It was still enough to hear the click of madame's fingers, as she tapped her snuff-box.
"The count doesn't see any better than he did—toujours myope, lui" the old woman murmured to her son, with a pregnant wink, as she took her snuff.
"C'est sa façon de tout voir, au contraire, ma mère," significantly returned Monsieur Paul, with his knowing smile.
The mother's shrug answered the smile, as both mother and son walked in different directions—across the sunlit court.
A LITTLE JOURNEY ALONG THE COAST.
CAEN, BAYEUX, ST. LO, COUTANCES.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A NIGHT IN A CAEN ATTIC.
I have always found the act of going away contagious. Who really enjoys being left behind, to mope in a corner of the world others have abandoned? The gay company atop of the coach, as they were whirled beneath the old archway, had left discontent behind; the music of the horn, like that played by the Pied Piper, had the magic of making the feet ache to follow after.
Monsieur Paul was so used to see his world go and come—to greeting it with civility, and to assist at its departure with smiling indifference that the announcement of our own intention to desert the inn within a day or so, was received with unflattering impassivity. We had decided to take a flight along the coast—the month and the weather were at their best as aids to such adventure. We hoped to see the Fête Dieu at Caen. Why not push on to Coutances, where the Fête was still celebrated with a mediaeval splendor? From thence to the great Mont, the Mont St. Michel, it was but the distance of a good steed's galloping—we could cover the stretch of country between in a day's driving, and catch, who knows?—perhaps the June pilgrims climbing the Mont.