THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL
It was well that Mère Pitou came upon them before another syllable was
uttered, since not all Ingersoll's philosophy could have withstood the
earthquake that had destroyed in an instant the carefully constructed
edifice of many years. His very soul was in revolt. Heart suggested and
brain lent bitter and cruel form to rebellious words; but, such is the
power of convention, the unexpected arrival of the sharp-tongued Breton
woman silenced him.
"_O, là là!_" she cried breathlessly. "If I had known you two were
making off in such a jiffy merely to stand in the Place au Beurre and
look at the stars, I wouldn't have waddled after you like the fat goose
that I am. What, then, is the matter? I thought you were hurrying home
because you were perished with cold, and I find the pair of you stuck in
the middle of the road. Monsieur Ingersoll, you at least are old enough
to have more sense. Both must be soaked to the skin; yet you keep Yvonne
out in this biting wind, to say nothing of a thin scarecrow like
yourself!"
Yvonne had dropped her hands when she heard the approaching footsteps.
Unconsciously she had raised her eyes to Heaven in agonized suppliance,
and her attitude was naturally inexplicable to her Breton friends. She
recovered some semblance of self control more quickly than her father.
"Madame," she said, "we were, in a sense, debating whether or not we
could spare the time to change our clothes before attending to the wants
of the poor people saved from Les Verrés. I think you are right. It
would be foolish to take any additional risk. Come, Father dear, let me
help you now."
She took her father's arm, and drew him on. He walked unsteadily, and
might have fallen if it had not been for Yvonne's support. The first mad
impulse that bade him pour forth a vehement protest against the
injustice of Fate had died down. He was as a man stricken dumb, and even
physically maimed, by some serious accident.
Mère Pitou, imagining that he was benumbed as the outcome of prolonged
exposure to the elements, was minded to rate him soundly; but happily
elected instead to pour the torrent of her wrath on things in general.
"A nice fête we'll have, to be sure!" she began. "There was I, boiling
beautiful white meat and roasting fat pullets when the news came that
the Hirondelle was acting the lifeboat off Les Verrés! I thought you'd
all be drowned, at the very least, and I wouldn't have been a bit
surprised, because anything might happen to that light-headed Monsieur
Tollemache and that grinning, good-for-nothing Peridot. _Cré nom!_ I
wouldn't have crossed the street if you two weren't aboard! And now the
bottom will be burnt out of the pan, and my four lovely fowls frizzled
to a cinder! Barbe, you little minx, run ahead and see that the big
kettle is put on to boil! Monsieur Ingersoll and Yvonne must have hot
baths, with mustard, and I'll stand over them till they swallow a good
tumblerful each of scalding wine. I'll give them Les Verrés--see if I
don't!"
Whereat Madame gurgled in momentary appreciation of her own wit, because
_verrée_ means "a tumblerful," and she had blundered on a first-rate
pun.
"_Chère maman_, we are not ill, nor likely to feel any bad effects from
a wetting," said Yvonne. "My father is shaken because, although
successful, we have brought one dead man to Pont Aven, and perhaps a
dead woman too."
"Ah, that's sad--that's dreadful!" wheezed Mère Pitou. "Poor things! Who
are they?"
"An Englishman gentleman--and his wife."
"They may be Americans. We hardly know yet." Ingersoll was striving
bravely to recover his poise. Those few words told Yvonne that he wished
their secret to remain hidden from all others--for the present, at any
rate.
"_Dieu merci!_ You can talk, then?" said Mère Pitou tartly. "Were they
coming to Pont Aven? Are they known here?"
"No. Their name is Carmac. They have never been here, I believe. They
were making for Lorient; but their yacht broke down and drove on the
reef. Had it not been for Peridot we could not have saved a soul on
board."
"Oh, he's a good sailor--I'll say that for him. His poor old mother was
there on the quay, screeching like an owl. She lost her man at sea, you
know. I hate the sea. I'll skin Barbe if she ever so much as looks at a
fisherman. Do you hear that, Madeleine?"
