In Brittany, almost every church has a steeple of
this kind.
Before returning to the city, we made a detour in order to visit the
chapel of _La Mere-Dieu_. As it is usually closed, our guide summoned
the custodian, and the latter accompanied us with his little niece, who
stopped along the road to pick flowers. The young man walked in front of
us. His slender and flexible figure was encased in a jacket of light
blue cloth, and the three velvet streamers of his black hat, which was
carefully placed on the back of his head, over his knotted hair, hung
down his back.
At the bottom of a valley, or rather a ravine, can be seen the church of
_La Mere-Dieu_, veiled by thick foliage. In this place, amid the silence
of all these trees and because of its little Gothic portal (which
appears to be of the thirteenth century, but which, in reality, is of
the sixteenth), the church reminds one of the discreet chapels mentioned
in old novels and old melodies, where they knighted the page starting
for the Holy Land, one morning when the stars were dim and the lark
trilled, while the mistress of the castle slipped her white hand through
the bars of the iron gate and wept when he kissed her goodbye.
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