Some one stopped before the door, and came up the small stone steps.

He!—­O God!—­he!  Some one had knocked,—­it could be no other than he!  She was up now, barefooted; she, so feeble for the last few days, had sprung up as nimbly as a kitten, with her arms outstretched to wind round her darling.  Of course the Leopoldine had arrived at night, and anchored in Pors-Even Bay, and he had rushed home; she arranged all this in her mind with the swiftness of lightning.  She tore the flesh off her fingers in her excitement to draw the bolt, which had stuck.

“Eh?”

She slowly moved backward, as if crushed, her head falling on her bosom.  Her beautiful insane dream was over.  She could just grasp that it was not her husband, her Yann, and that nothing of him, substantial or spiritual, had passed through the air; she felt plunged again into her deep abyss, to the lowest depths of her terrible despair.

Poor Fantec—­for it was he—­stammered many excuses:  his wife was very ill, and their child was choking in its cot, suddenly attacked with a malignant sore throat; so he had run over to beg for assistance on the road to fetch the doctor from Paimpol.

What did all this matter to her?  She had gone mad in her own distress, and could give no thoughts to the troubles of others.  Huddled on a bench, she remained before him with fixed glazed eyes, like a dead woman’s; without listening to him, or even answering at random or looking at him.  What to her was the speech the man was making?

He understood it all, and guessed why the door had been opened so quickly to him; and feeling pity for the pain he had unwittingly caused, he stammered out an excuse.

“Just so:  he never ought to have disturbed her—­her in particular.”

“I!” ejaculated Gaud quickly, “why should I not be disturbed particularly, Fantec?”

Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish to appear in despair before others.  Besides, she pitied him now; she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and see to his little child.

At four o’clock in the morning, when she returned to throw herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out.  But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her mind, which in spite of all was permanent; she awoke soon with a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting—­she knew not what.  News had come to her about her Yann.  In the midst of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what it could be; but there was nothing save Fantec’s interruption.

For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss, nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.

Yet in that short, hopeful moment, she had felt him so near to her that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto her,—­what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting that some one might come to her to speak of him.