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.
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.
