AN ICELAND FISHERMAN [64]
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
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