"Five."
"No matter where the hands point?"
"No matter. I have tried to regulate them.[pg 107] I have done everything I could do. But they continue to strike five every hour of the day and night.... I have"—a pale smile touched her lips—"I have been a little wakeful—perhaps a trifle uneasy—on my country's account. You understand...." Pride and courage had permitted her no more than uneasiness, it seemed. Or if fear had threatened her there in her lonely bedroom through the still watches of the night, she desired him to understand that her solicitude was for France, not for any daughter of the race whose name she bore.
The simplicity and directness of her amazing narrative had held his respect and attention; there could be no doubt that she implicitly believed what she told him.
But that was one thing; and the wild extravagance of the story was another. There must be, of course, an explanation for these phenomena other than a supernatural one. Such things do not happen except in medieval romance and tales of sorcery and doom. And of all regions on earth Brittany swarms with such tales and superstitions. He knew it.[pg 108] And this young girl was Bretonne after all, however educated, however accomplished, however honest and modern and sincere. And he began to comprehend that the germs of superstition and credulity were in the blood of every Breton ever born.
But he merely said with pleasant deference: "I can very easily understand your uneasiness and perplexity, Madame. It is a time of mental stress, of great nervous tension in France—of heart-racking suspense——"
She lifted her dark eyes. "You do not believe me, Monsieur."
"I believe what you have told me. But I believe, also, that there is a natural explanation concerning these matters."
"I tell myself so, too.... But I brood over them in vain; I can find no explanation."
"Of course there must be one," he insisted carelessly. "Is there anything in the world more likely to go queer than a clock?"