CHAPTER VII.
PONT-L'ABBE.
At five o'clock in the evening, we arrived at Pont-l'Abbe, covered with quite a respectable coating of mud and dust, which fell from our clothing upon the floor of the inn with such disastrous abundance, every time we moved, that we were almost mortified at the mess we made.
Pont-l'Abbe is a peaceful little town, cut in two in its entire length by a broad, paved street.

Its modest inhabitants cannot possibly look any more stupid or insignificant than the place itself.
For those who must see something wherever they go, there are the unimportant remains of the castle and the church, an edifice that would be quite passable were it not for the thick coat of paint that covers it.

The chapel of the Virgin was a bower of flowers; bunches of jonquils, pansies, roses, jessamine, and honeysuckle were arranged in blue glasses or white china vases and spread their bright colours over the altar and upward between the two tall candlesticks framing the Virgin's face and her silver crown, from which fell a long veil caught on the gold star of the plaster Infant she held in her arms.

One could smell the odour of the holy water and the flowers.

It was a perfumed, mysterious little nook all by itself, a hidden retreat decorated by loving hands, and peculiarly adapted for the exhalation of mystical desires and long, heart-broken orisons.