Wilhelm took up his quarters in the Hotel de France, situated just
where the High Street swept round the side of the church. As the
house was separated from the sea by the whole opposite row of
houses, one only caught a glimpse of it as a narrow, glittering
streak across the intervening roofs from the second-floor windows.
The view from the front windows was the more remarkable. They looked
out upon the churchyard which lay behind the Gothic cathedral. Not
that there was anything depressing in the sight; it made, on the
contrary, a cheerful impression, with its carefully tended flower
beds and magnificent old trees, which almost hid the modest
headstones they overshadowed, and in whose branches count less
singing birds had built their nests, while noisy troops of children
played under them at all hours of the day.
Wilhelm directed his steps at once to this churchyard, where, beside
the modern iron crosses, there were marble headstones showing dates
that went back to the seventeenth century. In the oldest as well as
the newest inscriptions the same name occurred over and over again,
speaking well for the settled habits of the population. And,
according to the inscriptions, most of those buried here had lived
to be eighty or ninety years of age.
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