Toulven, 30_th April._
The cottage of the old Keremenens, as darkness is falling on an evening
of April. Our little party has just returned from a walk: Yves, Marie,
Anne, little Corentine "golden locks," and "little black man" Pierre.
_Four_ candles are burning in the cottage (_three_ would be unlucky).
On an old table of massive oak, polished by the years, there are paper,
pens and sand. Benches have been placed round. Very solemn things are
about to happen.
We put down our harvest of herbs and flowers, which shed a perfume of
April in the old cottage, and take our places.
Presently two dear old women enter with an important air: they say good
evening with a curtsey, which makes their large starched collarettes
stand upright, and sit down in a corner. Then Pierre Kerbras, who is
engaged to Anne. At last everybody is placed and we are all complete.
It is the great evening for the settlement of the family arrangements,
when the old Keremenens are going to fulfil the promise they have made
to their children. The two of them rise and open an old chest on which
the carvings represent Sacred Hearts alternating with cocks; they remove
papers, clothing, and from the bottom, take a little sack which seems
heavy. Then they go to their bed, lift up the mattress and search
beneath: a second sack!
They empty the sacks on the table, in front of their son Yves, and then
appear all those shining pieces of gold and silver, stamped with ancient
effigies, which, for the last half century, have been amassed one by one
and put in hiding. They are counted out in little piles; the two
thousand francs promised are there.
Now comes the turn of the old aunt who rises and empties a third little
sack; another thousand francs in gold.
The old neighbour comes last; she brings five hundred in a stocking
foot. And all this is lent to Yves, all this is heaped before him. He
signs two little receipts on white paper and hands them to the two old
lenders who make their curtsey preparatory to leaving, but who are
detained, as custom ordains, and made to drink a glass of cider with us.
It is over. All this has been done without a notary, without a deed,
without discussion, with a confidence and a simple honesty that are
things of Toulven.
"Rat-tat-tat!" at the door. It is the contractor for the building, and
he arrives in the nick of time.
But with this gentleman it is desirable to use stamped paper. He is an
old rogue from Quimper, with only a smattering of French, but he seems
cunning enough for all that, with his town manners.
It is given to me to explain to him a plan which we had thought out
during our evenings on board, and in which a room is provided for me. I
discuss the construction in the smallest details and the price of all
the materials, with an air of knowledge which imposes on the old man,
but which makes Yves and me laugh, when by ill-luck our eyes chance to
meet.
On a sheet bearing a twelve sou stamp I write two pages of clauses and
details:
"A house built of granite, cemented with sand from the seashore,
limewashed, joinered in chestnut wood, with skylit attic, shutters
painted green, etc., etc., the whole to be finished before the 1st May
of next year and at the price fixed in advance of two thousand nine
hundred and fifty francs."
This work and this concentration of mind have made me quite tired; I am
surprised at myself, and I can see that they all are amazed at my
foresight and my economy. It is unbelievable what these good people have
made me do.
At last it is signed and sealed. We drink cider and shake hands all
round. And Yves now is a landowner in Toulven. They look so happy, Yves
and his wife, that I regret no part of the trouble I have taken for
them.
The two old ladies make their final curtsey, and all the others, even
little Pierre, who has been allowed to stay up, come with me, in the
fine moonlit night, as far as the inn.
Toulven, 1_st May_, 1881.
We are very busy, Yves and I, assisted by old Corentin Keremenen,
measuring with string the land to be acquired.
First of all we had to select it, and that took us all yesterday
morning. For Yves it was a very serious matter this fixing of the site
of his little house, in which he pictured, in the background of a
melancholy and strange distance, his retirement, his old age and death.
After many goings and comings we had decided on this spot. It is in the
outskirts of Toulven, on the road which leads to Rosporden, on high
ground, facing a little village square which is brightened this morning
by a population of noisy fowls and red-cheeked children. On one side is
Toulven and its church, on the other the great woods.
At the moment it is just an oatfield very green. We have measured it
carefully in all directions; reckoned by the square yard it will cost
fourteen hundred and ninety francs, without counting the lawyer's fees.
How steady Yves will have to be, and how he will have to save to pay all
that! He becomes very serious when he thinks of it.