This conductor--who was also the driver--declined to take us to any
other hotel than his own; would listen to no argument or reason. Had he
been civil, we might have accepted the situation, but it seemed evident
that an inn employing such a man was to be avoided. Unwilling to be
beaten, we sought the station-master and his advice.
"Why is the omnibus of the Hotel d'Europe not here?" we asked.
"No doubt the hotel is full. It is the moment of the great fair, you
know."
But we did not know. We knew of Leipzig Fair by sad experience, of
Bartholomew Fair by tradition, of the Fair of Novgorod by hearsay; but
of Morlaix Fair we had never heard.
"What is the fair?" we asked, with a sinking heart.
"The great Horse Fair," replied the station-master. "Surely you have
heard of it? No one ever visits Morlaix at the time of the fair unless
he comes to buy or sell horses."
Having come neither to buy nor sell horses, we felt crushed, and hoped
for the deluge. I proposed to re-enter the train and let it take us
whither it would--it mattered not. H.C. calmly suggested suicide.
"What is to be done?" he groaned. "The man refuses to take us to the
Hotel d'Europe. He is not sober; it is useless to argue with him."
"The fair again," laughed the official. "It is responsible for
everything just now, and Bretons are not the most sober people at the
best of times.
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