Where are the inhabitants? One would think that they had all left the
village to lie in wait behind the furze-bushes to catch a glimpse of the
_Blues_ who are about to pass through the ravine.
The church is poor and perfectly bare. No beautiful painted saints, no
pictures on the walls or on the roof, no hanging lamp oscillating at the
end of a long, straight cord. In a corner of the choir, a wick was
burning in a glass filled with oil. Round wooden pillars hold up the
roof, the blue paint of which has been freshened recently. The bright
light of the fields, filtering through the green foliage which covers
the roof of the church, shines through the white window-panes. The door,
a little wooden door that closes with a latch, was open; a flight of
birds came in, chirping and beating their wings against the walls; they
fluttered for awhile beneath the vault and around the altar, two or
three alighted upon the holy-water basin, to moisten their beaks, and
then all flew away as suddenly as they had come.
It is not an unusual thing to see birds in the Breton churches; many
live there and fasten their nests to the stones of the nave; they are
never disturbed.
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