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Updated: June 11, 2025
As Matheline hesitated in her answer for Sylvestre's brave deeds were too recent to be forgotten Pol Bihan came to her assistance and gayly cried, "You must wait, Sylvestre, my saviour, until your leg and eye are healed." "But," cried Sylvestre Ker, "it is for your sakes that I am one-eyed and lame." "That is true," said Bihan.
Bihan, traitor, I eat your strength!" The black mass again bounded through the terrified crowd, his bloody tongue hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting fire. This time it was from Matheline that a scream still more horrible than that of Pol's was heard; and again there was the noise of another terrible feast, and the voice of the wild beast, which had already spoken, growled,
Come quickly and save me from dying without confession, and all you may ask of me you shall have, were it the dearest treasure of my heart." Sylvestre Ker asked, "Will you be my groomsman?" And Bihan replied, "Yes, yes; and I will give you a hundred crowns. And all that your mother may ask of me she shall have. But hasten, hasten, dear friend, or the waves will carry me off."
"That is true," also repeated Matheline, for she always spoke as he did. "Ker, my friend Ker," resumed Bihan, "wait until to-morrow, and we will make you happy." And off they went, Matheline and he, arm-in-arm, leaving Sylvestre to go hobbling along to the tower, alone with his sad thoughts. Would you believe it?
But there were two or three good souls who said in low tones, "Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow." "But what does she want with that axe?" "It is to defend her wolf," again replied Matheline, who carried a pitchfork. Pol Bihan held an enormous hollow stick which resembled a club.
All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the Apatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his name and quietus. I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows. Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid of a box full of cases.
He was buried with a stake through his heart." Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass cylinder. "So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest." "Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it." "I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor querulously.
"You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging my hands into my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that is invented." "What of it?" said Le Bihan sulkily; "there's more truth than lies in most of 'em." "Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe in the loup-garou?" "No, not in the loup-garou." "In what, then Jeanne-la-Flamme?"
"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs in Brittany." We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see the sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan's silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand stood gesticulating.
Even while piously inhaling the perfume of this celestial hymn, the young tenant wished to know what Matheline was saying to God. Everything speaks to God, the wild beasts in the forest, the birds in the air, even the plants, whose roots are in the ground. But miserable girls who sell the pearls of their smiles are lower than the animals and vegetables. Nothing is beneath them, Pol Bihan excepted.
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