In Brittany, almost every church has a steeple of this kind.
Before returning to the city, we made a detour in order to visit the chapel of _La Mere-Dieu_.

As it is usually closed, our guide summoned the custodian, and the latter accompanied us with his little niece, who stopped along the road to pick flowers.

The young man walked in front of us.

His slender and flexible figure was encased in a jacket of light blue cloth, and the three velvet streamers of his black hat, which was carefully placed on the back of his head, over his knotted hair, hung down his back.
At the bottom of a valley, or rather a ravine, can be seen the church of _La Mere-Dieu_, veiled by thick foliage.

In this place, amid the silence of all these trees and because of its little Gothic portal (which appears to be of the thirteenth century, but which, in reality, is of the sixteenth), the church reminds one of the discreet chapels mentioned in old novels and old melodies, where they knighted the page starting for the Holy Land, one morning when the stars were dim and the lark trilled, while the mistress of the castle slipped her white hand through the bars of the iron gate and wept when he kissed her goodbye.
We entered the church.