"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.
Darne! 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