Assignment in Brittany (40 page)

Hearne unwrapped the handkerchief. Inside its folds was a silver watch of an old design, with fine engraving on its cover. Within the tracery of the pattern were the words “To Bertrand Corlay on his twenty-first anniversary, the twenty-ninth of January, 1868.” Hearne opened the watch in silence. The thin Roman numerals were delicately painted on the yellow face: the slender hands still moved on their dutiful way. He closed the cover gently, placed the watch carefully under his pillow.

“Would you give Madame Corlay my—well, please tell her that some day I shall thank her properly. Now I can only—” He stopped short. He was thinking, that watch was one of Madame Corlay’s few treasures. He was thinking, That watch had seen three invasions of France by the Germans. Anne was watching him. He shook his head, as if he did not know what to say.

Kerénor nodded. “I’ll tell her you felt you couldn’t find words adequate enough to appreciate her kindness.” Hearne looked up quickly at the Breton, but he wasn’t laughing. For once he was being quite simple and direct.

Anne said, “Just tell her what he did say. She’d like that better.”

Kerénor looked amused now. “I was just trying to help,” he said. He looked at Anne teasingly. “Why do women think all other women like what they like? Men, at least, know better than that. Now for the last things in this basket. Here’s an envelope, bulky; and sheets of paper with excessively neat scratchings.” He was watching Hearne’s face. “Will that do?”

Hearne, his hand reaching eagerly for the envelope and sheets of paper, nodded. He looked through them quickly, but carefully. It was all there, everything he had noted and copied. He took a deep breath. God, he was feeling better every minute. He looked up to see Anne watching him again, this time with that little smile on her lips.

“All right now?” she asked, trying to keep her voice disinterested. “I’ll give you something to eat, and then you can try to dress.”

Hearne nodded his answer, and patted the paper lying under his hand. Then suddenly he asked Kerénor, “Where are Corlay’s original lists, and his diaries?”

Kerénor, limping back and forward restlessly across the cave, forced a twisted smile. “Under study. I thought the Committee should know just what they had to fight.”

“You’ve seen them yourself?”

“Yes.”

Hearne, watching the white face, the gaunt cheek-bones, said nothing. He thought, Masochist is the word. He’s made
himself read every word of Corlay’s diary and poems, and they are eating into him.

“Well?” demanded Kerénor truculently, as if he had guessed Hearne’s thoughts.

“Well?” said Hearne.

Kerénor halted. He controlled his voice with difficulty. “In a France ruled by Frenchmen, Elise would be given a trial and shot. It is the only France I recognise! Because of the Germans, we cannot give her the trial she would otherwise have had. But we can complete the rest.” He paused. “I shall accept her invitation when it comes. I shall bring her here.”

Anne’s face had whitened. “Jean,” she said, “remember that if she comes here, she cannot go back.”

“No, she cannot go back. That will be definite, Anne. You needn’t fear. For once I am not letting arguments and hair-splittings prevent me from acting in time. This time I shan’t reason away my anger. One learns.”

There was a silence.

Anne hesitated. At last she said, “I don’t trust her. She’ll be the one who will do the shooting. You’ll be in danger.” She was looking at Hearne, her eyes wide; Kerénor noticed the look.

“Charming,” he murmured half seriously, half ironically, and silenced her effectively. “Now eat,” he said to Hearne. “And I’ll get you into these clothes. What were your original plans to escape?” Except for the nervous tension of his constant pacing, he had buried his own emotions deeply enough. But he was scarcely listening to Hearne, and the Englishman was glad of that. For then the omissions in the plan he was sketching wouldn’t be so noticeable. After his own practical experience of the Gestapo’s persuasive powers, he wasn’t going to burden his friends with
much knowledge. He touched briefly on the boatman who had brought him back from Mont Saint-Michel, and who would take a message so that his friends in Britain would know he was coming. All Hearne wanted was to reach Dinan, and give that message to the boatman. All his plans depended on that. Then he realised Anne’s occupation with the food which she was dividing into two portions was only a pretence.

