he wind
rattled the pulleys. A cabin-boy stood at the helm singing. We could not
catch the words, but it was some slow, monotonous lay which neither rose
nor fell and was repeated again and again, with long-drawn-out
inflections and languid refrain. And it swept softly and sadly out over
the ocean, as some confused memory sweeps through one's mind.

The horse stood as straight as it could on its four legs and pulled at a
bundle of hay. The sailors, with folded arms, looked absently at the
sails and smiled a far-away smile.

* * * * *

So we journeyed on without speaking a word and as best we could, without
reaching the edge of the bay, where it looked as if Plouharnel might be.
However, after a while we arrived there. But when we did, we were
confronted by the ocean, for we had followed the right side of the coast
instead of the left, and were forced to turn back and go over a part of
the route.

A muffled sound was heard. A bell tinkled and a hat appeared. It was the
Auray post. Again the same man, the same horse, the same mail-bag. He
was ambling quietly towards Quiberon; he would be back directly and
return again the next day. He is the guest of the coast; he passes in
the morning and again at night. His life is spent going from one point
to another; he is the only one who gives the coast some animation,
something to look forward to, and, I was almost going to say, some
charm.

He stopped and talked to us for a few minutes, then lifted his hat and
was off again.

What an ensemble! What a horse, and what a rider! What a picture! Callot
would probably have reproduced it, but it would take Cervantes to write
it.

After passing over large pieces of rock that have been placed in the sea
in order to shorten the route by cutting the back of the bay in two, we
finally arrived at Plouharnel.

The village was quiet; chickens cackled and scratched in the streets,
and in the gardens enclosed by stone walls, weeds and oats grew side by
side.

While we were sitting in front of the host's door, an old beggar passed
us. He was as red as a lobster, dirty and unkempt and covered with rags
and vermin. The sun shone on his dilapidated garments and on his purple
skin; it was almost black and seemed to transude blood. He kept
bellowing in a terrible voice, while beating a tattoo on the door of a
neighbouring house.

CHAPTER VI.

QUIMPER.

Quimper, although it is the centre of the re