Shawl-Straps: A Second Series of Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag — Brittany (part 2)

Jules responded with spirit, talked, jested, quoted poetry, paid compliments right and left, and now and then passed the salt, filled a glass, or offered a napkin to his _fiancée_ with a French shrug and a tender glance.

After dinner Madame F. begged him to recite one of his poems; for it appeared this all-accomplished man was beloved of the muse, and twanged the lyre as well as wielded the sword.

With much persuasion and many modest apologies, Jules at length consented, took his place upon the rug, thrust one hand into his bosom, turned up his eyes, and, in a tremendous voice, declaimed a pensive poem of some twenty stanzas, called 'Adieu to my past.'

The poet's friends listened with rapt countenances and frequent bursts of emotion or applause; but the Americans suffered agonies, for the whole thing was so absurdly melodramatic that it was with great difficulty they kept themselves from explosions of laughter.

When the little man dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, in bidding adieu to the lost loves of his youth, tender-hearted old C. sobbed in her napkin;

while Livy only saved herself from hysterics by drinking a glass of water, and Pelagie ate sugar, with her round eyes fixed on her lover's face, without the slightest expression whatever.

When the poet mourned his blighted hopes, and asked wildly of all the elements if he should live or die, Gaston cast reproachful glances at the alien charmer who had nipped his passion in the bud; and when Jules gave a sudden start, slapped his brow, and declared that he would live for his country, old Marie choked in her coffee, while Madame F. clapped her fat hands, and cried: 'It is sublime!'

The poem closed there, and the providential appearance of their donkeys gave the ladies an excuse for retiring to their room, where they laughed till they could laugh no more.

Each meal was as good as a play, and every glimpse they had of the little pair gave fresh food for mirth.

Everything was so formal and polite, so utterly unlike the free-and-easy customs of their native land, that they were kept in alternate states of indignation and amusement the whole time.

Jules never was alone with his Pelagie for an instant; such a breach of etiquette would have shocked the entire town.

In the walks and drives which the family took together, Madame was always at the Colonel's side; while Gaston escorted his sister, looking as if he was fast reaching a state of mind when he would give her away without a pang.

Many guests came and went, much kissing and bowing, prancing and rustling, went on, up and down stairs.

Stately old gentlemen called, papers were signed, fortunes discussed, and gifts displayed.

Pelagie went much to mass; also to the barber's and the bath.

Agitated milliners flew in and out.

A great load of trunks arrived from Nantes, where Madame formerly lived; and the day before the wedding a whole carriage full of Clomadocs appeared, and Babel seemed to have come again.

A great supper was given that evening, and the Three were banished to their own rooms; where, however, they fared sumptuously, for Madame C. and good old Marie ate with them, having no place left them but the kitchen.

Madame C. was much hurt that she had not been asked to the wedding.

It seemed the least Madame F. could do after taking possession of the house, and turning its rightful owner out of every room but the attic.

Madame C. was a gentlewoman; and though a meek old soul, this rudeness hurt her very much.

She said nothing; but Marie fumed and scolded fiercely, and proposed that the neglected ones should all go away on the wedding-day, and make a _fête_ for themselves somewhere.

So they decided to drive to Dinare, enjoy the fine views of the sea and St. Malo, dine, and return at dusk, leaving the house free for the wedding festivities.

The day was fine, and the ladies were graciously invited to behold the bride before she left for church.

She looked as much like a fashion-plate as it was possible for a living girl to look; and they dutifully kissed her on both cheeks, paid their compliments and retired, thanking their stars that they were not in her place.

Mamma was gorgeous to behold, in royal purple and black lace.

Gaston was so glossy and beruffled and begemmed, that they gazed with awe upon the French Adonis.

But the bridegroom was a sight for gods and men.

In full regimentals with a big sword, so many orders that there was hardly room for them on his little breast, and a cocked hat, with a forest of feathers, in which he extinguished himself at intervals.