"Yes, Madame. But you can't skin every fisherman who looks at Barbe."
"Wait till I catch one at it! He'll find a shark in his nets that day.
Hurry now, you, and help Barbe to get those baths ready! I filled the
kettle before I came out, and lifted the wheat off, and as I shoved in
the damper of the oven the fowls shouldn't have taken much harm."
"Peridot will surely come soon," Madeleine ventured to say.
Mère Pitou, having made sufficient concession to her guests' feelings by
that revised estimate of the condition of the eatables, was moved to
withering sarcasm.
"Why do you think that matters to me?" she cried.
Madeleine was silenced; so Madame answered her own question.
"No man with eyes like a tomcat could ever turn my head!" she snorted.
For once her gift of biting repartee served a good purpose. It
effectually distracted attention from Ingersoll's half-demented state,
while father and daughter were given a breathing space before plunging
into an explanation that might affect the future in such wise that the
stream of life would never again flow on the placid course it had
followed during many happy and uneventful years.
Within the cottage, too, Mère Pitou's bustling ways interposed a further
barrier. She drove the artist to his room, set Madeleine to help Yvonne
undress, "and rub her till she's as red as a boiled lobster," prepared
two steaming glasses of mulled wine, scolded each unwilling patient
until the decoction was taken, and wanted to massage Ingersoll; an
attention that he avoided only by declaring positively that he would not
indulge in a hot bath at all unless she cleared out.
Luckily a wetting from salt water is seldom harmful if accompanied by
exercise, and Ingersoll had never been really chilled; while Yvonne had
not only kept comparatively dry, but had been shielded from the wind
during the homeward voyage. When the two met in the studio, a large room
that Ingersoll had built on the north side of the house, the frenzy and
tumult of a tremendous discovery had died down, and each was ready to
make due allowance for the other's suffering.
Yvonne wore her Breton dress, and her father had discarded his artist's
clothes for a suit of blue serge. Seldom, perhaps not twice in a year,
did he appear in evening dress. He shunned society, and disliked its
livery. For that reason he had removed from the Hotel Julia soon after
arriving at Pont Aven with Yvonne, then an engaging mite hardly a year
old. Ostensibly he wanted a spacious studio; in reality he sought
seclusion.
As for Yvonne, she did not even possess a dinner gown; though she and
her father were often welcome guests at the houses of the small artistic
coterie that makes the village its abiding place. But pictures, not
fashion plates, ruled the roost therein, and no _grande dame_ whom
chance brought to these friendly gatherings could plume herself that her
"Paris model" frock eclipsed the quaint charm of Yvonne's peasant
costume.
The girl had grown quite accustomed to the demand invariably put forward
by Ingersoll before accepting an invitation that he should be told the
names of any strangers who would be present. If she gave a passing
thought to the matter, she fancied that her father had early in life
quarreled with his relatives, and wished to avoid a haphazard meeting
with certain members of his family. Singularly enough, Tollemache, her
greatest friend among the men of Pont Aven, did not conceal the fact
that he too was at loggerheads with his own people. Only that day had he
been on the verge of some explanation of this unfortunate state of
affairs. How little did she dream then that the carefully hidden secret
which led her own father to bury his talents in a Brittany fishing
village soon after she was born would be dragged into light before the
sun went down!
* * * * *
When she entered the studio she found her father seated in a roomy
wickerwork chair, and gazing disconsolately into the flames of a roaring
log fire. He had aged within the hour; his already slight figure seemed
to have shrunk; he did not even turn his head when the door opened.
Her heart went out to him in a wave of tenderness. She dropped on her
knees by his side and put her arms round his neck.
"Dad dear," she murmured, "don't dwell on our troubles tonight, great as
they are. Let us rather be thankful that we were able to render some
service to our fellow creatures, and that our own lives were preserved
in a time of real danger. God works in His own wonderful way, doesn't
He, Dear? It was His will that we should have gone to Le Pouldu today.
