When we were ushered into the house it was usually into the dining-room that we went. The drawing-room, which was called the _salle de compagnie_, was used only on ceremonious occasions, Easter, the bishop's visit, or when the _noblesse_ from the surrounding country called, and the proudest among them were proud to do so. So in the _salle de compagnie_, where engravings of the family coats of arms hung along the walls, the ugly, massive mahogany furniture was usually shrouded in cotton covers, and it was in the dining-room that the sisters sat, making clothes for the poor. Here the pictures interested me very much; they were _naif_, brightly colored prints bought at the Landerneau fairs, and representing events in the lives of the saints. St. Christopher, bending with his staff in the turbulent stream, bore on his shoulder a child so tiny that I could never imagine why its weight should incommode him, and another doll-like child stood on the volume held by St. Anthony of Padua. The oil-cloth cover on the table had all the kings and queens of France marching in procession round its border, the dates of their reigns printed above their heads. The chairs were common straw-bottomed kitchen chairs. _Maman_ sometimes tried to persuade the sisters to paint the chairs, saying that if they were painted bright red, for instance, it would make the room so much more cheerful. But to any such suggestion they would reply, with an air of gentle surprise: "Oh, but _maman_ had them like that. We can't change anything that _maman_ had." Their large bedroom was on the first floor, looking out at the street. It was a most dismal room. The two four-posted beds, side by side, had canopies and curtains of old tapestry, but this was all covered with black cambric muslin and had the most funereal air imaginable. At the head of Isménie's bed, crossed against the black, were two bones that she had brought from the family vault on some occasion when the coffins had been moved or opened. The only cheerful thing I remember was a childish little _étagère_ fastened in a corner and filled with the waxen figures of the _petit Jésus_, and the tiny china dogs, cats and birds that had been among their presents on Christmas mornings. To give an idea of the extreme simplicity and innocence of the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun I may say here that to the end of their lives they firmly believed that _le petit Jésus_ himself came down their kitchen chimney on Christmas eve and left their presents for them on the kitchen table. _Le petit Jésus_, as a matter of fact, was on these occasions impersonated by _maman_ and Tante Rose. Tante Rose always had the key of the sisters' house, so that at any time she could go in and see that nothing was amiss with _ses enfants_, as she tenderly called them,--and indeed to the end they remained lovely and ingenuous children,--so she and _maman_, when the sisters were safely asleep, would steal into the house and pile every sort of good thing,