How his tiny boots shone, his tawny moustache bristled with importance, and his golden epaulets glittered as he shrugged and pranced!

His honoured papa and mamma were both tall, portly people, beside whom the manikin looked like a child.

Livy quite longed to see Madame Clomadoc take little Jules on her knee, and amuse him with _bonbons_ when he got impatient at the delay of the carriage.

The Three peeped out of windows, and over the banisters, and got fine glimpses of the splendours below.

Flocks of elegant ladies went sailing up the narrow stairs.

Gentlemen with orders, dandies wonderful to behold, and a few children (to play with the bridegroom, as Livy wickedly said), adorned the hall and _salon_.

Every one talked at the top of his or her voice.

Shrieks of rapture, groans of despair, greeted a fine toilette or a torn glove.

Peals of laughter from the gentlemen, and shrill cries from the infants, echoed through the once peaceful halls.

As Françoise said 'It was truly divine.'

At eleven, every one trooped into the carriages again.

How they ever got so many full-dressed people into one carriage is a mystery to this day.

But in they piled, regardless of trains, corpulency, or height; and coach after coach lumbered away to the church.

The bride's carriage could not be got very near the door.

So she tripped out to it, leaning on her uncle's arm, while the devoted Gaston bore her train.

Mamma sailed after in a purple cloud; and when two young damsels, in arsenic green, were packed in, away they went, leaving the bridegroom to follow.

Then came the catastrophe!

Stout papa and mamma were safely in; a friend of Jules, some six feet high, shut himself up like a jack-knife; and with a farewell wave of the cocked hat, the small bridegroom skipped in after them.

The coachman cracked his whip, intending to dash under the arched gateway in fine style.

But alas!

the harness was old, the big horses clumsy, and the road half paved.

The traces gave way, the beasts reared, the big coach lurched, and dismal wails arose.

Out burst the fierce little hero of the day, and the tall friend followed by instalments.

Great was the excitement as the natives gathered about the carriage with offers of help, murmurs of sympathy, and unseemly mirth on the part of the boys.

Jules did the swearing; and never were heard such big oaths as fell from the lips of this irate little man.

It really seemed as if he would explode with wrath.

He dashed the impressive cocked hat upon the stones, laid his hand upon his sword, tore his hair, and clutched his moustache in paroxysms of despair.

His bride was gone, waiting in agitated suspense for him.

No other coach could be had, as the resources of the town had been exhausted.

The harness was in a desperate state, the men at their wit's end how to mend it, and time flying fast.

_Maire_ and priest were waiting, the whole effect of the wedding was being ruined by this delay, and 'ten thousand devils' seemed to possess the awkward coachman.

During the flurry, Papa Clomadoc appeared to slumber tranquilly in the recesses of the carriage.

Mamma endeavoured to soothe her boy with cries of 'Tranquillize yourself, my cherished son.

It is nothing.'

'Come, then, and reassure papa.'

'Inhale the odour of my vinaigrette.

It will compose your lacerated nerves, my angel.'

But the angel wouldn't come, and continued to dance and swear, and slap his hat about until the damages were repaired, when he flung himself, exhausted, into the carriage, and was borne away to his bride.

'A lively prospect for poor Pelagie.'

'What a little fiend he is!'

'Spinsters for ever!'

With these remarks, the ladies ordered their own equipage, an infant omnibus, much in vogue in Dinan, where retired army officers, English or Scotch, drive about with their little families of eighteen or twenty.

One Colonel Newcome, a grave-looking man, used to come to church in a bus of this sort, with nine daughters and four sons, like a patriarch.

The strangers thought it was a boarding-school, till he presented the entire flock, with paternal pride, as 'my treasures.'

Madame C. , in a large Leghorn bonnet, trembling with yellow bows, led the way with an air of lofty indifference as to what became of her house that day.

Marie bore a big basket, full of cold fowls, salad, and wines;

she also was in a new spring hat of purple, which made her rosy old face look like a china aster.

