One evening as these lovers sat out on their stone bench in the solitude over which the night fell, they suddenly perceived a hawthorn bush, which grew solitarily between the rocks, by the side of the road, covered with tiny flowered tufts.
“It looks as if ’twas in bloom,” said Yann.
They drew near to inspect it. It was in full flower, indeed. As they could not see very well in the twilight, they touched the tiny blooms, wet with mist. Then the first impression of spring came to them at the same time they noticed this; the days had already lengthened, the air was warmer, and the night more luminous. But how forward this particular bush was! They could not find another like it anywhere around, not one! It had blossomed, you see, expressly for them, for the celebration of their loving plight.
“Oh! let us gather some more,” said Yann.
Groping in the dark, he cut a nosegay with the stout sailor’s knife that he always wore in his belt, and paring off all the thorns, he placed it in Gaud’s bosom.
“You look like a bride now,” said he, stepping back to judge of the effect, notwithstanding the deepening dusk.