the picture to our imagination, where at least it was perfect.

So we went on without lifting the latch; and H.C. fell into raptures
over the rising moon and the quaint gables that stood out so gloriously
and mysteriously in the pale light. A warmer glow illumined many a
lattice. We were surrounded by deep lights and shadows, and felt
ourselves steeped in a world of the past, holding familiar intercourse
with ghosts that haunted every nook and crevice, every doorway, every
niche and archway of this old-world town.

At the hotel, we found Madame Hellard taking the air at her doorway, her
hands calmly folded in her favourite attitude of rest and
contentment--or was it expectation?

"Was I not a prophet?" was her first greeting. "Did I not say this
morning 'No umbrellas?' Have we not had a glorious day!"

"But the dust?" we objected.

"Ah!" cried Madame, "on oublie toujours le chat dans le coin, as they
say in the Morbihan. Yet there must always be a drawback; you cannot
have perfection; and I maintain that dust is better than rain. But what
did you think of le Folgoët, messieurs?"

We declared that we could not give expression to our thoughts and
emotions.

"A la bonne heure! Did I not tell you that we had nothing like it in our
neighbourhood--or in any other, for all I know? Did I in the least
exaggerate?"