Later in the evening I returned to Limay. The fête was in full swing, so was the ball. Festoons of lanterns were strung across the main street. I followed the crowd up the cobble-stoned hill to a small square back of a church. Here shooting galleries popped away and wheels of fortune whizzed for prizes. A patient horse ground simultaneously the organ and a merry-go-round. At the sound of a ta-ra-ta-ta of trumpets in the distance, the excited crowd rushed back to the top of the cobble-stoned hill and waited breathlessly with flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. The great parade had started. Cherry branches bearing lanterns flared in advance of the column. Nearer they came. I could see the flashing of brass helmets. In a moment they had passed—eight pompiers, the noble volunteer fire brigade of the town—amid cheers and sighs of regret from the crowd that it was all over. Not for another year would Limay blaze in glory.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A TYPICAL BARN
A fair wind the next day filled my sail as far as Vetheuil. The river had accommodatingly taken a favorable turn, for the wind itself never seemed to vary. It was a pleasant surprise after so much rowing. Vetheuil seems to have been built upon the stepping-stones which lead to its picturesque cathedral. At the original inn of the Cheval Blanc there was a party of good bohemians: two painters from Montmartre and their models. They returned for dinner after a day’s fishing, sunburned and happy, and filled the dingy apartment that served for both billiard and dining-room with their songs.
There was something imposing in the name of the inn at Bosnières—“The Grand Hotel of the Two Hemispheres.” From my room over the stable I could watch the life and bustle below in the tiny court. My modest arrival seemed to throw this hostelry with the all-embracing name into a state of confusion.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
LES ANDELYS
Marie, the ruddy-cheeked maid of all work, went clattering down the street in her sabots after two eggs for my supper. The boy who was milking the cow under my suite was pressed into service to secure a cutlet from the neighboring butcher, while madame herself went after a good bottle of wine at her cousin, the marchand de vin. At seven this collation, or rather collection, was served.