Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes Page A

village to a pile of rubble in even less time than that; why not if you knew that the people in this village knew it too? Blackmail with planes...only the Germans had thought of that and planned accordingly. Here was a community of perhaps some four hundred people in all, and it was occupied and controlled by a handful of self-assured men. Four hundred would do what twenty, or less, would tell them.
    Kerénor followed him into the bar. As he limped, he put his hand on his right thigh as if by leaning on it he could keep up with Hearne’s stride.
    “Elise will be delighted,” he said suddenly.
    “Elise?” Hearne stared at the bitter smile. He was strangely uncomfortable at the naked look in the other man’s eyes.
    “Elise.” Kerénor lingered over the name. He was hurting himself purposely, thought Hearne. His eyes showed it: they didn’t smile, but the twist on his lips seemed to have frozen there. “Yes, Elise. She’s back too.” And then he was gone.
    Who the devil was Elise, Hearne was wondering. Better get Henri. Better get out of this place before any other riddles were put to him. He looked round the room with its small stone-topped tables. In the large alcove at the curtained window there was a group of men. Old men. They sat staring at the glasses before them. Henri, his chin sunk in his gnarled fists, was motionless. No one talked. No one moved, as Hearne went over to the table.
    He’s drunk, solidly drunk, Hearne thought. He said quietly, “Henri. Come.”
    Henri raised his eyes slowly, and looked at Hearne from under his lowered brows.
    “Ni zo Bretoned, tud kaled,” he said.
    “Yes,” Hearne answered, remembering the little of Breton which he had once known. “Yes. But Albertine wants you.”
    The old man rose slowly and left the table. None of the others spoke. Henri didn’t look at them; he was walking with a visible effort towards the door, unnaturally erect, looking neither to right nor to left. Hearne followed. At least, he was congratulating himself, the old chap looked as if he could make it under his own steam. One thing he must remember about these Bretons: they were powerful drinkers. In one way, it was funny to think how worried he had been all this afternoon when Henri was missing, and all the time Henri had been just drowning his sorrows. It was so funny that Hearne didn’t even feel angry. It was funny, and pathetic. “Ni zo Bretoned,” Henri had quoted: “We are the Bretons, a hard race...” There they were, not one of them under seventy, just sitting and drinking and thinking of the national songs, as if to cling on to some pride, as if to keep themselves from drowning in a sea of Celtic despair. Hearne looked back at the group of men. They hadn’t moved. Henri had already passed through the doorway with its tightly gathered yellow curtains. He was literally walking straight home.
    And then, as Hearne reached the yellow curtains, the door behind him, which led from the bar into the restaurant of the hotel, swung open. He turned at the grating noise of the hinges. He could see a tablecloth in the background, and an officer’scap lying on its whiteness. But his eyes came back to the girl standing in the open doorway.
    “God!” he said to himself.
    And then she came forward. Only a girl with the face of an angel could move like that. He suddenly realised that the lips were parted in a breathless smile, that the large eyes were fixed on his.
    “Bertrand!” And then she had caught both his hands in hers. Cool hands, soft hands.
    “Bertrand.” The dark eyelashes flickered. She shook her head slowly, unbelievingly. “I’ve just come back. No one told me you were back until Kerénor came two minutes ago...” Hearne felt the blood high in his face.
    “Most touching,” said Kerénor. He was standing at the counter of the bar, watching them with that same look in his eyes which had embarrassed Hearne before. Elise turned her face towards Kerénor.
    “Go away, Jean,” she