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Updated: June 1, 2025
There is a beautiful journey from Paris across France southwesterly to the coast, through odd little French villages, vineyards, poppy-fields, and rose-gardens, across shining rivulets and through an undulating landscape, all so lovely that it is no wonder that one expects all this beauty to lead up to a climax. But what a disappointment Dinard is to one's enthusiastic anticipations!
In the room where everything spoke of her, where the furniture, the curtains, and the carpets told of their love, she murmured soft words: "You could believe do you not know what you are? it was folly! How can a woman who has known you care for another after you?" "But before?" "Before, I was waiting for you." "And he did not attend the races at Dinard?"
I am to meet Hartley for lunch on the other side of the river, and, if we can manage it, I should like to start north this afternoon or evening." "Good!" said Captain Stewart, smiling. "Good! That is what I call true promptness. You lose no time at all. Go to Dinard and Deauville, by all means, and look into this thing thoroughly. Don't be discouraged if you meet with ill success at first.
To-morrow he is going to be still more official, for he dines at the Tuileries, and there is a gala performance at the opera; Christine Nilsson is going to sing "Faust" with Nicolini and Faure. To-morrow we leave for Dinard, where there will be no majesties nor Exposition; just plain bread and butter and Brittany cider, which is as hard as a relentless parent. COMPIEGNE, November 27, 1868.
She looked at him with childish joy. Then she became sad, thinking she would have to return to Dinard at the end of the week, later go to Joinville, and that during that time they would be separated. At Joinville, at her father's, she would cause him to be invited for a few days. But they would not be free and alone there, as they were in Paris.
Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourne of safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hers in the Rue de Courcelles. This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading now interests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I have ever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into the unknown.
This famous watering-place has to my mind not one solitary redeeming feature. It has no excuse for being famous. It has not even one happy accident about it as a peg to hang its fame upon, like some writers' first novels. Dinard simply goes on being famous, nobody knows why.
The letter written from Dinard had already softened his painful impressions. She had come at the moment when, tired of suffering, he felt the need of calm and of tenderness. A few lines of handwriting had appeased his mind, fed on images, less susceptible to things than to the signs of things; but he felt a pain in his heart.
And if this human nature was interesting, what about the natural world around us? The boat loosed its moorings when time was up, and the grey walls of St. Malo receded; the innumerable roofs, towers and steeples grew dreamy and indistinct, dissolved and disappeared. The water was still blue and calm and flashing with sunlight. To the right lay the sleeping ocean; ahead of us, Dinard.
You know my husband is mistaken when he thinks Le Menil pleases me. And then I must go to Paris next week for two or three days." Twenty-four hours after writing her letter, Therese went from Dinard to the little house in the Ternes. She had made the trip with her husband, who wanted to see his electors whom the Socialists were working over.
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