"The flowers. They may not be good for you; it has just occurred to us. . . ."
And he takes them all away, the mignonette, the sweetpeas, even the bunches of heather.
[CHAPTER C]
The "pendulum of time" has continued its swing. It even seems that it has moved more quickly than usual, for the week's leave which had been given me is almost over.
Every day we spend in the woods. The weather is splendid. The heather, the foxgloves, the red silenes, all are in flower.
There had been a great "pardon" on Sunday, one of the most famous of this region of Brittany: it was held near the chapel of Our Lady of Good Tidings—which stands alone in the heart of the woods as if it had been sleeping there, forgotten, since the middle ages.
It happened that the day before, the Saturday, we had sat down in the shade, Yves, little Pierre and I, near the church, in the hour of the great calm of noon. A very silent spot, above which the ancient oaks and beeches linked, as if they had been arms, their great moss-grown branches.
Two women had come, one young, the other old and decrepit; they wore the costume of Rosporden and seemed to have travelled far. They carried large keys.
And they opened the old sanctuary, which remains closed throughout the year, and began to prepare the altar for the feast of the following day.
In the green half-light of the windows and the trees, we saw them busying themselves about the statues of the old saints, dusting them, wiping them; and then sweeping the flagstones covered with dust and saltpetre.