CHAPTER XI
A CURIOUS RENCONTRE
In Paimpol again, on the last day of February, before the setting-out
for Iceland. Gaud was standing up against her room door, pale and
still. For Yann was below, chatting to her father. She had seen him
come in, and indistinctly heard his voice.
All through the winter they never had met, as if some invincible fate
always had kept them apart.
After the failure to find him in her walk to Pors-Even, she had placed
some hope on the /Pardon des Islandais/ where there would be many
chances for them to see and talk to one another, in the market-place
at dusk, among the crowd.
But on the very morning of the holiday, though the streets were
already draped in white and strewn with green garlands, a hard rain
had fallen in torrents, brought from the west by a soughing wind;
never had so black a sky shadowed Paimpol. "What a pity! the boys
won't come over from Ploubazlanec now," had moaned the lasses, whose
sweethearts dwelt there. And they did not come, or else had gone
straight into the taverns to drink together.
There had been no processions or strolls, and she, with her heart
aching more than ever, had remained at her window the whole evening
listening to the water streaming over the roofs, and the fishers'
noisy songs rising and falling out of the depths of the taverns.
For the last few days she had been expecting this visit, surmising
truly that old Gaos would send his son to terminate the business
concerning the sale of the boat, as he did not care to come into
Paimpol himself. She determined then that she would go straight to
him, and, unlike other girls, speak out frankly, to have her
conscience clear on the subject. She would reproach him with having
sought her out and having abandoned her like a man without honour. If
it were only stubbornness, timidity, his great love for his sailor-
life, or simply the fear of a refusal, as Sylvestre had hinted, why,
all these objections would disappear, after a frank, fair
understanding between them. His fond smile might return, which had
charmed and won her the winter before, and all would be settled. This
hope gave her strength and courage, and sweetened her impatience. From
afar, things always appear so easy and simple to say and to do.
This visit of Yann's fell by chance at a convenient hour. She was sure
that her father, who was sitting and smoking, would not get up to walk
part of the way with him; so in the empty passage she might have her
explanation out with him.
But now that the time had come, such boldness seemed extreme. The bare
idea of looking him face to face at the foot of those stairs, made her
tremble; and her heart beat as if it would break. At any moment the
door below might open, with the squeak she knew so well, to let him
out!
"No, no, she never would dare; rather would she die of longing and
sorrow, than attempt such an act." She already made a few return steps
towards the back of her room, to regain her seat and work. But she
stopped again, hesitating and afraid, remembering that to-morrow was
the sailing day for Iceland, and that this occasion stood alone. If
she let it slip by, she would have to wait through months upon months
of solitude and despair, languishing for his return--losing another
whole summer of her life.
Below, the door opened--Yann was coming out!
Suddenly resolute, she rushed downstairs, and tremblingly stood before
him.
"Monsieur Yann, I--I wish to speak to you, please."
"To me, Mademoiselle Gaud?" queried he, lowering his voice and
snatching off his hat.
He looked at her fiercely, with a hard expression in his flashing
eyes, and his head thrown back, seeming even to wonder if he ought to
stop for her at all. With one foot ready to start away, he stood
straight up against the wall, as if to be as far apart from her as
possible, in the narrow passage, where he felt imprisoned.
Paralyzed, she could remember nothing of what she had wished to say;
she had not thought he would try and pass on without listening to her.
What an affront!
"Does our house frighten you, Monsieur Yann?" she asked, in a dry, odd
tone--not at all the one she wished to use.
He turned his eyes away, looking outside; his cheeks blazed red, a
rush of blood burned all his face, and his quivering nostrils dilated
with every breath, keeping time with the heavings of his chest, like a
young bull's.
"The night of the ball," she tried to continue, "when we were
together, you bade me good-bye, not as a man speaks to an indifferent
person. Monsieur Yann, have you no memory? What have I done to vex
you?"
The nasty western breeze blowing in from the street ruffled his hair
and the frills of Gaud's /coiffe/, and behind them a door was banged
furiously. The passage was not meet for talking of serious matters in.
After these first phrases, choking, Gaud remained speechless, feeling
her head spin, and without ideas. They still advanced towards the
street door; he seemed so anxious to get away, and she was so
determined not to be shaken off.
Outside the wind blew noisily and the sky was black. A sad livid light
fell upon their faces through the open door. And an opposite neighbour
looked at them: what could the pair be saying to one another in that
passage together, looking so troubled? What was wrong over at the
Mevel's?
"Nay, Mademoiselle Gaud," he answered at last, turning away with the
powerful grace of a young lion, "I've heard folks talk about us quite
enough already! Nay, Mademoiselle Gaud, for, you see, you are rich,
and we are not people of the same class. I am not the fellow to come
after a 'swell' lady."
He went forth on his way. So now all was over for ever and ever. She
had not even said what she wished in that interview, which had only
made her seem a very bold girl in his sight. What kind of a fellow was
this Yann, with his contempt for women, his scorn for money, and all
desirable things?
At first she remained fixed to the spot, sick with giddiness, as
things swam around her. One intolerably painful thought suddenly
struck her like a flash of lightning--Yann's comrades, the Icelanders,
were waiting for him below in the market-place. What if he were to
tell them this as a good joke--what a still more odious affront upon
her! She quickly returned to her room to watch them through her
window-curtains.
Before the house, indeed, she saw the men assembled, but they were
simply contemplating the weather, which was becoming worse and worse,
and discussed the threatening rain.
"It'll only be a shower. Let's go in and drink away the time, till it
passes."
They poked jokes and laughed loudly over Jeannie Caroff and other
beauties; but not even one of them looked up at /her/ window. They
were all joyful, except Yann, who said nothing, and remained grave and
sad. He did not go in to drink with them; and without noticing either
them or the rain, which had begun to fall, he slowly walked away under
the shower, as if absorbed in his thoughts, crossing the market-place
towards Ploubazlanec.
Then she forgave him all, and a feeling of hopeless tenderness for him
came, instead of the bitter disappointment that previously had filled
her heart. She sat down and held her head between her hands. What
could she do now?
Oh! if he had listened only a moment to her, or if he could come into
that room, where they might speak together alone, perhaps all might
yet be arranged. She loved him enough to tell him so to his face. She
would say to him: "You sought me out when I asked you for nothing; now
I am yours with my whole soul, if you will have me. I don't mind a bit
being the wife of a fisherman, and yet, if I liked, I need but choose
among all the young men of Paimpol; but I do love you, because,
notwithstanding all, I believe you to be better than others. I'm
tolerably well-to-do, and I know I am pretty; although I have lived in
towns, I am sure that I am not a spoiled girl, as I never have done
anything wrong; then, if I love you so, why shouldn't you take me?"
But all this never would be said except in dreams; it was too late!
Yann would not hear her. Try and talk to him a second time? Oh, no!
what kind of a creature would he take her then to be? She would rather
die.
Yet to-morrow they would all start for Iceland. The whitish February
daylight streamed into her fine room. Chill and lonely she fell upon
one of the chairs along the wall. It seemed to her as if the whole
world were crashing and falling in around her. All things past and
present were as if buried in a fearful abyss, which yawned on all
sides of her. She wished her life would end, and that she were lying
calm beneath some cold tombstone, where no more pain might touch her.
But she had sincerely forgiven him, and no hatred mingled with her
desperate love.
