Assignment in Brittany (7 page)

Albertine had finished and was standing silently watching him. He kicked the papers aside, and turned to the clothes which were laid on. the bed. They weren’t country clothes. They had been bought in some town. Perhaps in Rennes...yes, that was what the labels said. Corlay must have had quite a taste for suits—not that it had been particularly good taste. But there
were certainly more clothes than Hearne had expected. The chief thing was they looked as if they might fit him. He groaned at the thought of having to put on such underwear. Yards and yards of the stuff, he thought despairingly. But if he didn’t wear any of it, then Albertine would really think he was mad, and he couldn’t afford to have her become permanently worried about him. The doctor had prepared her for a certain mild strangeness, but there must be nothing beyond that really to alarm her.

She was down on her knees now, smoothing out the newspapers, folding them neatly. She wound up each little piece of string separately and slipped the knotted rolls into her pocket, one by one. Nothing escaped her careful, thrifty fingers. And then she solved the problem of what clothes he would wear. She left them on the bed, while she hung up the others inside the wardrobe or folded them neatly into the chest in front of the bed. But it was the inside of the wardrobe which interested Hearne. More than half of it was filled with books and papers. He stopped Albertine as she lifted the first armload of these, with the same look of resignation on her face which had haunted it for the last fifteen minutes.

“Don’t worry about that stuff, Albertine,” he said. “I can arrange it myself, later. You know you’ve plenty to do as it is.”

She softened unexpectedly, but her eyes also held surprise. It was the same look which he had noticed, this—no, yesterday morning, when he had had no objections about her going to early Mass and leaving him unattended at breakfast.

He pretended to be shaking out the trousers and pullover he was going to wear. “Tell me, Albertine, why is my mother so annoyed with me? She has seen me angry before now. What is wrong?”

It was now Albertine’s turn to pretend to arrange her apron. “Your mother is upset about the war.”

“Yes, I know. But she wasn’t even pleased to see me home safe.”

Albertine’s voice was gentler. “You must remember your father died in 1917. And your grandfather died in the siege of Paris. So Madame is very upset about this war. Myself, I think we should thank the good God Who has looked after, us and let us keep what we have.”

“So my mother is angry because we lost this time, because I am home safe?”

“She is angry with all the young men She says that if a German comes near this farm she will kill him with our ham-knife. She says—” Albertine stopped and shrugged her shoulders. “Myself, I think we should thank the good God Who has left Saint-Déodat in peace.”

“What else does my mother say?”

“She says that now the young men, who talked too much, have done too little that they have sold France by all their politics.”

“And what of the old men?”

“They will be punished by dying in unhappiness, for they will never live to see France free again. But they will soon be out of this life, while the young men will have to live in misery. They will suffer more than if they had died in war. Yes, she is very upset.”

“Seemingly.” Hearne was thinking quickly. There had been still more to Madame Corlay’s bitterness than even that: as if there had been a deep conflict between herself and her son, as if what had happened to Madame Corlay’s France was only
the culmination of such a conflict

“And what did my mother say about me?” he added.

Albertine looked restless. She was now smoothing the stiff white cap, tucking away imaginary stray wisps of hair. But when her answer did come, it was as direct as it was harsh.

“She did not want to see you again.”

There was a pause. Hearne swallowed, and said. “Well, now...” He couldn’t think of anything to add. There was something too final about Madame Corlay’s words. He picked up his clothes.

“I’ll dress now, Albertine, or else I will catch that cold of yours. And then I’ll walk in the fields for half an hour. And then I’ll come in for supper. And then I’ll go back to bed.”

Albertine seemed to find this reasonable if unnecessary. She seemed relieved by the quietness of his voice. It seemed to restore her confidence. As she left the room, she walked over to the window and closed it.

Hearne waited until the heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs had faded into the kitchen, and then opened the window. He was thinking about that strange meeting with Madame Corlay. He saw her once more framed in the darkness of the doorway, dressed in black with the long gold chain gathered tightly into the small round brooch at her throat. The white hair was carefully combed, the white face with its faded colour in the lips and cheeks was set in a proud, disdainful mould. It was the face of a woman of character, who had been continuously disappointed in life. She was not the negative personality he had expected. She was a self-effacing invalid only in the sense that she no longer interested herself in the management of the house and farm. But upstairs in her room, Madame Corlay was indeed a very definite personality.

