Again the same man, the same horse, the same mail-bag. He
was ambling quietly towards Quiberon; he would be back directly and
return again the next day. He is the guest of the coast; he passes in
the morning and again at night. His life is spent going from one point
to another; he is the only one who gives the coast some animation,
something to look forward to, and, I was almost going to say, some
charm.
He stopped and talked to us for a few minutes, then lifted his hat and
was off again.
What an ensemble! What a horse, and what a rider! What a picture! Callot
would probably have reproduced it, but it would take Cervantes to write
it.
After passing over large pieces of rock that have been placed in the sea
in order to shorten the route by cutting the back of the bay in two, we
finally arrived at Plouharnel.
The village was quiet; chickens cackled and scratched in the streets,
and in the gardens enclosed by stone walls, weeds and oats grew side by
side.
While we were sitting in front of the host's door, an old beggar passed
us. He was as red as a lobster, dirty and unkempt and covered with rags
and vermin. The sun shone on his dilapidated garments and on his purple
skin; it was almost black and seemed to transude blood.
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