Assignment in Brittany (16 page)

“What about me?” he asked.

She regained her breath and her hands went up to her hair to arrange it.

“That was what I am coming to...At present you are to ignore the hotel. You’ve got to concentrate on your meetings: we are in no danger now, of course, but for the sake of results it will be wise to keep them secret from the Bretons. I’ll send you a list of future dates and places, where you can discuss your progress with the men from the other districts. Then you will also have nationalist meetings, which you are to pretend to keep secret from the Germans. In that way, you’ll get more response from the Bretons. The idea is that Brittany will be separated from France, and we’ve got to get the people to accept it. That is why you must keep our real meetings secret, so that our connexion with Germany won’t be recognised, and then the nationalist meetings, which we shall encourage, will have some chance of success. If we work it properly, we’ll have them accepting this Breton National State as the thing they have always wanted. There will be a German Governor, of course. I hear that Weyer will probably be chosen. And there will also be a Breton National Committee. And you, of course, will be the delegate from this district.”

She laughed, and struggled free from his grip. “I thought you’d be pleased. Don’t hold me so tightly, Bertrand, you’ll bruise me. I’ll be able to tell you more when I get back from Paris.”

“Wish I were going with you again,” Hearne said, and mentally thanked the diary.

“Not this time, my love. Later, perhaps. We’ll see. And now I must get back to the hotel. Hans is arriving tonight.”

“Hans?”

“Now don’t start all that silly jealousy again. Hans has been
a good friend—to both of us. Who do you think was responsible for getting you into this new National Committee?”

“How long is he staying here?”

“The hotel is his headquarters for the next few weeks, until we get everything nicely organised and co-operative. He’s got to go to Paris too, of course.” Her voice was too casual, but the kiss she gave him was meant to soothe any doubts. “And one more thing, my sweet, have you still got those lists?”

Hearne remembered the map, and the list of names and addresses, and the connecting numbers. He said; “They are safe.”

“Good. I’ll leave a note for you at the hotel tomorrow with my aunt. I’ll give you the corrections to that list. Most of our men are still intact, but one or two of them were stupid enough to get killed.”

“Perhaps they surrendered to men who shot first, and asked questions afterwards.”

She laughed and lifted his wrist to see the illuminated face of his watch.

“You know,” she said, “I do believe carrying a gun has made your hands bigger.”

“All the better to hold you with.” Hearne hoped the strain in his voice would pass for emotion.

“Five minutes more,” she announced. “Bertrand, do you love me as much as ever?” Her emotions were like a bathroom fixture: hot, cold, to be turned on at will.

“As much as ever I did.”

“Am I still as beautiful? You haven’t forgotten all your pretty speeches, have you?”

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” That at any rate was true. There was a pause. She was waiting. “Your eyes,” he began, “are like the crystal depths of a sunlit pool. Your hair...” He remembered enough of the verses he had read in Corlay’s note-book: that helped him to improvise for the rest of her anatomy. One hour ago he would scarcely have imagined such cold objectivity possible. He felt a sudden relief as he realised he was safe from Elise; and it was she, herself, who had saved him. The iron hand in the velvet glove, he thought again. She could flutter those black eyelashes, turn that profile, lift those breasts: it would all be an interesting and aesthetically satisfying performance. But the hand was iron, and the velvet glove was wearing thin. Her mind was carefully calculating. Her heart was self-possessed. She might have just as well admitted that she was an incurable leper, with festering flesh concealed under the skilful drapery of her silk dress.

He looked at the shadow of upturned face. “You beautiful bitch,” he said to himself, and helped her to rise to her feet. The stipulated five minutes of love was over.

They halted at the doorway. The arc of moon was fitful, but the light was stronger than it had been inside the dovecote. Once again Hearne was glad that the inside of the tower had been so dark.

“Don’t come over the fields with me,” she said. “It will be better for our plans if you seem to have no contact at all with anyone living at the hotel. It is only for a week or two. This Breton National Council and separation from France will probably be an historical fact by the end of July. That’s our aim.” She added a smile to sweeten her command.

Hearne looked disappointed. “But there’s no one to see.