It was good for his purpose, in one way, that she should have been so unnatural in her welcome. A gentle mother, full of sympathy and tears, would have worried him. And yet, in another way, Madame Corlay’s attitude made things more strange and difficult. For there was the hint of dark currents in Bertrand Corlay’s life, which weren’t covered by the data he had learned by heart. He had studied Corlay, questioned him skilfully, memorised all the details which he and Matthews and that French Intelligence man, Fournier, had gathered. Not that he had expected Bertrand Corlay to be so simple as a string of dates and facts. Human beings weren’t like that. He had only learned to know the skeleton, as it were. Now he must fill in the flesh. It might be a stranger job than he had imagined. This evening, after supper, he would unpack the books and papers from the wardrobe and place them back in the empty bookcase. He would find out a lot about Corlay that way: books were half a man.

He went downstairs, passing through the kitchen where Albertine was working in front of the fire. The air was cool, the fields were empty. The cows had no doubt been safely locked in for the night by Henri. He walked slowly up the hill to the west side of the farm until he had reached the last field and the beginnings of the castle’s woods. He halted and looked down towards the farm, towards the apple trees outside the window of his room.

It wasn’t a big farm at all. It consisted of this large field divided into three for various crops, of scattered groupings of trees, of the orchard which stretched from the house up this western hill, of the meadow and hayfield edging the path to the Pinot farm. If only there had been a man to manage and work it, instead of poor old Albertine and one of her relatives, the farm might have produced more than mere subsistence. For it was good soil, and centuries of careful nursing had left the grass smooth, the branches heavy with ripening fruit. The wheat in one part of the field was standing strong and upright. The breeze whipped over its yellowing greenness and the whiskered heads of grain rustled gently like silk skirts in a ballroom.

Beyond the farm-house, down through the fields to the east, lay the road which passed through the village. From here, he could see its church soaring over the tops of the trees which fringed Saint-Déodat. Still farther to the east lay the busy plain, with its highway and railway, its villages and towns. But here, on this gentle hill, touched with gold in the rich evening light, such things might be a hundred miles away. He could hear the stillness around him. Its peace made him a part of itself, holding him immobile, suspended in time like a figure on a painted canvas.

The bells from the church swung him out of his inertia. Below him the road would now have its black-shawled, white-capped women, walking with their heads already bent. He saw Albertine leave the kitchen door, and set off quickly down the path. Poor old Albertine, he thought again: her rewards were so few.

And then he saw a girl on the path, her hair gleaming in the low rays of the setting sun. She didn’t turn towards the kitchen door as he expected. Instead, she had begun the climb up through the sloping fields towards where he stood. She had seen him. She waved, not excitedly, not full-heartedly. It was more of a gesture than a greeting. Nor did she quicken her steps, but walked towards him at the same steady pace. The silver-gold
of her hair was unmistakable. This must be Anne Pinot. As she came nearer, and the white blur of her face resolved itself into a short nose and rounded chin, level eyebrows above grey eyes, he knew he had been right in his guess. She looked exactly like the expressionless photograph which Corlay had shown him. “Very fair hair,” Corlay had said in a disinterested voice. “That’s about all.”

And that was about all, thought Hearne, until he noticed the eyes more blue than grey, and the sprinkling of freckles over the short, charming nose. She had possibilities, but she either ignored or despised them. Even the black dress with its bodice tightly buttoned up to the neck, with its long sleeves covering her wrists, seemed to have been chosen to constrict and hide her strong young body. Her stockings were black, and they weren’t silk ones, either. Her shoes were of plain black leather, low-heeled. He found himself thinking again of Corlay’s disinterested voice which had jarred on him at the time.

“Anne,” he said, and smiled.

“I met Albertine.” Her voice was clear and soft. She spoke French carefully, with no Breton accent and only the hint of an intonation. “She said you had gone up the hill. I wanted to see you.” Her eyes were fixed on the ground at her feet. Hearne suddenly remembered that he had made no move to touch her. He took her hand awkwardly.

