Barbara in Brittany

by E. A. Gillie

"I call him mine," the landlady explained, turning more particularly to Barbara, "because he married me the last time, and my second husband the first time."

Barbara thought of the guessing story about "A blind beggar had a son," and decided she would try to find out later exactly whom the priest had married, for the explanation was still going on.

"Of course, therefore, he took an interest in his death," and the widow's voice grew pathetic. "So he always keeps an eye on me, and sends me little holy newspapers, over which I always shed a tear. My second husband always loved his newspaper so—and his coffee."

The word coffee had a magical effect, and her face becoming wreathed in smiles again, she sprang to her feet in a wonderfully agile way, considering her size, and ran to a cupboard in the corner, calling loudly for a maid as she went.

"You must have thirst!" she exclaimed, "terrible thirst and hunger; but I will give you a sip of a favourite beverage of mine that will restore you instantly."

And she placed upon the table a black bottle, which proved to be full of cold coffee sweetened to such a degree that it resembled syrup. Poor Barbara! She was not very fond of hot coffee unsweetened, so that this cold concoction seemed to her most sickly. But she managed to drink the whole glassful, except a mouthful of extreme syrup at the end, though feeling afterwards that she could not bear even to look at coffee caramels for a very long time. They sat some time over the refreshments provided for them, and their donkey was stabled at the inn to await their return in the evening. Then bidding a temporary adieu to their hostess, they went on to the town by train.

Mademoiselle Loiré went at once to get her rent, which, she explained, always took her some time, "for the people were not good at paying," and left the girls to look at the church, which was a very old one. After they were joined by mademoiselle they strolled along to Marie's relations. The husband was a seller of cider, which, Marie explained to Barbara, was quite a different occupation from keeping an inn, and much more respectable. Both he and his wife were very hospitable and kind, and especially attentive to the "English miss."

It was quite a unique experience for her, for they dined behind a trellis-work at one end of the shop, and, during the whole of dinner, either the father or daughter was kept jumping up to serve the customers with cider. The son was present too, but no one would allow him to rise to serve anybody, for he was at college in Paris, and had taken one of the first prizes in France for literature. It was quite touching to see how proud his parents and sister were of him, and he seemed to Barbara to be wonderfully unspoiled, considering the attention he received.

It seemed her fate to have strange food offered her that day, and when the first dish that appeared proved to be stewed eels, Barbara began to dread what the rest of the menu might reveal. Fortunately, there was nothing worse than beans boiled in cream, though it was with some relief that she saw the long meal draw to a close. Coffee and sweetmeats were served in a room upstairs, in which all the young man's prizes were kept, and which were displayed with most loving pride and reverence by the mother and sister, while the owner of them looked on rather bashfully from a corner.

The young man was one of the type of Frenchmen who wear their hair cut and brushed the wrong way, like a clothes-brush. Barbara was beginning to divide all Frenchmen into two classes according to their frisure: those that wore their hair brush-fashion, and those that had it long and oiled—sometimes curled. These latter sometimes allowed it to fall in locks upon their foreheads, tossing it back every now and then with an abstracted air and easy grace that fascinated Barbara. They were usually engaged in the Fine Arts, and she could never quite decide whether the hair had been the result of the profession, or vice versa.