Assignment in Brittany (13 page)

He carried the treasure-trove over to the table. Now he might find something really solid. He might as well admit his excitement.

First, he examined the papers. Two sheets were joined together with a rusted clip: one, a map of Northern Brittany with neat, red-ink numbers over certain villages and towns; the other, a typed list of names and street addresses, with red-ink numbers in the margin opposite each name. He would
study this combination later; perhaps, and this was the likeliest guess, these were the names and districts of trusted Breton nationalists. Strange that Corlay should have taken so much trouble to hide them, for Breton nationalists hadn’t been proscribed, even if they weren’t exactly loved, by the French Government. Perhaps Corlay had been hiding the list from his mother: she certainly didn’t agree with any separatist ideas. She believed that the Bretons were the flower of the French Republic, and flowers wither when they are cut from their stalks.

Next came three sheets of paper, this time pinned together, listing dates and names of cafés. The dates ranged on a monthly average from January 1938 until the end of August 1939. These sheets were all typewritten, too, which meant that this stuff had been given to Corlay, for Corlay had no typewriter. Meeting places and meeting times: that was the best guess Hearne could make, but the information on these sheets would need more careful examination when he was less pressed for time. He slipped the rubber band round the papers, and placed them between the double sheet of worn blotting-paper which lay inside the table drawer. He closed the drawer thoughtfully, and abstractedly picked up the two note-books.

They were of a nobler brand than the copy-books which he had found in the wardrobe along with the books. They even had mock-leather covers. He had the sudden premonition that they belonged to Corlay’s period of unexpected prosperity. When he opened them, he saw he was right. One was a diary; its first entry was under the heading the eighteenth of January, 1938. The other contained Corlay’s poems, each neatly dated
at the foot of its page. The first of these poems had been written on the twenty-fifth of January, 1938.

January 1938... January 1938...

“Well,” said Hearne, “what a peculiar thing.” His sarcasm left a smile on his lips until he began to read the poems. They were highly emotional, increasingly passionate, but obviously sincere. Poor devil, he thought, she twisted him around all right, whoever she was. And then he came to twenty lines of verse written in October. They described Corlay’s love with great detail. I don’t know about the hips and breasts, but there’s no mistaking the eyes and hair, Hearne thought. He re-read the description of the hair—autumn leaves caught in the warmth of the late evening sun. He remembered his walk yesterday, on his way home from the village. “Damn,” he said aloud, “damn it all.” He was suddenly annoyed, almost angry. And then he laughed. “Fool!” he said to himself. Matthews, no doubt, would have put it more strongly. It only proved, anyway, that Corlay wasn’t a good poet.

Towards the end of the poems—there were fourteen in all—it was obvious that Corlay had achieved quite a lot. The last effusions were almost hysterical with joy. It embarrassed Hearne to read them. “All right,” he said irritably, “I get the idea. All right.” And then one line held his attention. “In the shadows of the dovecote, fortress of our love and of our secrets”...Dovecote. Could that be the place which Elise had meant when she had asked him to meet her? If so, then he hadn’t the excuse that he didn’t know what she was talking about. And he had been hanging on to that excuse. It had been going to preserve his detachment tonight when ten o’clock came, and he was securely and respectably in bed. But now
it was entirely his own choice whether he met Elise at the dovecote or not. The choice was his own, and he didn’t want to make it. The girl was dangerous; and it wasn’t the belief that she was a Breton nationalist which made her seem dangerous, either. He wouldn’t go, he decided; he’d read that diary in bed.

And yet the line of poetry haunted him...“fortress of our love and of our secrets.”... What secrets? Secrets of love, secrets of Breton autonomy, what secrets? He paced the room, his head bent as if his eyes could read the riddle in the unevenness of the floor. Business before pleasure was one of Matthews’ original remarks. No, he wouldn’t go, he repeated, and thought of Matthews’ cold blue eyes. Business before pleasure. And then the idea came to him that he was thinking of Elise solely in terms of pleasure. Could it be possible that she might be part of his business, too?