It was surely by providential contriving that we should happen to be
near the reef when the Stella struck. Something more than idle chance
brought us there."
"Yes," he said, gazing into her eyes with the sorrow-laden expression of
a man who sees naught but misery before him, "it was not chance, Yvonne,
but the operation of a law as certain as death. The sins of the fathers
shall be visited upon the children unto the third and fourth
generations. I had almost forgotten that your mother lived. After
eighteen years she was dead to me. So far as you are concerned she might
as well have died in giving you birth. Then her memory would have been a
blessing rather than a curse."
"Hush, Dear! She may be dying even now. No, no, Darling, you shall not
say it!" and her soft lips stifled the terrible wish that his anguish
might have voiced.
For a little while neither could speak. Yvonne's head bent over her
father's knees, and he knew that she was crying. With a supreme effort
he strove to lessen the tension.
"Come, come, Sweetheart!" he said, stroking the mass of brown hair
beneath the lace coif. "You and I must face this difficulty together, or
goodness only knows what may be the outcome! Tell me now, if you are
able, how you learned that Mrs. Carmac was your mother."
"Oh, Dad, she recognized me at once!" sobbed the girl. "Poor thing, the
warmth of the blankets and a teaspoonful of brandy I forced between her
lips brought her round slowly."
"When?"
"After we crossed the bar."
"I feared as much," groaned Ingersoll.
Even in her distress Yvonne had the tact to avoid the thorny bypath
opened up by her father's involuntary cry. "She sighed deeply a few
times," she went on hurriedly, "and I could tell by her color that she
was about to revive. At last she opened her eyes, and looked at me in a
dazed way.
"'Yvonne!' she whispered.
"I was so overjoyed to find that she was not actually at the point of
death that I felt no surprise. 'Yes, Dear,' I said, 'you are with
friends, and that horrid wreck is a thing of the past.'
"But she continued to gaze at me as if I were a ghost. 'Yvonne
Ingersoll!' she said again.
"Then it struck me as really remarkable that she should know my name.
But I only asked her to drink a little more of the brandy, and rest
until we reached Pont Aven.
"'Rest!' she said in quite a clear voice. 'Why should I rest when Heaven
snatches me from a dreadful death and permits me to see my own daughter
after eighteen years? Or is this some other world? Why am I here? Where
have you come from?'
"For the moment I was sure her mind was unbalanced, and thought it best
to calm her by answering truthfully. 'My mother is dead, Dear,' I said;
'but you and I are living. You hardly realize now that your yacht was
wrecked on a reef near the mainland. By the mercy of Providence my
father's boat was close at hand, and we rescued you.'
"'Me only?' she cried, trying to rise in the bunk, and giving me such a
piercing look.
"'No,' I said, 'we took off all hands.'
"Dad dear, I simply didn't dare say that her husband alone had been
killed in trying to save her; so I put it that way, hoping she would not
ask me any more. But she did then succeed in lifting herself on an
elbow.
"'Child,' she said, 'they must not meet! God! They must not meet!'
"'Who must not meet?' said I, feeling rather frightened, as of something
unseen that threatened me in the dark.
"'Your father and Walter Carmac,' she replied.
"'If Mr. Carmac is your husband, he is still unconscious,' I assured
her, catching at the first straw that offered in the whirl of things.
"'Is your father on board?' she demanded, grasping my wrist.
"'Yes,' I said.
"Then she sank back into the bunk again, as though I had struck her, and
began to sob. 'Oh, it is cruel, cruel!' she wept. 'After all these years
my folly has found me out! Yvonne, Yvonne, don't you understand? I am
your mother! I left your father eighteen years ago. I left you, my
darling little baby! I sought freedom because your father was poor, and
I longed to be rich. Look at me! Look at me, I tell you! Can you deny
that I am your mother?'
