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!"
"It is _he_ they are rocking," said Yves, smiling. "Come in!"
This cottage of the old Keremenen people is half-buried and overgrown
with moss. Above it the oaks and beeches spread their green vault; it
seems as old as the earth of the lanes.
Inside the light is dim; one sees the press-beds in line with cupboards
along the rough granite of the walls.
A grandmother in a large white collarette is within, singing beside the
new-born son, singing an air of the time of her own childhood.
In an old-fashioned Breton cradle, which, before him, had rocked his
forbears, lies the little sea-gull: a fat baby three days old, very
round, very dark, already tanned like a mariner, and sleeping now with
his closed fists under his chin. He has a growth of short hair, which
appears below his bonnet on his forehead, like the coat of a mouse. I
kiss him affectionately, for he is Yves' baby.
"Poor little sea-gull!" I say as I touch as gently as possible the
little mouse's coat, "he has not so far got many feathers."
"That's true!" says Yves, smiling. "And look," he added, opening with
infinite precaution the little closed fist and spreading it on his rough
hand. "I have not been very successful: he is not web-footed."
We are told that Marie Keremenen is lying in one of the beds, the little
perforated wooden door of which has been closed on her, because she has
just fallen asleep; we lower our voices for fear of awakening her, and
Yves and I go out, for we have many things to see to in the village in
view of to-morrow's ceremony.
[Footnote 4: These words have no meaning in Breton, any more than
"mironton, mirontaine" in the old French lullaby. They were probably
invented by the old woman who sang them.]