First of all we had to select it, and that took us all yesterday morning. For Yves it was a very serious matter this fixing of the site of his little house, in which he pictured, in the background of a melancholy and strange distance, his retirement, his old age and death. After many goings and comings we had decided on this spot. It is in the outskirts of Toulven, on the road which leads to Rosporden, on high ground, facing a little village square which is brightened this morning by a population of noisy fowls and red-cheeked children. On one side is Toulven and its church, on the other the great woods. At the moment it is just an oatfield very green. We have measured it carefully in all directions; reckoned by the square yard it will cost fourteen hundred and ninety francs, without counting the lawyer's fees. How steady Yves will have to be, and how he will have to save to pay all that! He becomes very serious when he thinks of it. CHAPTER LXXI ON BOARD THE _Sèvre, May_, 1881. Yves, who will soon be thirty years old, begs me to bring him from the town a bound manuscript book in order that he may commence to record his impressions, after my manner. He regrets even that he can no longer recall very clearly dates and past events so that he might make his record retrospective. His intelligence is opening to a crowd of new conceptions; he models himself on me and perhaps makes himself more "complex" than he need. But our intimacy brings in its train another and quite unexpected result, namely that I am becoming much simpler in contact with him; I also am changing, and almost as much as he. BREST, _June_, 1881. At six o'clock, on the evening of the feast of St. John, I was returning with Yves from the "pardon" of Plougastel on the outside of a country omnibus. In May the _Sèvre_ had been as far as Algiers, and we appreciated, by contrast, the special charm of the Breton country. The horses were going at full gallop, beribboned, with streamers and green branches on their heads. The folk inside were singing, and, on top, next to us, three drunken sailors were dancing, their bonnets on one side, flowers in their button-holes, with streamers and trumpets, and, in mockery of those unfortunate enough to be short-sighted, blue spectacles--three young men, smart of bearing and intelligent in face, who were taking a last French leave before their departure for China. Any ordinary man would have broken his neck. But they, drunk as they were, kept their feet, nimble as goats, while the omnibus careered at full speed, swinging from right to left in the ruts, driven by a driver who was as drunk as they.