[Illustration: GRANDE RUE, MORLAIX.]
Not only the house, but the whole street was in darkness. Not the ghost
of a glimmer appeared from any window or doorway; not a gas-light from
end to end. Oil lamps ought to have been slung across from house to
house to keep up the character of the thoroughfare; but here,
apparently, consistency was less thought of than economy. We looked and
looked, every moment expecting a cloaked watchman to appear, with
lantern casting weird flashes around and a sepulchral voice calling the
hour and the weather. But _Il Sereno_ of Majorca had no counterpart in
Morlaix; the darkness, silence and solitude remained unbroken.
We were the sole group of humanity visible, and must have appeared
singular as the still flaring candle lighted up our faces, pale and
anxious from fatigue, threw out in huge proportions the head of our
guide, bound up as if prepared for the grave for which he was fast
qualifying.
After a time Misery gave another peal at the bell, and, borrowing a
stick, drummed a tattoo upon the door that might have waked the departed
Mediaevals. This at length brought forth fruit.
A latticed window was opened, a white figure appeared, a nightcapped
head was put forth without ceremony, a feminine voice, sleepy and
indignant, demanded who thus disturbed the sacred silence of the night.
"The gentlemen are here," said Andre, mildly.
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