A Loose End | Page 9

as he passed down the road. He would
mimic his sayings among the other lads, who were not, however, very
ready to join in deriding him. And once he contrived to poison the
Kaudrens' bait, just when weather and season were at their best for
fishing, so that Antoine brought not a single fish home. Jean, with the
quick-blazing anger of his race, declared that if he could find the man
who had done it, he would "break his skull." But Antoine, though he
knew well enough who had done it, held his peace. Geoffroi was
quicker of speech than Antoine, and on the Sunday, when the whole

village trooped out of the little chapel after mass, and streamed down
the winding village road, the women in their white coiffes and black
shawls, and the men in their round Breton hats with buckles and
streaming ribbons, while knots began to collect about the doors of the
village cafés, and laughter, gossip and the sound of the fiddle arose on
the sunny air, Geoffroi would gather a circle round him to hear his
quips and odd stories, and to join in the fun that he would mercilessly
make of others less quick than himself at repartee. It was extraordinary
on these occasions how Geoffroi, like a spider in his web on the watch
for a fly, would contrive to draw Antoine into his circle, sometimes as
though it were merely to show off his cleverness before him, at other
times adroitly lighting on some quaint habit or saying of Antoine's,
holding it up to ridicule, now in one light, now in another, with a
versatility that would have made his fortune as a comedian, and
returning to the charge again and again, in the hope, as it seemed, of
provoking Antoine's seldom-stirred anger: but in this entirely failing,
for Antoine would generally join heartily in the laugh himself. Only
once did a convulsion of anger seize him, and he strode forward in the
throng and gave Geoffroi the lie to his face, when the latter had said
that Marie Pierrés kissed him in the Valley of Dwarfs, the evening
before. He knew that Geoffroi only said it to spite him; for Marie--the
daughter of Jean's partner--was his fiancée, and was as true as gold: but
the image the words called up convulsed his brain; a blind impulse
sprang up within him to strike and crush that beautiful face of
Geoffroi's. He clenched his fist and dared him to repeat the words.
Geoffroi would only reply, in his venomous way, "Come to-night to the
Valley and see if I lie." And the same instant the keen, strident voice
was silenced by one straight blow from Antoine's fist.
In the confused clamour of harsh Breton speech that arose, as
neighbours rushed to separate the two and friends took one side or the
other, Antoine strode away with a brain on fire and a mind intent on
one object--to prove the lie at once.
To go to the Valley of Dwarfs in order to spy on Marie and Geoffroi
was impossible to him. But he marched straight off to Marie's cottage.
He knew she would deny the charge, and her word was as good as the

Blessed Gospel: but he longed to hear the denial from her lips. He
pictured her as she would look when she spoke: the hurt, innocent
expression of her candid eyes: her rosy cheeks flushing a deeper red
under her demure snow-white cap: her child-like lips uttering earnest
and indignant protestation. When he reached the cottage, he found the
door locked; no one was about; he leaned his elbows on the low, stone
wall in front and waited.
Presently clattering sabots were heard coming down the road, and he
perceived old Jeanne Le Gall trudging along, her back nearly bent
double under a large bundle of dried sea-weed. She and her goat lived
in the low, rubble-built hovel, that adjoined the Pierrés' cottage, and
from her lonely, eccentric habits, and uncanny appearance, she had the
reputation of being a sorceress. Antoine called to her to know where
Marie was.
"Gone to the widow Conan's," mumbled the old woman, her strange
eyes gleaming under the sprays of sea-weed, "she and her father and
mother, all of them."
She deposited her load, and hobbled off again, fixing her eyes on
Antoine as she turned away, but saying nothing more.
Antoine strolled a little down the lane, seated himself on the steps of
the cross at the corner, and waited--evening was drawing on and they
were sure to return before dark.
Presently the cluck, cluck of the sabots was heard again, and old Jeanne
slowly approached him from behind. She said something in her
toothless, mumbling way, and held out a crumpled bit of