of Scaër, as she heard the bell of a horse trotting behind her, she saw, at the junction of the road that led to Rosporden, a broken wall, one of the remnants of a half-ruined house.
And on this broken wall, above an arrow and the number 10, she again read the fateful inscription, "V. d'H."
CHAPTER II
ON THE EDGE OF THE ATLANTIC
Véronique's state of mind underwent a sudden alteration. Even as she had fled resolutely from the threat of danger that seemed to loom up before her from the evil past, so she was now determined to pursue to the end the dread road which was opening before her.
This change was due to a tiny gleam which flashed abruptly through the darkness. She suddenly realized the fact, a simple matter enough, that the arrow denoted a direction and that the number 10 must be the tenth of a series of numbers which marked a course leading from one fixed point to another.
Was it a sign set up by one person with the object of guiding the steps of another? It mattered little. The main thing was that there was here a clue capable of leading Véronique to the discovery of the problem which interested her: by what prodigy did the initials of her maiden name reappear amid this tangle of tragic circumstances?
The carriage sent from Le Faouet overtook her. She stepped in and told the driver to go very slowly to Rosporden.
She arrived in time for dinner; and her anticipations had not misled her. Twice she saw her signature, each time before a division in the road, accompanied by the numbers 11 and 12.
Véronique slept at Rosporden and resumed her investigations on the following morning.
The number 12, which she found on the wall of a church-yard, sent her along the road to Concarneau, which she had almost reached before she saw any further inscriptions. She fancied that she must have been mistaken, retraced her steps and wasted a whole day in useless searching.
It was not until the next day that the number 13, very nearly obliterated, directed her towards Fouesnant. Then she abandoned this direction, to follow, still in obedience to the signs, some country-roads in which she once more lost her way.
At last, four days after leaving Le Faouet, she found herself facing the Atlantic, on the great beach of Beg-Meil.
She spent two nights in the village without gathering the least reply to the discreet questions which she put to the inhabitants. At last, one morning, after wandering among the half-buried groups of rocks which intersect the beach and upon the low cliffs, covered with trees and copses, which hem it in, she discovered, between two oaks stripped of their bark, a shelter built of earth and branches which must at one time have been used by custom-house officers. A small menhir stood at the entrance. The menhir bore the inscription, followed by the number 17. No arrow. A full stop underneath; and that was all.
In the shelter were three broken bottles and some empty meat-tins.
"This was the goal," thought Véronique. "Some one has been having a meal here. Food stored in advance, perhaps."
Just then she noticed that, at no great distance, by the edge of a little bay which curved like a shell amid the neighbouring rocks, a boat was swinging to and fro, a motor-boat. And she heard voices coming from the village, a man's voice and a woman's.
From the place where she stood, all that she could see at first was an elderly man carrying in his arms half-a-dozen bags of provisions, potted meats and dried vegetables. He put them on the ground and said:
"Well, had a pleasant journey, M'ame Honorine?"
"Fine!"
"And where have you been?"
"Why, Paris.. a week of it.. running errands for my master."
"Glad to be back?"
"Of course I am."
"And you see, M'ame Honorine, you find your boat just where she was. I came to have a look at her every day. This morning I took away her tarpaulin. Does she run as well as ever?"
"First-rate."
"Besides, you're a master pilot, you are. Who'd have thought, M'ame Honorine, that you'd be doing a job like this?"
"It's the war. All the young men in our island are gone and the old ones are fishing. Besides, there's no longer a fortnightly steamboat service, as there used to be. So I go the errands."
"What about petrol?"
"We've plenty to go on with. No fear of that."
"Well, good-bye for the present, M'ame Honorine. Shall I help you put the things on board?"
"Don't you trouble; you're in a hurry."
"Well, good-bye for the present," the old fellow repeated. "Till next time, M'ame Honorine. I'll have the parcels ready for you."
He went away, but, when he had gone a little distance, called out:
"All the same, mind the jagged reefs round that blessed island of yours! I tell you, it's got a nasty name! It's not called Coffin Island, the island of the thirty coffins, for nothing! Good luck to you, M'ame Honorine!"
He disappeared behind a rock.
Véronique had shuddered. The thirty coffins! The very words which she had read in the margin of that horrible drawing!
She leant forward. The woman had come a few steps nearer the boat and, after putting down some more provisions which she had been carrying, turned round.
Véronique now saw her full-face. She wore a Breton costume; and her head-dress was crowned by two black wings.
"Oh," stammered Véronique, "that head-dress in the drawing.. the head-dress of the three crucified women!"
The Breton woman looked about forty. Her strong face, tanned by the sun and the cold, was bony and rough-hewn but lit up by a pair of large, dark, intelligent, gentle eyes. A heavy gold chain hung down upon her breast. Her velvet bodice fitted her closely.
She was humming in a very low voice as she took up her parcels and loaded the boat, which made her kneel on a big stone against which the boat was moored. When she had done, she looked at the horizon, which was covered with black clouds. She did not seem anxious about them, however, and, loosing the painter, continued her song, but in a louder voice, which enabled Véronique to hear the words. It was a slow melody, a children's lullaby; and she sang it with a smile which revealed a set of fine, white teeth.
"And the mother said,
Rocking her child a-bed:
'Weep not. If you do,
The Virgin Mary weeps with you.
Babes that laugh and sing
Smiles to the Blessed Virgin bring.
Fold your hands this way
And to sweet Mary pray.'"
She did not complete the song. Véronique was standing before her, with her face drawn and very pale.
Taken aback, the other asked:
"What's the matter?"
Véronique, in a trembling voice, replied:
"That