"Oh, Dad, I knew in my heart that she was speaking truly; but even in
that moment of torture I tried to be loyal to you, and begged her to
close her eyes and let me cover her with the blankets. But she only
laughed, in a ghastly way that was worse than tears. Then she heard one
of the men in the other bunks groaning, and started up again, asking
wildly who was there. I told her that two men were badly injured, and
had been brought below. Unfortunately, I added that her husband was on
deck.
"'Husband!' she cried. 'I am not worthy of such a husband! I bartered my
very soul for luxury, and now I am being punished as I deserve. Yvonne,
one night in Paris your mother kissed you when you were lying asleep in
your cot, and hurried away to what I deemed liberty. I have lulled my
conscience for eighteen years into the belief that I was justified, that
I had acted for the best, since my extravagant tastes were even then
embittering your father's life. Yet the husband and child I abandoned
have saved my miserable life, saved the man too who came into my life
when I was free to marry again. Oh, why didn't you let me die? Perhaps I
am dying now. Yvonne, you have my face; but a kindly Heaven must have
spared you from having my nature. You, at least, will forgive. Kiss me
once before the end comes. If you are merciful, an Eternal Judge may not
condemn me utterly; for I have striven to atone by doing some good in
the world. Unhappy myself, I have tried to make others happy.'
"Father dear, I could not refuse. I took her in my arms. I suppose she
nearly fainted again, because she only spoke incoherently until she
heard your voice in the hatch, when she whispered your name and buried
her face in the clothes."
* * * * *
The girl's tremulous voice ceased, and there was no sound in the room
save the crackling of elm logs and the pleasant babble of flames in the
big open fireplace. At last, fearing lest he should break down
completely, Ingersoll gently untwined his daughter's clasp, rose, and
fumbled with a pipe,--man's sole harbor of refuge in emotional storms.
"Don't cry, Yvonne," he said brokenly. "It--it hurts. From what you tell
me I gather that your--mother--is in a more critical condition than I
imagined. Do you want to go to her--now?"
Yvonne too stood up. She brushed away the mist of tears, and looked at
him with shining eyes. "Dad," she said, and a vibration rang in her
voice that carried her father's memory back half a lifetime, back to the
days when youth was golden and love was deemed everlasting, "when my
mother was muttering in delirium, my own poor wits wandered. I asked
myself what it all meant, and I could not escape the bitter
understanding that came to me. Then I remembered what you said one day
when a wretched girl had been hounded out of the village because of her
transgression."
"What I said?" repeated Ingersoll, baffled in the effort to follow her
train of thought.
"Yes. You were speaking to some man who was angered by the merciless
attitude of the peasant women to one of their own sex. You blamed the
misleading teachings of narrow-minded theologians, and reminded him of
Christ's words to the Pharisees who brought before Him some poor
creature who had fallen. They taunted Him with the Mosaic law, which
ordered that she and her like should be pelted with stones; but He only
said that the man who was without sin among them should cast the first
stone. And the crowd melted, and Christ was left alone with the sinner,
whom He forgave. I did not know then just what you meant. I did not know
until I heard my mother confessing her fault, and asking me, her
daughter, for forgiveness."
"Unhappily our everyday world is not ruled by the maxims of Christ. The
girl you speak of went to Brest, and her body was found in the harbor a
fortnight later."
"I remembered that too."
"If you go to your mother now, you may set in motion influences that may
darken your whole life."
"If I did not go, I would never forgive myself--never!"
"Prudence, the merest sort of commonsense, warns me that we ought to get
away from Pont Aven by the first possible train."
"Father dear, what did Peridot say to you before he brought the
Hirondelle round into the wind off Les Verrés? I couldn't hear, of
course. But do you think I could not read your face? Had you not to
decide whether or not you would risk my life as well as your own? You
were sure of Lorry--who wouldn't be? But it came hard to sacrifice me as
well. Did you obey commonsense then? Did you even hesitate?"
