Nearing Ploubazlanec, he spied a crowd by the side of the road. An old woman was gesticulating with her stick, while the street boys mocked and laughed around her. It was Granny Moan. The good old granny whom Sylvestre had so tenderly loved—her dress torn and bedraggled—had now become one of those poor old women, almost fallen back in second childhood, who are followed and ridiculed along their roads. The sight hurt him cruelly.
The boys of Ploubazlanec had killed her cat, and she angrily and despairingly threatened them with her stick. “Ah, if my poor lad had only been here! for sure, you'd never dared do it, you young rascals!”
It appeared that as she ran after them to beat them, she had fallen down; her cap was awry, and her dress covered with mud; they called out that she was tipsy (as often happens to those poor old “grizzling” people in the country who have met misfortune).
But Yann clearly knew that that was not true, and that she was a very respectable old woman, who only drank water.
“Aren't you ashamed?” roared he to the boys.
He was very angry, and his voice and tone frightened them, so that in the twinkling of an eye they all took flight, frightened and confused before “Long Gaos.”
Gaud, who was just returning from Paimpol, bringing home her work for the evening, had seen all this from afar, and had recognised Granny in the group. She eagerly rushed forward to learn what the matter was, and what they had done to her; seeing the cat, she understood it all. She lifted up her frank eyes to Yann, who did not look aside; neither thought of avoiding each other now; but they both blushed deeply and they gazed rather startled at being so near one another; but without hatred, almost with affection, united as they were in this common impulse of pity and protection.
The school-children had owed a grudge to the poor dead grimalkin for some time, because he had a black, satanic look; though he was really a very good cat, and when one looked closely at him, he was soft and caress-inviting of coat. They had stoned him to death, and one of his eyes hung out. The poor old woman went on grumbling, shaking with emotion, and carrying her dead cat by the tail, like a dead rabbit.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! my poor boy, my poor lad, if he were only here; for sure, they'd never dared a-do it.”
Tears were falling down in her poor wrinkles; and her rough blue-veined hands trembled.