Lavinia reposed upon the other seat; and the infants insisted on sharing the driver's seat, up aloft, that they might enjoy the prospect, which freak caused Flabeau's boy to beam and blush till his youthful countenance was a deep scarlet.

They had a pleasant day; for good old Madame soon recovered her temper, and beguiled the time with lively tales of her mother's trials during the Revolution.

Marie concocted spiced drinks, salad that was a thing to dream of, not to tell, and produced such edible treasures that her big basket seemed bottomless.

The frisky damsels explored ruins, ran races on the hard beach, sniffed the salt breezes, and astonished the natives by swarming up and down 'precipices,' as they called the rocks.

That was a fatal day for Flabeau's boy (they never knew his name); for, as if the wedding had flown to his head, he lost his youthful heart to one of the lively damsels who invaded his perch.

Such tender glances as his China-blue eyes cast upon her; such grins of joy as he gave when she spoke to him; such feats of agility as he performed, leaping down to gather flowers, or hurling himself over thorny hedges, to point out a _dolmen_ or a _menhir_ (they never could remember which was which).

Alas, alas!

for Flabeau's boy!

Deeply was he wounded that day by the unconscious charmer, who would as soon have thought of inspiring love in the bosom of the broken-nosed saint by the wayside as in the heart that beat under the blue blouse.

I regret to say that 'the infants,' as Madame C. always called Miss Livy's charges, behaved themselves with less decorum than could have been wished.

But the proud consciousness that _they_ never could be disposed of as Pelagie had been had such an exhilarating effect upon them that they frisked like the lambs in the field.

One drove the bus in a retired spot and astonished the stout horses by the way in which she bowled them along the fine, hard road.

The other sang college songs, to the intense delight of the old ladies, who admired the '_chants Amériques_ so gay,' and to the horror of their duenna, who knew what they meant.

A shower came up, and they _would_ remain outside; so the boy put up a leathern hood, and they sat inside in such a merry mood that the silent youth suddenly caught the infection, and burst forth into a Breton melody, which he continued to drone till they got home.

The house was a blaze of light when they arrived, and Françoise, the maid, came flying out to report sundry breakages and mishaps.

How the salad had precipitated itself downstairs, dish and all.

How Monsieur Gaston was so gay, so inconceivably gay, that he could hardly stand, and insisted on kissing her clandestinely.

That Mademoiselle Pelagie had wept much because her veil was torn; and Madame F. had made a fresh toilette, ravishing to behold.

Would the dear ladies survey the party, still at table?

Regard them from the little window in the garden, and see if it is not truly a spectacle the most superb!

They did regard them, and saw the bride at the head of the table, eating steadily through the dessert; the bridegroom reciting poems with tremendous effect; Gaston almost invisible behind a barricade of bottles; and Madame F. , in violet velvet, diamonds, plumes, and lace, more sleek and buxom than ever.

The ladies all talked at once, and the gentlemen drank healths every five minutes.

A very French and festive scene it was; for the room was small, and twenty mortals were stowed therein.

One fat lady sat in the fireplace, Papa Clomadoc leaned his heavy head upon the sideboard, and the plump shoulders of Madame F. were half out of the front window.

'But it was genteel.

Oh!

I assure you, yes,' as Françoise said.

How long they kept it up the weary trio did not wait to see, but retired to their beds, and slumbered peacefully, waking only when Gaston was borne up to his room, chanting the 'Marseillaise' at the top of his voice.

Next day M. and Madame Clomadoc, Jr. , made calls, and Pelagie had the joy of wearing her shawl.

For three days she astonished the natives by promenading with her lord in a fresh toilette each day.

On the fourth they all piled into a big carriage, and went away to make a round of visits, before the young people settled down at Boulogne.

The Americans never thought to hear any more of Pelagie; but, as dear old Madame C. wrote to them several times after they left, the little story may be finished here, though the sequel did not actually come till a year later.

