“Whenever that very holy man, the Reverend Father, visits Quimper, they always make it a point of going to confess to him the very first night of his arrival.  The good Mother of the establishment, as she is called, is his cousin.  I am told that she is Madame la Comtesse, by right, but renounced the world for the sake of doing good.  The Reverend Father arrived only this evening by train.  He went straight to the palace, took a bouillon, and immediately came on here.  He is a great man.  You should come on Sunday and hear him preach.  There have been times when I have seen the women sob, and the men bow their heads.  But it grows late, sirs.  It is not worth while opening that west door again.  If you will follow me, I will let you out by the sacristy.  We will lock up together, and leave this great building to darkness and the ghosts.”

And ghosts indeed there seemed to be as we followed him up the aisle.  He put out the few lights that remained, until his torch alone guided our footsteps, which sounded in the immense space, and disturbed the mysterious silence by yet more mysterious echoes.  Lights and shadows cast by the torch flitted about like wings.  The choir gates were closed, and within them all was darkness and solemnity.  Finally we entered the sacristy, where again the surplices hanging up in rows looked strange and suggestive.  The old verger opened the door, extinguished his torch, and we stood once more in the outside night, under the stars and the sky.

“How often we come in for these experiences,” said H.C.  “How delightful they are; full of a sacred beauty and solemnity.  How few ever attempt to enter a cathedral at night, and how much they lose.  And yet,” he mused, “perhaps not so much as we imagine.  If their souls responded to such influences, they would seek them out.  The needle is attracted to the pole; like seeks like—­and finds it.  You cannot draw sweet water from a bitter well.”

The town was in darkness.  The shops were now all closed, but lights gleamed from many windows.  The beautiful latticed panes we had found in Morlaix were here very few and far between.  Here and there we came upon gabled outlines, but much that we saw seemed modern and unpicturesque; very tame and commonplace after our late experience in the cathedral.  The streets were silent and deserted; all doors were closed; the people of Quimper, like those of Morlaix, evidently carried out the good old rule of retiring early.  Occasionally we came upon a group of buildings, or a solitary house standing out conspicuously amidst its fellows, which promised well for the morrow, and made us “wish for the morning.”

When we found our way back to the quay, all was in darkness.  The fair had put out its lights, closed its doors, and dismissed the assembly.  Where the people had gone to, we knew not; we had seen none of them.  A few cafes were still open, and their lights fell across the pavement and athwart the roads, and gleamed upon the rustling trees.  We turned in to the hotel, where all was quiet.  The night was yet young, but the staircases were in darkness and we had to grope our way.  Decidedly it was the most uncivilized place we had yet come to, and Catherine was not very far wrong in her judgment.