“You’ve kept too little for yourself,” Hearne said, to interrupt her thoughts.

“I can’t eat any more,” she answered. “If you want to get dressed before Jean leaves, you ought to finish your breakfast quickly.” He wondered whatever had given him the first impression that she was a simple creature. Perhaps it was her gentleness and her direct honesty which had made him think she was easy to estimate.

“You’re a determined woman, aren’t you?” he asked.

She laughed, wrinkling her nose. Anyway, she seemed to have forgotten to worry about his plans for escape.

But when Kerénor had gone, and Hearne paused to rest after his first attempt to walk round the cave, she suddenly sat down beside him, and said, “Wouldn’t it be better if someone could go to Dinan in advance, and see that boatman, and give him your message to take to your friends to send to Britain?”

“You like your questions long,” he said, and then as she laughed, “Why do you always wear your hair so tightly braided, Anne?”

The two pink spots were coming back into her cheeks, but she wasn’t to be dissuaded.

“I mean,” she said slowly, “if someone could go in advance to Dinan, while you were still getting stronger here, then the message would sail back with that boatman to the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel, and he could send it to your friend, and it would go to Britain, and then you could get away from here with all the preparations made, and you wouldn’t have to wait at Dinan for all these things to happen before you could reach the coast.”

“Breathing helps,” Hearne said. Anne laughed in spite of herself.

“But wouldn’t it be better?” she insisted.

“No doubt. But after Sunday’s excitement every man in this village will have to keep close to Saint-Déodat for a while, and appear to be leading a normal life.”

Anne said slowly, “I suppose so. But it would have been such a good idea. It would have made everything quicker and safer for you. You could go straight to the coast without going near Dinan yourself.”

“I’ll manage well enough, once I’m feeling all right again. Come on, Anne, give me a hand round this room.”

She smiled. “You looked like a newly born calf at first.”

“I’ll be less like one this time. Just you see.”

When he sat down to rest again, she said, “That must have been a nice old man who brought you back in his boat.”

He had been thinking of something else, and looked at her blankly.

She explained, “When you came back from taking Monsieur Myles to the coast; when you wore such funny old clothes all smelling of fish.”

Hearne smiled. “Yes, he was a nice old boy.”

“Can he be trusted, really trusted?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you tell us his name? When you are gone there may be others from this village who want to get to the coast. He could help them too, couldn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose he could.”

“Perhaps someone may be desperate and need help. Perhaps Kerénor or one of the others...” Her voice trailed off.

It seemed, thought Hearne, as if he had now three different jobs to worry over. There was his real job, information. It came first: it had to. Then linked with that there was the safety of the men like Duclos and Pléhec who were working with him and the other agents. And thirdly, there was the beginning of secret resistance in the villages: he had to help Saint-Déodat, even apart from what he owed it himself. He thought of L’Etoile d’Or and of Jules, who would have taken the place of big Louis. Jules was to be trusted, but the Golden Star itself might be dangerous: too much had happened there. He couldn’t send anyone there when he was unwilling to try it himself. The only really definite source of help was the boatman to whom Etienne had led him, the boatman who sailed from the canalised river on the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel along the coast and up the River Rance to Dinan. The boatman knew nothing about the activities on the Mont Saint-Michel: all he knew was that the boy Etienne and he were serving in the same cause. So Pléhec and Duclos and all their plans would not be in danger if he were to tell Anne the boatman’s name. That was the main thing, that Pléhec and Duclos should be safe to go on with their work.

Hearne said, “I know him only by a nickname—Le Trapu. He is about fifty years old, short and broad-shouldered, with black hair and blue eyes. He has a boat and a sister called Marguerite. The boat has faded red sails with two brown patches. The sister has a
bistro
on the wharf at Dinan, just where he moors the boat, and anyone who is looking for Le Trapu can wait for him there. Tell Monsieur le Curé about this: he will know when a man really needs help, and he can send him to Le Trapu. But
you
mustn’t, Anne; you must leave that to Monsieur le Curé. And tell no one else. Promise?”