“You know this place. It’s all eyes and tongues. Guess who followed me part of the way here? Kerénor?”

“Kerénor?” Hearne remembered the: limping man’s animosity. A lot of things were being explained away tonight.

“Yes, the stupid fool that he is. We have nothing to fear from him now. We can deal with him if he doesn’t behave.” She paused, and then mimicked Kerénor’s voice. “‘What are we fighting for? Comrades, do not be deluded by an imperialist war.’ Yes, his days of usefulness are over. Either he now co-operates, or—” She changed her voice again. “Good night, darling. It has been lovely to see you again.” Hadn’t it just, he thought. He let go both of her hands slowly.

“I’ll think of you all the time you are away. Let me know at once when you get back.”

“Don’t forget the note which I shall leave at the hotel.”

“I won’t forget,” he said, and watched her. She had drawn her coat more tightly round her. Her hair suddenly gleamed into life as the moon freed itself from a cloud. The green of her eyes had darkened. She turned her profile to look up at the sky. Hearne wondered who had first told her how lovely she looked that way. Once more he was thankful that it had been so dark and cold inside the tower. If he had been able to see that profile as clearly as this, it would have been more difficult to judge Elise correctly before she had condemned herself with her own words. He might have been too late for his realism: he might have been caught off guard. But now he didn’t envy Corlay any more. He pitied him. How long would she consider him “useful”? And then, like Kerénor, he could be “dealt with”.

“You’d better start working on your speeches, Bertrand. They are going to be important. I’ll be back here in ten days’ time, and we can have our first meeting with our group then. That will give us time to have some progress to report on our
work with the Bretons. Use any means in dealing with them. Hans said you could have a very free hand, but try persuasion first. Co-operation makes things much easier for us than suspicion and hate, so have patience at first. You know the line: the British are treacherous cowards, the Americans are selfish cowards, the rest of France are blood-suckers as well as cowards. A separate Brittany, friendly to Germany, can be secure and happy. You know the sort of stuff. Pile it on, but keep dangling autonomy like a big juicy carrot in front of their noses. God knows they’ve wanted a separate Brittany for years, but trust a Breton to stop wanting it once he gets it. At the meeting on my return, we can discuss how well we have succeeded in our various districts. These are the orders.”

She gave him a last kiss, and then, freeing herself from his arms with that smile which promised so much and meant so little, she turned towards the path. She didn’t look back. She wasn’t the kind who did.

He stood in the cold blackness of the doorway until she had disappeared into the half-shadows of the night. Far below him the church tower was outlined above the trees which hid the houses of Saint-Déodat. He suddenly remembered his emotion when he had first seen the village. Peace, he had thought, lived here. Peace? He smiled sardonically: romanticism always ended in such bathos. Life liked its little jokes: and the more bitter they were, the funnier. He must remember to laugh some day.

A fine rain drizzled over the fields. He turned up the collar of his jacket and abandoned the idea of bed. Day after tomorrow, she had said. In that case, Myles must be on his way by tomorrow night. And that meant the job which he had set for himself tomorrow night must be done now.

He began his steady pace up the hill towards the ruins of the castle. Once over the crest of that wooded hill and he would reach the road from Rennes to Saint-Malo. It was strange to think that what he had learned in this last hour might be as important, in its own way, as anything he could discover in the next few weeks. He hoped, as he felt the rain settling on his shoulders and his feet settling into the soft earth, that the Saint-Malo road would be as interesting as the railway-line he had watched last night.

It was.

13

WARNING FOR SAINT-DÉODAT

There was no time for sleep. Hearne looked at his grey face in the grey light of the mirror, and shook his head wearily. He yawned, and felt his chin with his hand. No time for shaving, either: his fingers were too cold to make a quick job with Corlay’s cut-throat razor. He splashed his face with the three inches of water, and combed his hair. At least he had done a good night’s work. Behind him on the table lay two pages of compact notes. On the floor were his soaked clothes. He would feel warmer once he had some hot soup inside him. There might be even some of that wine left: yesterday Albertine had carefully corked the bottle after their toast. Recorked wine was better than none when you felt as cold as this.

