And afterwards? . . . Little Pierre will grow up and sail the seas, and we, my brother, we shall pass away and all that we have loved with us—our old mothers first—then everything and we ourselves, the old mothers of the Breton cottages as those of the towns, and old Brittany also, and everything, all the things of this world!
Boudoul galaïchen! boudoul galaïch du!
Night falls and a sadness unexpected, profound, weighs upon our hearts. . . . And yet, to-day we are happy.
[CHAPTER CII]
And the Celts mourned three barren rocks, under a lowering sky, in the heart of a gulf dotted with islets.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, SALAMMBÔ.
Yves and I take our departure, leaving little Pierre with his grandmother. We follow the green lane, under the vault of oaks and beeches, hearing in the distance, in the sonorousness of the evening, the noise of the rocking of the ancient cradle and the old lullaby and the outburst of child's laughter.
Outside, there is still daylight; the sun, very low, gilds the tranquil countryside.
"Let us go as far as the chapel of Saint Eloi," says Yves.
The chapel is on the top of the hill; very old it is, and corroded with moss, bearded with lichen, alone always, closed and mysterious in the midst of the woods.
It opens but once in the year, for the "pardon" of the horses, which are brought hither in great numbers, at the hour of a low mass which is said here for them. This "pardon" was held quite recently and the grass is still trodden down by the hoofs of the beasts which came.