THE JOURNEY FROM BRITTANY
It was not long after _bonne maman's_ death that we left Brittany and
went to Paris to live with _bon papa_. I remember every detail of this
my first long journey. The day began with a very early breakfast,
which we all had together in the dining-room and at which we had the
great treat of drinking chocolate. Then came the complicated business
of stowing us all away in our capacious traveling-carriage. It was
divided into three compartments. First came what was called the
_coupé_, with windows at the sides and a large window in front from
which we looked out past the coachman's red-stockinged legs and along
the horses' backs to where the postilion jounced merrily against the
sky in a red Breton costume like the coachman's, his long hair tied
behind with black ribbon, a red jockey's cap on his head, and black
shoulder-knots with jet _aiguillettes_. After the _coupé_, and
communicating with it by a tiny passage, though it had doors of its
own, was another compartment for maids, nurses, and children, and
behind that another and larger division for all the other servants. On
the top were seats beside the coachman, and papa spent most of the day
up there smoking. The luggage, carried on the top, was covered by a
great leather covering, buckled down all over it, called a _bache_.
The horses were post-horses, renewed at every post. It was decided
that I was to go in the _coupé_ with _maman_, papa, and little
Maraquita, as I should get more fresh air there. I wore, I remember, a
red cashmere dress made out of a dress of _maman's_. The material had
been brought from India and was bordered with a design of palm-leaves.
Indeed, this red cashmere must have provided me with a succession of
dresses, for I remember that when I made my _entrée_ at the _Sacré
Coeur_ years afterwards, the bishop, visiting the convent, stopped,
smiling, at my bench, and said, "Why, this is a little Republican, is
it not?" Eliane and I both wore _capulets_ on our heads. These were
squares of white cloth that fell to the shoulders and that folded back
from the forehead and fastened under the chin with bands of black
velvet, a Spanish head-dress. Our cloaks were the full cloaks,
gathered finely around the neck and shoulders, that _maman_ had made
for us, copied from the peasants' cloaks, of foulard for summer and
wool for winter. Little Maraquita, who spent most of the three days'
journey on _maman's_ knees, wore, as always until she was seven or
eight, white and pale blue, the Virgin's colors, as she had been
_vouée au bleu et au blanc_ after a terrible accident that had
befallen her in infancy. She had fallen into the fire at Landerneau,
and her head and forehead had been badly burned, and _maman_ had thus
dedicated her to the Virgin with prayers that she might not be
disfigured--prayers that were more than answered, for Maraquita became
exquisitely beautiful. Papa, I may add here, had many friends and
connections in Spain; hence my little sister's name, and hence our
_capulets_.
Eliane and Ernest traveled in the second compartment with their
nurses, Eliane carrying Tiny and her huge doll, and Ernest,
unfortunately for our peace of mind, a drum of mine that I had given
him and upon which he beat the drumsticks hour after hour. _Maman_, in
the _coupé_, cried out at intervals that it was intolerable to hear
such an incessant noise and that the child must really, now, be made
to stop; but papa always mildly soothed her, saying: "Let him play. It
keeps him distracted; he would probably be crying otherwise." So
Ernest continued to roll his drum. In the _coupé_ I was fully occupied
in playing at horses. Real leather reins had been fixed at each side
of the front window, passing under it so that, looking out over the
horses' haunches, I had the delightful illusion, as I wielded the
reins, of really driving them. I do not remember that I was sick at
all on the first day. The country was mountainous, and at every steep
hill we all got out and walked down, and this also, probably helped to
preserve me. One feature of the Brittany landscape of those days
stands out clearly in my memory, the tall, sinister-looking
telegraph-poles that stood, each one just visible to the last, on the
heights of the country. When I say telegraph it must not be imagined
that they were our modern electric installations, although so they
were called. These were of a very primitive and very ingenious
construction. At the top of each pole, by means of the projecting arm
that gave it the look of a gallows, immense wooden letters were hung
out, one after the other; these letters were worked by means of wires
that passed down the poles into the little hut at its foot. Each wire
at the bottom had a label with its corresponding letter, and the
operator in the hut, by pulling the wire, pulled the letter into its
place at the top of the pole, and was thus able laboriously to spell
out the message he had to convey and to make it visible to the
operator at the next post, who passed it on to the next. These clumsy
telegrams could be sent, as far as I remember, only at certain hours
of the day, and I think that it must have been during a wayside halt
on this journey that I visited a hut with papa and had the system
explained to me and saw a message being sent, for I remember the
clatter and shaking as the big letters overhead were pulled into
place. I do not know whether this method of communication was used all
over France, but one or two of the old poles still survive in
Brittany.
[Illustration: The postilion sounded his horn]
Our first stop that day was at Quimperlé. The postilion, as we
approached a town or village, sounded his horn, and what excitement it
caused in these quiet little places when we came driving up, and how
all the people crowded round us!
The inn at Quimperlé was called the Hôtel du Trèfle Noir, and though
very primitive, the thatch showing through the rafters in the roof of
the immense kitchen-dining-room, it was scrupulously clean. We all sat
down together at the long table, servants, coachman, postilion, and
all, and the _déjeuner_ served to us by the good landlady was fit to
put before a king. I remember _maman_ laughing and asking her why she
served the salmon and, afterward, a heaping golden mound of fried
potatoes, on a great plank, and the landlady saying that she had no
dishes large enough. There was a turkey, too, stuffed with chestnuts
and of course _crêpes_ and cream. Next door to us, in a smaller room,
a band of commercial travelers were also lunching, and as we finished
each course it was carried in to those cheerful young fellows, whose
hurrahs of joy added zest to our own appetites. That night we slept at
Rennes, where I remember only that I was very tired and that a horrid
man who came to make a fire in our bedrooms spat upon the floor, to
our disgust and indignation. I remember, too, a very pleasant crisp
cake, or roll, that _maman_ gave me to eat before I went to bed.
It was on the third day that we drove at last into Paris, a fairy-land
to my gazing, stupefied eyes. What struck me most were the fountains
of the Place de la Concorde, the bronze mermaids holding the spouting
fish, and the little sunken gardens, four of them, that at that time
surrounded the obelisk. _Bon papa_ lived in the rue St. Dominique, St.
Germain, and as we drove up to the door I remember that it was under
blossoming acacia-trees and that the postilion blew a great blast
upon his horn to announce our arrival. The house, which was, indeed, a
very pleasing specimen of Louis XV architecture, looked palatial to my
childish eyes. _Bon papa_ was standing, very portly, on the terrace to
welcome us, and we ran into a park behind the house, with an avenue of
horse-chestnuts and a high fountain. But Brittany was left far behind,
and many, many years were to pass before I again saw my Loch-ar-Brugg.
THE END