Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

unwanted week-end guest. He turned abruptly towards the doorway which he had not yet explored. Henri stopped chewing and watched him.
    “I’m going to sleep. I’m tired,” Hearne said.
    “Aye, it’ll be wet tomorrow,” Henri replied slowly and amiably. His face was as weathered and as wrinkled as a dried russet apple. He nodded sagely as he spoke. His smile showed no teeth, but the eyes were as blue as his smock. They looked up at Hearne with their strange mixture of ingenuousness and shrewdness. Hearne smiled in turn, and nodded vigorously. As he was shutting the door, he looked back towards the table. Henri was scouring round the emptied bowl with his last crust of bread. Under the table, at his feet, the three white hens had abandoned their condescension and were competing openly for the few crumbs which had escaped.
    It was just as well that he was not really a hero returning from the wars, Hearne thought, or he’d be feeling as flat as a punctured tyre after that welcome.
    It was cold in this entrance hall, as well as dark, for it lay in the south-west corner of the house. It would be a cheerlessplace even when the sun did get round to it: no one used this room. It was just a square-shaped box with more heavy carved furniture, a flagged stone floor, a wooden staircase hidden in the shadows of the central wall, and a front door which was as obviously unused as it was imposing.
    He mounted the staircase warily. It was really only a glorified ladder. He could see the stone floor beneath him, between the treads. He began to guess why Madame Corlay kept to her room. This was hardly the kind of staircase for arthritic joints. The landing at the top of the stairs was scarcely bigger than a cupboard. There were two doors. That one on his left would be the large bedroom above the kitchen, so this one must be his. He touched the latch gently and pushed the door slowly open. Inside it was dark, save for a faint blot of light where the window lay on the west wall. There was the same damp smell which he had noticed in the hall downstairs, He walked cautiously across the uneven wooden floor. His feet were beginning to feel the weight of his muddy boots. He pulled back the curtains clumsily and opened the window. There were the clean smell of trees and the nervous twitterings of wakening birds. He leaned heavily on the broad sill, formed by the thickness of the house walls. The fresh air should make him feel less tired. He stretched up his arm to touch the steep, fluting roof which flared out just above his head. Below him was the orchard, with Henri’s pigs already rooting in the grass. Beyond the apple-trees was a small field of grain, and then other small fields, all banked on the gentle slope of the hill. Then the fields ended, and there was a line of trees over-topped by the proud square tower of what had once been the castle of Saint-Déodat. So this is my home, he thought, and somehow the idea no longer felt strange.
    He turned away from the window. Albertine would soon be back, and he ought to finish his inspection. There was still the third room on this floor. The door beside the carved wooden bed must lead to it. He started wearily towards the door. He ought to finish his inspection. He ought to...and then, somehow, it didn’t seem so important. Three mattresses, he counted slowly. Three. Somehow it didn’t seem so important.
    He stepped heavily on to the chest lying at the side of the bed, and slumped on to the sheet which had protected the mattresses from dust. He just had time to think, as his filthy boots on the white sheet faded from his view, Albertine will give me hell for this, I bet; and then he was suddenly, beautifully, wonderfully asleep.

6
    ANNE
    When he awakened, the sun had crossed over to the western side of the house. He lay looking at the warm pool of light on the white scrubbed floor, letting himself drift slowly and pleasantly into consciousness. He could feel he had slept his fill: his eyes had