said, but the laugh in her voice took the sting out of the words; the long look from her eyes softened the frown. Hearne watched her profile incredulously.
Kerénor bowed, and wheeling abruptly on his heel he limped out of the door. Masochist, thought Hearne, and then as the girl in the clinging flowered dress turned her face once more towards him, he forgot Kerénor.
“You look as if you could scarcely believe your eyes,” she teased in her low voice.
“I—I didn’t know—”
“Of course not. I was in Paris after Strasbourg was evacuated. Now it is more—well, suitable”—her eyes emphasised the word—“that I should come back here.”
Hearne stood without speaking. Who on earth was this girl? Corlay had told him of Anne, of Albertine, of his mother; of everything, it now seemed, except a goddess with green eyes and a warm smile, with smooth white skin and sculptured bones.
She interpreted his silence in her own way. “You were worried about me? And I was for you. I thought you were either dead or taken by the English and I wouldn’t see you perhaps ever again. But now we needn’t worry any more. I may be here for a month, two months.” She paused.
“When can we meet? Tonight? The usual place?”
Hearne was taken aback. He hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked.
“Would it be safe?” he hedged.
“Why not?” The large eyes were still larger. “I’ve so much to tell you. I must see you.” It was a command.
“Of course,” Hearne said.” Of course.”
“Is that all you can say?” There was a frown shadowing the smooth brow.
“You are so beautiful.”
She laughed, as if to herself. “That is better... So you still love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
“More than ever?”
Then the grating of the restaurant door interrupted them. A large woman, tightly encased in black silk, her hair flagrantly dyed and tortured into rigid waves, had entered the bar-room.
“Elise,” she said, and motioned with her head towards the restaurant.
“Yes, Aunt Marie. Coming.”
“Be quick, then.” The large woman nodded again. Shelooked at Hearne and pursed her lips; and then the door screeched once more.
Hearne stiffened. “Who are your friends in there?”
“Bertrand!” The girl was delighted. “I’ve told you before you mustn’t be jealous. Business is merely business.” She looked contemptuously round the empty room, at the desolate tables, at the small group of men sitting so silently in the window alcove. “We have still a lot of work to do,” she added. “You will be needed more than ever. I’ll tell you when I see you. Tonight...” She hesitated and glanced towards the restaurant door. “Well, perhaps tomorrow night would be better. Tomorrow night at ten o’clock?”
“Yes,” said Hearne. There was nothing else he could say. “Tomorrow night at ten. At the—?”
“Yes, at the usual place.” She gave him a last long look, a warm smile, a pressure of her cool, slender hand. The protesting door was held open long enough for a glance over her shoulder and a last smile; for his eyes to see the tables beyond, empty except for one where three uniformed men had risen to their feet.
Hearne took a deep breath. He needed it.
He had left the Hôtel Perro and the market-place behind him before his thoughts began to take, shape. He felt like a man who had been caught in a strong river current and had managed, somehow, to pull himself out on to the bank. He passed some men, but he kept his eyes fixed moodily on the road. Someone said in a strong Breton voice, “It’s Corlay.” But Hearne only raised a hand in greeting, and kept his eyes lowered. He had had just about enough for one night; just about. And then he remembered, that tonight he’d have to try a first journey. He’d have to test that front door. Sometime before supper he’dhave to examine that lock, perhaps grease it. Sometime when Albertine was feeding the hens or even looking after the cows; for Henri
Kerénor bowed, and wheeling abruptly on his heel he limped out of the door. Masochist, thought Hearne, and then as the girl in the clinging flowered dress turned her face once more towards him, he forgot Kerénor.
“You look as if you could scarcely believe your eyes,” she teased in her low voice.
“I—I didn’t know—”
“Of course not. I was in Paris after Strasbourg was evacuated. Now it is more—well, suitable”—her eyes emphasised the word—“that I should come back here.”
Hearne stood without speaking. Who on earth was this girl? Corlay had told him of Anne, of Albertine, of his mother; of everything, it now seemed, except a goddess with green eyes and a warm smile, with smooth white skin and sculptured bones.
She interpreted his silence in her own way. “You were worried about me? And I was for you. I thought you were either dead or taken by the English and I wouldn’t see you perhaps ever again. But now we needn’t worry any more. I may be here for a month, two months.” She paused.
“When can we meet? Tonight? The usual place?”
Hearne was taken aback. He hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” the girl asked.
“Would it be safe?” he hedged.
“Why not?” The large eyes were still larger. “I’ve so much to tell you. I must see you.” It was a command.
“Of course,” Hearne said.” Of course.”
“Is that all you can say?” There was a frown shadowing the smooth brow.
“You are so beautiful.”
She laughed, as if to herself. “That is better... So you still love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
“More than ever?”
Then the grating of the restaurant door interrupted them. A large woman, tightly encased in black silk, her hair flagrantly dyed and tortured into rigid waves, had entered the bar-room.
“Elise,” she said, and motioned with her head towards the restaurant.
“Yes, Aunt Marie. Coming.”
“Be quick, then.” The large woman nodded again. Shelooked at Hearne and pursed her lips; and then the door screeched once more.
Hearne stiffened. “Who are your friends in there?”
“Bertrand!” The girl was delighted. “I’ve told you before you mustn’t be jealous. Business is merely business.” She looked contemptuously round the empty room, at the desolate tables, at the small group of men sitting so silently in the window alcove. “We have still a lot of work to do,” she added. “You will be needed more than ever. I’ll tell you when I see you. Tonight...” She hesitated and glanced towards the restaurant door. “Well, perhaps tomorrow night would be better. Tomorrow night at ten o’clock?”
“Yes,” said Hearne. There was nothing else he could say. “Tomorrow night at ten. At the—?”
“Yes, at the usual place.” She gave him a last long look, a warm smile, a pressure of her cool, slender hand. The protesting door was held open long enough for a glance over her shoulder and a last smile; for his eyes to see the tables beyond, empty except for one where three uniformed men had risen to their feet.
Hearne took a deep breath. He needed it.
He had left the Hôtel Perro and the market-place behind him before his thoughts began to take, shape. He felt like a man who had been caught in a strong river current and had managed, somehow, to pull himself out on to the bank. He passed some men, but he kept his eyes fixed moodily on the road. Someone said in a strong Breton voice, “It’s Corlay.” But Hearne only raised a hand in greeting, and kept his eyes lowered. He had had just about enough for one night; just about. And then he remembered, that tonight he’d have to try a first journey. He’d have to test that front door. Sometime before supper he’dhave to examine that lock, perhaps grease it. Sometime when Albertine was feeding the hens or even looking after the cows; for Henri
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