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Updated: June 11, 2025
This is the legend that for many centuries has been related at Christmas-time on the shores of the Petite-Mer, which, in the Breton tongue, is called Armor bihan, the Celtic name of Brittany. If you ask what moral these good people draw from this strange story, I will answer that it contains a basketful.
"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. The sun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for a moment," she said. "The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said Durand. "Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything." Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Môme trotting cheerfully in the rear.
"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man who wrote in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's disappearance is cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?" "No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the pit below where the rest of the Black Priest lies."
"O Bretons! is there among you all not one kind soul to defend the widow's son in the hour when he bitterly expiates his sin?" "Let us alone, godmother," boldly replied Matheline. And from afar Pol Bihan added: "Don't listen to the old woman; go!" But another voice was heard in answer to Dame Josserande's appeal, and it said, "As last night, we are here!"
"It is a bad thing to touch," said the mayor wagging his head. "It squeaks when handled," added Max Fortin. "Some creatures squeak all the time," I observed, looking hard at Le Bihan. "Pigs," added the mayor. "Yes, and asses," I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell me that you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?" The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.
While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf, of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker, with the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I leave you to imagine how Matheline's laughter ran in pearly cascades when congratulated on her approaching marriage.
Sylvestre Ker's little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihan's and fifty Matheline's; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls lowest. When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower, Pol commenced to sigh heavily, and said, "What a pity! What a great, great pity!" "What is a pity?" asked Sylvestre Ker.
"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly way that annoyed Le Bihan. "Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; and Tregunc started across the moors toward St. Gildas, taking off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard. "You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment's contemplation of his silver buttons.
It came to pass that as all these young people, Pol Bihan, Matheline, and Sylvestre Ker, gained a year each time that twelve months rolled by, they reached the age to think of marriage; and Josserande, one morning, proceeded to the dwelling of the farmer of Coat-Dor to ask the hand of Matheline for her son, Sylvestre Ker; at which proposal Matheline opened her rosy mouth so wide, to laugh the louder, that far back she showed two pearls which had never before been seen.
What Matheline loved most was her own fair self, and Pol Bihan's best friend was named Pol Bihan. Matheline passed long hours before her little mirror of polished steel, which faithfully reflected her laughing mouth full of pearls; and Pol was proud of his great strength, for he was the best wrestler in the Carnac country.
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