Zigzag Journeys in Europe Part 38

Ernest Wynn wished to spend the night with Frank, and received Master Lewis's permission.

"Why, Ernest!" said Tommy, "I thought you had more sense. I am glad I am not literary. This is the strangest thing I have met with yet."

Chateaubriand's birthplace is the Hotel de France. His room is among those offered to visitors, at a little extra cost. Master Lewis had stopped at the hotel during a previous tour.

If Tommy was surprised at the "respect appreciation pays to genius,"

in the incident of sleeping in Chateaubriand's room, he was more so by a conversation which took place next day, when Master Lewis made his plans for the last zigzag journeys.

"The last place we will visit," he said, "is Nantes. We will go by rail to Rennes, and by diligences the rest of the way, which will afford you a fine view of Brittany. At Rennes, we will make, if you like, a detour to Vitre."

"What shall we see there?" asked Tommy.

"The residence of Madame de Sevigne."

"Is _she_ living?" asked Tommy.

"Oh, no."

"What did she do?"

"She wrote letters to her daughter," said Frank.

"Who was her daughter?"

"The prettiest girl in France."

"Is _she_ living?"

"Oh, no," said Frank, impatiently. "Why, did you never hear of the Letters of Madame de Sevigne?"

"I never did. Are her letters there?"

"No."

"What is?"

"The room where she wrote them," said Master Lewis.

"They must be very wonderful letters, I should think," said Tommy, "to make a traveller take all that trouble."

"They are," said Master Lewis. "Lord Macaulay says, 'Among modern works I only know two perfect ones; they are Pascal's Provincial Letters, and the Letters of Madame de Sevigne.'"

The Cla.s.s was now in Brittany, a province old and poor, whose very charm is its simplicity and quaintness. Normandy smiles; Brittany wears a sombre aspect everywhere. Normandy is a bed of flowers; Brittany seems to be a bed of stone. Here and there may be seen a church buried in greenery, but the landscape is one of heath, fern, and broom.

The people are as peculiar as the country. Their costumes are odd, some of them even wear goat-skins. Many of them lead a sea-faring life; it is the Bretons who chiefly man the French navy.

They cling to old legends and superst.i.tions with great fondness; the wild country abounds with wonder-stories. Nearly all of these stories are striking from their very improbability. They relate to an imaginary period when the Apostles travelled in Brittany, or to men and women who were transformed during some part of their lives into animals, especially into wolves. The story-telling beggars furnish much of the fiction to the unread people.

Those legends which are the chief favorites are undoubtedly very old.

The Cla.s.s listened to several of them at their hotel at St. Malo. Some of them begin in a way that at once arrests attention; as the following story of the

OLD WOMAN'S COW.

When St. Peter and St. John were visiting the poor in Brittany they stopped one day to rest at a farm-house among the trees, where they met a little old woman who kindly brought them a pitcher of cool water.

After the saints had drunk, the old woman told them the story of her hard life. She had seen better days, she said; her husband had once owned a cow, but he had lost it, and he now was only a laborer on the place.

"Let me take the stick in your hand," said St. Peter.

The saint struck the stick on the ground, and up came a fine cow with udders full of milk.

"Holy Virgin!" said the woman. "What made that cow come up from the ground?"

"The grace of G.o.d," said St. Peter.

When the saints had gone, the old woman wondered whether, if she were to strike with the stick on the ground, another cow would appear.

She struck the ground as she had seen St. Peter do, when up came an enormous wolf and killed the cow.

The old woman ran after the saints and told her alarming story.

"You should have been content," said St. Peter, "with the cow the Lord gave you. It shall be restored to you."

She turned back, and found the cow at the door, lowing to be milked.

Another story, which greatly pleased Tommy is

THE WONDERFUL SACK.

St. Christopher was a ferry-man. He dwelt in Brittany, at Dol. One day the Lord came to Dol, and wished to cross the river with the twelve Apostles.

St. Christopher, instead of using a ferry-boat, carried the travellers who came to him across the river on his broad shoulders.

When he had thus taken over the Lord and his Apostles, he claimed his reward.

"What will you have?" asked the Lord.

"Ask for Paradise," said St. Peter.

"No," said St. Christopher; "I ask that whatsoever I may desire may at all times be put into my sack."

"You shall have your wish; but never desire money."

One day the Evil One came to St. Christopher, and tempted him to wish for money.

They fell to fighting, and the fight lasted two whole days; but, just as the Evil One seemed about to overcome the saint, the latter said:--