THE FRONTIER

BY

MAURICE LEBLANC

AUTHOR OF "ARSENE LUPIN, " "813, " ETC. 

TRANSLATED BY

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

[Illustration: Publisher's logo]

HODDER & STOUGHTONNEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1912, By Maurice Leblanc

Copyright, 1912, By George H. Doran Company

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER PAGE

 I A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES 3

 II THE GIRL WITH THE BARE ARMS 17

 III THE VIOLET PAMPHLET 30

 IV PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE 46

 V THE SHEET OF NOTE-PAPER 58

 VI THE PLASTER STATUE 66

 VII EVE TRIUMPHANT 76

VIII THE TRAP 94

PART II

 I THE TWO WOMEN 107

 II PHILIPPE TELLS A LIE 118

 III FATHER AND SON 133

 IV THE ENQUIRIES 150

 V THE THUNDERCLAP 164

 VI THE BUTTE-AUX-LOUPS 177

 VII MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION 195

VIII THE STAGES TO CALVARY 208

PART III

 I THE ARMED VIGIL 233

 II THEY WHO GO TO THEIR DEATH 249

 III IDEAS AND FACTS 268

 IV THE SACRED SOIL 281

THE FRONTIER

PART I

CHAPTER I

A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES

"They've done it!"

"What?"

"The German frontier-post . .. At the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups. "

"What about it?"

"Knocked down. "

"Nonsense!"

"See for yourself. "

Old Morestal stepped aside. His wife came out of the drawing-room andwent and stood by the telescope, on its tripod, at the end of theterrace. 

"I can see nothing, " she said, presently. 

"Don't you see a tree standing out above the others, with lighterfoliage?"

"Yes. "

"And, to the right of that tree, a little lower down, an empty spacesurrounded by fir-trees?"

"Yes. "

"That's the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups and it marks the frontier atthat spot. "

"Ah, I've got it!. .. There it is!. .. You mean on the ground, don't you?Lying flat on the grass, exactly as if it had been rooted up by lastnight's storm. .. . "

"What are you talking about? It has been fairly felled with an axe: youcan see the gash from here. "

"So I can . .. So I can. .. . "

She stood up and shook her head:

"That makes the third time this year. .. . It will mean moreunpleasantness. "

"Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put up asolid post, instead of their old bit of wood. " And he added, in a toneof pride, "The French post, two yards off, doesn't budge, you know!"

"Well, of course not! It's made of cast-iron and cemented into thestone. "

"Let them do as much then! It's not money they're wanting . .. When youthink of the five thousand millions they robbed us of!. .. No, but, I say. .. Three of them in eight months!. .. How will the people take it, onthe other side of the Vosges?"

He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcastic feeling of content thatfilled his whole being and he walked up and down the terrace, stampinghis feet as hard as he could on the ground. 

But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her by the arm and said, ina hollow voice:

"Would you like to know what I really think?"

"Yes. "

"Well, all this will lead to trouble. "

"No, " said the old lady, quietly. 

"How do you mean, no?"

"We've been married five-and-thirty years; and, for five-and-thirtyyears, you've told me, week after week, that we shall have trouble. So, you see. .. . "

She turned away from him and went back to the drawing-room again, whereshe began to dust the furniture with a feather-broom. 

He shrugged his shoulders, as he followed her indoors:

"Oh, yes, you're the placid mother, of course! Nothing excites you. Aslong as your cupboards are tidy, your linen all complete and your jamspotted, you don't care!. .. Still, you ought not to forget that theykilled your poor father. "

"I don't forget it . .. Only, what's the good? It's more than forty yearsago. .. . "

"It was yesterday, " he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longerago than yesterday. .. . "

"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change theconversation. 

She heard a heavy footstep outside the windows opening on the garden. There was a rap at the knocker on the front-door. A minute later, Victor, the man-servant, brought in the letters. 

"Oh!" said Mme. Morestal. "A letter from the boy. .. . Open it, will you?I haven't my spectacles. .. . I expect it's to say that he will arrivethis evening: he was to have left Paris this morning. "

"Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over the letter. "Philippe andhis wife have taken their two boys to some friends at Versailles andstarted with the intention of sleeping last night at the Ballon deColnard, seeing the sunrise and doing the rest of the journey on foot, with their knapsacks on their backs. They will be here by twelve. "

She at once lost her head:

"And the storm! What about last night's storm?"

"My son doesn't care about the storm! It won't be the first that thefellow's been through. It's eleven o'clock. He will be with us in anhour. "

"But that will never do! There's nothing ready for them!"

She at once went to work, like the active little old woman that she was, a little too fat, a little tired, but wide-awake still and somethodical, so orderly in her ways that she never made a superfluousmovement or one that was not calculated to bring her an immediateadvantage. 

As for him, he resumed his walk between the terrace and thedrawing-room. He strode with long, even steps, holding his body erect, his chest flung out and his hands in the pockets of his jacket, ablue-drill gardening-jacket, with the point of a pruning-shears and thestem of a pipe sticking out of it. He was tall and broad-shouldered; andhis fresh-coloured face seemed young still, in spite of the fringe ofwhite beard in which it was framed. 

"Ah, " he exclaimed, "what a treat to set eyes upon our dear Philippeagain! It must be three years since we saw him last. Yes, of course, notsince his appointment as professor of history in Paris. By Jove, thechap has made his way in the world! What a time we shall give him duringthe fortnight that he's with us! Walking . .. Exercise. .. . He's all forthe open-air life, like old Morestal!"

He began to laugh:

"Shall I tell you what would be the thing for him? Six months in campbetween this and Berlin!"

"I'm not afraid, " she declared. "He's been through the Normal School. The professors keep to their garrisons in time of war. "

"What nonsense are you talking now?"

"The school-master told me so. "

He gave a start:

"What! Do you mean to say you still speak to that dastard?"

"He's quite a decent man, " she replied. 

"He! A decent man! With theories like his!"

She hurried from the room, to escape the explosion. But Morestal wasfairly started:

"Yes, yes, theories! I insist upon the word: theories! As adistrict-councillor, as Mayor of Saint-Élophe, I have the right to bepresent at his lessons. Oh, you have no idea of his way of teaching thehistory of France!. .. In my time, the heroes were the Chevalier d'Assas, Bayard, La Tour d'Auvergne, all those beggars who shed lustre on ourcountry. Nowadays, it's Mossieu Étienne Marcel, Mossieu Dolet. .. . Oh, anice set of theories, theirs!"

He barred the way to his wife, as she entered the room again, and roaredin her face:

"Do you know why Napoleon lost the battle of Waterloo?"

"I can't find that large breakfast-cup anywhere, " said Mme. Morestal, engrossed in her occupation. 

"Well, just ask your school-master; he'll give you the latest up-to-datetheories about Napoleon. "

"I put it down here, on this chest, with my own hand. "

"But there, they're doing all they can to distort the children'sminds. "

"It spoils my set. "

"Oh, I swear to you, in the old days, we'd have ducked our school-masterin the horse-pond, if he had dared. .. . But, by Jove, France had a placeof her own in the world then! And such a place!

. .. That was the time of Solferino!. .. Of Magenta!. .. We weren'tsatisfied with chucking down frontier-posts in those days: we crossedthe frontiers . .. And at the double, believe me. .. . "

He stopped, hesitating, pricking up his ears. Trumpet-blasts sounded inthe distance, ringing from valley to valley, echoing and re-echoingagainst the obstacles formed by the great granite rocks and dying awayto right and left, as though stifled by the shadow of the forests. 

He whispered, excitedly:

"The French bugle. .. . "

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, there are troops of Alpines manoeuvring . .. A company fromNoirmont. .. . Listen . .. Listen. .. . What gaiety!. .. What swagger!. .. Itell you, close to the frontier like this, it takes such an air. .. . "

She listened too, seized with the same excitement, and asked, anxiously:

"Do you really think that war is possible?"

"Yes, " he replied, "I do. "

They were silent for a moment. And Morestal continued:

"It's a presentiment with me. .. . We shall have it all over again, as in1870. .. . And, mark you, I hope that this time . .. "

She put down her breakfast-cup, which she had found in a cupboard, and, leaning on her husband's arm:

"I say, the boy's coming . .. With his wife. She's a dear girl and we'revery fond of her. .. . I want the house to look nice for them, bright andfull of flowers. .. . Go and pick the best you have in your garden. "

He smiled:

"That's another way of saying that I'm boring you, eh? I can't help it. I shall be just the same to my dying day. The wound is too deep ever toheal. "

They looked at each other for a while with a great gentleness, like twoold travelling-companions, who, from time to time, for no particularreason, stop, exchange glances or thoughts and then resume theirjourney. 

He asked:

"Must I cut my roses? My Gloires de Dijon?"

"Yes. "

"Come along then! I'll be a hero!"

 * * *

Morestal, the son and grandson of well-to-do farmers, had increased hisfathers' fortune tenfold by setting up a mechanical saw-yard atSaint-Élophe, the big neighbouring village. He was a plain, blunt man, as he himself used to say, "with no false bottom, nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves;" just a few moral ideas to guide his coursethrough life, ideas as old and simple as could be. And those few ideasthemselves were subject to a principle that governed his whole existenceand ruled all his actions, the love of his country, which, in Morestal, stood for regret for the past, hatred of the present and, especially, the bitter recollection of defeat. 

Elected Mayor of Saint-Élophe and a district-councillor, he sold hisworks and built, within view of the frontier, on the site of a ruinedmill, a large house designed after his own plans and constructed, so tospeak, under his own eyes. The Morestals had lived here for the last tenyears, with their two servants: Victor, a decent, stout, jolly-facedman, and Catherine, a Breton woman who had nursed Philippe as a baby. 

They saw but few people, outside a small number of friends, of whom themost frequent visitors were the special commissary of the government, Jorancé, and his daughter Suzanne. 

The Old Mill occupied the round summit of a hill with slopes shelvingdown in a series of fairly large gardens, which Morestal cultivated withgenuine enthusiasm. The property was surrounded by a high wall, the topof which was finished off with an iron trellis bristling with spikes. Aspring leapt from place to place and fell in cascades to the bottom ofthe rocks decked with wild flowers, moss, lichen and maiden-hair ferns. 

 * * *

Morestal picked a great armful of flowers, laid waste his rose-garden, sacrificed all the Gloires de Dijon of which he was so proud andreturned to the drawing-room, where he himself arranged the bunches inlarge glass vases. 

The room, a sort of hall occupying the centre of the house, with beamsof timber showing and a huge chimney covered with gleaming brasses, theroom was bright and cheerful and open at both fronts: to the east, onthe terrace, by a long bay; to the west, by two windows, on the garden, which it overlooked from the height of a first floor. 

The walls were covered with War Office maps, Home Office maps, districtmaps. There was an oak gun-rack with twelve rifles, all alike and of thelatest pattern. Beside it, nailed flat to the wall and roughly stitchedtogether, were three dirty, worn, tattered strips of bunting, blue, white and red. 

"They look very well: what do you say?" he asked, when he had finishedarranging the flowers, as though his wife had been in the room. "Andnow, I think, a good pipe . .. "

He took out his tobacco-pouch and matches and, crossing the terrace, went and leant against the stone balustrade that edged it. 

