The wedding breakfast was given at Yann's parents', because Gaud's home was so poor. It took place upstairs in the great new room. Five-and-twenty guests sat down round the newly married pair—sisters and brothers, cousin Gaos the pilot, Guermeur, Keraez, Yvon Duff, all of the old Marie's crew, who were now the Leopoldine's; four very pretty bridesmaids, with their hair-plaits wound round their ears, like the empresses' in ancient Byzantium, and their modern white caps, shaped like sea-shells; and four best men, all broad-shouldered Icelanders, with large proud eyes.

Downstairs, of course, there was eating and cooking going on; the whole train of the wedding procession had gathered there in disorder; and the extra servants, hired from Paimpol, well-nigh lost their senses before the mighty lumbering up of the capacious hearth with pots and pans.

Yann's parents would have wished a richer wife for their son, naturally, but Gaud was known now as a good, courageous girl; and then, in spite of her lost fortune, she was the greatest beauty in the country, and it flattered them to see the couple so well matched.

The old father was inclined to be merry after the soup, and spoke of the bringing up of his fourteen little Gaoses; but they were all doing well, thanks to the ten thousand francs that had made them well off.

Neighbour Guermeur related the tricks he played in the navy, yarns about China, the West Indies, and Brazil, making the young ones who would be off some day, open their eyes in wonderment.

“There is a cry against the sea-service,” said the old sailor, laughing, “but a man can have fine fun in it.”

The weather did not clear up; on the contrary, the wind and rain raged through the gloomy night; and in spite of the care taken, some of the guests were fidgety about their smacks anchored in the harbour, and spoke of getting up to go and see if all was right. But here a more jovial sound than ever was heard from downstairs, where the younger members of the party were supping together; cheers of joy and peals of laughter ascended. The little cousins were beginning to feel exhilarated by the cider.

Boiled and roasted meats had been served up with poultry, different kinds of fish, omelets and pancakes.

The debate had turned upon fishery and smuggling, and the best means of fooling the coast-guardsmen, who, as we all know, are the sworn enemies of honest seafarers.

Upstairs, at the grand table, old circumnavigators went so far as to relate droll stories, in the vernacular.

But the wind was raging altogether too strong; for the windows shook with a terrible clatter, and the man telling the tale had hurriedly ended to go and see to his smack.

Then another went on: “When I was bo's'n's mate aboard of the Zenobie, a-lying at Aden, and a-doing the duty of a corporal of marines, by the same token, you ought to ha' seen the ostridge feather traders a-trying to scramble up over the side. [Imitating the broken talk] 'Bon-joo, cap'n! we're not thiefs—we're honest merchants'—Honest, my eye! with a sweep of the bucket, a purtending to draw some water up, I sent 'em all flying back an oar's length. 'Honest merchants, are ye,' says I, 'then send us up a bunch of honest feathers first—with a hard dollar or two in the core of it, d'ye see, and then I'll believe in your honesty!' Why, I could ha' made my fortun' out of them beggars, if I hadn't been born and brought up honest myself, and but a sucking-dove in wisdom, saying nothing of my having a sweetheart at Toulon in the millinery line, who could have used any quantity of feathers——”

Ha! here's one of Yann's little brothers, a future Iceland fisherman, with a fresh pink face and bright eyes, who is suddenly taken ill from having drunk too much cider. So little Laumec has to be carried off, which cuts short the story of the milliner and the feathers.

The wind wailed in the chimney like an evil spirit in torment; with fearful strength, it shook the whole house on its stone foundation.

“It strikes me the wind is stirred up, acos we're enjoying of ourselves,” said the pilot cousin.

“No, it's the sea that's wrathy,” corrected Yann, smiling at Gaud, “because I'd promised I'd be wedded to her.”

A strange languor seemed to envelop them both; they spoke to one another in a low voice, apart, in the midst of the general gaiety. Yann, knowing thoroughly the effect of wine, did not drink at all. Now and then he turned dull too, thinking of Sylvestre. It was an understood thing that there was to be no dancing, on account of him and of Gaud's dead father.

It was the dessert now; the singing would soon begin. But first there were the prayers to say, for the dead of the family; this form is never omitted, at all wedding-feasts, and is a solemn duty. So when old Gaos rose and uncovered his white head, there was a dead silence around.

“This,” said he, “is for Guillaume Gaos, my father.” Making the sign of the cross, he began the Lord's prayer in Latin: “Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tumm——”

The silence included all, even to the joyful little ones downstairs, and every voice was repeating in an undertone the same eternal words.

“This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the Sea of Iceland. This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard the Zelie.” When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned towards grandmother Moan, saying, “This one is for Sylvestre Moan.”

Yann wept as he recited another prayer.

“Sed libera nos a malo. Amen!”

Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle, where we all know there are rare good vocalists.

“Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves,” etc.

A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for bravery, The sailor stands, I trow. Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him, Whose glory never can grow dim!

This was sung by one of the bride's supporters, in a feeling tone that went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly voices.

But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance. When they looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like that of transparently shaded lamps. They spoke in even a lower voice, and still held each other's hands. Gaud bent her head, too, gradually overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.

The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own; he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which ought not to be shaken, he said. He told the story of it. One day out fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had, with most of its contents. It was impossible to take all, so they had signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had flocked round the flotsam.

“And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy when we got back to Pors-Even at night!” he chuckled liquorishly.

The wind still went on with its fearful din.

