sprang the
flowerets that attracted the first “miller”
butterflies of the season.
This spring-time was almost without love in the land
of Icelanders, and the beautiful lasses of proud race,
who sat out dreaming on their doorsteps, seemed to
look far beyond the visible things with their blue
or brown eyes. The young men, who were the objects
of their melancholy and desires, were remote, fishing
on the northern seas.
But it was a spring-time for all that—warm,
sweet, and troubling, with its buzzing of flies and
perfume of young plants.
