[CHAPTER III]
At Arcachon there is an old Chapelle miraculeuse de Notre Dame, adjoining the newer church, founded about 1520 by Thomas Illyricus. It contains many of the fishermen's votive offerings, such as life-belts, stilts, pieces of rope, and boats and wreaths. I noticed, too, a barrel, on which were the words "Echappé dans le golfe du Méxique, 1842." These offerings are hung up near the chancel, and give a distinct character to it.
As we came into the little church, a child's funeral was just leaving it, the coffin borne by children. We waited by the door till the sad little procession had gone by, and before me, as I write, there rises in my memory the expression on the father's face. It had something in it that was absolutely unforgettable.
ARCACHON, MIRACULOUS CHAPEL, 1722.
[Page 40.
As we passed down the village street, we passed another little procession; two acolytes in blue cassocks and caps, bearing in their hands the vessels of sacred oil, a priest following them in biretta, surplice and cassock, and by his side a server. I noticed that each man's cap was instantly lifted reverently, as it passed him. As they turned in at a cottage, the whole street down which they had passed seemed full of the lingering fragrance of the incense carried by the acolytes.
Arcachon, at one time, must have been exceedingly quaint and picturesque, but since then an alien influence has been introduced which has—for all artistic purposes—spoilt it. Facing the chief street—dominating it, as it were—is the Casino; an ugly, flashy, vulgar building, out of keeping structurally with everything near it. It resembles an Indian pagoda, and when we were there in November its huge, bleary eyes were shut as it took its yearly slumber, deserted by Fashion. It was like an enormous pimple on the quiet, picturesque, unpretending countenance of this village of the Landes which had been subjected to its obsession, and that of the two hotels in immediate attendance.
The people, however, appear unspoilt and unsophisticated. At each cottage door sit the women knitting; and, as one passes, they pass the time of day, or make some remark or other, with a pleasant smile.