Downstairs the children were dancing in rings; except some of the youngest, sent to bed; but the others, who were romping about, led by little Fantec (Francis) and Laumec (Guillaume), wanted to go and play outside. Every minute they were opening the door and letting in furious gusts, which blew out the candles.

The pilot cousin went on with his story. Forty bottles had fallen to his lot, he said. He begged them all to say nothing about it, because of “Monsieur le Commissaire de l'Inscription Maritime,” who would surely make a fuss over the undeclared find.

“But, d'ye see,” he went on, “it sarved the lubbers right to heave over such a vallyble cask or let it 'scape the lashings, for it's superior quality, with sartinly more jinywine grape-juice in it than in all the wine-merchants' cellars of Paimpol. Goodness knows whence it came—this here castaway liquor.”

It was very strong and rich in colour, dashed with sea-water, and had the flavour of cod-pickle, but in spite of that, relishable; and several bottles were emptied.

Some heads began to spin; the Babel of voices became more confused, and the lads kissed the lasses less surreptitiously.

The songs joyously continued; but the winds would not moderate, and the seamen exchanged tokens of apprehension about the bad weather increasing.

The sinister clamour without was indeed worse than ever. It had become one continuous howl, deep and threatening, as if a thousand mad creatures were yelling with full throats and out-stretched necks.

One might imagine heavy sea-guns shooting out their deafening boom in the distance, but that was only the sea hammering the coast of Ploubazlanec on all points; undoubtedly it did not appear contented, and Gaud felt her heart shrink at this dismal music, which no one had ordered for their wedding-feast.

Towards midnight, during a calm, Yann, who had risen softly, beckoned his wife to come to speak with him.

It was to go home. She blushed, filled with shame, and confused at having left her seat so promptly. She said it would be impolite to go away directly and leave the others.

“Not a bit on it,” replied Yann, “my father allows it; we may go,” and away he carried her.

They hurried away stealthily. Outside they found themselves in the cold, the bitter wind, and the miserable, agitated night. They began to run hand-in-hand.

From the height of the cliff-path, one could imagine, without seeing it, the furious open sea, whence arose all this hubbub. They ran along, the wind cutting their faces, both bowed before the angry gusts, and obliged to put their hands over their mouths to cover their breathing, which the wind had completely taken away at first.

He held her up by the waist at the outset, to keep her dress from trailing on the ground, and her fine new shoes from being spoiled in the water, which streamed about their feet, and next he held her round the neck, too, and continued to run on still faster. He could hardly realize that he loved her so much! To think that she was now twenty-three and he nearly twenty-eight; that they might have been married two years ago, and as happy then as to-night!

At last they arrived at home, that poor lodging, with its damp flooring and moss-grown roof. They lit the candle, which the wind blew out twice.

Old grandam Moan, who had been taken home before the singing began, was there. She had been sleeping for the last two hours in her bunk, the flaps of which were shut. They drew near with respect and peeped through the fretwork of her press, to bid her good-night, if by chance she were not asleep. But they only perceived her still venerable face and closed eyes; she slept, or she feigned to do so, not to disturb them.

They felt they were alone then. Both trembled as they clasped hands. He bent forward to kiss her lips; but Gaud turned them aside, through ignorance of that kind of kiss; and as chastely as on the evening of their betrothal, she pressed hers to Yann's cheek, which was chilled, almost frozen, by the wind.

It was bitterly cold in their poor, low-roofed cottage. If Gaud had only remained rich, what happiness she would have felt in arranging a pretty room, not like this one on the bare ground! She was scarcely yet used to these rugged granite walls, and the rough look of all things around; but her Yann was there now, and by his presence everything was changed and transfigured. She saw only her husband. Their lips met now; no turning aside. Still standing with their arms intertwined tightly to draw themselves together, they remained dumb, in the perfect ecstasy of a never-ending kiss. Their fluttering breath commingled, and both quivered as if in a burning fever. They seemed without power to tear themselves apart, and knew nothing and desired nothing beyond that long kiss of consecrated love.

She drew herself away, suddenly agitated. “Nay, Yann! Granny Yvonne might see us,” she faltered.

But he, with a smile, sought his wife's lips again and fastened his own upon them, like a thirsty man whose cup of fresh water had been taken from him.

The movement they had made broke the charm of delightful hesitation. Yann, who, at the first, was going to kneel to her as before a saint, felt himself fired again. He glanced stealthily towards the old oaken bunk, irritated at being so close to the old woman, and seeking some way not to be spied upon, but ever without breaking away from those exquisite lips.

He stretched forth his arm behind him, and with the back of his hand dashed out the light, as if the wind had done it. Then he snatched her up in his arms. Still holding her close, with his mouth continually pressed to hers, he seemed like a wild lion with his teeth embedded in his prey. For her part she gave herself up entirely, to that body and soul seizure that was imperious and without possible resistance, even though it remained soft as a great all-comprising embrace.

Around them, for their wedding hymn, the same invisible orchestra, played on——“Hoo-ooh-hoo!” At times the wind bellowed out in its deep noise, with a tremolo of rage; and again repeated its threats, as if with refined cruelty, in low sustained tones, flute-like as the hoot of an owl.

The broad, fathomless grave of all sailors lay nigh to them, restless and ravenous, drumming against the cliffs with its muffled boom.

One night or another Yann would have to be caught in that maw, and battle with it in the midst of the terror of ice as well. Both knew this plainly.

But what mattered that now to them on land, sheltered from the sea's futile fury. In their poor gloomy cottage, over which tempest rushed, they scorned all that was hostile, intoxicated and delightfully fortified against the whole by the eternal magic of love.