Ingersoll threw up a hand in a gesture of sheer hopelessness, and
pretended to search for a box of matches on the mantelpiece. "So be it!"
he said wearily. "Don't think I am afraid of any rival in your
affection, Yvonne. Perhaps your woman's heart is wiser than my gray
head. But, mark you, I make two stipulations! No matter what transpires,
you must come home before eleven o'clock; and it is impossible,
absolutely impossible, that your mother and I should ever meet!"
He was choosing his words carelessly that night. How "impossible" it
would have seemed that morning had some wizard foretold the events of
the succeeding hours! But Yvonne also was deaf to all but his yielding.
She ran to him, and drew his face close to hers.
"Dad," she said, kissing him, "you are the best and dearest man in the
world. How could your wife ever have left you? If I live a hundred
years, I shall never understand that."
She was going; but he stayed her.
"Yvonne, be governed by one vital consideration. Those two men in the
cabin must have caught some glimmer of the truth from your mother's
ravings. But they are strangers, and their own troubles may have
preoccupied their minds to the exclusion of the affairs of others. The
only person in Pont Aven who knows something of my sad history is Madame
Pitou. She has been aware all these years that my wife was alive, or at
any rate that she was living after I came here. She is certainly to be
trusted. Take care that none other learns your mother's identity. I ask
this for her own sake."
The girl smiled wistfully. "Yet you would have me believe you an ogre!"
she said.
* * * * *
A few minutes later Tollemache arrived. He found his friend sitting by
the fire, with a pipe that had gone out between his lips.
"Hello, Socrates!" he cried. "You're togged for the party, I see.
Where's Yvonne?"
"She was unhappy because of that poor woman who lost her husband; so I
let her hurry off to Julia's. They've been taken there, I suppose?"
"Yes. It was awfully distressing. Peridot carried Mrs. Carmac off the
boat, and by some mismanagement the light from a lantern fell on her
husband's face. Ill as she was, she realized that he was dead. She
screamed something I couldn't attach any meaning to, and her cries as
she was being put into the hotel auto were heartrending. By gad! a
beastly experience!"
"What did she say, Lorry?"
"I hardly know. It sounded like a cry for Yvonne, and a protest against
Heaven that her husband should be taken and she left. 'I am the real
offender!' she said. 'The punishment should be mine, not his!' Somehow,
not the sort of thing you'd expect from a distracted wife. I guess she's
nearly out of her mind."
"Naturally. Think what it meant to a delicate woman to be imprisoned in
that deck saloon when the yacht keeled over. You see, Lorry, we were
buoyed up with the hope of being able to effect a rescue. She, on the
other hand, must have gazed into the opening doors of eternity. Pull up
a chair. There's time for a cigarette. Seven o'clock is the supper
hour."
Tollemache obeyed. Ingersoll relighted his pipe, and the two smoked in
silence for a while. Then the younger man glanced at his companion with
a quizzical scrutiny that was altogether approving.
"Glad to see you've bucked up, old sport," he said. "You were thoroughly
knocked out by the time we reached the quay. I know why, of course."
Ingersoll stooped to throw back into the fire a half-burnt log that had
fallen out on to the hearth. "Do you?" he said calmly.
"Great Scott! I should think so, indeed! It was one thing that we three
men should go into that death trap, but quite another that you should
bring Yvonne into it. Bless your heart, Yvonne was watching Peridot and
you, and told me what you were saying. 'Dear old Dad,' she said, 'he
feels like Jephthah when he had to sacrifice his daughter.' Made me go
cold all over. Gee whizz! I was pleased it wasn't I who had to make the
choice between turning back and running into safety--where my sister--or
my wife--was concerned."
Tollemache stammered and reddened as his tongue tripped on the
concluding words; but the older man paid no heed. He was too profoundly
relieved by an explanation that differed so materially from the avowal
he dreaded.
"By the way, Lorry, that journey to Paris is postponed," he said after a
pause.
