Lost at Sea,
Near the Norden-Fjord,
In the Storm of the 4th and 5th of August, 1880.
She read mechanically, and through the arch of the doorway her eyes sought to pierce the distance over the sea: that morning it was very vague, under the gray mist, and a suspended cloud-drapery trailed over the horizon like a great mourning-veil.
Another gust of wind, and other dead leaves came dancing in. A stronger squall, as if the west wind that had strewn these dead over the sea wished to torment even the inscriptions which recalled their names to the living.
Gaud looked with involuntary persistence at an empty space upon the wall which seemed to wait with terrible expectancy; she was pursued by the thought of a fresh slab that might perhaps soon be placed there, with another name which even in spirit she did not dare repeat in such a place.
She felt cold, but remained seated on the granite bench, her head thrown back against the stone wall.
... Lost Near the Norden-Fjord,
In the Storm of the 4th and 5th of August,
At the Age of 23 Years,
May He Rest in Peace!
Iceland appeared to her, with its little cemetery—Iceland far, far away, lighted from below the sea-line by the midnight sun ... and suddenly—still in the same empty space on the wall which seemed to be waiting—she saw with horrifying clearness the vision of that new slab she had imagined: a fresh tablet, a death’s-head and cross-bones, and in the centre, within a flame, a name—the adored name of Yann Gaos! Then she drew herself up straight and stiff, with a hoarse, wild cry in her throat like a mad creature.
Without, the gray dawn-mist still hung over the earth, and the dead leaves continued to come dancing into the porch.
Steps on the foot-path!—Was somebody coming?—Then she arose quickly, with a swift movement readjusting her coif, and composed her countenance. The footsteps came nearer, as though they would enter. At once she assumed the air of being there by chance. Not for anything in the world would she as yet seem like the widow of a shipwrecked mariner.
It was only Fante Floury, the wife of the mate on the Léopoldine. She understood at once what Gaud was doing there; it was useless to dissemble with her. And at first they stood mute, the one before the other, these two women; all the more alarmed and angry at being entrapped while in the same mood of fear, they almost hated each other.