Part 3 In The Shadow Chapter 14

Slowly the winter drew nigh, and spread over all like a shroudleisurely drawn. Gray days followed one another, but Yann appeared nomore, and the two women lived on in their loneliness. With the cold,their daily existence became harder and more expensive.

　　Old Yvonne was difficult to tend, too; her poor mind was going. Shegot into fits of temper now, and spoke wicked, insulting speeches onceor twice every week; it took her so, like a child, about merenothings.

　　Poor old granny! She was still so sweet in her lucid days, that Gauddid not cease to respect and cherish her. To have always been so goodand to end by being bad, and show towards the close a depth of maliceand spitefulness that had slumbered during her whole life, to use awhole vocabulary of coarse words that she had hidden; what mockery ofthe soul! what a derisive mystery! She began to sing, too, which wasstill more painful to hear than her angry words, for she mixedeverything up together--the /oremus/ of a mass with refrains of loosesongs heard in the harbour from wandering sailors. Sometimes she sang"/Les Fillettes de Paimpol/" (The Lasses of Paimpol), or, nodding herhead and beating time with her foot, she would mutter:

　　"Mon mari vient de partir;Pour la peche d'Islande, mon mari vient de partir,Il m'a laissee sans le sou,Mais--trala, trala la lou,J'en gagne, j'en gagne."(My husband went off sailingUpon the Iceland cruise,But never left me money,Not e'en a couple sous.

　　But--ri too loo! ri tooral loo!

　　I know what to do!)She always stopped short, while her eyes opened wide with a lifelessexpression, like those dying flames that suddenly flash out beforefading away. She hung her head and remained speechless for a greatlength of time, her lower jaw dropping as in the dead.

　　One day she could remember nothing of her grandson. "Sylvestre?

　　Sylvestre?" repeated she, wondering whom Gaud meant; "oh! my dear,d'ye see, I've so many of them, that now I can't remember theirnames!"So saying she threw up her poor wrinkled hands, with a careless,almost contemptuous toss. But the next day she remembered him quitewell; mentioning several things he had said or done, and that wholeday long she wept.

　　Oh! those long winter evenings when there was not enough wood fortheir fire; to work in the bitter cold for one's daily bread, sewinghard to finish the clothes brought over from Paimpol.

　　Granny Yvonne, sitting by the hearth, remained quiet enough, her feetstuck in among the smouldering embers, and her hands clasped beneathher apron. But at the beginning of the evening, Gaud always had totalk to her to cheer her a little.

　　"Why don't ye speak to me, my good girl? In my time I've known manygirls who had plenty to say for themselves. I don't think it 'ud seemso lonesome, if ye'd only talk a bit."So Gaud would tell her chit-chat she had heard in town, or spoke ofthe people she had met on her way home, talking of things that werequite indifferent to her, as indeed all things were now; and stoppingin the midst of her stories when she saw the poor old woman wasfalling asleep.

　　There seemed nothing lively or youthful around her, whose fresh youthyearned for youth. Her beauty would fade away, lonely and barren. Thewind from the sea came in from all sides, blowing her lamp about, andthe roar of the waves could be heard as in a ship. Listening, theever-present sad memory of Yann came to her, the man whose dominionwas these battling elements; through the long terrible nights, whenall things were unbridled and howling in the outer darkness, shethought of him with agony.

　　Always alone as she was, with the sleeping old granny, she sometimesgrew frightened and looked in all dark corners, thinking of thesailors, her ancestors, who had lived in these nooks, but perished inthe sea on such nights as these. Their spirits might possibly return;and she did not feel assured against the visit of the dead by thepresence of the poor old woman, who was almost as one of them herself.

　　Suddenly she shivered from head to foot, as she heard a thin, crackedvoice, as if stifled under the earth, proceed from the chimney corner.

　　In a chirping tone, which chilled her very soul, the voice sang:

　　"Pour la peche d'Islande, mon mari vient de partir,Il m'a laissee sans le sou,Mais--trala, trala la lou!"Then she was seized with that peculiar terror that one has of madpeople.

　　The rain fell with an unceasing, fountain-like gush, and streamed downthe walls outside. There were oozings of water from the old moss-grownroof, which continued dropping on the self-same spots with amonotonous sad splash. They even soaked through into the floor inside,which was of hardened earth studded with pebbles and shells.

　　Dampness was felt on all sides, wrapping them up in its chill masses;an uneven, buffeting dampness, misty and dark, and seeming to isolatethe scattered huts of Ploubazlanec still more.

　　But the Sunday evenings were the saddest of all, because of therelative gaiety in other homes on that day, for there are joyfulevenings even among those forgotten hamlets of the coast; here andthere, from some closed-up hut, beaten about by the inky rains,ponderous songs issued. Within, tables were spread for drinkers;sailors sat before the smoking fire, the old ones drinking brandy andthe young ones flirting with the girls; all more or less intoxicatedand singing to deaden thought. Close to them, the great sea, theirtomb on the morrow, sang also, filling the vacant night with itsimmense profound voice.

　　On some Sundays, parties of young fellows who came out of the tavernsor back from Paimpol, passed along the road, near the door of theMoans; they were such as lived at the land's end of Pors-Even way.

　　They passed very late, caring little for the cold and wet, accustomedas they were to frost and tempests. Gaud lent her ear to the medley oftheir songs and shouts--soon lost in the uproar of the squalls or thebreakers--trying to distinguish Yann's voice, and then feelingstrangely perplexed if she thought she had heard it.

　　It really was too unkind of Yann not to have returned to see themagain, and to lead so gay a life so soon after the death of Sylvestre;all this was unlike him. No, she really could not understand him now,but in spite of all she could not forget him or believe him to bewithout heart.

　　The fact was that since his return he had been leading a mostdissipated life indeed. Three or four times, on the Ploubazlanec road,she had seen him coming towards her, but she was always quick enoughto shun him; and he, too, in those cases, took the opposite directionover the heath. As if by mutual understanding, now, they fled fromeach other.