Many were the sage predictions of the Three as to the success of this marriage--Amanda approving of that style of thing, Matilda objecting fiercely to the entire affair, and Lavinia firmly believing in the good old doctrine of love as your only firm basis for so solemn a bargain.

Wagers were laid that the fiery little Colonel would shoot some one in a jealous fit, or that Pelagie would elope, or both charcoal themselves to death, as the best way out of the predicament.

But none of them guessed how tragically it would really end.

Late in the following spring came a letter from Madame C. , telling them that Jules had gone to the war, and been shot in his first battle; that Pelagie was with her mother again, comforting herself for her loss with a still smaller Jules, who never saw his father, and, it is to be hoped, did not resemble him.

So little Pelagie's brief romance ended; and one would fancy that the experiences of that year would make her quite content to remain under mamma's wing, with no lord and master but the little son, to whom she was a very tender mother.

Pleasant days those were in quaint old Dinan; for spring's soft magic glorified earth and sky, and a delicious sense of rest and freedom gave a charm to that quiet life.

Legends of romance and chivalry hung about the ruins of castle and _château_, as green and golden as the ivy and bright wall-flowers that tapestried the crumbling walls, and waved like banners from the turret tops.

Lovely walks into woods, starred with pale primroses, and fragrant with wild hyacinths; down green lanes, leading to quaint cottages, or over wide meadows full of pink-tipped daisies and dear familiar buttercups, the same all the world over.

Sometimes they took gay donkey-drives to visit a solemn dolmen in a gloomy pine-wood, with mistletoe hanging from the trees, and the ghosts of ancient Druids haunting the spot.

The cavalcade on such occasions was an imposing spectacle.

Matilda being fond of horses likewise affected donkeys (or thought she did, till she tried to drive one), and usually went first in a small vehicle like a chair on wheels, drawn by an animal who looked about the size of a mouse, when the stately Mat in full array, yellow parasol, long whip, camp-stool, and sketch-book, sat bolt upright on her perch, driving in the most approved manner.

The small beast, after much whipping, would break into a trot, and go pattering over the hard, white road, with his long ears wagging, and his tiny hoofs raising a great dust for the benefit of the other turnout just behind.

In a double chair sat Lavinia, bundled up as usual, and the amiable Amanda, both flushed with constant pokings and thrashings of their steed.

A venerable ass, so like an old whity-brown hair trunk as to his body, and Nick Bottom's mask as to his head, that he was a constant source of mirth to the ladies.

Mild and venerable as he looked, however, he was a most incorrigible beast, and it took two immortal souls, and four arms, to get the ancient donkey along.

Vain all the appeals to his conscience, pity, or pride: nothing but a sharp poke among his ribs, a steady shower of blows on his fuzzy old back, and frequent 'yanks' of the reins produced any effect.

It was impossible to turn out for anything, and the ladies resigned themselves to the ignominy of sitting still, in the middle of the road, and letting other carriages drive over or round them.

On rare occasions the beast would bolt into the ditch as a vehicle drew near; but usually he paused abruptly, put his head down, and apparently went to sleep.

Matilda got on better, because little Bernard Du Guesclin, as she named her mouse, was so very small, that she could take him up, and turn him round bodily, when other means failed, or pull him half into the chair if danger threatened in front.

He was a sprightly little fellow, and had not yet lost all the ardour of youth, or developed the fiendish obstinacy of his kind; so he frequently ran little races--now and then pranced, and was not quite dead to the emotion of gratitude in return for bits of bread.

Truly, yes; the fair Mat with her five feet seven inches, and little Bernard, whose longest ear, when most erect, did not reach much above her waist, were a sweet pair of friends, and caused her mates great amusement.

'I must have some one to play with, for I can't improve my mind _all_ the time as 'Mandy does, or cuddle and doze like Livy.

I've had experience with young donkeys of all sorts, and I give you my word little Bernie is much better fun than some I've known with shorter ears and fewer legs.'

