"This is Anne," says Yves to me, "my sister-in-law, the godmother."
There is still some distance between the little town and the cottage in which they live at Trémeulé in Toulven.
Some village lads lift my luggage on their shoulders, and I set out to make my visit to the sea-gull which has just been born; to make the acquaintance also of this Breton family, into which Yves has entered in his headlong way without very clearly knowing why.
What will they be like, these new relations of my brother Yves—and this new country which is to become his?
[CHAPTER XLIV]
We make our way all three along sunken lanes, which vanish in front of us under the shade of beech trees and are overgrown with ferns.
It is evening; the sky is overcast, and in these lanes there is a kind of night which is perfumed with honeysuckle.
Here and there, on the roadside, are grey cottages, very old and covered with moss.
From one of them comes a lullaby, sung in slow cadence by a voice which also is very old:
"Boudoul, boudoul, galaïchen![4]
Boudoul, boudoul, galaïch du!"