Women pass busily up and down, carrying heavy loads, some with the white lappets of their caps thrown backward, treading heavily like beasts of burden. Excepting for a short time in the heat of the day, when the men rest and the women knit, there are few unemployed hands in Hennebont.
The evening brings more activity, the farmers and their wives pack up and depart in their country carts, shutters open in the dark grey-stone houses on the Place near the church; the maire and the avocat take a walk, or a drive with their families; and women and children emerge on various errands. It is then that out of side streets, and doorways in walls unlocked with heavy keys, issue, one by one, the fairest inhabitants of Morbihan, some especially erect, bearing earthen vessels on their heads, wending their way up the town to a road beyond the church, where, under the cool shade of trees, and partly shut in by walls, is the fountain which supplies Hennebont with water. It is a rendezvous for old and young, men, women, and cattle, a place to see and to sketch, charming in its sheltered aspect after a midday sun; women coming and going with their pitchers; men helping or bringing cattle to water, and numerous washing parties on their knees.
Every way we turn there is a picture of some sort to be sketched; if we follow the narrow, winding streets of the Ville Close, sheltered by trees and overshadowed by walls, we come suddenly upon an old time-stained doorway like that below; and, amongst the people that crowd the poorer quarter, are many quaint and interesting groups.
Here we may notice again the harmonious combinations of costume and buildings, and how the women, tall and straight, clad in draperies of soft material, seem to give dignity to the most squalid surroundings.
They are a pleasant, homely people at Hennebont; a town worth visiting before simplicity, individuality, and local costume have passed away.