The little rift within the lute?  Ah, who is without it?  What household has not its skeleton?  Where shall we find perfect happiness—­or anything perfect?  In this instance it was soon apparent to us; and again we marvelled at the inconsistency of human nature; the incongruity of things; the way men spoil their lives and make crooked things that ought to be, and might have been, so straight.

We could not help wondering what sort of help-meet this Apollo had chosen for himself; what angelic mother had given to the world this little blue-eyed cherub, whose fitting place seemed not earth but heaven.

Even as we wondered we were answered.  A voice called to the child from above, and the child turned its lovely head, but moved not.  Then the owner of the voice was heard descending, and the mother appeared.  We were dismayed.  Never had we seen a woman more abandoned and neglected.  Everything about her was slovenly.  Her hair fell about her face and shoulders in tangled masses; her clothing was torn and neglected.  We had seen such exhibitions in the dens of London, never in a decent household.  It made us feel inexpressibly sad and sorrowful.  Here was a great mystery; two people terribly ill-matched.  We glanced at the husband, expecting to see a flush mantling his brow.  But he quietly went on with what he was about, as though he saw not, and mother and child disappeared upstairs.

Here, then, whether he knew it or not, was the little rift within the lute.  An ill-assorted marriage, a life-long mistake.  Had he looked and chosen above him, his help-meet might have assisted him to rise in the world and to become famous.  As it was, he had been caught by a pretty face—­for, with due care and attention and a settled expression, the face would have been undoubtedly pretty—­and had sealed his fate.  With such a wife no man could rise.

We left him to his art and went our way, very sorrowful.  It was a lovely morning, and we started back for the hotel, having arranged to take a drive at a certain hour along the river banks to the sea.

We found the conveyance ready for us.  Monsieur, by special attentions, was making up for the lapses of that one terrible night.

Above us, as we went, stretched the gigantic viaduct, so singular a contrast with the ancient houses and remains of this old town; forming a comparison that certainly makes Morlaix one of the most remarkable towns in France.  Beneath it rose the houses on the rocky slopes, one above another, so that from the back you may almost enter them from the roof, as you do some of the Tyrolese chalets.  In Morlaix it has given rise to a proverb:  “Du jardin au grenier, comme on dit a Morlaix.”

[Illustration:  MORLAIX.]

Beneath the viaduct, far down, was the river and the little port, where vessels of considerable tonnage may anchor, and which has added much to the prosperity of the town, that trades largely in corn, vegetables, butter, honey, wax, oil-seeds, and—­as we have seen—­horses.  There is also a large tobacco manufactory here, which gives employment to an immense number of hands.