It was almost time for supper. He placed the two note-books inside the table drawer and resumed his restless walking round the room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes still fixed on the lines of the scrubbed white floor. He was wasting time, he thought in sudden depression: he should be concentrating on railways and canals and roads. And yet as long as he didn’t understand Corlay he would feel in danger, and therefore be in danger. For there was something which worried him about Corlay, something indefinite as yet, something increased by today’s discoveries. He had thought the examination of these books and papers would have settled his mind. But it hadn’t. January 1938, he thought again...“of our love and of our secrets.” Secrets. Probably the word meant little: just a poet’s addition to perfect a metre or complete a line.

He halted at the window. He could always read some of the
diary before ten o’clock. Then he could decide whether he was imagining possibilities, or whether he was just trying to find any old excuse to see her again. He turned from the window as he heard Myles’s footsteps crossing the store-room. It would depend on the diary, then, he determined, and faced the opening door.

“Pardon me. Am I disturbing you? I thought I heard voices, and that you had finished your work.”

“Voices? Oh, that was me. I’ve a bad habit of talking aloud.”

“You do?” The American looked both amused and relieved. “I knew a man from Texas once, who used to talk to himself. He used to be alone out on the range for long stretches at a time. That’s how he started the habit.”

Hearne said quickly, “How’s the reading?”

Not too good. I slept some of the time, I must say. My French can’t be as good as my French friends pretended. By the way, do you understand everything I say.?”

“Enough.”

“You speak quite good English. Your accent is your own, but you have the grammar all right.”

Hearne tried to smile calmly. “Oh, I had plenty of grammar at school. I even took a degree in English at Rennes University.”

Myles looked as if he believed that. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.

“And I had some English friends at the University,” Hearne went on glibly. “One in particular used to talk a lot to me in English. That was after I got to know him of course.

“Of course.” There was a reminiscent look in Myles’s eyes. “Last summer—” But Albertine entered, and the story of last summer ended before it was begun.

“Food!” said the American, and this time the look in his eyes was much more understandable. Albertine was actually smiling. Her nod was approving as she looked round the room and saw the neatly arranged books.

And then, downstairs, someone knocked.

“The front door,” said Albertine needlessly. The three of them looked at each other. “It must be Monsieur le Curé; he always uses the front door.”

Again there was that knocking. “Very powerful man, Monsieur le Curé,” Hearne observed, and saw a sudden fear on Albertine’s face.

“It doesn’t sound like him,” she said slowly, her cheeks paling.

Hearne took command. “Go downstairs slowly, call you are coming, and don’t be afraid. Give me that food.” To Myles he said, “Into bed with you.”

As he opened Madame Corlay’s door, he saw Albertine was indeed going slowly. He planked the food down on the table beside Madame Corlay, covering the spectacles heavily with the bowl of soup. There was a snap as the bowl tilted over its victim.

Madame Corlay’s amazement at their sudden entry gave way to partial understanding as Hearne put his fingers to his lips, pointed downstairs, and sat down in a chair at some distance. She tightened her lips as she heard Albertine’s voice, and then a man’s voice, firm and assured. He was speaking careful French, loudly, coldly, with that unmistakable authority. The white draperies were pulled roughly back into place, swayed, and then hung rigid in their heavy folds. Madame Corlay looked as if she were about to explode.

“The Boches,” she said.

“Gently, gently,” warned Hearne. He was listening to the footsteps on the stairs.

Albertine had come up with more speed than she had gone down. “They’ve come. To see if we have room. For soldiers.”

“I’ll see them,” said Hearne, and rose quickly.

But there was no need. A German officer stood in the doorway. Behind him was a soldier.

11

VISIT OF INSPECTION

“You are the owner of this property?”

The German’s voice was as coldly assured as his face. Under the exaggerated peak of his cap, the straight features pointed expressionlessly towards Hearne. His eyes and skin and hair were colourless: it was as if the uniform blotted them out. All you noticed was the regularity of the outlines of his face, the assertive confidence of his body.

Hearne shook his head wearily, and gestured towards Madame Corlay.

“You are the owner of this property?”

Madame Corlay, her eyes still dilated from the effect of the German’s salute, nodded abruptly.

“How many rooms do you have in this house?”

