f arrival she had been painfully
surprised by the bitterness of this Brittany, seen in full winter. And
her heart sickened at the thought of having to travel another five or
six hours in a jolting car--to penetrate still farther into the blank,
desolate country to reach Paimpol.

All through the afternoon of that same grisly day, her father and
herself had journeyed in a little old ramshackle vehicle, open to all
the winds; passing, with the falling night, through dull villages, under
ghostly trees, black-pearled with mist in drops. And ere long lanterns
had to be lit, and she could perceive nothing else but what seemed two
trails of green Bengal lights, running on each side before the horses,
and which were merely the beams that the two lanterns projected on the
never-ending hedges of the roadway. But how was it that trees were so
green in the month of December? Astonished at first, she bent to look
out, and then she remembered how the gorse, the evergreen gorse of the
paths and the cliffs, never fades in the country of Paimpol. At the same
time a warmer breeze began to blow, which she knew again and which smelt
of the sea.

Towards the end of the journey she had been quite awakened and amused by
the new notion that struck her, namely: "As this is winter, I shall see
the famous fishermen of Iceland."

For in December they were to return, the brothers, cousins, and lovers
of whom all her friends, great and small, had spoken to her during the
long summer evening walks in her holiday trips. And the thought had
haunted her, though she felt chilled in the slow-going vehicle.

Now she had seen them, and her heart had been captured by one of them
too.

CHAPTER IV--FIRST LOVE

The first day she had seen him, this Yann, was the day after his
arrival, at the "_Pardon des Islandais_," which is on the eighth of
December, the fete-day of Our Lady of Bonne-Nouvelle, the patroness of
fishers--a little before the procession, with the gray streets, still
draped in white sheets, on which were strewn ivy and holly and wintry
blossoms with their leaves.

At this _Pardon_ the rejoicing was heavy and wild under the sad sky.
Joy without merriment, composed chiefly of insouciance and contempt; of
physical strength and alcohol; above which floated, less disguised than
elsewhere, the universal warning of death.

A great clamour in Paimpol; sounds of bells mingled with the chants
of the priests. Rough and monotonous songs in the ta