Hills and valleys mingled in harmonious curves, all green, in places, with the glad green of the meadows, all dark, in others, with themelancholy green of the firs and larches. 

At thirty or forty feet below him ran the road that leads fromSaint-Élophe up to the Old Mill. It skirted the walls and then dippeddown again to the Étang-des-Moines, or Monks' Pool, of which it followedthe left bank. Breaking off suddenly, it narrowed into a rugged pathwhich could be seen in the distance, standing like a ladder against arampart, and which plunged into a narrow pass between two mountainswilder in appearance and rougher in outline than the ordinary Vosgeslandscape. This was the Col du Diable, or Devil's Pass, situated at adistance of sixteen hundred yards from the Old Mill, on the same level. 

A few buildings clung to one of the sides of the pass: these belonged toSaboureux's Farm. From Saboureux's Farm to the Butte-aux-Loups, orWolves' Knoll, which you saw on the left, you could make out or imaginethe frontier by following a line of which Morestal knew everyguiding-mark, every turn, every acclivity and every descent. 

"The frontier!" he muttered. "The frontier here . .. At twenty-five milesfrom the Rhine . .. The frontier in the very heart of France!"

Every day and ten times a day, he tortured himself in this manner, gazing at that painful and relentless line; and, beyond it, throughvistas which his imagination contrived as it were to carve out of theVosges, he conjured up a vision of the German plain on the mistyhorizon. 

And this too he repeated to himself; and he did so this time as at everyother time, with a bitterness which the years that passed did nothing toallay:

"The German plain . .. The German hills . .. All that land of Alsace inwhich I used to wander as a boy. .. . The French Rhine, which was my riverand the river of my fathers. .. . And now _Deutschland_ . .. _DeutschesRhein_. .. . "

A faint whistle made him start. He leant over towards the staircase thatclimbed the terrace, a staircase cut out of the rock, by which peoplecoming from the side of the frontier often entered his grounds so as toavoid the bend of the road. There was nobody there nor anybody opposite, on the roadside slope all tangled with shrubs and ferns. 

And the sound was renewed, discreetly, stealthily, with the samemodulations as before. 

"It's he . .. It's he . .. " thought M. Morestal, with an uncomfortablefeeling of embarrassment. 

A head popped from between the bushes, a head in which all the bonesstood out, joined by prominent muscles, which gave it the look of thehead of an anatomical model. On the bridge of the nose, a pair ofcopper-rimmed spectacles. Across the face, like a gash, the toothless, grinning mouth. 

"You again, Dourlowski. .. . "

"Can I come?" asked the man. 

"No . .. No . .. You're mad. .. . "

"It's urgent. "

"Impossible. .. . And besides, you know, I don't want any more of it. I'vetold you so before. .. . "

But the man insisted:

"It's for this evening, for to-night. .. . It's a soldier of theBörsweilen garrison. .. . He says he's sick of wearing the Germanuniform. "

"A deserter. .. . I've had enough of them. .. . Shut up and clear out!"

"Now don't be nasty, M. Morestal. .. . Just think it over. .. . Look here, let's meet at four o'clock, in the pass, near Saboureux's Farm . .. Likelast time. .. . I shall expect you. .. . We'll have a talk . .. And I shallbe surprised if . .. "

"Hold your tongue!" said Morestal. 

A voice cried from the drawing-room:

"Here they come, sir, here they come!"

It was the man-servant; and Mme. Morestal also ran out and said:

"What are you doing here? Whom were you talking to?"

"Nobody. "

"Why, I heard you!. .. "

"No, I assure you. .. . "

"Well, I must have imagined it. .. . I say you were quite right. It'stwelve o'clock and they are here, the two of them. "

"Philippe and Marthe?"

"Yes, they are coming. They are close to the garden-entrance. Let'shurry down and meet them. .. . "

CHAPTER II

THE GIRL WITH THE BARE ARMS

"He hasn't changed a bit. .. . His complexion is as fresh as ever. .. . Theeyes are a little tired, perhaps . .. But he's looking very well. .. . "

"When you've finished picking me to pieces, between you!" said Philippe, laughing. "What an inspection! Why don't you give my wife a kiss? That'smore to the point!"

Marthe flung herself into Mme. Morestal's arms and into herfather-in-law's and was examined from head to foot in her turn. 

"I say, I say, we're thinner in the face than we were!. .. We wantpicking up. .. . But, my poor children, you're soaked to the skin!"

"We were out all through the storm, " said Philippe. 

"And what do you think happened to me?" asked Marthe. "I gotfrightened!. .. Yes, frightened, like a little girl . .. And I fainted. .. . And Philippe had to carry me . .. For half an hour at least. .. . "

"What do you say to that?" said Morestal to his wife. "For half anhour! He's the same strong chap he was. .. . And why didn't you bring theboys? It's a pity. Two fine little fellows, I feel sure. And wellbrought up too: I know my Marthe!. .. How old are they now? Ten and nine, aren't they? By the way, mother got two rooms ready. Do you haveseparate rooms now?"

"Oh, no, " said Marthe, "only down here!. .. Philippe wants to get upbefore day-break and ramble about the roads . .. Whereas I need a littlerest. "

"Capital! Capital! Show them to their rooms, mother . .. And, when you'reready, children, come down to lunch. As soon as we've finished, I'lltake the carriage and go and fetch your trunks at Saint-Élophe: therailway-omnibus will have brought them there by this time. And, if Imeet my friend Jorancé, I'll bring him back with me. I expect he's inthe dumps. His daughter left for Lunéville this morning. But she saidshe had written to you. .. . "

"Yes, " said Marthe, "I had a letter from Suzanne the other day. Shedidn't seem to like the idea, either, of going away. .. . "

 * * *

Two hours later, Philippe and his wife settled themselves in two pretty, adjoining bedrooms on the second floor, looking out on the French side. Marthe threw herself on her bed and fell asleep almost immediately, while her husband, with his elbows on the window-sill, sat gazing at thepeaceful valley where the happiest days of his boyhood had been spent. 

It was over yonder, in the straggling village of Saint-Élophe-la-Côte, in the modest dwelling which his parents occupied before they moved tothe Old Mill. He was at the boarding-school at Noirmont and used to haveglorious holidays playing in the village or roaming about the Vosgeswith his father: Papa Trompette, as he always called him, because of allthe trumpets, bugles, horns and cornets which, together with drums ofevery shape and kind, swords and dirks, helmets and breast-plates, gunsand pistols, were the only presents that his childhood knew. Morestalwas a little strict; a little too fond of everything that had to do withprinciple, custom, discipline, exactness; a little quick-tempered; but, at the same time, he was the kindest of men and had no difficulty inwinning his son's love, his frank and affectionate respect. 

Their only quarrel was on the day when Philippe, who was then in the topform, announced his intention of continuing his studies after he hadpassed his examination and of entering the Normal School. The father'swhole dream was shattered, his great dream of seeing Philippe inuniform, with his sword at his side and the gold braid on the sleeve ofhis loose jacket. 

It came as a violent and painful shock; and Morestal was stupefied tofind himself faced by an obstinate, deliberate Philippe, a Philippewholly master of himself and firmly resolved to lead his life accordingto his own views and his own ambitions. For a week on end, the twoargued, hurt each other's feelings, made it up again, only to fall outonce more. Then the father suddenly yielded, in the middle of adiscussion and as though he had all at once realized the futility of hisefforts:

"You have made up your mind?" he cried. "Very well! An usher you shallbe, since that is your ideal; but I warn you that I decline allresponsibility for the future and that I wash my hands of anything thathappens. "

What happened was simply that Philippe's career was swift and brilliantand that, after a probationary term at Lunéville and another atChâteauroux, he was appointed professor of history at Versailles. Hethen published, at a few months' interval, two remarkable books, whichcaused much heated controversy: _The Idea of Country in Ancient Greece_and _The Idea of Country before the Revolution_. Three years later, hewas promoted to Paris, to the Lycée Carnot. 

Philippe was now approaching his fortieth year. Day-work and night-workseemed to have no effect upon his sturdy highland constitution. Possessing a set of powerful muscles and built on the same strong linesas his father, he found rest and recreation from study in violentexercise, in long bicycle-rides into the country or through the woods onthe outskirts of Paris. The boys at the school, who held him in a sortof veneration, told stories of his exploits and his feats of strength. 

With all this, a great look of gentleness, especially about the eyes, apair of very good, blue eyes, which smiled when he spoke and which, whenat rest, were candid, childish almost, filled with dreams and kindness. 

By this time, old Morestal was proud of his son. On the day when heheard of his nomination to Carnot, he wrote, frankly:

 "Well done, my dear Philippe! So you're prospering now and in a fair way to obtain anything you like to ask for. Let me tell you that I am not in the least surprised, for I always expected that, with your great qualities, your perseverance and your serious way of looking at life, you would win the place which you deserved. So, once more, well done!

 "I confess, however, that your last book, on the idea of country in France, puzzled me not a little. I know, of course, that you will not change your opinions on this subject; but it seems to me that you are trying to explain the idea of patriotism as due to rather inferior motives and that this idea strikes you not as natural and inherent to human societies, but as though it were a momentary and passing phase of civilization. No doubt I have misunderstood you. Still, your book is not very clear. You almost appear to be hesitating. I shall look forward eagerly to the new work, on the idea of country in our own times and in the future, which I see that you are announcing. .. . "

The book to which Morestal alluded had been finished for over a year, during which Philippe, for reasons which he kept to himself, refused todeliver the manuscript to his publishers. 

 * * *

"Are you glad to be here?"

Marthe had come up and folded her two hands over his arm. 

"Very, " he said. "And I should be still more pleased if I had not thatexplanation with my father before me . .. The explanation which I camedown here to have. "

"It will be all right, my own Philippe. Your father is so fond of you. And then you are so sincere!. .. "

"My dear Marthe, " he said, kissing her affectionately on the forehead. 

He had first met her at Lunéville, through M. Jorancé, who was herdistant cousin; and he had at once felt that she was the ideal companionof his life, who would stand by him in hours of trouble, who would bearhim comely children, who would understand how to bring them up and how, with his assistance and with his principles, to make sturdy men of them, worthy to bear his name. 

Perhaps Marthe would have liked something more; perhaps, as a girl, shehad dreamt that a married woman is not merely the wife and mother, butalso her husband's lover. But she soon saw that love went for littlewith Philippe, a studious man, much more interested in mentalspeculation and social problems than in any manifestation of sentimentalfeeling. She therefore loved him as he wished to be loved, stiflingwithin herself, like smothered flames, a whole throbbing passion made upof unsatisfied longings, restrained ardours and needless jealousies andallowing only just so much of this to escape her as was needed to givehim fresh courage at times of doubt and defeat. 

Short, slender and of delicate build, she was plucky, hardened totrouble, fearless in the face of obstacles, proof against disappointmentafter a check. Her bright, dark eyes betokened her energy. In spite ofall the influence which Philippe wielded over her, in spite of theadmiration with which he inspired her, she retained her personality, herown standpoint towards life, her likes and dislikes. And, to such a manas Philippe, nothing could be more precious. 

"Won't you try and sleep a little?" she asked. 

"No. I am going down to him. "

"To your father?" she asked, anxiously. 

"Yes, I don't want to put it off any longer. As it is, I have almostdone wrong in coming here and embracing him without first letting himknow the exact truth about me. "

They were silent for a while. Philippe seemed undecided and worried. 

