The vision faded as we turned our backs upon the sea and the crowd and entered upon our return journey.  The zigzag was passed and the houses, where now we looked down the chimneys and now into the cellars.  In due time we came to the high road.  It was crowded with vehicles all waiting the end of the races and the return of the multitude.  Apparently it was “first come, first served,” for we had our choice of all—­a veritable embarras de choix.  It was made and we started.  Very soon, on the other side the river, we came in sight of our little auberge, A la halte des Pecheurs, where on a memorable occasion we had taken refuge from a second deluge.  And there, at its door, stood Madame Mirmiton, anxiously looking down the road for the return of her husband from the Regatta.  Whether he had recovered from his sprain, or had found a friendly conveyance to give him a seat, did not appear.

We went our way; the river separated us from the inn and there was no ferry at hand.  Many like ourselves were returning; there was no want of movement and animation.  It was not a picturesque crowd, for there were no costumes, and the bourgeoisie of Morlaix are not more interesting than others of their class.

At last loomed upon us the great viaduct, and a train rolled over as we rolled under it.  The vessels in the little port had mounted their flags and looked gay, in honour of the occasion.  We entered Morlaix for the last time, for we were to leave on the morrow.  Madame Hellard was not taking the air; she and Monsieur were enjoying a moment’s repose in the bureau.  They now invariably greeted us as habitues of the house.

“But you have neither of you been to the Regatta,” we observed.

“I go nowhere without my wife,” gallantly responded our host.

“And I was too busy with our wedding breakfast to think of anything else,” said Madame.  “And, to tell you the truth, I don’t care for regattas.  I can see no pleasure in watching which of two or which of half-a-dozen boats comes in first.  The people interest me; but it is really almost as amusing to see them passing one’s own door, and not half so tiring.  I hope, messieurs, you have returned with good appetites:  I have ordered you some crepes.  Was it not funny to see the old women tossing them on the slopes?”

“Al fresco fetes,” chimed in Monsieur.  “Ah, la jeunesse! la jeunesse!  Youth is the time for enjoyment. Donnez-moi vos vingt ans si vous n’en faites rien! So says the old song—­so say I. And now you are going to leave us, and to-morrow we shall be in total eclipse,” he added, determined not to leave us out in his compliments.  “But you are right—­you cannot stay here for ever.  You have seen all that is of note in Morlaix and the neighbourhood, and you will be charmed with Quimper.”

“Quimper?  I would rather live fifty years in Morlaix than a hundred in Quimper,” cried Catherine, who came in at that moment for the menus.  “The river smells horribly, the town is dirty and stuffy, and it always rains there.  And as for the hotels—­enfin, you will see!”