. We came back to it each time with our affection and admiration
heightened. Its old streets seem to grow more and more picturesque; and
more and more we appeared to absorb into our "inner consciousness" this
mediaeval atmosphere. We seemed to be living in a perpetual romance of
the past; and the men and women who surrounded us were so many puppets
animated by invisible threads. It was the perfection of existence, in
its particular way and for a short time.

The shades of evening had fallen when we once more found ourselves
descending Jacob's Ladder. The Antiquarian's door was closed, but a
light gleamed through the crevices of the shutters, as antiquated as
some of his cherished possessions. We would not disturb him, though we
felt sorely inclined to lift the latch and look in upon the picturesque
interior. We imagined him perhaps telling his beads, his grey head bowed
before the crucifix which, artistically and religiously, was the object
of his veneration; mentally we saw the son bending over a plain piece of
wood, which gradually assumed a form and design that would make it a
thing of beauty for ever. By lifting the latch, all this would be
revealed, delight our eyes and refresh our spirit. But what more might
we see? The cherub probably was in bed, but the rift within the lute?
Ah, that was uncertain; we could not tell. So we thought we would leave
the picture to our imagination, where at least it was perfect.

So we went on without lifting the latch; and H.C. fell into raptures
over the rising moon and the quaint gables that stood out so gloriously
and mysteriously in the pale light. A warmer glow illumined many a
lattice. We were surrounded by deep lights and shadows, and felt
ourselves steeped in a world of the past, holding familiar intercourse
with ghosts that haunted every nook and crevice, every doorway, every
niche and archway of this old-world town.

At the hotel, we found Madame Hellard taking the air at her doorway, her
hands calmly folded in her favourite attitude of rest and
contentment--or was it expectation?

"Was I not a prophet?" was her first greeting. "Did I not say this
morning 'No umbrellas?' Have we not had a glorious day!"

"But the dust?" we objected.

"Ah!" cried Madame, "on oublie toujours le chat dans le coin, as they
say in the Morbihan. Yet there must always be a drawback; you cannot
have perfection; and I maintain that dust is better than rain. But what
did you think of le Folgoe