But you must attend a fete in order to gain an insight into the gloomy
character of these people. They don't dance; they merely turn; they
don't sing; they only whistle. That very evening we went to a
neighbouring village to be present at the inauguration of a
threshing-floor. Two _biniou_ players were stationed on top of the wall
surrounding the yard, and played continuously while two long lines of
men and women, following in one anothers' footsteps, trotted around the
place and described several figures. The lines would turn, break up and
form again at irregular intervals. The heavy feet of the dancers struck
the ground without the slightest attempt at rhythm, while the shrill
notes of the music succeeded one another rapidly and with desperate
monotony. The dancers who tired withdrew without interrupting the dance,
and when they had rested, they re-entered it. During the whole time we
watched this peculiar performance, the crowd stopped only once, while
the musicians drank some cider; then, when they had finished, the lines
formed anew and the dance began again. At the entrance of the yard was a
table covered with nuts; beside it stood a pitcher of brandy and on the
ground was a keg of cider; near by stood a citizen in a green frock coat
and a leather cap; a little farther away was a man wearing a jacket and
a sword suspended from a white shoulder-belt; they were the _commissaire
de police_, of Pont-l'Abbe and his _garde-champetre_.
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