“If not, then another day.”
“Rubbish! Come on.”
“Do you think we could take precautions?” he asked, furtively.
“Take all you like,” I said; “rack your brains for an antidote to neutralize the bad luck, only come on, you great gaby!”
I knew many of the Finistère legends; out of the corner of my eye I watched this stalwart rascal, cowed 241 by gross superstition, peeping about for some favorable sign to counteract the luck of St. Hubert.
First he looked up at the crows, and counted them as they passed overhead cawing ominously—one—two—three—four—five! Five is danger! But wait, more were coming: one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—! A loss! Well, that was not as bad as some things. But hark! More crows coming: one—two—three! Death!
“Jesû!” he faltered, ducking his head instinctively. “I’ll look elsewhere for signs.”
The signs were all wrong that morning; first we met an ancient crone with a great pack of fagots on her bent back, and I was sure he could have strangled her cheerfully, because there are few worse omens for a hunter of game or of men. Then he examined the first mushroom he found, but under the pink-and-pearl cap we saw no insects crawling. The veil, too, was rent, showing the poisonous, fluted gills; and the toadstool blackened when he cut it with the blade of his fagot-knife.
He tried once more, however, and searched through the gorse until he found a heavy lizard, green as an emerald. He teased it till it snapped at the silver franc in my hand; its teeth should have vanished, but when he held out his finger the creature bit into it till the blood spurted.
Still I refused to turn back. What should he do? Then into his mind crept a Pouldu superstition. It was a charm against evil, including lightning, black-rot, rheumatism, and “douleurs” of other varieties.