Anne nodded, her eyes wide and serious, her lips grave.

“And also tell Monsieur le Curé that if any interesting information should be found in this district, then a man could be sent with it to. Le Trapu. He will pass it on, and it will reach Britain. That may be important for us all. Can you remember that?”

“But of course.” She sat silently, thinking over what he had said. “How do you feel now?”

“Not so bad.”

“Should you sleep, perhaps?”

“I’ll have another try on the old legs first. You don’t need to hold me this time.”

She nodded and watched his slow progress with anxiety. After twice round the room he was forced to give up.

“Not so good,” he said bitterly as he straightened himself on the mattress.

Anne brought him water to drink. “It will be easier when you try again tomorrow,” she said. “You can’t expect miracles.”

“This afternoon,” he corrected her. “I can’t wait until tomorrow.” He moved restlessly on his bed.

“When do you want to leave?” she asked. “Saturday?”

“Too late. Le Trapu doesn’t sail on Sundays.” It had been the twelfth, a Friday, when he sailed back from Mont Saint-Michel. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays from the Mont; Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays from Dinan.

He said, “I must be in Dinan by dawn on Saturday. Better leave here no later than sunset on Friday.” He swore to himself. “If only I could have left tonight, I could have reached Dinan tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll only add to your dangers if you aren’t recovered enough. You’ll manage Friday all right,” said Anne. “Then Le Trapu will deliver the message on Saturday night. And you can be at the coast by Sunday night... Which part of the coast?”

He looked at her suddenly. Her wide eyes returned the look candidly: her face was eager and sympathetic. “Why do you ask, Anne?” he said slowly.

“I was wondering if it were near Saint-Brieuc.” She bent down and picked up the blanket which he had thrown aside. He looked at her with a dawning suspicion.

“And why?”

She pretended to be folding the blanket.

At last she said, “I am travelling to Saint-Brieuc. Remember? I thought I might go with you, to look after you.”

“You
look after
me?
Out there?” He was shocked, incredulous; he stared at her. Then as he saw her face tighten and the light go out of her eyes, he reached up and caught her hand. “Anne,” he said, “I’m sorry if I hurt you. You’re kind and you’re brave. But you don’t know what you are letting yourself in for, if you were to travel with me, or even be found with me. You cannot go with me. It would be dangerous—impossible.”

She stood, saying nothing, her eyes downcast, her hand lifeless in his. He saw he had really hurt her. “Anne,” he said gently. “Anne. Anne, darling.”

She flinched and tried to draw her hand away, but he held it tightly. His resolution melted. “Anne, you’ve got to get to Saint-Brieuc safely. You’ve got to stay there safely. You’ve got to keep safe.”

She was looking at him now. “Others take risks. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I don’t want you to.” He spoke sharply—but she was smiling now.

There was a silence. “Is that all?” she asked at last.

“Yes.”

She drew her hand slowly out of his. “Do all Englishmen behave like you?” she said.

He took a deep breath. For their own mental happiness, he hoped they didn’t.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“I’m thinking of a poem I once knew.”

“Tell me it.”

“It’s in English.”

“I want to hear English.”

He spoke it slowly, softly.

“White in the moon the long road lies,

The moon stands blank above;

White in the moon the long road lies

That leads me from my love.

Still hangs the hedge without a gust,

Still, still the shadows stay...
”

He closed his eyes, trying to catch the next phrase. Strange:
when he was young and only imagined himself in love, how he could recite yards of such poems and bury himself in thwarted gloom. Now, when he really knew what the poem meant, he was forgetting it—forgetting not its feeling, but the words. He tried once more:

“...Still, still the shadows stay:

My feet...my feet upon the moonlight dust

Pursue the ceaseless way.

The world is round, so travellers tell,

And straight through reach the track,

Trudge on, trudge on, ‘twill all be well,

The way will guide one back.

But ere the circle homeward hies

Far, far must it remove: