“We have not seen the end of this,” he said—“oh no! There’s a curse coming on Paradise—the cruiser brought it, and it’s coming. Hé! did a Bannalec man not hear the were-wolf in Kerselec forest a week since? Pst! Not a word, monsieur. But old Kloark, of Roscoff, heard it too—oui dame!—and he knows the howl of the Loup-Garou! Besides, did I not with my own eyes see a black cormorant fly inland from the sea? And, by Sainte-Éline of Paradise! the gulls squeal when there’s no storm brewing and the lançons prick the dark with flames along the coast till you’d swear the witches of Ker-Is were lighting death-candles from Paradise to Pont-Aven.”
“Do you believe in witches, monsieur the mayor?” I asked, gravely. 169
He gave me a shrewd glance. “Not at all—not even in bed and the light out,” he said, with a fat swagger. “I believe in magic? Ho! foi non! But many do. Oui dame! Many do.”
“Here in Paradise?”
“Parbleu! Men of parts, too, monsieur. Now there’s Terrec, who has the evil eye—not that I believe it, but, damn him, he’d better not try any tricks on me!
“Others stick twigs of aubépine in their pastures; the apothecary is a man of science, yet every year he makes a bonfire of dried gorse and drives his cattle through the smoke. It may keep off witches and lightning—or it may not. I myself do not do such things.”
“Still you believe the cruiser out at sea yonder is going to bring you evil?”
“She has brought it. But it’s all the same to me. I am mayor, and exempt, and I have cider and tobacco and boudin for a few months yet.”
He caressed his little, selfish chin, which hung between his mottled jowls, peered cunningly at me, and opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment we both caught sight of a peasant running and waving a packet of blue papers in the air. “Monsieur the mayor! Monsieur the mayor!” he called, while still far away.
“Cré cochon de malheur!” muttered the mayor, turning pale. “He’s got a telegram!”