She still carried herself very straight, not at all like an old woman; and, in spite of her pointed chin, her soft eyes and delicate profile made all think her still very charming.  She was held in great respect—­one could see that if only by the nods that people gave her.

On her way she passed before the house of her gallant, the sweetheart of former days, a carpenter by trade; now an octogenarian, who sat outside his door all the livelong day, while the young ones, his sons, worked in the shop.  It was said that he never had consoled himself for her loss, for neither in first or second marriage would she have him; but with old age his feeling for her had become a sort of comical spite, half friendly and half mischievous, and he always called out to her: 

“Aha, la belle, when must I call to take your measure?”

But she declined with thanks; she had not yet quite decided to have that dress made.  The truth is, that the old man, with rather questionable taste, spoke of the suit in deal planks, which is the last of all our terrestrial garments.

“Well, whenever you like; but don’t be shy in asking for it, you know, old lady.”

He had made this joke several times; but, to-day, she could scarcely take it good-naturedly.  She felt more tired than ever of her hard-working life, and her thoughts flew back to her dear grandson—­the last of them all, who, upon his return from Iceland, was to enter the navy for five years!  Perhaps he might have to go to China, to the war!  Would she still be about, upon his return?  The thought alone was agony to her.  No, she was surely not so happy as she looked, poor old granny!

And was it really possible and true, that her last darling was to be torn from her?  She, perhaps, might die alone, without seeing him again!  Certainly, some gentlemen of the town, whom she knew, had done all they could to keep him from having to start, urging that he was the sole support of an old and almost destitute grandmother, who could no longer work.  But they had not succeeded—­because of Jean Moan, the deserter, an elder brother of Sylvestre’s, whom no one in the family ever mentioned now, but who still lived somewhere over in America, thus depriving his younger brother of the military exemption.  Moreover, it had been objected that she had her small pension, allowed to the widows of sailors, and the Admiralty could not deem her poor enough.

When she returned home, she said her prayers at length for all her dead ones, sons and grandsons; then she prayed again with renewed strength and confidence for her Sylvestre, and tried to sleep—­thinking of the “suit of wood,” her heart sadly aching at the thought of being so old, when this new parting was imminent.

Meanwhile, the other victim of separation, the girl, had remained seated at her window, gazing upon the golden rays of the setting sun, reflected on the granite walls, and the black swallows wheeling across the sky above.  Paimpol was always quiet on these long May evenings, even on Sundays; the lasses, who had not a single lad to make love to them, sauntered along, in couples or three together, brooding of their lovers in Iceland.