“Oh, my kind Gaud! I’ve just met
young Gaos down by Plouherzel as I came back from
my wood-gathering; we spoke of our poor lad, of course.
They arrived this morning from Iceland, and in the
afternoon he came over to see me while I was out.
Poor lad, he had tears in his eyes, too. He came
right up to my door, my kind Gaud, to carry my little
fagot.”
She listened, standing, while her heart seemed almost
to break; so this visit of Yann’s, upon which
she had so much relied for saying so many things,
was already over, and would doubtless not occur again.
It was all done. Her poor heart seemed more lonely
than ever. Her misery harder, and the world more
empty; and she hung her head with a wild desire to
die.
Slowly the winter drew nigh, and spread over all like
a shroud leisurely drawn. Gray days followed
one another, but Yann appeared no more, and the two
women lived on in their loneliness. With the cold,
their daily existence became harder and more expensive.
Old Yvonne was difficult to tend, too; her poor mind
was going. She got into fits of temper now, and
spoke wicked, insulting speeches once or twice every
week; it took her so, like a child, about mere nothings.
Poor old granny! She was still so sweet in her
lucid days, that Gaud did not cease to respect and
cherish her. To have always been so good and
to end by being bad, and show towards the close a depth
of malice and spitefulness that had slumbered during
her whole life, to use a whole vocabulary of coarse
words that she had hidden; what mockery of the soul!
what a derisive mystery! She began to sing, too,
which was still more painful to hear than her angry
words, for she mixed everything up together—the
oremus of a mass with refrains of loose songs
heard in the harbour from wandering sailors.
Sometimes she sang “Les Fillettes de Paimpol”
(The Lasses of Paimpol), or, nodding her head and beating
time with her foot, she would mutter:
“Mon mari vient de partir; Pour la peche d’Islande,
mon mari vient de partir, Il m’a laissee sans
le sou, Mais—trala, trala la lou, J’en
gagne, j’en gagne.”
(My husband went off sailing Upon the Iceland cruise,
But never left me money, Not e’en a couple sous.
But—ri too loo! ri tooral loo! I know
what to do!)
She always stopped short, while her eyes opened wide
with a lifeless expression, like those dying flames
that suddenly flash out before fading away. She
hung her head and remained speechless for a great
length of time, her lower jaw dropping as in the dead.
One day she could remember nothing of her grandson.
“Sylvestre? Sylvestre?” repeated
she, wondering whom Gaud meant; “oh! my dear,
d’ye see, I’ve so many of them, that now
I can’t remember their names!”
So saying she threw up her poor wrinkled hands, with
a careless, almost contemptuous toss. But the
next day she remembered him quite well; mentioning
several things he had said or done, and that whole
day long she wept.
