“Come, my old gossip, my handsome Yvonne, don’t play the fool with Daddy Piggou. You’re not so cracked as you pretend to be, d’ye comprehend me? You know this waiting game’s a farce. He, your Yann, won’t come back; not because he’s dead, but because he’s alive. Alive and married to Louet Kergueven, that he had an eye on because of her dad’s money; and they’ve as many children as peas in a pod—the eldest as fine a lad of eighteen as ever trod in his father’s footsteps all the ways to Pors Lanec. Didn’t I see him just now with that little white cat, Mademoiselle Gaud....�
The rest was strangled in the drunkard’s throat as upon the whitewashed wall behind him fell the stout shadow of Dr. Blandon, and the serviceable horn handle of an old-fashioned hunting-crop wielded by an arm still muscular hooked itself in Piggou’s cravat and plucked him from his seat. He sprawled, spluttering oaths.
“Begone, rascal! and if I ever hear of your trying this again, I’ll poison you next time I catch you in hospital,� foamed the doctor.
“Why shouldn’t one tell the truth and shame the devil!� grunted Piggou.
“Would you like me to tell Messieurs les Douaniers at the Paimpol Quay House the truth about those fine cod you were carrying when I met you last month on the road to Ploubazou? Ten whopping fellows, each with a box of prime Habanas in his gullet, and every box wrapped round in Spanish lace?... Be off with you!� And, assisted by some additional impetus from the toe of the doctor’s riding-boot, Piggou scrambled to his feet and clattered away.
Yvonne had not stirred while this little scene was in action. Her elbow on her knee, her chin upon her hand, she sat and watched that distant bend in the Paimpol road as she had watched it, to quote Madame Pilot, “when all that hair was gold.� Now she turned toward the doctor, who was her good friend.
“That is done with,� Monsieur Blandon pointed to the ragged figure of the receding Piggou. “He knows what he will get if he troubles you with his rubbish again. And how is the heart, Mademoiselle? Those drops I left last time.... You take them?�
“I take them; but,� said Yvonne, her quiet eyes upon the road, “they make my heart beat.�
“That’s what they are for, Mademoiselle.�
“They make my heart beat,� she said, “until night and day, day and night, the beating seems like the sound of footsteps coming to me along the road. Nearer and nearer—louder and louder. Then they grow hesitating, irregular, and stop. Stop, and then go back. And as they become fainter in the distance, I seem to grow more quiet and more cold.