Our boat grated on the pebbles, and in order to leave it, we were compelled to walk on an oar as if it were a tight-rope.
Ensconced between the citadel and its ramparts, and cut in two by an almost empty port, the Palay appeared to us a useless little town overcome with military ennui, and put me in mind, I do not know why, of a gaping _sous-officier_.
One fails to see the low-crowned, broad-brimmed black felt hats of Le Morbihan, that give protection to the shoulders as well as the head.

The women do not affect the big, white caps that stand out from their faces, and reach down their backs like those worn by the nuns, so that when worn by little girls they cover half of their bodies.

Their gowns are made without the wide stripe of velvet applied on each shoulder and rounding away under the arms.

Nor do they wear the low shoes with square toes, high heels, and long black ribbon streamers.

Here, as elsewhere, we found faces that resemble other faces, costumes that really are no costumes at all, cobblestones, and even a sidewalk.
Was it worth while to expose ourselves to seasickness (which, by the way, we escaped, a fact that inclined us to leniency), only to see a citadel that we do not admire, a lighthouse that did not appeal to us in the least, and a rampart built by Vauban, of whom we were already heartily tired?
But people had spoken to us of Belle-Isle's rocks.