“You look just the same, Anne,” he said gently. “Just what I hoped to see when I got back.”

She took her hand away quickly, and raised her eyes.

“Bertrand,” she said in that clear, child-like voice which matched the simplicity of her face. “I want to tell you at once... Yesterday afternoon I learned that you had come back. I didn’t
sleep all last night. So I must tell you now. I—” The resolution was fading with her voice.

“Tell me what, Anne?” It was strange how gently he spoke to this girl, as if he were addressing a child. They stared at each other. “Tell me what, Anne?” Hearne smiled into the serious eyes.

“I do not want to—” She stopped once more. Whatever she was trying to say was too difficult for her.

“Anne, what’s wrong?” He was thinking that she reminded him of a startled fawn. He found he was smiling naturally and easily at last.

She looked at him disbelievingly. He could hear the short, sharp breath. She bit her lip. And then she turned suddenly, and was running down the hill.

“Anne!” There was real concern in his voice. He started after her, and cursed silently at his stiff muscles. It was as if he were running on stilts. He forced himself to greater speed, but even at that he was gaining only slightly. Had she guessed? Had she found out? His thoughts urged him on. He drew level with her almost at the bottom of the field. He caught her arm sharply, so that she stumbled and exclaimed, but his voice mastered hers.

“Anne, what is wrong? You must tell me.”

She was trembling. He let go her arm, suddenly and painfully aware of the madness of his emotions in the last two minutes. He felt strange and foolish. Chase a girl, he thought savagely, and you feel like some primeval Pan. Hell, he thought, think of Matthews and cold blue eyes and a matter-of-fact voice, think of a job to be done, a dirty, rotten job which might bear some good, some good for others but nothing but hell for yourself.

She was looking at him, wide-eyed, the startled fawn again. She was nursing her arm; but she was still there, looking at him.

“Anne,” he said. Nothing but Anne. He kept saying “Anne”. What else did you say to a girl to whom you had been conveniently betrothed?

“Anne,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But tell me what is wrong, what is wrong.”

He was tired, he thought, or else all movement had gone into slow motion. No one could have looked so long at him as this. And then her clear, simple voice cut in on his emotions.
Frère Jacques,
he was thinking, either
Frère Jacques
or
Sur le pont d’Avignon.
It was that kind of voice, made to sing the simplest melodies.

“My father died two months ago.”

“Your father died... Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t know.” But still he couldn’t fathom her meaning. He looked at her and waited.

“I am now my own mistress.” She was becoming more confident.

“Yes, of course.” Just what, he wondered, was she trying to say with so much difficulty and hedging? When it came, even he was surprised. He had imagined a number of things, but not this.

“So I shall not have to marry.”

Hearne remained completely motionless. The blank, expressionless look which he had often found useful when suddenly confronted with a strange twist in events slipped over his face. He said nothing. He was wondering just how Corlay would have really felt. Surprised, and hurt: incredulous, probably even angry. Most men would be at such a reception as this. He himself felt an immense load lifted from him: thank God, he wouldn’t have to pretend a lot of nonsense, anyway. He felt like smiling when he remembered his elaborate plan to keep his betrothed at full arm’s distance. Just another set of
bright ideas he needn’t have bothered thinking up, just another set for the wastepaper basket. If all the plans which he worked out and never had to use could be kept in files, how many sides of a room would they cover? Probably they would make too depressing a room: they were better scrapped and forgotten.

Anne was watching strangely. Let her, he thought. She ought to know Corlay’s reactions better than he did. If he were to keep silent, with his brows down and his lips tightly drawn, she would probably read into his expression the emotions he ought to be feeling. She was losing her confidence again. Serve her right, Hearne thought. What a fine welcome Corlay was getting after having walked the length of Brittany to reach these people. Just the sort of welcome to cheer a chap up after his country had been slapped down. First of all he would have had all his ideas smashing round his head; and now he was having all his personal emotions added to the general rubble heap. He suddenly started to walk down the path towards the house.