He said to her:

"Don't you agree with me? Or do you think I ought to wait tillto-morrow?. .. "

She opened the door for him to pass:

"No, " she said, "you are right. "

She often had those unexpected movements which cut short hesitation andput you face to face with events. Another would have launched out intowords. But Marthe never shirked responsibility, even where it concernedbut the smallest facts of ordinary life. Philippe used to laugh andcall it her daily heroism. 

He kissed her and felt strengthened by her confidence. 

Downstairs, he was told that his father was not yet back and he resolvedto wait for him in the drawing-room. He lit a cigarette, let it go outagain and, at first in a spirit of distraction and then with a growinginterest, looked around him, as though he were trying to gather frominanimate objects particulars relating to the man who lived in theirmidst. 

He examined the rack containing the twelve rifles. They were all loaded, ready for service. Against what foe?

He saw the flag which he had so often gazed upon in the old house atSaint-Élophe, the old, torn flag whose glorious history he knew so well. 

He saw the maps hanging on the wall, all of which traced the frontier inits smallest details, together with the country adjoining it on eitherside of the Vosges. 

He bent over the shelves of the little book-case and read the titles ofthe works: _The War of 1870, prepared in the historical section of theGerman General Staff_; _The Retreat of Bourbaki_; _The Way to prepareour Revenge_; _The Crime of the Peace-at-any-Price Party_. .. . 

But one volume caught his attention more particularly. It was his ownbook on the idea of country. He turned the pages and, seeing that someof them were covered and scored with pencil-marks, he sat down and beganto read:

"It's as I thought, " he muttered, presently. "How are he and I tounderstand each other henceforth? What common ground is there betweenus? I cannot expect him to accept my ideas. And how can I submit tohis?"

He went on reading and noticed comments the harshness of whichdistressed him beyond measure. Twenty minutes passed in this way, disturbed by no sound but that of the leaves which he turned as he read. 

And, suddenly, he felt two bare arms round his head, two cool, bare armsstroking his face. He tried to release himself. The two arms clasped himall the tighter. 

He made an abrupt effort and rose to his feet:

"You!" he cried, stepping back. "You here, Suzanne!"

A most attractive creature stood before him, at once smiling andbashful, in an attitude of provocation and fear, with hands clasped, then with arms again outstretched, beautiful, white, fragrant arms thatshowed below the short sleeves of her fine cambric blouse. Her fair hairwas divided into two loose waves, whose rebellious curls played aboutat random. She had grey, almond-shaped eyes, half-veiled by their darklashes; and her tiny teeth laughed at the edge of her red lips, lips sored that one would have thought--and been quite wrong in thinking--thatthey were painted. 

It was Suzanne Jorancé, the daughter of Jorancé the special commissaryand a friend of Marthe, who knew her when she was quite a child atLunéville. Suzanne had spent four months, last winter, in Paris with thePhilippe Morestals. 

"You!" he repeated. "You, Suzanne!"

She replied, gaily:

"Myself. Your father came to call on us at Saint-Élophe. And, as minewas out for a walk, he brought me back with him. I have just got out ofthe carriage. And here I am. "

He seized her by the wrists, in a fit of anger, and, in a hollow voice:

"You had no business to be at Saint-Élophe. You wrote to Marthe that youwere going away this morning. You ought not to have stayed. You knowquite well that you ought not to have stayed. "

"Why?" she asked, quite confused. 

"Why? Because, at the end of your visit to Paris, you spoke to me inwords which I was entitled to interpret . .. Which I took to mean . .. And I would not have come, if you had not written that you were. .. . "

He broke off, embarrassed by the violence of his own outburst. The tearsstood in Suzanne's eyes and her face had flushed so deep a red that hercrimson lips seemed hardly red at all. 

Petrified by the words which he had uttered and still more by thosewhich he had been on the verge of uttering, Philippe suddenly, in thegirl's presence, felt a need to be gentle and friendly and to makeamends for his inexplicable rudeness. An unexpected sense of pitysoftened him. He took the small, ice-cold hands between his own andsaid, kindly, with the intonation of a big brother scolding a youngersister:

"Why did you stay, Suzanne?"

"May I tell you, Philippe?"

"Certainly, or I shouldn't ask you, " he replied, a little nervously. 

"I wanted to see you, Philippe. .. . When I knew that you were coming . .. And that, by delaying my departure by one day . .. Just one day. .. . Youunderstand, don't you?. .. "

He was silent, rightly thinking that, if he answered the least word, shewould at once say something that he did not want to hear. And they nolonger knew how to stand opposite each other and they no longer daredlook each other in the face. But Philippe felt those small hands turnwarm at the touch of his and felt all the life rush once more throughthat turbulent young being, like a source that is released and bringsback joy and strength and hope. 

Steps were heard and a sound of voices rose in the hall outside. 

"M. Morestal, " Suzanne whispered. 

And old Morestal shouted, long before entering the room:

"Where are you, Suzanne? Here's your father coming. Quick, Jorancé, thechildren are here. Yes, yes, your daughter, too. .. . I brought her backwith me from Saint-Élophe. .. . But how did you come? Through the woods?"

Suzanne slipped on a pair of long suède gloves and, at the moment whenthe door opened, said, in a tone of implacable resolve and as though thepromise must needs fill Philippe's heart with delight:

"No one shall ever see my bare arms again. .. . No one, Philippe, I swearto you. .. . No one shall ever stroke them. .. . "

CHAPTER III

THE VIOLET PAMPHLET

Jorancé was a heavy and rather unwieldy, pleasant-faced man. Twenty-fiveyears before, when secretary to the commissary at Noirmont, he hadmarried a girl of entrancing beauty, who used to teach the piano in aboarding-school. One evening, after four years of marriage, four yearsof torture, during which the unhappy man suffered every sort ofhumiliation, Jorancé came home to find the house empty. His wife hadgone without a word of explanation, taking their little girl, Suzanne, with her. 

The only thing that kept him from suicide was the hope of recovering thechild and saving her from the life which her mother's example would haveforced upon her in the future. 

He did not have to look for her long. A month later, his wife sent backthe child, who was no doubt in her way. But the wound had cut deep andlingered; and neither time nor the love which he bore his daughter couldwipe out the memory of that cruel story. 

He buckled to his work, accepted the most burdensome tasks so as toincrease his income and give Suzanne a good education, was transferredto the commissary's office at Lunéville and, somewhat late in life, waspromoted to be special commissary at the frontier. The position involvedthe delicate functions of a sentry on outpost duty whose business it isto see as much as possible of what goes on in the neighbour's country;and Jorancé filled it so conscientiously, tactfully and skilfully thatthe neighbour aforesaid, while dreading his shrewdness and insight, respected his character and his professional qualities. 

At Saint-Élophe, he renewed his intimacy with old Morestal, who was hisgrand-uncle by marriage and who was very much attached to him. 

The two men saw each other almost every day. Jorancé and Suzanne used todine at the Old Mill on Thursdays and Sundays. Suzanne would also oftencome alone and accompany the old man on his daily walk. He took a greatfancy to her; and it was upon his advice and at the urgent request ofPhilippe and Marthe Morestal that Jorancé had taken Suzanne to Paris theprevious winter. 

 * * *

His first words on entering the room were to thank Philippe:

"You can't think, my dear Philippe, how glad I was to leave her withyou. Suzanne is young. And I approve of a little distraction. "

He looked at Suzanne with the fervent glance of a father who has broughtup his daughter himself and whose love for her is mingled with a touchof feminine affection. 

And he said to Philippe:

"Have you heard the news? I am marrying her. "

"Really?" said Philippe. 

"Yes, to one of my cousins at Nancy, a man rather well-on in years, perhaps, but a serious, active and intelligent fellow. Suzanne likes himvery much. You do like him very much, don't you, Suzanne?"

The girl seemed not to hear the question and asked:

"Is Marthe in her room, Philippe?"

"Yes, on the second floor. "

"I know, the blue room. I was here yesterday, helping Mme. Morestal. Imust run up and give her a kiss. "

She turned round in the doorway and kissed her hand to the three men, keeping her eyes fixed on Philippe. 

"How pretty and charming your daughter is!" said Morestal to Jorancé. 

But they could see that he was thinking of something else and that hewas eager to change the conversation. He shut the door quickly and, returning to the special commissary, said:

"Did you come by the frontier-road?"

"No. "

"And you haven't been told yet?"

"What?"

"The German post . .. At the Butte-aux-Loups. .. . "

"Knocked down?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, by Jove!"

Morestal stopped to enjoy the effect which he had produced and thencontinued:

"What do you say to it?"

"I say . .. I say that it's most annoying. .. . They're in a very badtemper as it is, on the other side. This means trouble for me. "

"Why?"

"Well, of course. Haven't you heard that they're beginning to accuse meof encouraging the German deserters?"

"Nonsense!"

"I tell you, they are. It seems that there's a secret desertion-officein these parts. I'm supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you arethe heart and soul of it. "

"Oh, they can't stand me at any price!"

"Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Börsweilen, hassworn a mortal hatred against me. We cut each other now when we meet. There's not a doubt but that he is responsible for the calumnies. "

"But what proofs do they put forward?"

"Any number . .. All equally bad. .. . Among others, this: pieces of Frenchgold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see . .. With the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certainto begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to beopened. .. . "

Philippe went up to him:

"Come, come, I don't suppose it's so serious as all that. "

"You think not, my boy? Then you haven't seen the stop-press telegramsin this morning's papers?"

"No, " said Philippe and his father. "What's the news?"

"An incident in Asia Minor. A quarrel between the French and Germanofficials. One of the consuls has been killed. "

"Oh, oh!" said Morestal. "This time . .. "

And Jorancé went into details:

"Yes, the position is exceedingly strained. The Morocco question hasbeen opened again. Then there's the espionage business and the story ofthe French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and droppingtricolour flags in the Strasburg streets. .. . For six months, it has beenone long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becomingaggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengtheningtheir defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the twogovernments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark . .. And thething's done. "

A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up thesinister vision according to his own temperament and instincts. 

Jorancé repeated:

"A spark . .. And the thing's done. "

"Well, let it be done!" said Morestal, with an angry gesture. 

Philippe gave a start:

"What are you saying, father?"

"Well, what! There must be an end to all this. "

"But the end need not be in blood. "

"Nonsense . .. Nonsense. .. . There are injuries that can only be wiped outin blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in theface like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a daycomes when it returns the slap in the face . .. And with both hands!"

"And suppose we are beaten?" said Philippe. 

"Can't be helped! Honour comes first! Besides, we sha'n't be beaten. Let every man do his duty and we shall see! In 1870, as a prisoner ofwar, I gave my word not to serve in the French army again. I escaped, Icollected the young rapscallions of Saint-Élophe and round about, theold men, the cripples, the women even. .. . We took to the woods. Threerags served as a rallying-signal: a bit of white linen, a strip of redflannel and a piece out of a blue apron . .. The flag of the band! Thereit hangs. .. . It shall see the light of day again, if necessary. "

Jorancé could not help laughing:

"Do you think that will stop the Prussians?"

