Ah! nothing, alas, nothing but Fantec!
And a second time she fell back to the depths of the old abyss. No, in reality, nothing was changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Still, to have felt Yann there so close was as if some emanation from him had come floating back to her; it was what they call in Breton land a token; and she listened still more attentively for footsteps outside, divining that some one would perhaps come who would talk to her of him.
And indeed, when the day broke, Yann’s father entered. He took off his cap, pushed back his beautiful white locks, which were in curls like those of his son, and sat down beside Gaud’s bed.
His heart too was in agony, for his Yann, his splendid Yann, was his first-born, his favorite, his glory. But he did not despair, not really, he did not despair yet. He began to reassure Gaud in a very gentle way: to begin with, the latest ones to return from Iceland had all spoken of the extremely dense fogs which might easily have delayed the vessel; and then too an idea had come to him: a stop-over at the Faroes, which are islands situated on their route, at a great distance; and when they sent letters from there, they took a long time to come; the same thing had happened to himself forty years ago, and his poor dead mother had already had a mass said for his soul.... And such a good boat, was the Léopoldine, and all those aboard were such able mariners.
Old Granny Moan walked around them, shaking her head; the distress of her foster grand-daughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason; she tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the little faded portrait of her Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black beadwork; no, since following the sea had robbed her of her grandson, she believed no longer in the safe return of sailors; she now prayed to the Virgin only from fear, with the outside of her poor old lips, cherishing in the bottom of her heart a grudge against her.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings, her large sunken eyes looking with deep tenderness upon this old sire who so much resembled her well-beloved; just to have him near her was like a hostage against death, and she felt more reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her tears fell silently and more gently, and she repeated again her passionate prayers to the Virgin, Star of the Sea.
A stop-over, 'way out at those islands, to repair damages, was a likely event. She rose, brushed her hair, and made some sort of toilet, as if he might possibly return. Doubtless all was not lost if his own father did not yet despair. And for a few days she again took up her waiting.
It was full autumn now, late autumn—with the nightfalls gloomy, and all things growing dark early in the old cottage, and all the Breton land looking sombre, too. The very days seemed but twilight; immeasurable clouds, slowly passing, would suddenly bring darkness at broad noon. The wind moaned constantly—it was like the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane airs, or despairing dirges; at other times it would come close to the door, and lift up a howl like wild beasts.
She had grown pale, pale, and became ever more dejected, as if old age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Very often she would finger the belongings of her Yann, his fine wedding clothes, folding and unfolding them like some maniac—especially one of his blue woolen jerseys, which still retained the form of his body; when thrown gently on the table, it disclosed from long usage the outlines of his shoulders and chest; but at last she placed it by itself on a shelf of their wardrobe, never to remove it, so that it might long preserve that impress.