CHAPTER IX

_5th May, 1875._

For many years Yves had been looking forward to seeing this Saint Pol-de-Léon, the little town where he was born.

In the days when we sailed the misty northern waters together, often as we passed in the offing, rocked in the grey swell, we had seen the legendary tower of Creizker upreared in the dark distance, above the mournful and monotonous stretch of land which, beyond, represented Brittany, the country of Léon.

And in the night watch we used to sing together the Breton song:

Oh! I was born in Finistère, And in Saint Pol first saw the day: My bell tower is beyond compare And I love my native land O.

. . . . .

Give me back my heather And my old bell tower.

But there was as it were a fatality, a throw of the dice against us: we had never succeeded in getting there, to this Saint Pol. At the last moment when we were on the point of starting out, something interfered to prevent us; our ship received unexpected orders and it was necessary to leave at once. And at the end we had come to regard with a kind of superstition this tower of Creizker, glimpsed only and always from a distance, in silhouette, on the edge of the mournful horizon.

This time, however, the position seems assured, and we start off in good earnest.

In the coupé of the old country diligence, we take our places next to a Breton Curé. The horses set off at a good pace towards Saint Pol, and all looks very real.

It is early in the morning, in the first days of May; but it is raining, a fine grey rain like a rain of winter. Ambling along the winding road, ascending steep hills, descending into damp valleys, we make our way in the midst of woods and rocks. The high ground is covered with dark fir trees. In the valleys are oaks and beeches, the foliage of which, new and wet, is of a tender green. By the roadside there are carpets of Easter daisies and Breton flowers: the first pink silenes and the first foxgloves.

Turning a rocky corner we find that the rain and the wind have suddenly ceased. And as if by magic the aspect of things is entirely changed.

We see before us as far as eye commands a great flat country, a barren moor, bare as a desert: the old country of Léon, in the background of which, far away, stands the granite shaft of the Creizker.

And yet this mournful country has a charm of its own, and Yves smiles as he perceives his tower towards which we are moving.

The gorse is in blossom and the whole plain has a colour of gold, varied in places by stretches pink with heather. A veil of pearl-grey mist, of a tint peculiar to the north, very soft and subtle, entirely covers the sky; and in the monotony of this pink and yellow country, on the extreme edge of the far horizon, nothing but these outstanding points: the silhouette of Saint Pol and the three dark towers.

Some little Breton girls are driving flocks of sheep before them through the heather; some young lads, caracoling on horses which they ride bareback, startle them; little traps pass laden with women in white coifs who are on their way to hear mass in the town. The bells are ringing, the road is gaily animated; we arrive.