The dancing was to the sound of a hurdy-gurdy and violin, the same couples almost always together.  When Yann returned to invite her again, after having danced with another girl for politeness’ sake, they exchanged a smile, like friends meeting anew, and continued their interrupted conversation, which had become very close.  Simply enough, Yann spoke of his fisher life, its hardships, its wage, and of his parents’ difficulties in former years, when they had fourteen little Gaoses to bring up, he being the eldest.  Now, the old folks were out of the reach of need, because of a wreck that their father had found in the Channel, the sale of which had brought in 10,000 francs, omitting the share claimed by the Treasury.  With the money they built an upper story to their house, which was situated at the point of Ploubazlanec, at the very land’s end, in the hamlet of Pors-Even, overlooking the sea, and having a grand outlook.

“It is mighty tough, though,” said he, “this here life of an Icelander, having to start in February for such a country, where it is awful cold and bleak, with a raging, foaming sea.”

Gaud remembered every phrase of their conversation at the ball, as if it had all happened yesterday, and details came regularly back to her mind, as she looked upon the night falling over Paimpol.  If Yann had had no idea of marriage, why had he told her all the items of his existence, to which she had listened, as only an engaged sweetheart would have done; he did not seem a commonplace young man, prone to babbling his business to everybody who came along.

“The occupation is pretty good, nevertheless,” he said, “and I shall never change my career.  Some years we make eight hundred francs, and others twelve hundred, which I get upon my return, and hand over to the old lady.”

“To your mother, Monsieur Yann, eh?”

“Yes, every penny of it, always.  It’s the custom with us Icelanders, Mademoiselle Gaud.”  He spoke of this as a quite ordinary and natural course.

“Perhaps you’ll hardly believe it, but I scarcely ever have any pocket-money.  Of a Sunday mother gives me a little when I come into Paimpol.  And so it goes all the time.  Why, look ’ee here, this year my father had these clothes made for me, without which treat I never could have come to the wedding; certain sure, for I never should have dared offer you my arm in my old duds of last year.”

For one like her, accustomed to seeing Parisians, Yann’s habiliments were, perhaps, not very stylish; a short jacket open over the old-fashioned waistcoat; but the build of their wearer was irreproachably handsome, so that he had a noble look withal.

Smiling, he looked at her straight in the depths of her eyes each time he spoke to her, so as to divine her opinion.  And how good and honest was his look, as he told her all these short-comings, so that she might well understand that he was not rich!