Thus Matilda, regardless of the jeers of her friends, when they proposed having the small beast into the _salon_ to beguile the tedium of a rainy day.

As the summer came on, picnics were introduced, and gay parties would pile into and on to Flabeau's small omnibus, and drive off to Hunandaye, Coétquën, La Bellière, Guingamp, or some other unpronounceable but most charming spot, for a day of sunshine and merrymaking.

The hospitable English came out strong on these occasions, with ''ampers of 'am-sandwiches, bottled porter and so on, don't you know?'

all in fine style.

Even the stout doctor donned his knickerbockers and grey hose, unfurled his Japanese umbrella, and, with a pretty niece on either arm, disported himself like a boy.

But pleasantest of all were the daily strolls through the little town and its environs, getting glimpses of Breton manners and customs.

The houses were usually composed of one room, where, near the open fire, and fixed against the wall, stands the bedstead or _lit clos_, of old oak, shut in by carved sliding panels, often bearing an inscription or some sacred symbol.

The mattresses and feather-beds are so piled up, that there is hardly room to creep in.

Before it is the big chest containing the family wardrobe, answering the double purpose of a seat and a step by which to ascend the lofty bed.

Cupboards on each side often have wide shelves, where the children sleep.

Settles and a long table complete the furniture; the latter often has little wells hollowed out in the top to hold the soup instead of plates.

Over the table, suspended by pulleys, are two indispensable articles in a Breton house,--a large round basket to cover the bread, and a wooden frame to hold the spoons.

Festoons of sausages, hams, candles, onions, horse-shoes, harness, and tools, all hang from the ceiling.

The floor is of beaten earth.

One narrow window lets in the light.

There are no out-houses, and pigs and poultry mingle freely with the family.

The gardens are well kept, and produce quantities of fruit and vegetables.

The chief food of the poorer class is bread or porridge of buckwheat, with cabbage soup, made by pouring hot water over cabbage leaves and adding a bit of butter.

They are a home-loving people, and pine like the Swiss, if forced to leave their native land.

They are brave soldiers and good sailors.

'Their vices,' as a Breton writer says, 'are avarice, contempt for women, and drunkenness; their virtues, love of home and country, resignation to the will of God, loyalty to each other, and hospitality.'

Their motto is, 'En tout chemin loyauté.'

They are very superstitious, and some of their customs are curious.

At New Year pieces of bread and butter are thrown into the fountains, and from the way in which they swim the future is foretold.

If the buttered side turns under, it forebodes death; if two pieces adhere together, it is a sign of sickness; and if a piece floats properly, it is an assurance of long life and prosperity.

Girls throw pins into the fountain of Saloun to tell, by their manner of sinking, when they will be married.

If the pin goes down head-foremost, there is little hope; but, if the point goes first, it is a sure sign of being married that year.

Their veneration for healing-springs is very great, and, though at times forbidden by the Church, is still felt.

Pounded snails, worn in a bag on the neck, is believed to be a cure for fever; and a certain holy bell rung over the head, a cure for head-ache.

'If we believe in that last remedy, what a ceaseless tingling that bell would keep up in America!'

said Lavinia, when these facts were mentioned to her.

In some towns they have, in the cemetery, a bone-house or reliquary.

It is the custom, after a certain time, to dig up the bones of the dead, and preserve the skulls in little square boxes like bird-houses, with a heart-shaped opening, to show the relic within.

The names and dates of the deceased are inscribed outside.

Saint Ives or Yves is a favourite saint, and images of him are in all churches and over many doors.

He was one of the remarkable characters of the thirteenth century.

He studied law in Paris, and devoted his talents to defending the poor; hence, he was called 'the poor man's advocate:' and so great is the confidence placed in his justice, that, even now, when a debtor falsely denies his debt, a peasant will pay twenty _sous_ for a mass to St. Ives, sure that the Saint will cause the faithless creditor to die within the year or pay up.

His truthfulness was such that he was called 'St. Yves de vérité.'

