“This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the Sea of Iceland. This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard the Zelie.” When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned towards grandmother Moan, saying, “This one is for Sylvestre Moan.”
Yann wept as he recited another prayer.
“Sed libera nos a malo. Amen!”
Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle, where we all know there are rare good vocalists.
“Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves,” etc.
A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for bravery, The sailor stands, I trow. Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him, Whose glory never can grow dim!
This was sung by one of the bride's supporters, in a feeling tone that went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly voices.
But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance. When they looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like that of transparently shaded lamps. They spoke in even a lower voice, and still held each other's hands. Gaud bent her head, too, gradually overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.
The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own; he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which ought not to be shaken, he said. He told the story of it. One day out fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had, with most of its contents. It was impossible to take all, so they had signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had flocked round the flotsam.
“And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy when we got back to Pors-Even at night!” he chuckled liquorishly.