"Good! It was hardly like you to bolt out of the place when you were
most needed. Those sailormen would be at sixes and sevens tomorrow if we
didn't show up."
"I must leave that part of the business to you," said Ingersoll slowly.
"I mean to efface myself entirely. Indeed, I'm thinking of paying a
long-deferred visit to Forbes, at Concarneau. Yvonne and you can manage
splendidly in my absence. Now, don't argue, there's a good chap. I
rather lost my head on being brought into contact with two people with
whom I quarreled years ago; or, to be precise, my animus was not against
the poor fellow who is dead. Of course his wife is bound to recall the
facts, and it would place her in a difficult position when she
discovered that I was one of her rescuers. Women are apt to form curious
notions about such matters. It was an extraordinary misfortune, to say
the least, that her husband should be the one man whom we failed to
save. I think you follow me?"
"Oh, yes--the irony of Fate, and that sort of thing," said Tollemache
with an air of wisdom. He was convinced that he understood the position
exactly.
Ingersoll stood upright, drew in a deep breath that was curiously like a
sigh, and tapped his pipe against the stone pillars of the fireplace. "I
hear sounds of revelry by night," he said. "Herri has arrived with the
bagpipes."
"Dash it all!" growled Tollemache. "I don't feel a scrap like dancing
this evening. That unhappy woman's shrieks are still ringing in my
ears."
"We must adjust ourselves to the conditions," said Ingersoll quietly.
"Life, like art, is a matter of light and shade. Each of us sails a tiny
craft through an unknown sea, and if we can give a brother or sister a
cheery hail--why, let us do it, though our own vessel be sinking
steadily. I'm in no mood for revel,--goodness knows!--but, with Yvonne
absent, you and I must help Mère Pitou to entertain her guests. Some
excellent folk are coming here from Nizon and Nevez. Her sister is
driving in from Riec. You'll hear some real old Breton ballads tonight.
Pity Yvonne isn't here to translate them. My acquaintance with the
language is limited; but Madeleine or Barbe will tell you the drift of
the words."
"Won't Yvonne be here later?" inquired Tollemache, striving to cloak his
disappointment.
"I'm inclined to think she will remain with Mrs. Carmac till eleven or
thereabouts."
"But the doctor is there--and a nurse."
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Mrs. Carmac will prefer Yvonne to any
nurse. There is a cousinship of nationality, you know. Now, Lorry, no
grumbling. Let's make the best of things."
* * * * *
A knock at the door heralded the entrance of a dozen or more smiling and
self-possessed Bretons. The studio was the only room in the house large
enough to hold the company that would gather within the next few
minutes. The living room was packed with tables and chairs; hence, on
fête days, Ingersoll's quarters were invaded.
The artist was acquainted with everyone present, and Tollemache was no
stranger to the majority. Nearly all were of the well-to-do yeoman
class; for Mère Pitou belonged to an old family, and her husband, a
farrier, had been well thought of in Pont Aven. Men and women wore the
national costume, and appeared that evening in grand state. The women's
full-skirted dresses were of black cashmere, trimmed and slashed with
deep bands of black velvet; but this somber setting was merely a foil to
aprons and overbodices wrought in gold, silver, and bright-hued silk
threads, the whole blended in pretty designs with an oriental lavishness
of color and sheen.
The coifs, though bearing a general similarity of design, varied for
each district. The abundant and jet-black hair of these Breton dames and
demoiselles was waved over the forehead and coiled somewhat toward the
back of the head. Round the twisted tresses was placed, in the first
instance, the _petite coiffe_, a stiff white linen band three inches
deep, which, pinned securely, served as the basis of a dainty
superstructure. A strip of silk ribbon, cream, pink, or light blue, hid
the _petite coiffe_, and showed its tint through the meshes of the
coronet of fine lace and cambric forming the _grande coiffe_, with its
coquettish white streamers falling below the neck.
