"You forget all our numerous quarrels and
disagreements."
"Thunderstorms are said to clear the air," returned Monsieur; "but ours
have been mere summer lightning. That, you know, is not dangerous, and
beautifies the horizon."
It was the day of our visit to St. Jean du Doigt, and we had seriously
fallen out with our coachman by the way. St. Jean had so charmed us that
we felt reluctant to leave it. The little inn, quiet and solitary, with
its windows open to the sunshine, its snow-white cloth, its wealth of
creeper and blossom trailing up the walls and sunning over the roof,
invited us to enter and be happy; to revel in the outer scene, sylvan,
rustic, ecclesiastical, an overflow of the beauties of earth, sky,
sunshine and ancient architecture. Here was an earthly paradise; it
might still be ours for some golden moments. Yet we threw away our
opportunity; as we so often do in life in far weightier matters than
taking luncheon at a village inn.
We hesitated very much, but we had to see Plougasnou, and our driver,
for reasons of his own, declared that Plougasnou was far more beautiful
than St. Jean du Doigt, whilst its inn was renowned in Brittany. So,
having watched the funeral wind picturesquely down the hill-side, pause
at the beautiful gateway, and disappear into the church, we departed.
It was very charming to drive about the hills and valleys, the narrow
country lanes that were full of the beauty of summer.
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