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.
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.
