There are half a
dozen little maids who attend us. They give us bread and bring our
wine and get our plates all ready, for, behold, we can hear below the
beating of the eggs and the sizzling of the butter, and presently
Madame Poularde's scream and slap, and we know that our omelette is on
the way!
There were scores of bridal parties there when we were, for Mont St.
Michel seems to be the Niagara of France, and really one could hardly
imagine a more charming place for a honeymoon. Indeed, for a newly
married couple, for boy and girl, for spinsters and bachelors, ay,
even for Darby and Joan, Mont St. Michel has attractions. All sorts
and conditions of men here find the most romantic and interesting spot
to be found in the whole of France.
While here we got telegrams telling us of the assembling of our
friends at a house-party at a chateau in the south of France which
once had belonged to Charles VII. So without waiting for anything more
we wired a joyful acceptance and set out. We did, however, stop over a
few hours at Blois, in order to see the chateau there.
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