It was a
beautiful sight, and the excitement of the Parisians amused the jolly
fishermen mightily.
Francois Darbois led his party to the carriage that was waiting, a
brake with six seats, drawn by two farm horses. The farmer on the box
seat was beaming with pride at the return of his patrons.
It is more than an hour's journey from Palais to Penhouet, but the
road seemed short, on account of its variety of view. Leaving Palais,
there was first of all the ropemakers rolling long strands of hemp
with their fingers almost bleeding over the task. They had chosen a
charming spot; shaded by a little orchard they worked and sang the
ropemaker's song, with a lingering, dragging melody. And then, after
passing a little wood, the island itself came into view. It was
covered with gorse, like a series of Oriental carpets dotted with the
gold of the broom in bloom, woven with rose heather, and red heather,
and purple heather. The bright green foliage of the wild roses
"appeared" like arabesques. The sky, hanging low, bluish green,
without a cloud, seemed as a silken film stretched to filter the heat
of the sun. At a turn in the road the plain disappeared to give place
to little hills, which rise from every side to defend from wind and
rain the beautiful golden wheat, with its heads drooping under the
weight of the heavy grain.
"Ah!" cried Esperance joyfully, standing up in the carriage, "I can
see there is the farm just ahead.
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