Even so, I have always been impressed by the feats of those Neolithic peasants, in trimming, moving, and upending huge monumental stones, as at Stonehenge and Carnac. I was not, however, so awed as to think they had called in little green men from Venus to help them.
Anyway, the stone has been lying down as far back as recorded history goes. It had broken into five pieces, of which four still lie where they fell. We also examined the big dolmen called the Merchant's Table nearby. It was once a grave mound, with slabs of stone on the sides and top; but treasure-hunters and erosion had removed the dirt, leaving the slabs standing. A tunnel runs from beneath the dolmen under the Fairy Stone.
We had meant to take pictures of each other sitting on the remains of the Fairy Stone, but the fickle weather was overcast and hazy, with an occasional drizzle. I took a few snaps without hope of getting first-class photographs. Then, on the way back to Kerzeriolet, the sky cleared just as we approached the field where, the Comtesse said, their private Menhir of Locmelon had stood.
Following her directions, we parked and hiked across the rolling, grassy countryside until we found the stone. It was not in the same class with the Fairy Stone, having been a mere ten or twelve feet tall. It, too, had been broken, into three large and several small pieces.
"It wouldn't be much of a job to glue it back together," I said.
"Mon petit constructeur!" said Denise. "Willy, you should have stayed with your engineering instead of becoming a banker. But you know, darling, in all these old countries, they have so many relics that it is all the governments can do to patch them up as fast as they fall apart. Besides, there would be a lot of rules by some Department of Archaeology to comply with. You would have to fill out forms in quadruplicate and file applications."
"God deliver me from European red tape!" I said. "Our own kind is bad enough. Anyway, I wasn't thinking of doing the job myself." I focused my camera on one of the fragments. "Looks as if this part had been carved into a face. Sinister-looking old coot, isn't he?"
"Have a care, my old. The spirit of the old coot might be offended."
"After some of the things I've seen, he doesn't scare me at all."
"Be careful anyway. Remember our poor children back home!"
Back at the chateau, we ran into the Comtesse in the lower hall. I told her of seeing the Menhir of Locmelon.
"He wants to put it back together, Madame," said Denise. "He is one of those who, on seeing anything broken, at once wishes to repair it."
"Such a man must be useful around the house," said the Comtesse. "That my Henri had more of that knack! He cannot drive a nail—ah, there you are, Henri. You know the Monsieur and Madame Newbury, is it not?"
The Comte was a slender, balding man of about my age—that is, a little past forty. If Hollywood had been looking for an actor and an actress to play a refined, ultra-gracious couple from the old European aristocracy, they could hardly have chosen better than these two.
The Comte bowed lightly and shook my hand. "Enchanté de toute maniere, mes amis. Will you do me the honor to take an apéritif with us before dinner?"
We went into the Carrieres' private parlor and sipped vermouth. The Comtesse's younger sister, Angèle de Kervadec, and another man joined us. Angèle looked like her sister but was even more beautiful. When she got older and put on a little weight, she would be a virtual double of Thérése, Comtesse de la Carriere.
Her companion was a burly fellow of my generation, with a close-cut black beard showing its first few threads of gray. He was introduced as Max Burgdorf, of Zurich. Although a German Swiss, his French had only the slightest trace of German accent. He said little, but when he did speak, it was in a stiff, abrupt manner. As he sat on the arm of Angèle's chair, she leaned against him. There was evidently some understanding between them.
The Comtesse brought up the matter of reassembling the Menhir of Locmelon. The Comte said: "Ah, Monsieur, that would cost money. Money is a problem here, with the franc in its present deplorable condition. One struggles to hold this place by every means. With taxes and inflation what they are, one must make every economy. Perhaps when De Gaulle comes to power ... But meanwhile, one must be realistic. Perhaps you, as a man of finance, can advise us."
"I am desolated that I do not know enough about French laws and financial institutions," I said. "Otherwise I should be happy to do so."
The Comte's face fell just a trifle, although he was too well-bred to say anything. Having been through this sort of thing before, I knew that we were being cultivated not for our charm but for some sure-fire financial tips. I continued:
"But I do not think the reerection of the menhir would be very costly. Monsieur Lebraz's garage in Vannes has a fine new wrecking truck with a crane in the back."
"The way those idiots drive," said the Comte, "Lebraz has plenty of business." To his wife he said: "Perhaps we should be in the garage business, hein? in lieu of trying to maintain this relic."
When the dinner bell chimed, Denise and I rose. The Comtesse said: "Some night soon, we shall have one of Angèle's séances. You must attend."
After we had gone to bed, I was jerked awake by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Not that there was anything unusual in that; there were a dozen other paying guests in the chateau. These footsteps, however, continued back and forth, back and forth. The sound brought Denise up, too.
"Now what?" I said. "Monsieur Burgdorf working up courage to visit the fair Angèle?"
"Tais toi!" she said, punching me in the ribs. "Nothing so vulgar here. These people are too careful of their blue blood, and you are just a dirty middle-aged man."
The footsteps stopped, and three raps sounded against our door. I sat up on the side of the bed. As a native of the crime-ridden United States, I did not rush to open the door. Instead, I called: "Who is there?"
For answer, the three raps sounded again.
"I think you can open," said Denise. "This French countryside is very law-abiding."
"Just a minute," I said. I got the family blackjack out of our luggage, stepped to the door, shot back the bolt, and jerked the door open. No one was there.
It took us over an hour to get to sleep after that. In any case, we heard no more odd noises.
Next day we left early, drove the Peugeot to Vannes, and continued on around the shores of the Golfe du Morbihan. This brought us out on the Rhuys Peninsula. Here, near Sarzeau and overlooking the Golfe, the guidebook said there was a ruined medieval castle.
We found the Chateau Morzon, a scruffy-looking pile rising amid the vinyards, and aroused the keeper. This was a Monsieur Le Goff, a stocky, weather-beaten old gent with a huge gray mustache. When we had paid our twenty francs, he showed us around, explaining:
"... in that tower, Monsieur and Madame, one says that the wife of the Due Jean was imprisoned. And on the wall east of the tower, where we are now going to mount, one says that, on moonlit nights, a ghost in armor walks. Me, I am not superstitious, but those legends are good for the tourism, eh? Some say it is the ghost of the Due Alain Barbe-Torte; others, the ghost of our great Breton hero, Bertrand du Guesclin—prenez garde!"
We were climbing the stair that led up to the surviving curtain wall. I was on the outer side, abreast of the keeper, while Denise followed. At one step, the outermost stone of the tread gave way as I put my weight upon it. It skittered off the stair, leaving me with one foot on the staircase and the other over empty air.