The cobbles of the roadway wind from the heights down to the Saint Lawrence, through the old Centre Ville, where the money of past generations found their comforts, and the history of a nation come and gone remains on the tongue, in the food, in the grey and red blocks of granite in the walls.

The ephemeral lives in the walls as well, but more slowly. The ephemeral lives in the flower-box geraniums, and the leaves gone brown. Out of the sky, that grey-matte day, huge flakes like goosedown floated in front of the shopwindows, making them stand out dark against the speckled daylight. It was cool and wet, the humidity like a finger of ice running along the cheek, up the spine. The dark-haired waitresses and the vendors from their counters looked back out on the scene, and the falling winter, and on the people in the street who shared their eyes.

Who's to say that the traveler is not content, or that the villagers haven't found a warm room to save away a little joy?