CHAPTER xin

OUNDRAN'S life had hitherto run very smoothly.
A hard worker and of a saving disposition, he
had managed to avoid financial troubles. Both his
fishing vessels were free from debt so could hold their
sails high in fair or foul weather, breasting the waves
as proudly as they pleased, which was thanks to their
careful and thrifty master. Moreover he possessed
the placid temper that went with as yet unawakened
senses, and had thus avoided those sudden squalls
which were apt to blow up at the port over women.
And if he missed something of the light of the moon;
missed the warm, soft trickle of wine down his gullet;
missed the warm, soft weight of a girl on his knees,
and the hard throb of blood on those nights in summer
when tempers were short while knives could be
long; missed the shrill, teasing tunes of the little
violinist — if he missed all these things he was yet
content, being quite unconscious of what he was
missing. Small wonder then that his well-ordered
life had hitherto run with unusual smoothness.
But a few weeks after the burial of Mir&o there
occurred the death of another old creature, for
Mathilde died sitting up in her chair, died as neatly
and cleanly as she had lived — no illness, no pain, no
chemist, no doctor. Yet her going, so simple a thing
in itself, brought about a most mighty disturbance
for Goundran, since what was to become of the
164