Part 18 (2/2)

The English words seemed to waken her. ”It is always the town,”

looking around bewildered. ”The people--houses. I think I am not well. If I could find the woods----”

Bauzy had but a hazy idea of her meaning, but he nodded gravely. ”She is a tourist. She wants to go out of Vannes--to see the chateaux, the dolmens. I'm her man. I'll drive her to Larmor Baden,” he said to his wife. ”I have to go there to-day, and I may as well make a franc or two. Keep her until I bring the voiture.”

But Frances stood motionless until the old wagon rattled up to the water's edge.

”She has a dear old face,” Bauzy's wife whispered.

”She is blind and deaf, I tell you,” old Barbe grumbled, peering up at her. ”Make her pay, Oliver, before you go.”

Bauzy nodded, and when Frances was seated held out his hand.

”Twenty francs,” he said.

She opened her bag and gave them to him.

”She must be folle!” he said uneasily. ”I feel like a thief. Away with you, Babette!” as a pretty baby ran up to him. ”You want to ride?

That is impossible. Unless, indeed, madame desires it?” lifting the child to place her on the seat. Babette laughed and held out her hands.

But Mrs. Waldeaux shrank back, shuddering. ”Take her away,” she whispered. ”She must not touch me!”

The mother seized the child, and the women all talked vehemently at once. Oliver climbed into the voiture and drove off in silence. When he looked around presently he saw that the woman's face was bloodless, and a cold sweat stood on it. He considered a while. ”You want food,”

he said, and brought out some hard bread and a jug of Normandy cider.

Frances shook her head. She only spoke once during the morning, and then told him something about a woman ”whom no child could touch. No man or woman could touch her as long as she lived. Not even her son.”

As Bauzy could make nothing of this, he could only nod and laugh civilly. But presently he, too, grew silent, glancing at her uncomfortably from time to time.

They drove through great red fields of sara.s.son, hedged by long banks of earth, which were ma.s.ses of golden gorse and bronzed and crimson ferns. The sun shone, the clover-scented air was full of the joyous buzzing of bees and chirp of birds.

”It is a gay, blessed day!” Bauzy said, ”thanks to the good G.o.d!” He waited anxiously for her reply, but she stared into the suns.h.i.+ne and said nothing.

Larmor Baden is a lonely little cl.u.s.ter of gray stone huts on the sh.o.r.e of the Morbihan sea. Some of Bauzy's friends lounged smiling up to welcome him, waving their wide black hats with velvet streamers, and bowing low to the lady. Oliver alighted with decision. One thing he knew: He would not drive back with her. Something was amiss. He would wash his hands of her.

”Here, madame, is Vincent Selo, paysageur,” he said rapidly in French.

”He has a good boat. He will take you where you desire. Sail with her to Gavr' Inis,” he said to Selo, ”and bring her back at her pleasure.

Somebody can drive her back to Vannes, and don't overcharge her, you robbers!”

”Gavr' Inis?” Frances repeated.

”It is an island in the sea yonder, madame. A quiet place of trees.

When there was not a man in the world, evil spirits built there an altar for the wors.h.i.+p of the devil. No men could have built it. There are huge stones carried there from the mountains far inland, that no engine could lift. It is a great mystery.”

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