And the Celts mourned three barren rocks, under a lowering sky, in the
heart of a gulf dotted with islets.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, SALAMMBÔ.
Yves and I take our departure, leaving little Pierre with his
grandmother. We follow the green lane, under the vault of oaks and
beeches, hearing in the distance, in the sonorousness of the evening,
the noise of the rocking of the ancient cradle and the old lullaby and
the outburst of child's laughter.
Outside, there is still daylight; the sun, very low, gilds the tranquil
countryside.
"Let us go as far as the chapel of Saint Eloi," says Yves.
The chapel is on the top of the hill; very old it is, and corroded with
moss, bearded with lichen, alone always, closed and mysterious in the
midst of the woods.
It opens but once in the year, for the "pardon" of the horses, which are
brought hither in great numbers, at the hour of a low mass which is said
here for them. This "pardon" was held quite recently and the grass is
still trodden down by the hoofs of the beasts which came.
This evening there is a strange tranquillity round the chapel. The
wooded horizons, stretching out into the distance, are very peaceful, as
if they were about to fall asleep. It seems also that it might be the
evening of our own life, and that all that we had to do now was to rest
here for ever, watching the night descend on the Breton countrysides, to
let ourselves sink gently into this sleep of nature.
"All the same," says Yves, very thoughtful, "I feel sure that it will be
to somewhere over there (_over there_ means Plouherzel) that I shall
return when I get old, so that they may lay me near Kergrist Chapel; you
know, where I showed you? Yes, I am sure I shall find my way there to
die."
Kergrist Chapel, in the district of Goëlo, under a lowering sky; the
sea-water lake, and, in the middle, the granite islets, the great
squatting beast asleep on the grey plain. . . . I can see the place now,
as it appeared to me, many years ago already, on a winter's day. And I
remember that there is Yves' native land, there is the earth which
awaits him. When he is far away at sea, at night, in hours of danger,
there is the grave of which he dreams.
"Yves, my dear brother, we are two great children, I assure you. Often
very merry when there is no cause, here now we are sad and talking
nonsense at a moment when peace and happiness by rare good fortune have
come to us. I doubt very much if the newness of the experience is
sufficient excuse.
"For who to look at us would imagine we were capable of dreaming these
foolish things in our waking hours, simply because the night is falling
and there is stillness in the woods?
"Think of it! We are neither of us more than thirty-two years old.
Before us yet there should be many more years of life, years that will
be filled with travel, with danger, with suffering. To each of us will
come sunshine, and beauty, and love . . . and, perhaps, who
knows?--between us there may be again scenes, rebellions, struggles!"
In many fewer words than there are above all this crossed his dream.
And he answered me with an air of sad reproach:
"But you know well, brother, that I am altered now, and that there is
_one thing_ which is finished for ever. There is no need to speak to me of
that."
And I grip the hand of my brother Yves trying to smile as one who had
completest confidence.
The stories of real life ought to be able to be finished at will like
the stories in books. . . .
THE END