“If anyone here is as old an _ancien_ as I, I’ll kneel to him, but if not, get down on your knees, the whole crowd of you!” “Who are you?” they asked. I pointed to the wall where hung a drawing—the very one which had won me the hundred francs in the contest. Instantly everyone in the room was on his knees. The tears streamed down my cheeks; I was not disappointed. My old Paris had come back to me! Chapter VI: The Middle Ages _Brittany; Spain_ America is a country without tradition, and the large cities of Europe are too cosmopolitan to impress one with the fact of fixed manners and morals. But not so in the provinces. From ’81 to ’86, I lived in Concarneau, on the Breton coast, and made a trip of several months into Elche, Spain. I felt as if I had suddenly plunged back into the Middle Ages. The superstitions, manners, customs, and dress, as well as ideas, of both those places, were unchanged from centuries ago. Around the part of Concarneau where the poor live is a wall built by Vauban; inside is a fortress with the sea making a moat. The bridge, which could originally be drawn up, is now stationary, but the doorway for a passage is still there. On the other side is the ferry to Pont Aven. Inside the inclosure the streets are narrow and paved, with little houses on either side. Outside is the smart part of the town. The beauties of the sea, and, as usual, the low cost of living, brought the artist to Concarneau. My studio was a wheat loft, and any peasant was a model for a few cents. We painted them in their native dress, which was picturesque enough, and, besides, no virtuous Breton woman would allow you to see her hair, so that it was obvious that the coif stayed on. These headdresses gave them a distinctly mediæval air, and each town has a certain style, more fixed than the laws of the Medes and Persians, so that you can tell immediately where a woman comes from. Underneath this white coif, which is always beautifully laundered and starched, is a tight cap which holds the hair, and this, I think, is seldom removed. The remainder of the costume (which makes them look like Noah’s Ark women) is a heavy woolen skirt and a double-breasted blouse. This is held together by a huge shawl pin of brass, and under no circumstances can they be persuaded to use buttons. Of course there are stockings and sabots. Blanch Willis Howard wrote her book called _Guenn_ in my studio and it afterward became one of the popular novels of the day. I think she greatly exaggerated the romantic quality of the artist who fell in love with his model, however, as all the Breton peasants I ever saw washed below the chin only twice in their lives—once when they were born and once when married.