Of this we had no evidence. The town was quiet to the verge of deadly
dulness; if there were widows rash enough to contemplate a second
marriage, we knew nothing about it; they were discreet, and kept their
secret to themselves.
There are many monasteries and nunneries in the neighbourhood. Some are
in ruins; some have become destined to other purposes; and if their
walls could speak, probably would cry aloud: "To such base uses do we
come!" Sitting on the banks of the river, you watch its calm flowing
waters, and a vessel moored to the side, where a Breton woman is hanging
out clothes to dry, and a man on deck is lazily smoking his pipe. Behind
you is a timber yard, sending forth its strawberry-pine perfume. There
is always some attractions in a timber yard. Whether you will or not it
fascinates you; you enter for a moment, and stroll about through the
little alleys between the stacks, as numerous and complicated as the
twistings and turnings of a maze. You imagine yourself once more a boy
playing at hide-and-seek, and revel in the hot sunshine that is pouring
down upon you and bringing out the perfume of the wood.
Returning to the river, your eye wanders far down the stream, until a
large building upon its banks arrests your attention. It looks the
emblem and abode of peace; perhaps is so. It is the ancient Couvent des
Cordeliers, founded by Jean de Rohan, in 1488. But monks no longer tread
its corridors and offer up the midnight mass in its small chapel.
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