"Don't laugh, my friend. .. . You know the view I take of my duty and whatI am doing. But it is just as well that Philippe should know, too. Sitdown, my boy. "

He himself sat down, put aside the pipe which he was smoking and began, with the obvious satisfaction of a man who is at last able to speak ofwhat he has most at heart:

"You know the frontier, Philippe, or rather the German side of thefrontier?. .. A craggy cliff, a series of peaks and ravines which makethis part of the Vosges an insuperable rampart. .. . "

"Yes, absolutely insuperable, " said Philippe. 

"That's a mistake!" exclaimed Morestal. "A fatal mistake! From thefirst moment when I began to think of these matters, I believed that aday would come when the enemy would attack that rampart. "

"Impossible!"

"That day has come, Philippe. For the last six months, not a week haspassed without my meeting some suspicious figure over there or knockingup against men walking about in smocks that were hardly enough toconceal their uniform. .. . It is a constant, progressive underhand work. Everybody is helping in it. The electric factory which the Wildermannfirm has run up in that ridiculous fashion on the edge of the precipiceis only a make-believe. The road that leads to it is a military road. From the factory to the Col du Diable is less than half a mile. Oneeffort and the frontier's crossed. "

"By a company, " objected Jorancé. 

"Where a company passes, a regiment can pass and a brigade canfollow. .. . At Börsweilen, five miles from the Vosges, there are threethousand German soldiers: on a war-footing, mark you. At Gernach, twelvemiles further, there are twelve thousand; and four thousand horses; andeight hundred waggons. By the evening of the day on which war isdeclared, perhaps even earlier, those fifteen thousand men will havecrossed the Col du Diable. It's not a surprise which they mean toattempt: that wouldn't be worth their while. It is the absolutecrossing of the frontier, the taking possession of our ridges, theoccupation of Saint-Élophe. When our troops arrive, it will be too late!They will find Noirmont cut off, Belfort threatened, the south of theVosges invaded. .. . You can picture the moral effect: we shall be donefor! That is what is being prepared in the dark. That is what you havebeen unable to see, Jorancé, in spite of all your watchfulness . .. Andin spite of my warnings. "

"I wrote to the prefect last week. "

"You should have written last year! All this time, the other has beencoming on, the other has been advancing. .. . He hardly takes the troubleto conceal himself. .. . There . .. Listen to him . .. Listen to him. .. . "

In the far distance, like the sound of an echo, deadened by the mass oftrees, a bugle-call had rung out, somewhere, through the air. It was anindistinct call, but Morestal was not mistaken and he hissed:

"Ah, it's he!. .. It's he. .. . I know the voice of Germany. .. . I know itwhen I hear it . .. The hoarse, the odious voice!. .. "

Presently, Philippe, who had not taken his eyes off his father, said:

"And then, father?"

"And then, my son, it was in anticipation of that day that I built myhouse on this hill, that I surrounded my gardens with a wall, that, unknown to anybody, I stocked the out-houses with means of defence:ammunition, bags of sand, gun-powder . .. That, in short, I prepared foran alarm by setting up this unsuspected little fortress at twentyminutes from the Col du Diable . .. On the very threshold of thefrontier!"

He had planted himself with his face to the east, with his face to theenemy; and, clutching his hips with his clenched hands, in an attitudeof defiance, he seemed to be awaiting the inevitable assault. 

The special commissary, who still feared that his zeal had been caughtnapping in this business, growled:

"Your shanty won't hold out for an hour. "

"And who tells you, " shouted Morestal, "who tells you that that hour isnot exactly the one hour which we shall want to gain?. .. An hour! Younever spoke a truer word: an hour of resistance to the first attack! Anhour of delay!. .. That's what I wanted, that's what I offer to mycountry. Let every one be doing as I am, to the best of his power, letevery one be haunted to fever-point by the obsession of the personalservice which it is his duty to render to the country; and, if warbreaks out, you shall see how a great nation can take its revenge!"

"And suppose we are beaten, in spite of all?" Philippe asked again. 

"What's that?"

Old Morestal turned to his son as though he had received a blow; and arush of blood inflamed his features. He looked Philippe in the face:

"What do you say?"

Philippe had an inkling of the conflict that would hurl them one againstthe other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And heuttered words at random:

"Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we canentertain. .. . But, all the same . .. Don't you think we ought to face thepossibility?. .. "

"Face the possibility of defeat?" echoed the old man, who seemedthunderstruck. "Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought toinfluence France in her conduct?"

A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appearedfrom the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashionthat Morestal did not wait for his son to reply:

"Is that you, Saboureux? What a row you're making!"

It was Farmer Saboureux, whose house could be seen on the Col du Diable. He was accompanied by an old, ragged tramp. 

Saboureux had come to complain. Some soldiers taking part in themanoeuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. Heseemed beside himself, furious at the catastrophe:

"Only, I've a witness in old Poussière here. And I want an indemnity, not to speak of damages and punishment. I call it a calamity, I do:soldiers of our own country!. .. I'm a good Frenchman, but, all the same. .. "

Morestal was too much absorbed in the discussion of his favourite ideasto take the least interest in the man's troubles; and the farmer'spresence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason forreturning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk aboutthan chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarmingrumours that were current?

"What do you say, Saboureux?"

The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom wesometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern, clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of ourRoman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched tobattle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness, risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced toashes. Some passing Uhlans. .. . Since that time, he had laboured hard torepair the harm done. 

"And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning andsacking?. .. Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be asI am!"

He was filled with the small land-owner's hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious footon the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossedhis arms, with a serious air. 

"And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?" askedMorestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet ofthe terrace, breaking a crust. 

The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carvedout of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every threeor four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went offagain. 

"What country do you belong to, to begin with?"

He grunted:

"Don't know much about it . .. It's so long ago. .. . "

"Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?"

The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps withoutunderstanding. Saboureux grinned:

"He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if hebelongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lieswhere the grub lies . .. Eh, Poussière?"

Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper andlet fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent--working-men, townsmen orfarmers--who think only of their comfort, without caring whether thecountry is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect, with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carriedto the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawkedabout by travelling agents?

"Yes, " he cried, "the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroyingus. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The veryarmy is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge ofmutiny. .. . "

He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time, nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father mighttake for one of approval. 

"Isn't it so, Philippe? You see the thing close at hand, where you are:all those poltroons who weaken our energies with their fine dreams ofpeace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the publicmeetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and thecountry with open doors and are backed up by our rulers. .. . And that'sonly speaking of the capital!. .. Why, the very provinces haven't escapedthe contagion!. .. Here, have you read this abomination?"

He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heapedup on his table and held it before his son's eyes. And he continued:

"_Peace before All!_ No author's name. A book that's all the moredangerous because it's very well written, not by one of those wind-bagsto whom I was referring just now, but by a scholar, a provincial and, what's more, a Frenchman from the frontier. He seems even to bear ourname . .. Some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a largefamily. "

"Are you sure?" blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight ofthe pamphlet. "How do you know?"

"Oh, by accident. .. . A letter which was addressed to me and which said, 'All good wishes for the success of your pamphlet, my dear Morestal. '"

Philippe remembered. He was to have gone to the Old Mill last year; andthe letter must have been sent to him by one of his friends. 

"And haven't you tried to find out?"

"What for? Because I have a scoundrel in my family, that's no reasonwhy I should be in a hurry to make his acquaintance! Besides, he himselfhas had the decency not to put his name to his scurrilous nonsense. .. . No matter: if ever I lay my hands on him!. .. But don't let's talk ofit. .. . "

He continued to talk of it, nevertheless, and at great length, as wellas of all the questions of war and peace, history and politics that cameto his mind. It was not until he had "got his budget off his chest, " ashe said, that he exclaimed, suddenly:

"Enough of this palavering, my friends! Why, it's four o'clock!Saboureux, I'm your man. .. . So they've been making free with yourpoultry, have they? Are you coming, Jorancé? We'll see some finesoldier-chaps making their soup. There's nothing jollier and livelierthan a French camp!"

CHAPTER IV

PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE

Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference intheir ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whomshe had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereasSuzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, nowaggressive and satirical, but always full of charm. 

When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herselfinsisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table allthe little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room alook of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favouritebooks. .. . 

"You'll be very snug here, Marthe, " she said. "It's a nice, light room. .. And there's only a dressing-room between you and Philippe. .. . Buthow did you come to want two bedrooms?"

"It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings. .. . "

"Oh, " repeated the girl. "It was Philippe's suggestion. .. . "

Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:

"How like his father your son Jacques is!. .. Much more so than Paul . .. Don't you think?"

Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at thepicture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimateimage the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one. 

"Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?" asked Suzanne. 

"What a question! If you were a mother. .. . "

"If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most ofmy husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceasedto love me. .. . "

"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine thatthere is nothing in the world but love?"

"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't youlike love to fill a greater place in your life?"

This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway. 

Suzanne at once cried:

"We were talking about you, Philippe. "

He made no reply. He went to the window, closed it and then came back tothe two young women. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he satdown by Marthe; and Marthe saw by his look that something had happened:

"Have you spoken to him?"

"No. "

"Still . .. "

He told her, in a few sentences, of the conversation, with the incidentof the pamphlet and the words which his father had spoken against theauthor of that work. He repeated the words, a second time, withincreasing bitterness. Then he stopped, reflected and, pressing hisclenched fists to his temples, said, slowly, as though he wereexplaining matters to himself:

"It's three years now that this has lasted . .. Ever since his letter onmy appointment, in which he wrote about my second book on the idea ofcountry. Perhaps I ought to have written to him then and there and toldhim of the evolution of my mind and the tremendous change which thestudy of history and of vanished civilizations had wrought in me. "

"Perhaps it would have been better, " said Marthe. 

"I was afraid to. I was afraid of hurting him. .. . It would have hurt himso terribly!. .. And my love for him is so great!. .. And then, Marthe, you see, the ideas which he defends and of which, in my eyes, he is theliving and splendid incarnation are so beautiful in themselves that, after one has ceased to share them, one continues, for a long time, foralways, to retain a sort of involuntary affection for them, deep down inone's inner self. They constituted the greatness of our country forcenturies. They are vigorous, like everything that is religious andpure. One feels a renegade at losing them; and any word spoken againstthem sounds like blasphemy. How could I say to my father, 'Those ideas, which you gave me and which were the life of my youth, I have ceased tohold. Yes, I have ceased to think as you do. My love of humanity doesnot stop at the boundaries of the country in which I was born; and I donot hate those who are on the other side of the frontier. I am one ofthose men who will not have war, who will not have it at any price andwho would give their life-blood to save the world the horror of thatscourge. ' How could I say such things as that to my father?"

He rose and, pacing the room, continued:

"I did not say them. I concealed the true state of my mind, as though Iwere hiding a shameful sore. At the meetings, in the newspapers to whichI contribute by stealth, to my adversaries and to the majority of themen on my own side I was M. Philippe, denying my name and mypersonality, setting a bad example to those who are silent forprudence' sake and for fear of compromising themselves. I do not signthe pamphlets which I write; and the book in which I give the conclusionof my work has been ready for more than a year, without my daring topublish it. Well, that's over now. I can't go on as I have been doing. Silence is choking me. By humbling myself, I lower my ideals. I mustspeak aloud, in the hearing of all men. I will speak. "

He had gradually become animated, excited by his own words. His voicehad increased in volume. His face expressed the glowing, irresistible, often blind enthusiasm of those who devote themselves to generouscauses. And, yielding to a need to speak out which was anything butfrequent with him, he went on:

"You don't know, you don't know what it means to a man to be fired witha great idea . .. Whether it be love of humanity, hatred of war or anyother beautiful illusion. It lights us and leads us. It is our pride andour faith. We seem to have a second life, the real life, that belongs toit, and an unknown heart that beats for it alone. And we are prepared tosuffer any sacrifice, any pain, any wretchedness, any insult . .. Provided that it gain the day. "

Suzanne listened to him with obvious admiration. Marthe appeareduneasy. Knowing Philippe's nature thoroughly, she was well aware that, in thus letting himself go, he was not only being carried away by aflood of eloquent words. 