There was a silence.

“Six,” Albertine said.

“How many rooms?” the German repeated, his eyes fixed
on Madame Corlay. She sat quite still, her hands clasped tightly on her stick. Her knuckles were white.

“How many?”

“My servant has told you.” Madame Corlay’s voice had tightened, but it was still under control. Hearne watched her not without admiration.

“Is this the only servant?” The German pointed towards Albertine.

“There is Henri, who works on the farm.”

“And this man?” The German indicated Hearne, slouching on his chair.

“My”—there was the slightest hesitation, perhaps a catch in Madame Corlay’s breath—“son.” Her eyes met Hearne’s. He had stiffened involuntarily. She smiled gently, and he relaxed. She knew, he was thinking, she knew; or did she? If she had known, what had prevented her from saying “A man who pretends to be my son”?

The officer crossed over to the fire-place, and examined the view from the windows on that side of the room. “Quite good,” he said, as if to himself. Then he walked quickly over to the window which overlooked the farmyard, passing the bed with the white draperies gathered round it so innocently. Madame Corlay, Albertine, Hearne, were as motionless as the soldier at the door. The officer opened the window, and they could hear German voices in the yard. The voices suddenly were silenced, as the men saw the captain at the window. He beckoned once, sharply, silently, and turned back into the room. Behind him the breeze from the opened window fluttered the white curtains and the draperies on the bed.

Albertine hastened to close the window. “Madame is ill,”
she said reprovingly. “She will catch pneumonia.”

But the German wasn’t listening to her. He was standing impatiently at one of the tables, his fingers tracing the carving round its edge, his eyes on the doorway where the soldier still held his pose. They heard quiet, quick footsteps on the stairs, and then a little man slipped into the room. A thin little man with spectacles and opened note-book and poised pencil. Apart from the uniform weighing so incongruously upon him, there was little about him which seemed military. An auctioneer’s clerk, thought Hearne; that was what he was, an auctioneer’s clerk dressed up as an officer.

“Captain Deichgräber?” His voice was as quick and light as his step.

The tall officer left the table. He spoke rapidly in German. “This isn’t bad. It is the best I’ve seen. It will have to do. The colonel will be furious, but you will have to explain to him that the only castle is in ruins, that this is the best house we can find near the village. You can make it comfortable for him. Have a look at the other rooms on this floor.”

“Very good, Captain Deichgräber.” The quick footsteps pattered into Hearne’s room. When he at last came back, the note-book was closed. The reedy voice went on, “Two other rooms, Captain Deichgräber. Four officers could sleep there once we cleared all the rubbish out.”

“Then, Captain Deichgräber, there’s the hall downstairs for a dining-room, and also downstairs there is accommodation for four soldiers.”

“Good.” The officer called Deichgräber felt in his pocket for a cigarette-case. “You can tell them of the arrangements,” he added, and motioned with his cigarette to the owner of the
house as he sauntered to the door.

“You will be requested to leave here by tomorrow. These rooms are urgently required.” The little man’s French was excellent.

“Tomorrow?” Hearne spoke for the women. Albertine looked as if she had turned into a pillar of salt. Madame Corlay’s nostrils showed a strange rim of white, as if they had been moulded from wax.

“I said tomorrow. No doubt you will be able to stay with friends until you come back here. It will only be a matter of weeks, September at latest, before you return. You will be recompensed for any damage, of course. And one more thing: leave such things as these”—he swept his arm towards the china and crystal displayed on the dresser—“and your linen and blankets. We can make the decision what we need of them. You will be adequately recompensed for any damage, you may be sure. I shall be back here tomorrow morning before you leave.” The tone was so polite, so correct, so insufferable.

I’d like to kick those shiny teeth down your scrawny throat, thought Hearne. He said, “But my mother is an invalid.”

There was a blank stare.

Captain Deichgräber had turned at the door. He hadn’t liked Hearne’s interruption. “Your mother can stay with friends. If necessary, she may have a permit to travel to a relative.” Hearne thought, now isn’t that generous of him? But he kept silent. Seemingly Captain Deichgräber hadn’t liked Hearne’s restraint either.