A muddy stretch of land, into which we sank up to our ankles, extends
from Carnac to the village of Po. A boat was waiting for us; we entered
it, and they hoisted the sail and pushed off. Our sailor, an old man
with a cheerful face, sat aft; he fastened a line to the gunwale and let
his peaceful boat go its own way. There was hardly any wind; the blue
sea was calm and the narrow track the rudder ploughed in the waters
could be seen for a long time. The old fellow was talkative; he spoke of
the priests, whom he disliked, of meat, which he thought was a good
thing to eat even on fast days, of the work he had had when he was in
the navy, and of the shots he had received when he was a customs
officer.... The boat glided along slowly, the line followed us and the
end of the _tape-cul_ hung in the water.
The mile we had to walk in order to go from Saint-Pierre to Quiberon was
quickly covered, in spite of a hilly and sandy road, and the sun, which
made our shoulders smart beneath the straps of our bags, and a number of
"men-hirs" that were scattered along the route.
CHAPTER IV.
QUIBERON.
In Quiberon, we breakfasted at old Rohan Belle-Isle's, who keeps the
Hotel Penthievre.
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