Like its owners, the farm had an ancient appearance. The beams of the
ceiling were mouldy, the walls black with smoke and the windows grey
with dust. The oak sideboard was filled with all sorts of utensils,
plates, pitchers, tin bowls, wolf-traps. The children laughed when they
saw a huge syringe. There was not a tree in the yard that did not have
mushrooms growing around its foot, or a bunch of mistletoe hanging in
its branches. Several of the trees had been blown down, but they had
started to grow in the middle and all were laden with quantities of
apples. The thatched roofs, which were of unequal thickness, looked like
brown velvet and could resist the fiercest gales. But the wagon-shed was
fast crumbling to ruins. Madame Aubain said that she would attend to it,
and then gave orders to have the horses saddled.
It took another thirty minutes to reach Trouville. The little caravan
dismounted in order to pass Les Ecores, a cliff that overhangs the bay,
and a few minutes later, at the end of the dock, they entered the yard
of the Golden Lamb, an inn kept by Mother David.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28