“It is because they have more temptations,” said H.C., pleading the cause of his own sex.  “Women had more to do with home and the pot-au-feu.”

At this moment our hostess’s pot-au-feu began to boil over, and she darted across the room, took it off the fire and returned, laughing.

“Even the pot-au-feu we cannot always manage, it seems,” she remarked; “and so there are faults on all sides.  Sometimes on a Sunday her husband went and spent the day at Roscoff, where he had a cousin living.  Did messieurs know Roscoff—­a deadly-lively little place, with a quaint harbour, where there was a chapel to commemorate the landing of Marie Stuart?”

We said we did not know it, but purposed visiting it on the morrow if the skies ceased their deluge.

“Why does your husband not turn fisherman,” we asked, “instead of buying his fish from others, and so selling it second-hand at a smaller profit?  You are so close to the sea.”

“Dame,” replied the woman, “it is not his trade.  He was never brought up to the sea; always hated it.  And for the rest,” she added, with a shudder, “Heaven forbid that he should turn fisherman!  She had once dreamed three times running that he was drowned at sea; and she had feared the water ever since.  She had almost made her husband take a vow that he would never go upon the sea.  He generally took part once a year in the regatta; of course, there could be no danger; but she trembled the whole time until she saw him returning safe and sound.  No, no!  Chacun a son metier.”

Here we interrupted the flow of eloquence, though the woman was really interesting with her straightforward confidences, her rather picturesque patois, and her numerous gestures.

We went to the door and surveyed the elements.  The skies were cowering; the rain came down like a revengeful cataract; the road was flooded, and the water was beginning to flood the room.  In front the river looked cold and threatening; it flowed towards the sea with an angry rush; our vehicle was refreshing itself before the door, and the horse and driver had taken refuge in the stable.  The tops of the surrounding hills were hidden in mist; everywhere the rain roared.  The scene was dreary and desolate in the extreme.

At this moment the driver appeared.  “Was it of any use waiting?  He knew the climate pretty well; the rain would never cease till sundown.  Had we not better make the best of it and get back to Morlaix?”

We thought so, and gave the signal for departure.  Our patience was exhausted—­and so was our coffee.  Our hostess was distressed.  At least we would borrow an umbrella, and her husband’s thick coat, and perhaps her shawl for our knees.  She was too good; genuinely kind hearted; and in despair when we accepted nothing.  We bade her farewell, settled her modest demands, and set out for Morlaix.