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He sauntered slowly through the quiet Breton town, so sleepy, so calm, so dead, on the shores of its inland bay that is called "le Morbihan." He looked at the little gray houses, the occasional pedestrians, the empty stores, and he murmured: "Vannes is certainly not gay, not lively. It was a sad idea, my coming here."
After my poor and well-beloved brother Albinik piloted the Roman fleet into the bay of Morbihan, the following was the course of events on the day of the battle of Vannes. It all took place under my own eyes I saw it all.
Sometimes they would gaze out over the great basin of Argenteuil, where the skiffs might be seen scudding, with their white, careening sails, recalling perhaps the look of the Breton waters, the harbor of Vanne, near which they lived, and the fishing-boats standing out across the Morbihan to the open sea.
But little Massot was wagging his head dubiously, for he regarded the subject as rather too serious a one for him to write upon. And, all at once, in order to turn the conversation into another channel, he exclaimed: "Ah! there's Monseigneur Martha in the diplomatic gallery beside the Spanish Ambassador. It's denied, you know, that he intends to come forward as a candidate in Morbihan.
I shall be going home in another hour." De Morbihan shrugged. "Out of my great affection for you," he purred venomously, "I will do my possible. But I promise nothing." "I have every confidence in your powers of moral suasion, monsieur," Lanyard assured him cheerfully. "Au revoir!"
Lanyard put down knife and fork, swallowed a final mouthful of Haut Brion, and lighted a cigarette with the hand of a man who knew not the meaning of nerves. "Garcon!" he called quietly; and ordered coffee and cigars, with a liqueur to follow.... "Known!" the American exclaimed. "They've caught him, eh?" "I didn't say that," De Morbihan laughed; "but the mystery is no more in certain quarters."
You lead such a busy life, my friend, romping about Europe, here one day, God-knows-where the next, that one must make one's best of your spare moments. You will join us, surely?" "Really I cannot to-night. Another time perhaps, if you'll excuse me." "But it is always this way!" De Morbihan explained to his friends with a vast show of mock indignation.
The revues burlesqued him; Sem caricatured him; Forain counterfeited him extensively in that inimitable series of Monday morning cartoons for Le Figaro: one said "De Morbihan" instinctively at sight of that stocky figure, short and broad, topped by a chubby, moon-like mask with waxed moustaches, womanish eyes, and never-failing grin.
De Morbihan paused and shifted sideways in his chair, grinning like a mischievous child.
He paused and drew a hand across his eyes. "It was, then, Ekstrom you think?" Lanyard demanded. "Unquestionably! De Morbihan had learned I know of your bargain with Ducroy; and I know, too, that he and Ekstrom spent each morning in the hangars at St. Germain, after your sensational evasion.
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