gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. As to his
wife, the only grievance her champions could call up in her
behalf was that Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her
husband was away on business at Rennes or Morlaix--whither she
was never taken--she was not allowed so much as to walk in the
park unaccompanied. But no one asserted that she was unhappy,
though one servant-woman said she had surprised her crying, and
had heard her say that she was a woman accursed to have no child,
and nothing in life to call her own. But that was a natural
enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and certainly
it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that she gave
him no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as a
reproach--she herself admits this in her evidence--but seemed to
try to make her forget it by showering gifts and favours on her.
Rich though he was, he had never been open-handed; but nothing
was too fine for his wife, in the way of silks or gems or linen,
or whatever else she fancied. Every wandering merchant was
welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was called away he never
came back without bringing his wife a handsome present--something
curious and particular--from Morlaix or Rennes or Quimper. One
of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an interesting
list of one year's gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a carved
ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had
brought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarte,
above Ploumanac'h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by
the nuns of the Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that
opened and showed an amber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from
Morlaix, again, a length of Damascus velvet shot with gold,
bought of a Jew from Syria; and for Michaelmas that same year,
from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round stones--emeralds and