He opened the window and drew a deep breath of the pure air which heloved. Then he returned and added:

"We are even prepared to sacrifice those around us. "

Marthe felt all the importance which he attached to this littlesentence; and, after a moment, she said:

"Are you referring to me?"

"Yes, " said Philippe. 

"But you know, Philippe, that, when I agreed to marry you, I agreed toshare your life, whatever it might be. "

"My life as it looked like being, but not as I shall be compelled tomake it. "

She looked at him with a glimmer of apprehension. For some time now, shehad noticed that he was even less communicative than usual, that hehardly ever spoke of his plans and that he no longer told her what hewas working at. 

"How do you mean, Philippe?" she asked. 

He took a sealed letter from his pocket and showed her the address:

"_To the Minister of Public Instruction. _"

"What is in that letter?" asked Marthe. 

"My resignation. "

"Your resignation! The resignation of your professorship?"

"Yes. I shall send this letter the moment I have confessed everything tomy father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of yourobjections. .. . But I was wrong. .. . It is necessary that you shouldknow. .. . "

"I don't understand, " she stammered. "I don't understand. .. . "

"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have takenpossession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myselfwithout reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They formthe belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is notthe belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the childrenentrusted to my care. "

She was on the verge--thinking of her own children, whose well-being andwhose future were about to suffer through this decision--she was on theverge of exclaiming:

"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruplesand go on teaching what you find in the manuals and school-books. "

But she knew that he was like those priests who prefer to incur povertyand opprobrium rather than preach a religion which they no longerbelieve. 

And she simply said:

"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some thatterrify me . .. Especially those which I do not know, but which I halfsuspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walkto it with my eyes closed. "

"And . .. So far . .. You approve?"

"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letterand, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps hewill admit . .. "

"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can stillunderstand the beliefs of former days, because those were their ownbeliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannotaccept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with theirfeelings and with their instincts. "

"So . .. ?"

"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of itdistresses me infinitely. "

He sat down, with a movement of weariness. She leant over him:

"Do not lose courage. I am sure that things will turn out better thanyou think. Wait a few days. .. . There is no hurry; and you will have timeto see . .. To prepare. .. . "

"Everything turns out well when you speak, " he said, smiling andallowing himself to be caressed. 

"Unfortunately . .. "

He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring atthe pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with aterrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready tofling herself upon them and proclaim her rage aloud. 

He released himself quickly and, making an effort to jest:

"Tush!" he said. "Time will show. .. . Enough of these jeremiads: what sayyou, Suzanne?. .. Suppose you saw to putting away my things?. .. Iseverything done?"

Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, shereplied:

"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange themyourself. "

"Come on, then, " he said, gaily. 

Marthe walked through the dressing-room to her husband's bedroom. Philippe was about to follow her and his foot touched the door-sill whenSuzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretchedarms. 

It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Martheasked, from the further room:

"What is it?"

"Nothing, " said Suzanne. "We're coming. "

Philippe tried to pass. She pushed him back violently and with such alook of her eyes that he yielded at once. 

They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippefumed:

"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me hereindefinitely?. .. "

She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint andimplacable energy:

"I shall expect you this evening. .. . It's quite easy. .. . You can getout. .. . I shall be outside my door at eleven. "

He was petrified:

"You are mad!. .. "

"No. .. . But I want to see you . .. To speak to you . .. I must . .. I amsuffering more than I can bear. .. . It's enough to kill me. "

Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, herlips trembled. 

Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he feltthe need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:

"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which heoften used to her. 

"You will come . .. You must come . .. That is why I stayed. .. . One hour, one hour of your presence!. .. If you don't, I shall come here, I shallindeed. .. . I don't care what happens!"

He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if itwas possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have beenabsurd. 

But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean outand catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation;and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which achild's whims were compelling him to play. 

"You're quite pale, " said Marthe. 

"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you arelooking . .. "

She broke in:

"I thought I saw your father. "

"Is he back?"

"Yes, there he is, at the end of the garden, with M. Jorancé. They aremaking signs to you. "

Morestal and his friend were climbing up beside the waterfall and wavingtheir hands to attract Philippe's attention. When he came under thewindows, Morestal cried:

"This is what we have arranged, Philippe. You and I are dining atJorancé's. "

"But . .. "

"There's no but about it; we'll explain why. I'll have the carriage gotready and Jorancé will go ahead with Suzanne. "

"What about Marthe?" asked Philippe. 

"Marthe can come if she likes. Come down here. We'll fix it all up. "

When Philippe turned round, Suzanne was standing close against him:

"You'll come, won't you?" she said, eagerly. 

"Yes, if Marthe does. "

"Even if Marthe doesn't . .. I insist . .. I insist. .. . Oh, Philippe, Iimplore you, don't drive me to extremities!"

He was afraid of an outburst:

"As a matter of fact, " he said, "why shouldn't I come? It's quitenatural that I should dine at your house with my father. "

"Do you mean it?" she murmured. "Will you really come?"

She seemed suddenly calmed; and her face assumed a look of childishdelight:

"Oh, how happy I am!. .. How happy I am! My beautiful dream will befulfilled. .. . We shall walk together in the dark, without speaking aword. .. . And I shall never forget that hour. .. . Nor you either, Philippe. .. Nor you either. .. . "

CHAPTER V

THE SHEET OF NOTE-PAPER

A hand was passed through the bars of the gate at the top of thestaircase leading to the terrace and seized the clapper of the littlebell fastened to one of the bars. A push . .. And the gate was open. 

"Not much difficulty about that, " said the man, carefully stepping on tothe terrace. "Since the mountain won't come to Dourlowski, Dourlowskimust . .. "

The man stopped: he had heard voices. But, on listening, he found thatthe sound of voices came from behind the house. He quietly entered thedrawing-room, therefore, walked straight across it and reached thewindows on the other side. A little further, at the foot of the steps, he saw a carriage ready to start, with Suzanne and her father sitting init. The Morestal family were standing round the carriage. 

"That's all right, " said Morestal. "Philippe and I will walk . .. Andwe'll do the same coming home, won't we, my boy?"

"And you, Marthe?" asked Jorancé. 

"No, thank you. I will stay with mamma. "

"Well, we'll send your men home to you soon . .. Especially as Morestallikes going to bed early. They will leave the house at ten o'clockprecisely; and I will go a bit of the way with them, as far as theButte. "

"That's it, " said Morestal. "We shall see the demolished post bymoonlight. And we shall be here by half-past ten, mother. That's apromise. Off you go, Victor. "

The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out hiswatch and set it by the clock, whispering:

"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's agood thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friendDourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home. "

Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistlewhich Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinishednote of certain birds:

"That's done it, " he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He hassent the others for a stroll in the garden and he's coming this way. .. . "

He made a movement backwards on hearing Morestal's footstep in the hall, for he knew the old fellow was not given to joking. And, in fact, Morestal, the moment he entered, ran up to him and took him by thecollar of his jacket:

"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you?. .. I'llshow you a road which you don't know of!"

Dourlowski began to laugh with his crooked mouth:

"My dear M. Morestal, you'll dirty your hands. "

His clothes were shiny and thick with grease, stretched over a smallround body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. Andall this formed a jovial, grotesque and rather alarming picture. 

Morestal let go his hold and, in an imperative tone:

"Explain yourself and quickly. I don't want my son to see you here. Speak. "

There was no time to be lost, as Dourlowski saw:

"Well, look here, " he said. "It's a question of a young soldier in theBörsweilen garrison. He's too unhappy for words where he is . .. And he'smad at having to serve Germany. "

"A ne'er-do-well, " growled Morestal. "A slacker who doesn't want towork. "

"No, not this one, I tell you, not this one. He means to enlist in theForeign Legion. He loves France. "

"Yes, always the same story. And then--pah!--one never hears of themagain. More gallows' seed!"

Dourlowski seemed shocked and scandalized:

"How can you say such a thing, M. Morestal?. .. If you only knew! A bravesoldier who asks nothing better than to die fighting for our country. "

The old man started:

"'Our country, ' indeed! I forbid you to speak like that. Have you theleast idea where you hail from? A scamp like you has no country. "

"You forget all that I have done, M. Morestal. .. . You and I, between us, have 'passed' four of them already. "

"Hold your tongue!" said Morestal, who seemed to take no pleasure inthis recollection. "Hold your tongue. .. . If the thing had never happened. .. "

"It would happen just the same, because you are a good-natured man andbecause there are things. .. . There. .. . It's like with this lad. .. . Itwould break your heart to see him. .. . Johann Baufeld his name is. .. . Hisfather is just dead . .. And he wants to go out to his mother, who wasdivorced and who lives in Algeria. .. . Such a nice lad, full ofpluck. .. . "

"Well, " said Morestal, "he's only got to 'pass'! You don't want me forthat. "

"And what about the money? He hasn't a sou. Besides, there's no onelike you to tell us all the paths, the best place to cross at, the besttime to select. .. . "

"I'll see about it. .. . I'll see about it, " said Morestal. "There's nohurry. .. . "

"Yes, there is. .. . "

"Why?"

"The Börsweilen regiment is manoeuvring on the slopes of the Vosges. If you'll lend us a hand, I'll run down to Saint-Élophe first, buy asuit of second-hand French peasant's clothes and go and find my man. Then I'll bring him to the old barn in your little farm to-night . .. AsI have done before. .. . "

"Where is he at this moment?"

"His company is quartered in the Albern Woods. "

"But that's next door to the frontier!" cried Morestal. "An hour's walk, no more. "

"Just so; but how he is to reach the frontier? Where is he to cross it?"

"That's quite easy, " said Morestal, taking up a pencil and a sheet ofnote-paper. "Look, here are the Albern Woods. Here's the Col du Diable. Here's the Butte-aux-Loups. .. . Well, he's only got to leave the woods bythe Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de. .. "

He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspiciousair and said:

"But you know the road as well as I do . .. There's no doubt aboutthat. .. . So . .. "

"My word, " said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and thefactory. "

Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few wordsin an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quickresolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball andflung it into the waste-paper basket:

"No, no, certainly not!" he cried. "I've had enough of this nonsense!One succeeds four times; and, at the fifth attempt. .. . Besides, it's nota business I care about. .. . A soldier's a soldier . .. Whatever uniformhe wears. .. . "

"Still . .. " mumbled Dourlowski. 

"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The Germancommissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk . .. "

"You're risking nothing. "

"That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can. .. . Oh, wait asecond!. .. I think I . .. Listen . .. "

Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of thewaste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising hisvoice:

"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me, " hesaid. "I give it up. "

"That's it, " said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You giveit up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do. "

He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace:

"Be off . .. And don't come back. .. . There's nothing more for you to dohere . .. Absolutely nothing. .. . "

He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as hereached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up thestaircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill. 

Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, assoon as the road was clear, he disappeared. 

Mme. Morestal expressed her astonishment:

"What! Do you still see that rogue of a Dourlowski?"

"Oh, it was an accident!. .. "

"You are very wrong to have him in the house. We don't even know wherehe comes from or what his trade is. "

"He's a hawker. "

"A spy, rather: that's what they say about him. "

"Tah! In the pay of which country?"

"Of both, very likely. Victor thinks he saw him with the Germancommissary, two Sundays ago. "

"With Weisslicht? Impossible. He doesn't even know him. "

"I'm telling you what they say. In any case, Morestal, be careful withthat fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen. "

"Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing. .. . Areyou ready, Philippe?"

CHAPTER VI

THE PLASTER STATUE

There were several ways leading to Saint-Élophe. First of all, thehigh-road, which goes winding down a slope some two miles long; next, afew rather steep short cuts; and, lastly, further north, theforest-path, part of which skirts the ridge of the Vosges. 

"Let's go by the road, shall we?" said Morestal to his son. 

And, as soon as they had started, he took Philippe's arm and said, gleefully:

"Only think, my boy, at the camp, just now, we met one of thelieutenants of the manoeuvring company. We talked about the Saboureuxbusiness and, this evening, he is going to introduce us to his captain, who happens to be a nephew of General Daspry, commanding the army-corps. So I shall tell him what I have done at the Old Mill, you see; he willreport it to his uncle Daspry; and Fort Morestal will be listed atonce. .. . "

He beamed with delight, held his head high and flung out his chest, while, with his free hand, he made warlike flourishes with his cane. Once he even halted and placed himself on guard and stamped his foot onthe ground:

"Three appels . .. Engage . .. Lunge! What do you say to that, Philippe, eh? Old Morestal is game yet!"

Philippe, full of affection for the old man, smiled. Now that he wasacting on Marthe's advice and delaying the painful explanation, lifeseemed better to him, quite simple and quite easy, and he surrenderedhimself to the pleasure of seeing his father again and the scenes whichhe loved and renewing the childhood memories that seemed to await him atevery turn of the road and to rise up at his approach:

"Do you remember, father? This is where I fell off my bicycle. .. . I wasstanding under that tree when it was struck by lightning. .. . "

They stopped, recalled all the circumstances of the event and set offagain, arm in arm. 

And, a little further, Morestal took up the thread:

"And over there, do you remember? That's where you killed your firstrabbit . .. With a catapult! Ah, even in those days you promised to be agood shot . .. The best at Saint-Élophe, as I live!. .. But I wasforgetting: you have given up your gun! A fellow of your build! Why, sport, my boy, is the great apprenticeship for war!. .. "

 * * *

Saint-Élophe-la-Côte, once a flourishing little town, had never quiterecovered from the wounds earned by its heroism during the war. It stoodcrowding round an old ruined castle which became visible at the lastturn in the road. Nevertheless, situated on the borders of thedepartment, at twelve or thirteen miles from Noirmont, thesub-prefecture, it owed a certain importance to its position near thefrontier, facing the German garrisons, whose increasing activity wasbecoming a subject of uneasiness and had led to Jorancé's appointment asspecial commissary. 

Jorancé, the first holder of this newly-created office, lived at theother end of the village and a little way outside it, in a low-storeyedhouse which had been greatly improved by Suzanne's good taste and fancy. It was surrounded by a garden with arbours and quaintly-clipped oldtrees and a clear, winding stream that flowed under the very doorstep. 

It was nearly dark when Morestal entered, accompanied by Philippe. Everything was ready for their reception: the table was laid in a roomhung with bright stuffs; flowers were scattered over the cloth; twolamps shed a calm and even light; and Suzanne sat smiling, happy andcharming. 

All this was very simple. And yet Philippe received the impression thatspecial pains had been taken on his account. It was he who was expected;he was the master who was to be conquered and chained with invisiblebonds. He felt sure of this; and Suzanne told him as much throughoutdinner, with her fond glances, her attentive movements, her whole personbending towards him. 

"I ought not to have come, " he thought. "No, I ought not to have. "

And, each time that he met Suzanne's eyes, he called to mind his wife'sdiscreet manner and her thoughtful air. 

"How absorbed you are, Philippe!" cried Morestal, who had never ceasedtalking while eating. "And you, Suzanne, what are you thinking about?Your future husband?"

"Not I!" she replied, without the least embarrassment. "I was thinkingof those months I spent in Paris last winter. How good you were to me, Philippe! I remember the walks we used to take!. .. "

They spoke of those walks; and, little by little, Philippe was surprisedto realize the extent to which their lives had been mingled during thatstay. Marthe, retained by her household duties, used to remain at home, while they two escaped, like a couple of free and careless play-fellows. They visited the museums and churches of Paris, the little towns andcastles of the Ile-de-France. An intimacy sprang up between them. Andnow it confused him to find Suzanne at once so near to him and so far, so near as a friend, so far as a woman. 

When dinner was over, he moved round to his father. Morestal, eager togo and keep his appointment with Captain Daspry, stood up:

"Are you coming with us, Philippe?"

"Certainly. "

The three men took their hats and sticks; but, when they reached thehall-door, after a whispered colloquy with Jorancé, Morestal said to hisson:

"On second thoughts, it's better that we should go alone. The interviewmust remain as secret as possible; and we shall be less easy if thereare three of us. .. . "

"Besides, " added the special commissary, "you may just as well keepSuzanne company: it is her last evening. Good-bye for the present, children. You can be sure that the two conspirators will be back whenthe belfry-clock strikes ten, eh, Morestal?"

They went off, leaving Philippe not a little perplexed. 

Suzanne burst out laughing:

"My poor Philippe, you look very uncomfortable. Come, cheer up! Isha'n't eat you, I promise you!"

"No, I don't expect you will, " he said, laughing in his turn. "But, allthe same, it's strange . .. "

"All the same, it's strange, " she said, completing the sentence, "thatwe should take a walk round the garden together, as I asked you. Youwill have to make the best of a bad job. Here comes the harmless, necessary moonlight. "

The moon emerged slowly from the great clouds stacked around amountain-crest; and its light cast the regular shadows of the yews andfir-trees on the lawns. The weather was heavy with approaching storms. Awarm breeze wafted the perfumes of plants and grass. 

Three times, they followed the outer path, along a hedge and along awall. They said nothing; and this silence, which he found it impossibleto break, filled Philippe with remorse. At that moment, he experienced afeeling of aversion for that capricious and unreasonable little girl, who had brought about those compromising minutes between them. Unaccustomed to women and always rather shy in their company, hesuspected her of some mysterious design. 

"Let's go over there, " said Suzanne, pointing to the middle of thegarden, where the shadows seemed to gather round a thick clump ofshrubs and hornbeams. 

They made for the place through an arcade of verdure which brought themto a short flight of steps. It was a sunk amphitheatre, surrounded by astone balustrade, with a small pond in the middle and, opposite, in aleafy frame, a female statue, with a moonbeam quivering upon it. A mustysmell arose from this old-fashioned spot. 

"Venus or Minerva? Corinne perhaps?" said Philippe, joking to concealhis uneasiness. "I confess I can't quite make out. What is she wearing:a peplum or an Empire frock? And is that a helmet or a turban on herhead?"

"It depends, " said Suzanne. 

"How do you mean? What upon?"

"Yes, it depends upon my humour. When I'm good and sensible, she'sMinerva. When I look at her with a yearning heart, she becomes Venus. And she is also, according to the mood of the moment, the goddess ofmadness . .. And the goddess of tears . .. And the goddess of death. "

She spoke with a playfulness that saddened Philippe. He asked:

"And what is she the goddess of to-day?"

"The goddess of farewell. "

"Of farewell?"

"Yes, farewell to Suzanne Jorancé, to the girl who has come here everyday, for the last five years, and who will never come here again. "

She leant against the statue:

"My dear goddess, what dreams we two have had, you and I! We used towait together. For whom? For the Blue Bird . .. For Prince Charming. Theprince was to arrive on horseback, one day, jump the garden-wall andcarry me off, slung across his saddle. He was to slip through the trees, one evening, and go up the steps on his knees, sobbing. And all the vowsI made to my dear goddess! Just think, Philippe: I promised her never tobring a man into her presence unless I loved him! And I kept my promise. You are the first, Philippe. "

He flushed red in the dark; and she continued, in a voice the gaiety ofwhich rang false:

"If you only knew how silly a girl is, dreaming and vowing things! Why, I even promised her that that man and I should exchange our first kissbefore her. Isn't it ridiculous? Poor goddess! She will never see thatkiss of love; for, after all, I don't suppose you intend to kiss me?"

"Suzanne!"

"Well, did you? There's no reason why you should; and the whole thing'sabsurd. So you will admit that this dear goddess has no sense and thatshe deserves to be punished. "

With a quick movement of the arm, she gave a push to the statue, whichfell to the ground and broke into halves. 

"What are you doing?" he cried. 

"Leave me alone . .. Leave me alone, " said Suzanne, in an angry voice. 

It was as though her action had loosed in her a long-contained fury andwicked instincts which she was no longer able to control. She rushedforwards and madly kicked and raged at the broken pieces of the statue. 

He tried to interfere and took her by the arm. She turned upon him:

"I won't have you touch me!. .. It's your fault. .. . Let me go . .. I hateyou!. .. Yes, it's all your fault!. .. "

And, releasing herself from his grasp, she fled towards the house. 

The scene had not lasted twenty seconds. 

"Hang it!" snarled Philippe, though he was not in the habit of swearing. 

His irritation was so great that, if the poor plaster goddess had notalready been reduced to fragments, he would certainly have flung herfrom her pedestal. But, above all things, he was swayed by one idea: togo away, not to see Suzanne again and to have done with this nonsense, of which he felt all the hatefulness and absurdity. 

He also quickly made his way back to the house. Unfortunately, knowingno other outlet by which to escape, he went through the passage. Thedining-room door was open. He saw the girl sitting huddled in a chair, with her head between her hands, sobbing. 

He did not know how artificial a woman's tears can be. Nor did he knowthe danger in those tears for him who is moved by the sight of theirflowing. But, had he known it, he would just the same have stayed; forman's pity is infinite. 

CHAPTER VII

EVE TRIUMPHANT

"There!" she said, after a few minutes. "The storm is over. "

She raised her beautiful face, now lit with a smile:

"No black on my eye-lashes, you see, " she added, gaily. "No rouge on mylips. .. . Take note, please. .. . Nothing that comes off!"

This versatility of mood, the despair, which he had felt to be real, followed by a light-heartedness which he felt to be equally sincere; allthis bewildered Philippe. 

She began to laugh:

"Philippe! Philippe! You look as though you did not understand muchabout women . .. And even less about girls!"

She rose and went to the next room, which was her bedroom, as he saw bythe white curtains and the arrangement of the furniture; and shereturned with an album, in which she showed him, on the first page, thephotograph of a child, crying:

"Look, Philippe. I haven't changed. At two years old, just as now, Iused to have great big sorrows and eyes that flowed like taps. "

He turned the pages of the album. There were portraits of Suzanne at allages: Suzanne as a child, Suzanne as a little girl, Suzanne as a younggirl; and each was more bewitching than the last. 

