My mother was a beautiful woman with black hair and eyes of an intense dark blue. She was unaware of her own loveliness, and was much amused one day when her little boy, after gazing intently at her, said, "_Maman_, you are very beautiful." She repeated this remark, laughing, to my father, on which he said, "Yes, my dear, you are." My mother was extremely proud, and not at all flattered that she should be plain Mme. Kerouguet, although she was devoted to my father and it was the happiest _ménage_. I remember one day seeing her bring to my father, looking, for all her feigned brightness, a little conscious, some new visiting-cards she had had printed, with the name of Kerouguet reduced to a simple initial, and followed by several of the noble ancestral names of her own family. "What's this?" said my father, laughing. "We needed some new cards," said my mother, "and I dislike so much the name of Kerouguet." But my father, laughing more than ever, said: "Kerouguet you married and Kerouguet you must remain," and the new cards had to be relinquished. My mother, with her black hair and blue eyes, had a charming nose of the sort called "_un nez Roxalane_." It began very straight and fine, but had a flattened little plateau on the tip which we called "_la promenade de maman_." My memory of her then is of a very active, gay, authoritative young woman, going to balls, paying and receiving visits, and riding out with my father, wearing the sweeping habit of those days and an immense beaver hat and plume. Quimper is an old town, and the _hôtels_ of the _noblesse_, all situated in the same quarter and on a steep street, were of blackened, crumbling stone. From _portes-cochères_ one entered the courtyards, and the gardens behind stretched far into the country. In the courtyard of our _hôtel_ was a stone staircase, with elaborate carvings, like those of the Breton churches, leading to the upper stories, but for use there were inner staircases. My mother's boudoir, the _petit salon_, the _grand salon_, the _salle-à-manger_, and the billiard-room were on the ground floor and gave out upon the garden. The high walls that ran along the street and surrounded the garden were concealed by plantations of trees, so that one seemed to look out into the country. Flower beds were under the salon-windows, and there were long borders of wild strawberries that had been transplanted from the woods, as my mother was very fond of them. Fruit-trees grew against the walls, and beyond the groves and flower beds and winding gravel paths was an orchard, with apricot-, pear-, and apple-trees, and the clear little river Odel, with its washing-stones, where the laundry-maids beat the household linen in the cold, running water.