She put an arm around his shoulder. 'I don't know,' she said mechanically. 'We'll see when we get it. Now, you run off and play with Rose. I want to talk to Monsieur Howard.'
She turned to Howard. 'This is very bad,' she said. 'We are involved in something terrible.'
He nodded. 'It seems to be that air raid that they had on Brest. The one that you were in.'
She said: 'In the shops that day they were saying that Adolf Hitler was in Brest, but one did not pay attention. There is so much rumour, so much idle talk.'
There was a silence. Howard stood looking out of the window at the little weeded, overgrown garden outside. As he stood the situation became clear to him. In such a case the local officers of the Gestapo would have to make a show of energy. They would have to produce the spies who had been instrumental in the raid, or the mutilated bodies of people who were classed as spies.
Presently he said: 'I cannot tell them what I do not know, and so things may go badly with me. If I should be killed, you will do your best for the children, Nicole?'
She said: 'I will do that. But you are not going to be killed, or even hurt. Something must be possible.' She made a little gesture of distress.
Pursuing his thought, he said: 'I shall have to try and get them to let me make a new will. Then, when the war is over and you could get money from England, you would be able to keep the children and to educate them, those of them that had no homes. But in the meantime you'll just have to do the best you can.'
The long hours dragged past. At noon an orderly brought them an open metal pan with a meal of meat and vegetables piled on it, and several bowls. They set the children down to that, who went at it with gusto.
Nicole ate a little, but the old man practically nothing.
The orderly removed the tray and they waited again. At three o'clock the door was flung open and the Feldwebel was there with a guard.
'Le Vieux,' he said, 'Marchez.' Howard stepped forward and Nicole followed him. The guard pushed her back.
The old man stopped. 'One moment,' he said. He took her hand and kissed her on the forehead. There, my dear,' he said. 'Don't worry about me.'
They hustled him away, out of that building and out into the square. Outside the sun was bright; a car or two passed by and in the shops the peasants went about their business. In Lannilis life went on as usual; from the great church the low drone of a chant broke the warm summer air. The women in the shops looked curiously at him as he passed by under guard.
He was taken into another house and thrust into a room on the ground floor. The door was shut and locked behind him. He looked around.
He was in a sitting-room, a middle-class room furnished in the French style with uncomfortable, gilded chairs and rococo ornaments. A few poor oil paintings hung on the walls in heavy, gilded frames; there was a potted palm, and framed, ancient photographs on the side tables, with a few ornaments. There was a table in the middle of the room, covered over with a cloth.
At this table a young man was sitting, a dark-haired, pale-faced young man in civilian clothes, well under thirty. He glanced up as Howard came into the room.
'Who are you?' he asked in French. He spoke almost idly, as if the matter was of no great moment.
The old man stood by the door, inwardly beating down his fears. This was something strange and therefore dangerous.
'I am an Englishman,' he said at last. There was no point any longer in concealment. 'I was arrested yesterday.'
The young man smiled without mirth. This time he spoke in English, without any trace of accent. 'Well,' he said, 'you'd better come on and sit down. There's a pair of us. I'm English too.'
Howard recoiled a step. 'You're English?'
'Naturalised,' the other said carelessly. 'My mother came from Woking, and I spent most of my life in England. My father was a Frenchman, so I started off as French. But he was killed in the last war.'
'But what are you doing here?'
The young man motioned to the table. 'Come on and sit down.'
The old man drew a chair up to the table and repeated his question. 'I did not know there was another Englishman in Lannilis,' he said. 'Whatever are you doing here?
The young man said: 'I'm waiting to be shot.'
There was a stunned, horrible pause. At last, Howard said: 'Is your name Charenton?'
The young man nodded. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'm Charenton. I see they told you about me.'
There was a long silence in the little room. Howard sat dumb, not knowing what to say. In his embarrassment his eyes fell on the table, on the young man's hands. Sitting with his hands before him on the table, Charenton had formed his fingers in a peculiar grip, the fingers interlaced, the left hand palm up and the right hand palm down. The thumbs were crossed. As soon as he observed the old man's scrutiny he glanced at him sharply, then undid the grasp.
He sighed a little.
'How did you come to be here?' he asked.
Howard said: 'I was trying to get back to England, with a few children.' He rambled into his story. The young man listened to him quietly, appraising him with keen, curious eyes.
In the end he said: 'I don't believe that you've got much to worry about. They'll probably let you live at liberty in some French town.'
Howard said: 'I'm afraid they won't do that. You see, they think that I'm mixed up with you.'
The young man nodded. 'I thought that must be it. That is why they've put us together. They're looking for a few more scapegoats, are they?'
Howard said: 'I am afraid they are.'
The young man got up and walked over to the window. 'You'll be all right,' he said at last. They've got no evidence against you - they can't have. Sooner or later you'll get back to England.'
There was a tinge of sadness in his voice.
Howard said: 'What about you?'
Charenton said: 'Me? I'm for the high jump! They got the goods on me all right.'
It seemed incredible to Howard. It was as if he had been listening to a play.
'We both seem to be in difficulties,' he said at last. 'Yours may be more serious than mine; I don't know. But you can do one thing for me.' He looked around. 'If I could get hold of a piece of paper and a pencil, I would redraft my will. Would you witness it for me?'
The other shook his head. 'You must write nothing here without permission from the Germans; they will only take it from you. And no document that had my signature on it would get back to England. You must find some other witness, Mr Howard.'
The old man sighed. 'I suppose that is so,' he said. And presently he said: 'If I should get out of this and you should not, is there anything I can do? Any message you would like me to take?'
Charenton smiled ironically. 'No messages,' he said definitely.
'There is nothing I can do?'
The young man glanced at him. 'Do you know Oxford?'
'I know Oxford very well,' the old man said. 'Were you up there?'
Charenton nodded. 'I was up at Oriel. There's a place up the river that we used to walk to - a pub by a weir pool, a very old grey stone house beside a little bridge. There is the sound of running water all the time, and fish swimming in the clear pool, and flowers, flowers everywhere.'
'You mean the 'Trout Inn,' at Godstow?'
'Yes - the 'Trout.' You know it?'
'I know it very well indeed. At least, I used to, forty years ago.'
'Go there and drink a pint for me,' the young man said. 'Sitting on the wall and looking at the fish in the pool, on a hot summer day.'
Howard said: 'If I get back to England, I will do that.' He glanced around the shabby, garishly furnished room. 'But is there no message I can take to anyone?'
Charenton shook his head. 'No messages,' he said. 'If there were, I would not give them to you. There is