At the bottom of one page, he read:

"_Suzanne, twenty. _"

"Lord, how pretty you were!" he muttered, dazed by that image of beautyand gladness. 

And he looked at Suzanne, in spite of himself. 

"I have grown older, " she said. "Three long years. .. . "

He shrugged his shoulders without replying, for, on the contrary, hethought her lovelier still; and he turned the pages. Two loosephotographs slipped to the floor. She put out her hand to take them, butdid not complete the movement. 

"May I?" asked Philippe. 

"Yes, certainly. "

He was much astonished when he examined one of the portraits:

"This, " he said, "makes you look older than you are. .. . How funny! Andwhy that old-fashioned dress?. .. That quaint way of doing your hair. .. . It's you . .. And yet it's not you. .. . Who is it?"

"Mamma, " she said. 

He was surprised, knowing Jorancé's persistent rancour, that he shouldhave given his daughter the portrait of a mother whom she had beentaught to believe long dead. And he remembered the riotous adventures ofthe divorced wife, now the beautiful Mme. De Glaris, who was celebratedin the chronicles of fast society for her dresses and her jewellery andwhose photographs were displayed in the shop-windows of the Rue deRivoli for the admiration of the passers-by. 

"Yes, " he said, awkwardly and not quite knowing what he was saying, "yes, you are like her. .. . And is this also . .. ?"

He suppressed a movement of astonishment. This time, he clearlyrecognized Suzanne's mother, or rather the Mme. De Glaris of the Rue deRivoli, bare-shouldered, decked in her pearls and diamonds, shamelessand magnificent. 

Suzanne, who kept her eyes raised to his face, did not speak; and theyremained opposite each other, motionless and silent. 

"Does she know the truth?" Philippe asked himself. "No . .. No . .. It'snot possible. .. . She must have bought this photograph, because of thelikeness to herself which she saw in it, and she does not suspectanything. .. . "

But he was not satisfied with his surmise and he dared not question thegirl, for fear of touching upon one of those mysterious griefs whichbecome more acute when once they are no longer secret. 

She put the two portraits back in the album and locked the clasp with alittle key. Then, after a long pause, laying her hand on Philippe's arm, she said to him, in words that corresponded strangely with the thoughtsthat troubled him:

"Do not be angry with me, dear, and, above all, do not judge me tooseverely. There is a Suzanne in me whom I do not know well . .. And whooften frightens me. .. . She is capricious, jealous, wrong-headed, capableof anything . .. Yes, of anything. .. . The real Suzanne is good andsensible: 'You're _my_ daughter to-day, ' papa used to say to me, when Iwas a little girl. And he said it in such a happy tone! But, the nextday, I was his daughter no longer; and, struggle and fight as hard as Imight, I could not become so again. .. . Things prevented me; and I usedto cry because papa seemed to hate me. .. . And I wanted to be good. .. . And I still want to and I always do. .. . But there is nothing in theworld so hard . .. Because the other . .. The other one does not wantto. .. . And besides . .. "

"What?"

She waited a moment, as though hesitating, and continued:

"And, besides, what she wants, what the other Suzanne wants does notappear to me so very unreasonable. It is an immense longing to lovesomebody, but to love madly, boundlessly, to love too well. .. . Then itseems to me that life has no other object . .. And all the rest boresme. .. . You know, Philippe, even when I was ever so small, that word loveused to upset me. And, later . .. And now, at certain times, I feel mybrain going and all my soul seeking, waiting. .. . "

She hid her face again, as though seized with a sudden feeling ofbashfulness, and Philippe saw, between her fingers, her crimson foreheadand cheeks. 

His pity swelled within him. Through those desultory confidences, he sawSuzanne as she was, ignorant, ill-informed about herself and about therealities of life, troubled with desires which she took for unsatisfiedfeelings, torn by the implacable duel between contrary instincts andpossessing nothing to counteract her woman's nature but a wayward andmelancholy virtue. 

How good it would be to save her! He went up to her and, very gently, said:

"You must get married, Suzanne. "

She shook her head:

"There have been young men here who seemed to like me, but they alwayswent away after a few days. One would almost think that they were afraidof me . .. Or that they had heard things . .. Against me. .. . Besides . .. Ididn't care for them. .. . It was not they . .. That I was waiting for. .. . It was somebody else. .. . And he did not come. "

He understood the irreparable words which she was about to utter and heardently hoped that she would not utter them. 

Suzanne guessed his wish and was silent. But the avowal was so clear, even when unexpressed, that Philippe read all its passion in the longsilence that followed. And Suzanne experienced a great joy, as thoughthe indissoluble bond of words were linking them together. She added:

"It was a little your fault, Philippe, and you felt it, in a way, atdinner. Yes, a little your fault. .. . In Paris, I lived a dangerous lifebeside you. .. . Just think, we were always together, always by ourselves, we two; and, for days at a time, I had the right to think that there wasno one in the world but you and I. It was for me that you talked, it wasto make me worthy of yourself that you explained things to me which Idid not know, that you took me to see the beautiful sights in thechurches, in the old towns. .. . And I, I was amazed. At what I waslearning? Oh, no, Philippe, but at the new world that suddenly opened upto me. I did not listen to your words, but I listened to the sound ofyour voice. My eyes saw only your eyes. It was your admiration that Iadmired; your love for the beautiful was what I loved. All that youtaught me to know . .. And to love, Philippe, was . .. Yourself. "

Notwithstanding his inward rebellion, the words entered into Philippe'sbeing like a caress; and he too almost forgot himself in the pleasure oflistening to the sound of a soft voice and looking into eyes that aredear to one. 

He said, simply:

"And Marthe?"

She did not answer; and he felt that, like many women, she wasindifferent to considerations of that sort. To them, love is a reasonthat excuses everything. 

Then, seeking to create a diversion, he repeated:

"You must get married, Suzanne, you must. That is where your safetylies. "

"Oh, I know!" she said, wringing her hands in despair. "I know . .. Only. .. "

"Only what?"

"I haven't the strength to. "

"You must find the strength. "

"I can't. .. . I ought to have it given me. I ought to have . .. Oh, nothing very much, perhaps . .. A little gladness . .. A glad memory . .. The thought that my life will not have been entirely wasted. .. . Thethought that I too shall have had my spell of love. .. . But that shortspell I ask for . .. I beg for it, I pray for it. "

He blurted out:

"You will find it in marriage, Suzanne. "

"No, no, " she said, more bitterly, "only the man I love can give it tome. .. . I want, once at least, to feel a pair of arms around me, nothingbut that, I assure you . .. To lay my head on your shoulder and to remainlike that, for an instant. "

She was so near to Philippe that the muslin of her bodice touched hisclothes and he breathed the scent of her hair. He felt a mad temptationto take her in his arms. And it would have been a very small thing, asshe had said: one of those moments of happiness which one plucks like aflower and remembers. 

She looked at him, not sadly now, nor resigned, but smiling, archly, with all the ingenious charm of the woman who is trying to conquer. 

He turned pale and murmured:

"Suzanne, I am your friend. Be my friend, simply, and let yourimagination . .. "

"You're afraid, " she said. 

He tried to jest:

"Afraid! Goodness gracious me, of what?"

"Afraid of the one little affectionate action which I ask of you, theaction of a brother kissing his sister. That's what you shrink from, Philippe. "

"I shrink from it because it is wrong and wicked, " he declared, firmly. "That is the only reason. "

"No, Philippe, there is another reason. "

"Which is that?"

"You love me. "

"I! I love you?. .. I!"

"Yes, you, Philippe, you love me. And I defy you to look me in the face, to look me straight in the eyes and deny it. "

And, without giving him time to recover, she continued, bending over himeagerly:

"You were in love with me, before I fell in love with you. It was yourlove that created mine. Don't protest, you have no right to do so now, for you know. .. . And I, I knew it from the first day. Oh, believe me, awoman is never mistaken. .. . Your eyes, when they looked at me, had a newlook in them . .. There, the look of just now. You have never looked likethat at any woman, Philippe; not even at Marthe, . .. No . .. Not even ather. .. . You never loved her, her nor the others. I was the first. Lovewas a thing unknown to you and you do not understand it yet . .. And yousit there in front of me, nonplussed and dumbfoundered, because thetruth appears to you and because you love me, Philippe, because you loveme, my dear Philippe. .. . "

She clung to him, in an upheaval of hope and certainty, and he seemednot to resist. 

"You were afraid, Philippe. That is why you made up your mind not to seeme again. .. . That is why you spoke so harshly to me just now. .. . Youwere afraid, because you love me. .. . Do you understand now?. .. Oh, Philippe, I should not have acted with you as I have done, if you didnot love me. .. . I should never have had the presumption!. .. But Iknew. .. . I knew . .. And you don't deny it, do you?. .. Oh, how Isuffered! My jealousy of Marthe!. .. To-day again, when she kissedyou. .. . And the thought of going away without as much as saying good-byeto you!. .. And the thought of that marriage!. .. What a torture!. .. Butit's over now, is it not? I shall suffer no more . .. Because you loveme. "

She spoke these last words with a sort of timorous hesitation andwithout taking her eyes from Philippe's face, as though expecting him togive an answer that would calm the sudden anguish with which she wastorn. 

He was silent. His eyes were dull, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He seemed to be reflecting and did not appear to reck that Suzanne wasthere so close to him, her arms clinging to his arms. 

She whispered:

"Philippe. .. . Philippe. .. . "

Had he heard? He remained impassive. Then, little by little, Suzannereleased her embrace. Her hands fell to her sides. She gazed withinfinite distress upon the man she loved and, suddenly, sank into aheap, weeping:

"Oh, I am mad!. .. I am mad! Why did I speak?"

It was a horrible ordeal for her, after the hope that had excited her, and this time it was real tears that flowed down her cheeks. The soundof the sobs roused Philippe from his dream. He listened to it sadly andthen began to pace the room. Moved though he was, what was passingwithin him troubled him even more. He loved Suzanne!

It did not for a second occur to him to deny the truth. From the firstsentences that Suzanne had spoken and without his having to seek forfurther proofs, he had admitted his love even as one admits the presenceof a thing that one sees and touches. And that was why Suzanne, at themere sight of Philippe's attitude, had suddenly realized the imprudencewhich she had committed in speaking: Philippe, once warned, was escapingher. He was one of those men who become conscious of their duty at thevery moment when they perceive their fault. 

"Philippe!" she said, once more. "Philippe!"

As he did not reply, she took his hand again and whispered:

"You love me, though . .. You love me. .. . Well, then, if you love me . .. "

The tears did not disfigure her exquisite face. On the contrary, griefdecked her with a new, graver and more touching beauty. And she ended, ingenuously enough:

"Then, if you love me, why do you repel me? Surely, when one loves, onedoes not repel the thing one loves. .. . And you love me. .. . "

The pretty mouth was all entreaty. Philippe observed its voluptuousaction. It was as though the two lips delighted in uttering words oflove and as though they could pronounce no others. 

