A hired car and driver took Trehearne, for an exorbitant price, to
Keregnac. On the first day they had roads, and made excellent time. On
the second the tiny Fiat labored in agony along rutted cart tracks. The
sea was far behind them, and the driver complained incessantly of the
mad desires of Americans. Why should anyone wish to go to Keregnac, a
place that even the Bretons had forgotten?
Trehearne was in a strange and savage mood. The sound of Shairn's name
was in his ears, and all the things that she had said and done went
round and round in his head, and the more he thought of them the more
he hated her, and the more he wanted her. And the more he hated Kerrel,
who had her, and who was part of whatever secret life she lived. But
Shairn and her affairs were only part of it. He had come close to the
end of his quest. He had almost grasped it, only to be denied at the
last by a woman's fickle impulse. He would not be denied any longer.
Shairn had started something that could not be stopped, no matter where
it led.
The driver lost his way among the ruts and the stony hamlets. When he
begged directions, the peasants regarded Trehearne in dour silence
and could not be compelled to answer. It was impossible even to learn
whether others had gone this way before them.
Trehearne had foreseen this possibility. He had had enough such
difficulties in Cornwall. He had got a map and directions in St. Malo,
and he forced the luckless driver on by dead reckoning. It was night
before they came wallowing into a muddy square half paved with ancient
stones and saw the lights of half a dozen dwellings clustered around it.
"Go there, to the largest house," said Trehearne. "Ask if this is
Keregnac, and tell the master we'll pay well for lodging."
The driver, himself in a thoroughly foul humor by now, did as he was
bid, and in a few moments Trehearne found himself in a three-room house
of crumbling stone, the walls blackened with smoke and age. A meagre
fire burned on the hearth, and two home-made candles furnished all the
light.
It was enough to show Trehearne's face.
Oddly enough, the squat, hard-handed peasant who was master of the
house showed neither fear nor hatred. Nor was he surprised. A certain
slyness crept into his sullen expression, but that was all.
"You shall have the best bed, Monsieur," he said, in vile French and
pointed to a gigantic carved _lit-clos_. "I have also one good horse.
The others have gone ahead into the _landes_. You will wish to overtake
them."
Trehearne tried to conceal his excitement. "Monsieur Kerrel and
Mademoiselle Shairn?"
The peasant shrugged. "You know better than I what their names might
be. I am not a curious man. I enjoy good health, and am content."
He called sharply in the Breton tongue, and a woman came to prepare
food. She had a heavy, stupid face. She glanced once, sidelong, at
Trehearne and after that was careful neither to look at nor speak to
him. As soon as the simple meal was on the table, she hid herself in
the adjoining room.
The ancient crone who sat knitting by the fire was not so cowed. As
though age had placed her above necessity, she kept her bright little
eyes fixed upon Trehearne with a mixture of hostility and interest.
"What are you thinking, _ma vielle_?" he asked her, smiling.
She answered, in French that was almost unintelligible to him, "I am
thinking, Monsieur, that Keregnac is greatly honored by the Devil!"
The man snarled at her in Gaelic, bidding her be silent, but Trehearne
shook his head.
"Don't be afraid, _grandmere_. Why do you say that?"
"From time to time he sends his sons and daughters to us. They eat our
food, borrow our horses, and pay us well. Oh, very well! We could not
live, if it were not for them." Her white coif bobbed emphatically.
"But it is still the devil's money!"