Round the throat, and deeply cut, was the broad linen collar, highly
starched, and so wide that its wings projected over the shoulders,
leaving a space across the top of the breast to reveal the lace edging
of an underbodice. These collars would puzzle any laundress who was not
a Bretonne if she were asked to prepare them, because their graceful
curves, molded to the slope of the shoulders and the straight line of
the back, are obtained by a process of wrinkling, or furrowing, effected
by the use of long straws when the linen has been lightly ironed when it
is still damp and pliable.
Age does not affect the style of dress. The girl of eight is attired
exactly like her grandmother, the only variation being seen in the
shoes, the younger people mostly donning white doeskin, and the older
ones black patent leather with silver buckles.
The men too, without exception, wore tight-fitting gray trousers, short
jackets of black cloth, with tabliers of black velvet and ornamental
buttons. Some dandies affected gold, silver, and colored silk embroidery
down each side of the front of the jacket. Their hats were low-crowned,
black felt wideawakes, with heavy bands of black velvet, carrying showy
buckles of silver on a rosette.
A more light-hearted, jovial, and picturesque company it would be
difficult to find, or, considering its nature, one more expensively
dressed. (Strangers, especially of the fair sex, who decide to purchase
"a Brittany costume" for the next fancy dress ball, are likely to be
unpleasantly surprised when they inquire the price. The materials are
invariably the best of their kind, and the lace and embroidery are
handworked. Naturally one such outfit lasts several years.)
* * * * *
Ingersoll moved among these free-mannered, laughter-loving folk as
though he had not a care in the world. Some notion of the disaster to
the Stella had spread, and he was called on for particulars, which he
gave in sufficient detail. The men appreciated the peril from which the
Hirondelle had extricated herself, the women were prodigal of their
sympathy with the American woman who had lost her husband. Tollemache,
listening to his friend's easy flow of talk, wondered more than ever
what sort of nervous attack it was that induced that amazing display of
terror at the moment of landing.
Supper was ended when Peridot put in an appearance. His face was
flushed, and his gray-green eyes had acquired a rather suspicious
luster. In a word. Captain Popple had discovered the excellence of
liqueur brandy, and Peridot, ordinarily an abstemious fellow, had proved
himself a less seasoned vessel than his host.
Madeleine was the first to notice his condition, and it troubled her.
She rather avoided him, and as a consequence he affected a loud-voiced
and boisterous good-humor.
"_Gars!_" he cried, seizing the opportunity when the girl refused to
dance the gavotte with him. "Where is Yvonne? She can foot it better
than any of you."
Now he had never before alluded to Yvonne by her Christian name. While
the Bretons are not toadies, they are polite, and the artist's daughter
ranked as an aristocrat in the village. An awkward silence fell. Even
Ingersoll shot an inquiring glance at the fisherman.
"Mademoiselle Yvonne is at the Hotel Julia," said Mère Pitou. "Pity she
didn't see you as she was going."
"Why?" grinned Peridot.
"Because you might have known then how to address her. By this time you
seem to have forgotten."
"_Que Diable!_ I meant no offense, Madame. I suppose she's looking after
the lady who claimed her as a daughter."
"What sayest thou, Imbecile?"
"Fact," said Peridot, with drunken gravity. "I asked a man who speaks
English what the lady was screaming as I tucked her into the auto, and
he told me----"
"Larraidou," broke in Ingersoll, pallid with sudden anger, "you had
better go home."
Then Peridot too flared into wrath. "What have I done wrong?" he cried.
"_Cré nom!_ they're as like as two peas in a pod! Come, now,
Monsieur--is there any harm in saying that?"
Ingersoll turned to Tollemache. "Lorry," he said, "oblige me by taking
our talkative friend to his house. He will be glad of it in the
morning."
So, protesting loudly that some people made a lot of fuss about nothing,
Peridot vanished with a shattered halo. But the mischief had been done.
Next day all Pont Aven would be discussing Mrs. Carmac's strange
delusion. In the view of the one man who knew the whole truth, it was
the beginning of the end.