It was at first
just the simplest little tale of love somewhere on the coast of Brittany,
and of vows exchanged before a Virgin that stretched out her arms towards
the sea. And then Yves was taken away upon a warship, and there were
tears and prayers for his return. He couldn't remember all the countries
from which he had sent letters, but after many months answers ceased to
come.
Then a new recruit had joined, who belonged to his town, and informed him
that the family had moved away on the other side of the ocean, to St.
Pierre-Miquelon. So Yves had written, but still no letters came. But one
day it chanced that the cruiser was sent up there, to keep an eye on the
fisheries, and he was in a fever of waiting until they should arrive. On
the first day that he obtained shore leave he had wandered up and down
the little streets, and looked at names over _cafes_ and shops, and asked
questions of all who would listen to him. No one knew anything of
Jeanne-Marie Kermadec. At last one man remembered that a family of that
name had remained less than a year and had gone back to France.
Then he had wandered off again, and from the cafes comrades of his called
to him to join them, but he strolled on, and suddenly he had seen a
hollow-eyed woman enter a drinking-shop, and on her arm she bore a baby.
So of course he had followed her, feeling as if he had been very drunk.
But he had not had a drop.
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