"What is your name?"
"Louise Randon."
"I am a Breton ... from Audierne. And you, too, are a Breton, are you not?"
Astonished that anyone was willing to speak to her, and fearing some insult or practical joke, she did not answer directly. She buried her thumb in the deep caverns of her nose. I repeated my question.
"From what part of Brittany do you come?"
Then she looked at me, and, seeing undoubtedly that there was no unkindness in my eyes, she decided to answer:
"I am from Saint-Michel-en-Grève, near Lannion."
I knew not what further to say to her. Her voice was repulsive to me. It was not a voice; it was something hoarse and broken, like a hiccup,—a sort of gurgle. This voice drove away my pity. However, I went on.
"You have relatives living?"
"Yes; my father, my mother, two brothers, four sisters. I am the oldest."