He was the special patron of lawyers, but he does not seem to be their model.

The early monks taught the people to work, and their motto was 'The Cross and the plough, labour and prayer.'

They introduced apples, now the principal fruit of Brittany.

Much cider is made and drank; and in old times they got their wine from France in exchange for wax and honey, as they were famous bee-keepers.

Great fields of buck-wheat still afford food for the 'yellow-breeched philosophers,' and in many cottage gardens a row of queerly shaped hives stand in sunny nooks.

These monks were the model farmers of those days, and their abbeys were fine farms.

One had twenty piggeries, of three hundred pigs each, in its forests.

The monks also reared sheep and horses, and bred fish in their ponds.

Many were also brewers, weavers, carpenters, and so on.

Evidently they lived up to their motto and laboured quite as much as they prayed, and doubtless were saved by works as well as by faith.

The little Place Du Guesclin, with a stumpy statue of the famous knight in the middle and chestnut trees all around, was a favourite resting-place of the ladies--especially when the weekly fair was held and booths of all sorts were raised at one end.

Here Amanda bought a remarkable jack-knife, which would cut nothing but her fingers: Matilda speculated in curious kinds of cake; one sort being made into gigantic jumbles so light that they did excellently for grace-hoops; another sort being used by these vandals as catch-alls, so deep and tough were they.

Lavinia examined the various fabrics, and got bits of linen as samples, also queer earthen pots and pans impossible to carry away.

The church of St. Sauveur, a dim and ancient little place with Du Guesclin's heart buried by the side of his wife, was another haunt.

The castle, now a prison, contained the arm-chair in which Duchess Anne sat, and the dungeons where were crammed two thousand English prisoners of war in the last century.

The view from the platform of the keep was magnificent, extending to Mont Dol and the distant sea.

The sunny promenade on the _fosse_, that goes half round the town, was very charming, with the old grey walls on one side, and, on the other, the green valley with its luxuriant gardens, and leafy lanes, winding up to the ruined _château_, or the undulating hills with picturesque windmills whirling on the heights.

On the other side of the town, from the high gardens of the church, one looked down into the deeper valley of the Rance, with the airy viaduct striding from hill to hill, and the old part of the town nestling at its base.

Soft and summery, fertile and reposeful, was the scene; and the busy peasants at their work added to the charm.

Pretty English children with Breton nurses, each in the costume of her native town, played under the lindens all abloom with odorous flowers and alive with bees.

Workmen came to these green places to eat the black bread and drink the thin wine that was all their dinner.

Invalids strolled here after their baths at the little house in the rose-garden below.

Pretty girls walked there in the twilight with long-haired lovers in knee breeches and round hats.

Nuns in their grey gowns went to and fro from hospital and the insane asylum or charity school; and the beautiful old priest sometimes went feebly by, smiling paternally on his flock, who rose and uncovered reverently as he passed.

Flowers were everywhere,--in the gardens of the rich, at the windows of the poor.

The stalls in the market were gay with plumy lilacs, splendid tulips, roses of every shade, and hyacinths heavy with odour.

All along the borders of the river waved the blossoming grass; every green bank about the mills at Lehon was yellow with dandelions, and the sunny heads of little children welcoming the flower of the poor.

Even the neglected churchyard of the ruined abbey, where the tombs of the stately Beaumanoirs still stand, was bright with cheerful daisies and blue-eyed forget-me-nots.

The willows in the valley were covered with fragrant tassels, and the old women and children sat all day on door-stones and by the wayside stripping the long, white wands for basket-making.

Flax fields were blooming in the meadows, and acres of buckwheat, with its rosy stems and snowy blossoms, whitened the uplands with a fair prophecy of bread for all.

So, garlanded about with early flowers and painted in spring's softest, freshest colours, Brittany remains for ever a pleasant picture in the memory of those who have been welcomed to its hospitable homes, and found friends among its brave and loyal people.

III.