Evening star., 1932-07-31


usual insouciance: you're :. you're an
Iceland fisherman, aren't you, monsieur"
At first she had been rather vexed at the
tall fair fellow, strangely fair in this land of
swarthy folk as he stood leaning against the
door of the somber, gray tavern, kicking with
his toe the profusion of magnificent Wmtry
blossoms that lay at his feet. He had stared
at her a really wild, magnetic stare that had
both frightened and attracted her Claire's
prompt reaction had been to haughtily out
stare this overbold seaman of Paimpol who
stood rs straight as poplar in his thick red
jersey, nodded to his wide body and held in
securely by a heavy leather belt, and put him
to rout in a cloud of bushes, If, indeed, 1t
were possible for a blush to appear on that
sea -bronzed face. But as their eyes met Claire
felt her body suddenly fill with hot coursing
blood, each vein flaming and distinct like the
failed branches of burning tree. She was
the first to let her eyes drop, as If out of po-
hteneSs and walk away.
At the corner, as she turned into the market
place, raw December wind, that wheeled dis
NAL clouds heavily across the sky, fretting the
leaden waters of the ocean and turning the
coast into bleak forbidding, moribund stretch
of the world, famed the scarlet flames in
C1aireS cheeks.
DAIMPOL was celebrating Pardon Pardon
T des Ilandais, on the fete day Of Our Lady
of Bonne-Nouvelle, the patroness of fishes.
White bed sheets, with exquisite lace and en-
broidery, fluttered from Seccnd-story windows
along the narrow, winding streets. Ivy, holly,
mistletoe and festive green garlands were
strewn upon the cobblestones There was
great deal of noise Bells mingled with the
chant Of the priests, the alteration OF the
sailors who zig Jagged through the streets from
their habit of rolling and because they were
a little drunk, the laughter of the girls In
their stiff, starched colts. Heavy, perfumed in
otad Fr0p tho oy1d fha
grottos, fighting with the brine Of the open
for supremacy in the air.
It was o few minutes later when Claire was
watching q strange, mournfu procession, the
paraders carrying fragments of fishing nets
pieces of driftwood, logs, an oar or some other
beloved souvenir of the object that had saved
them from that distant, Unsuitable abyss-the
Sea of Iceland, that the immense blond figure
deposited himself by her side, his hands dug
deep in his pockets, his back reclining against
the granite wall
Claire felt sti1ed, even in the raw air that
smelled strongly of frosty evergreen needles;
her breath had halted painfully in her throat.
She could not cope with her own emotions nor
understand them.
And Just as Jean-Lcus spoke chill Decem-
Der wind swept in from over the ocean. She
did not notice it. though she pulled her squirrel
coat little tighter about her slim body, shiv-
ering perceptibly. For years to come the wind
blowing about her would trouble Claire vaguely,
just little; she would not know why.
u\/oU couldn't stay at the tavern mam'selle"
Jean-Louis warned THE sailors are
home. 1t would never do. But I know the
very place, since you ask my advice" Then
he proffered his arm, lifted quizzical eyebrow
and added much to Claire's surprise May ~"
And so they walked along the streets, this
strange couple; Claire, tiny and frail as
slender young tree, her amethyst eyes burning
vividy beneath the long lashes that swept
toward her temples, her face as fair and
flushed as hawthorn blossom, in the excite
ment and the consciousness Of his nearness;
Jean n-Louis, very tall, very straight calling out
in warm patois to some old sailor, shaky on
his legs. or to dark-eyed maids who would
blush demurely and droop their heads as
though the starched, white eoifs had become
a trife heavy and had tipped over their flower
soft faces, like daffodils in Summer breeze.