228 GOLDEN DAYS 



non. Je ne suis pas F7~an^ais moi ; je 

 suis Breton r 



Now we were passing the first low 

 houses of the village, wrapped in sleep, 

 waking the echoes along the cobbled 

 street, and then we reached the station's 

 ugliness. A sleepy porter handed down 

 my bags ; we found the stuffy salle 

 d'attente, with its ill-smelling, flickering 

 lamp. At last the great train rolled in 

 and halted panting. I climbed aboard. 

 The sleepy porter walked the platform's 

 length, intoning the station's name, like 

 some muezzin crying from a mosque a 

 prayer to Allah in the silent night. The 

 great train jibbed and groaned upon the 

 metals, then glided smoothly out between 

 tall signal lights of red and green. 



Leaning from the open window I 

 marked the loose-limbed, blue-bloused 

 figure of Jean Pierre as he stood alone on 

 the platform, his old beribboned beaver 

 hat shading his face. 



He raised a hand. 

 ***** 



That was four years ago. To-night 

 my thoughts lead me back along that 



