Thus did Gaud, coming in for news in the evening, find her; her hairdishevelled, her arms hanging down, and her head resting against thestone wall, with a falling jaw grinning, and the plaintive whimper ofa little child; she scarcely could weep any more; these grandmothers,grown too old, have no tears left in their dried-up eyes.
"My grandson is dead!" She threw the letters, papers, and medal intoher caller's lap.
Gaud quickly scanned the whole, saw the news was true, and fell on herknees to pray. The two women remained there together almost dumb,through the June gloaming, which in Brittany is long but in Iceland isnever-ending. On the hearth the cricket that brings joy was chirpinghis shrill music.
The dim dusk entered through the narrow window into the dwelling ofthose Moans, who had all been devoured by the sea, and whose familywas now extinguished.
At last Gaud said: "/I'll/ come to you, good granny, to live with you;I'll bring my bed that they've left me, and I'll take care of you andnurse you--you shan't be all alone."She wept, too, for her little friend Sylvestre, but in her sorrow shewas led involuntarily to think of another--he who had gone back to thedeep-sea fishery.
They would have to write to Yann and tell him Sylvestre was dead; itwas just now that the fishers were starting. Would he, too, weep forhim? Mayhap he would, for he had loved him dearly. In the midst of herown tears, Gaud thought a great deal of him; now and again waxingwroth against the hard-hearted fellow, and then pitying him at thethought of that pain which would strike him also, and which would beas a link between them both--one way and another, her heart was fullof him.
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