The papers were at last hidden, the bed was appropriately rumpled, the sogging clothes and filthy boots were picked up from the floor. He stood at the door and gave a last careful look. The room looked innocent enough to please him. As he went
downstairs, he looked at the boots: they’d have to be scraped and dried as much as possible. He grinned as he remembered Elise and her half-joke about his hands being bigger. It was lucky she hadn’t remembered the size of Corlay’s feet: none of the shoes in Corlay’s wardrobe would fit him.

Albertine had heard him coming, and had already served his breakfast. She wasn’t talking this morning. In fact, she seemed to be ignoring him. So she had been thinking about the Germans’ visit yesterday. Hearne smiled to himself as he swallowed the hot soup hungrily. Even Albertine who only wanted to be left in peace didn’t like the taste that German favours left in her mouth.

At first she paid no attention to the clothes which he had thrown on the stone hearth, but her curiosity at last prompted her to pick them up. She said something to herself, and then waited for him to explain. Hearne finished his bowl of soup, and then helped himself to some more. Albertine, standing with the wet clothes held far out from her white apron, was still waiting.

It was she who, after all, had to speak first.

“Where have you been?”

“Couldn’t sleep much. Went out for a walk.”

“In that rain?”

“Dry these boots, will you, Albertine? I’ve got to go to the village this afternoon.”

“Where are your other pairs of shoes?” She was looking disapprovingly at his stockinged feet.

“Upstairs. But I don’t like them: they are not strong enough for this weather.”

“I told you that when you bought them.” The hint of
self-satisfaction in her voice was a good sign. The storm was dispersing.

“You were right and I was wrong, Albertine.” He rose and clapped her shoulder. “You are always right, Albertine.”

As he left the kitchen, she was already scraping the thick yellow mud off the boots and laying them down on their sides not too near the fire.

Upstairs, the American had already been installed in the store-room. He was less talkative today. His “Good morning” had been no more than polite. Hearne leaned his shoulder against the door-post and watched him as he pretended to go back to his writing.

“Busy?” Hearne asked.

“Fairly.”

“Too busy?”

Myles looked up from the pad of paper balanced on his knee. He kept rolling his pencil between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sorry,” continued Hearne, “but there are some things we must discuss.”

“Yes?”

Hearne looked at the American. His jaw was noticeably stubborn; there was a wary look in his eyes. All the friendliness had gone from them. So he too hadn’t liked German favours in retrospect.

“I think,” said Hearne, “that this is hardly the moment for you to begin distrusting me.”

“Well—” said the American, and then stopped.

“Well?”

“Well, I am thinking that I’m more trouble to you than you bargained for.”

It was at that moment that Hearne noticed Myles was wearing boots.

“Your feet are better?”

Myles’s face was expressionless. “Yes.”

“Where on earth did you get those boots?” Hearne kept his voice friendly, even amused.

“Your mother gave them to me. They belonged to her uncle. I’m to get some of his clothes, too.”

Hearne’s voice was less amused. “And you were just waiting for them to arrive before you slipped away, preferably when I wasn’t about the house to see where you had gone?”

Myles stiffened at the barely concealed anger in Hearne’s tone. “Here,” he said, “that’s a bit harsh. After all, I’m only a nuisance here. I don’t like putting anyone in danger the way I’ve been putting you all.”

“And you’d have ruined everything, including your own chances to escape.” Hearne’s voice was calm once more. That was the trouble with a sleepless night: it made you bad-tempered whenever you felt yourself thwarted next day.

“I’ll look after my own escape.” It was the American who was angry now.

“Don’t be such a damned fool. If you do arrive at the coast, what will you do then? Go round asking fishermen if they’ll take you across the Channel? You may ask the wrong fisherman, you know.”

“I’ll manage,” Myles said stubbornly. “I’ve managed before.”

“You’d manage much better if you would listen to me. Tonight you’ll leave here. There is a man in a small
fishing-village on the river, just before you reach Saint-Malo. He will take you across the Channel. And he doesn’t do it for money, either. Every able-bodied man he saves is another for the Boches to face later.”