Part 13 (1/2)

”I am intensely interested,” he repeated, watching the lovely, sensitive face which pride and dread of misinterpretation had slightly flushed again.

”It is only to explain--perhaps to justify myself for writing--for asking that an officer be sent here from Lorient for a few days----”

”I understand, Countess.”

”Thank you.... Had it been merely for myself--for my own fears--my personal safety, I should not have written. But our misfortunes seem to be coincident with my country's mishaps.... So I thought--if they sent an officer who would be kind enough to understand----”

”I understand ... L'Ombre has appeared in the moat again, has it not?”

”Yes, it came a week ago, suddenly, at five o'clock in the afternoon.”

”And--the clocks?”

”For a week they have been all wrong.”

”What hour do they strike?” he asked curiously.

”Five.”

”No matter where the hands point?”

”No matter. I have tried to regulate them. I have done everything I could do. But they continue to strike five every hour of the day and night.... I have”--a pale smile touched her lips--”I have been a little wakeful--perhaps a trifle uneasy--on my country's account. You understand....” Pride and courage had permitted her no more than uneasiness, it seemed. Or if fear had threatened her there in her lonely bedroom through the still watches of the night, she desired him to understand that her solicitude was for France, not for any daughter of the race whose name she bore.

The simplicity and directness of her amazing narrative had held his respect and attention; there could be no doubt that she implicitly believed what she told him.

But that was one thing; and the wild extravagance of the story was another. There must be, of course, an explanation for these phenomena other than a supernatural one. Such things do not happen except in medieval romance and tales of sorcery and doom. And of all regions on earth Brittany swarms with such tales and superst.i.tions. He knew it. And this young girl was Bretonne after all, however educated, however accomplished, however honest and modern and sincere. And he began to comprehend that the germs of superst.i.tion and credulity were in the blood of every Breton ever born.

But he merely said with pleasant deference: ”I can very easily understand your uneasiness and perplexity, Madame. It is a time of mental stress, of great nervous tension in France--of heart-racking suspense----”

She lifted her dark eyes. ”You do not believe me, Monsieur.”

”I believe what you have told me. But I believe, also, that there is a natural explanation concerning these matters.”

”I tell myself so, too.... But I brood over them in vain; I can find no explanation.”

”Of course there must be one,” he insisted carelessly. ”Is there anything in the world more likely to go queer than a clock?”

”There are five clocks in the house. Why should they all go wrong at the same time and in the same manner?”

He smiled. ”I don't know,” he said frankly. ”I'll investigate, if you will permit me.”

”Of course.... And, about L'Ombre. What could explain its presence in the moat? It is a creature of icy waters; it is extremely limited in its range. My father has often said that, except L'Ombre which has appeared at long intervals in our moat, L'Ombre never has been seen in Brittany.”

”From where does this clear water come which fills the moat?” he asked, smiling.

”From living springs in the bottom.”

”No doubt,” he said cheerfully, ”a long subterranean vein of water connects these springs with some distant Alpine river, somewhere--in the Pyrenees, perhaps--” He hesitated, for the explanation seemed as far-fetched as the water.

Perhaps it so appeared to her, for she remained politely silent.