"But what?" said the old man, kindly.
"Did you notice that woman's reception of me, and the way she spoke?"
"That woman? Oh, my lady! Hm—she's not too polite to those she considers her inferiors!"
"Polite! To me it was imperious, insolent, degrading! But I can put up with it!" And he added softly to himself, "For Marian's sake!"
A Peasant Wedding in Britany.
On the crest of a high hill in the very heart of Britany—far from railroads, and where stage coaches are rare visitors, welcomed at long intervals—stands a quaint old village, nestling between copse and vineyard. A single jagged street staggers eccentrically from brow to brow; a line of tottering huts, moss-grown, mud-plastered, straw-thatched, stretches on either side; a curious little one-sided church, with square and toppling tower, rusted iron cross, shapeless windows, and obstinately crooked roof, stands in the centre; before which lies, worn by much use. the village lawn.
I was making the tour of Britany with my own horse and chaise, and climbed the long road which ascended to La Vertou, late in the afternoon of an autumn day, when the fruit of the ripe vineyards yielded a thick and delicious perfume to the air. On driving into the village street, and while directing my whole attention to the search for a possible village inn—for it was by no means certain that I should find such an institution—I was struck by a certain activity among the primitive folk, in contrast with the sleepy air of the other villages through which I had passed. The huts seemed to have emptied their whole population—old, middle aged, youthful, and infantile—into the road; there was fast talking and laughter. The good peasant people, too, were unusually well dressed; the men's hats were not quite so dirty and sun-tanned, their blue blouses not quite so crumpled, their shoes not quite so rough as I had been wont to see; the same was observable of the women's coifs, shawls, and chains. On the lawn, certain rustic games were going forward; at the doors of the shops, the gossips were gathered, in high glee. I observed one group, larger than the rest, which seemed to attract particular attention. A middle-aged peasant, with a hardy-looking woman by his side, closely followed by a younger couple, and behind them by a merry shoal of village lads and maidens, was passing from shop to shop, stopping a while at each. As the peasant approached the village merchant would advance, with great ceremony doff his hat and salute him and usher him and his troupe within; while the gossips would separate and allow the company to pass, and then crowd eager round the door. I was sorely perplexed to guess what this was all about.
There was the village inn at last, right under the little church, with a big elm in front, and seats around its trunk; an odd gable jutting out streetwards; and a smiling fat landlord and his buxom dame bowing and smirking in the doorway, happy to have a stranger guest. Horse and chaise were stowed away—where, I knew not, and know not to this day—my small quantity of luggage was deposited in the best room but one, and in a quarter of an hour I was seated at a simple, clean, and tempting table, with a bottle of capital wine at my elbow, and a plump roast fowl before me. As I was thirsting for company quite as much as for wine, I bade mine host sit at table with me and partake. I asked him (the calls of hunger partially satisfied) what saint's festival it was? Mine host laughed a slight respectful laugh, and with the French genius for repartee, replied:
"What saint, Monsieur? Why, Saint Matrimony, parbleu!"
He then proceeded to inform me that Nannine, the daughter of Picquet, the village sabôt maker, was to be wedded on the morrow to Jacques Blot, a thriving young farmer of the neighbourhood.
"You see, Monsieur, when a youngster among us falls in love with a lass, the first thing he does is to run to the village tailor. Monsieur, the village tailor is our notary, and keeps our family secrets, and makes our marriages. And Monsieur Poppeau, our village tailor, is one of your model hommes d'affaires. Dame! he is the hardest headed, most silent, profoundest, most persuasive man in France. Well, 'tis he to whom young Jacques resorted, to promote his suit with the pretty little Nannine. Monsieur Poppeau forthwith shoulders his broom."
"His broom?"
"Monsieur, the symbol of his errand. When one sees the broom coming, one knows that one's daughter is sought for, and is to be swept out of one's house. Monsieur Poppeau, broom on shoulder, repairs to Monsieur Picquet. The marriage contract is drawn by Monsieur Poppeau, who has, as perquisites, presents of blouses and franc pieces, a pair of stockings of different colours—worked by Nannine's fingers—and a place of honour at all the marriage ceremonies. Then comes the civil marriage, which you doubtless know about. But they are not tied yet, not by a good deal. For a fortnight, each goes back to his and her own house, works as usual, seldom sees the other beloved, and waits in patience—parbleu, how hard it is!—for the proper time to expire. This rather uncomfortable fortnight Jacques and Nannine have just completed; it was over to-day; and to-morrow they will be fairly tied by the ceremony of the church."
"But what was being done to-day?"
"Ah, to-day! Yes, they were buying the wedding presents. The two middle-aged folk you saw at the head of the procession were the father of Jacques, and the mother of Nannine: each of the young couple having but one parent