He turned away his eyes to escape the fascination and, controllinghimself, mastering his voice so that she might not perceive its tremor, he said:

"It is just because I love you, Suzanne, that I am repulsing you . .. Because I love you too well. .. . "

The phrase implied a breach which she felt to be irreparable. She didnot attempt to protest. It was finished. And she knew this so thoroughlythat, a moment later, when Philippe opened the door and prepared to goaway, she did not even raise her head. 

He did not go, however, for fear of offending her. He sat down. Therewas only a little table between them. But how far he was from her! Andhow it must surprise her that all her feminine wiles, her coquetry, theallurement of her lips were powerless to subjugate the will of that manwho loved her!

The belfry-clock struck ten. When Morestal and Jorancé arrived, Suzanneand Philippe had not exchanged a single word. 

 * * *

"Ready to start, Philippe?" cried Morestal. "Have you said good-bye toSuzanne?"

She replied:

"Yes, we have said good-bye. "

"Well, then it's my turn, " he said, kissing her. "Jorancé, it's settledthat you're coming with us. "

"As far as the Butte-aux-Loups. "

"If you go as far as the Butte, " said Suzanne to her father, "you mayjust as well go on to the Old Mill and come back by the high-road. "

"That's true. But are you staying behind, Suzanne?"

She decided to see them out of Saint-Élophe. She quickly wrapped a silkscarf round her head:

"Here I am, " she said. 

The four of them walked off, along the sleeping streets of the littletown, and Morestal at once began to comment on his interview withCaptain Daspry. A very intelligent man, the captain, who had not failedto see the importance of the Old Mill as a block-house, to use hisexpression. But, from another point of view, he had given something of ashock to Morestal's opinions on the attitude which a French officershould maintain towards his inferiors. 

"Just imagine, Philippe: he refuses to punish the soldiers I told himabout . .. You know, the pillagers whom Saboureux complained of. .. . Well, he refuses to punish them . .. Even the leader of the band, oneDuvauchel, a lover of every country but his own, who glories in hisideas, they say. Can you understand it? The rascal escapes with a fineof ten francs, an apology, a promise not to do it again and a lecturefrom his captain! And Mossieu Daspry pretends that, with kindness andpatience, he succeeds in turning Duvauchel and fellows of his kidneyinto his best soldiers! What humbug! As though there were any way oftaming those beggars, short of discipline! A pack of good-for-nothingscoundrels, who would fly across the frontier the moment the first shotwas fired!"

Philippe had instinctively slackened his pace. Suzanne was walkingbeside him; and, every now and then, by the light of an electric lamp, he saw the golden halo of her hair and the delicate profile draped inthe silk scarf. 

He felt full of gentleness for her, now that he no longer feared her, and he was tempted to speak kind words to her, as to a little sister ofwhom one is very fond. But the silence was sweeter still and he did notwish to break its charm. 

They passed the last houses. The street ran into a white country-road, lined with tall poplars. And they heard scraps of Morestal'sconversation:

"Oh, yes! Captain Daspry! Leniency, friendly relations between superiorsand inferiors, the barracks looked upon as a school of brotherhood, withthe officers for instructors! That's all very well; but do you know whata system of that sort leads to? An army of deserters and renegades. .. . "

Suzanne said, in a low voice:

"May I have your arm, Philippe?"

He at once slipped his arm through hers, happy at the thought ofpleasing her. And he felt, besides, a great relief at seeing that sheleant against him with the confidence of a friend. They were going topart and nothing would tarnish the pure memory of that day. It was acomforting impression, which nevertheless caused him a certain sadness. Duty fulfilled always leaves a taste of bitterness behind. Theintoxication of sacrifice no longer stimulates you; and you begin tounderstand what you have refused. 

In the warm night, amid all the perfumes that stirred in the breeze, Suzanne's own scent was wafted up to him. He inhaled it long andgreedily and reflected that no scent had ever excited him before:

"Good-bye, " he said, within himself. "Good-bye, little girl; good-bye towhat was my love. "

And, during those last minutes, as though he were granting a crowninggrace to his impossible longings and his forbidden dreams, he yielded tothe delights of that love which had blossomed so mysteriously in theunknown regions of his soul. 

"Good-bye, " Suzanne now said. "Good-bye, Philippe. "

"Are you going?"

"Yes, or else my father would come back with me; and I want nobody . .. Nobody. .. . "

Jorancé and old Morestal had stopped near a bench, at a place where twopaths met, the wider of which, the one on the left, climbed up towardsthe frontier. The spot was known as the Carrefour du Grand Chêne, orGreat Oak Crossways. 

Morestal kissed the girl again:

"Good-bye, for the present, Suzanne. And don't forget that I'm coming toyour wedding. "

He pressed the spring of his repeater:

"I say, Philippe, it's a quarter past ten. .. . True, there's no hurry. .. . Your mother and Marthe must be asleep by now. No matter, let's geton. .. . "

"Look here, father, if you don't mind, I would rather take the directroad. .. . The path by the Butte-aux-Loups is longer; and I am feelingrather tired. "

In reality, like Suzanne, Philippe wanted to go home alone, so thatnothing might disturb the melancholy charm of his dream. Old Morestal'slong speeches terrified him. 

"As you please, my boy, " cried the old man. "But mind you don't put upthe bolt or the chain on the hall-door. "

Jorancé impressed the same injunctions on Suzanne and the two walkedaway. 

"Good-bye, Philippe, " said the girl, once again. 

He had already entered the path on the right. 

"Good-bye, Suzanne, " he said. 

"Give me your hand, Philippe. "

For his hand to reach Suzanne's, he had to turn two or three stepsback. He hesitated. But she had come towards him and, very gently, drewhim to the foot of the path:

"Philippe, we must not part like this. .. . It is too sad! Let us go backtogether to Saint-Élophe . .. As far as the house. .. . Please do. .. . "

"No, " he said, curtly. 

"Oh!" she moaned. "I asked so that I might be with you a littlelonger. .. . It is so sad! But you are right. Let us part. "

He said, in a kinder tone:

"Suzanne. .. . Suzanne. .. . "

Bending her head a little, she put out her forehead to him:

"Kiss me, Philippe. "

He stooped, intending to kiss the curls of her hair. But she gave aswift movement and flung her arms round his neck. 

He felt that he was lost and made a despairing effort. Suzanne's lipswere close to his, offering themselves. 

"Oh, Suzanne . .. Suzanne, my darling . .. " he whispered, abandoning allresistance and pressing the girl to his breast. .. . 

CHAPTER VIII

THE TRAP

The road which Morestal and his friend followed first makes a bend andclimbs the wooded side of a ravine. It was formerly used for forestingpurposes and is still paved with large stones which are covered with mudafter a rainy day and make the ascent slippery and difficult. 

Morestal was panting for breath when he reached the top:

"We ought . .. " he said, "to see . .. Philippe from here. "

Faint clouds dimmed the light of the moon, but still, at certain placesdenuded of trees, they were able to distinguish the other side of theravine. 

He called out:

"Hullo!. .. Philippe!"

"I tell you what, " said Jorancé. "I expect Philippe did not like to letSuzanne go home alone and he is taking her back, at any rate as far asthe houses. "

"I dare say, " said Morestal. "Poor Suzanne, she doesn't look verybright. So you've made up your mind to get her married?"

"Yes . .. I'm getting her married . .. It's all settled. "

They started walking again, and, by an imperceptible slope, came to twolarge trees, after which the road turned to the right. From that pointonwards, running through pine-woods along the line of the ridges, itmarked the frontier as far as the Col du Diable. 

On their left was the German slope, which was steeper. 

"Yes, " repeated Jorancé, "it's all settled. Of course, Suzanne mighthave met a younger man . .. A better-looking man . .. But no one morerespectable or more serious. .. . To say nothing of his having a very firmcharacter; and, with Suzanne, a certain amount of firmness is necessary. Besides . .. "

"Yes?" said Morestal, perceiving his hesitation. 

"Well, you see, Morestal, Suzanne has got to be married. She inheritsfrom me an upright nature and strict principles . .. But she is not onlymy daughter . .. And sometimes I am afraid of finding . .. Bad instinctsin her. "

"Have you discovered anything?"

"Oh, no! And I am sure that there is nothing to discover. But it's thefuture I'm afraid of. One day or another, she may know temptation . .. Some one may make love to her . .. Turn her head with fair words. Whenthat time comes, will she know how to resist? Oh, Morestal, the thoughtof it drives me mad! I couldn't bear it. .. . Just think, the daughter, following after the mother. .. . Oh, I believe . .. I believe I should killher!. .. "

Morestal jested:

"What a fuss about nothing! A good little girl like Suzanne!. .. "

"Yes, you are right, it's absurd. But I can't help it, I can'tforget. .. . And I don't want to, either. My duty is to think ofeverything and to give her a guide, a master who will advise her. .. . Iknow Suzanne: she will make a perfect wife. .. . "

"And she will have lots of children; and they will be very happy, "Morestal wound up. "Come, you're boring me and boring yourself with yourfancies. .. . Let's talk of something else. By the way . .. "

He waited for Jorancé to come up with him. The two walked on abreast. And Morestal, who was interested in no subject outside his personalprejudice, resumed:

"By the way, can you tell me--if it's not a professional secret, ofcourse--can you tell me who that man Dourlowski is exactly?"

"Six months ago, " replied Jorancé, "I should not have been able toanswer your question. But now . .. "

"But now?. .. "

"He is no longer in our service. "

"Do you think he has gone over to the other side?"

"I expect so, but I haven't the least proof of it. In any case, there'snot much to be said in the fellow's favour. Why do you ask? Have youanything to do with him?"

"No, no, " said Morestal, remaining thoughtful. 

They went on in silence. The wind, which blew more strongly on theridge, played among the trees. The pine-needles crackled under the solesof their boots. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was white withlight. 

"The Pierre-Branlante. .. . The Cheminée-des-Fées, " said Morestal, pointing to the vaguely-seen shapes of two huge boulders known by thosenames of the Rocking Stone and the Fairies' Chimney. 

They walked for another moment:

"Eh? What is it?" said Jorancé, feeling his companion catch him by thearm. 

"Did you hear?"

"No. "

"Listen!"

"Well, what?"

"Didn't you hear a sort of a hoot?"

"Yes, the hoot of an owl. "

"Are you sure? It doesn't sound natural to me. "

"What do you say it is, then? A signal?"

"I'm certain of it. "

Jorancé reflected:

"After all, it's quite possible . .. Some smuggler perhaps. .. . But it's abad moment to have chosen. "

"Why?"

"Well, now that the German post has been cut down, it's likely that allthis part of the frontier is being more closely watched than usual. "

"Yes, of course, " said Morestal. "Still, that owl's hoot . .. "

There was a short slope and then they emerged upon a higher upland, surrounded by enormous fir-trees, which formed a sort of rampart. Thiswas the Butte-aux-Loups. The road cut it in two; and the posts of eachcountry stood facing each other. 

Jorancé noticed that the German post had been put up again, but in amakeshift fashion, with the aid of a number of large stones which keptit in position. 

"A gust of wind and down it comes again, " he said, shaking it. 

"I say, mind what you're about!" said Morestal, with a chuckle. "Don'tyou see yourself toppling it over and having the police down uponyou?. .. You'd better make a strategic movement to the rear, myfriend!. .. "

But he had not finished speaking when another cry reached his ears. 

"Ah, this time, " said Morestal, "you'll admit. .. . "

"Yes . .. Yes . .. " Jorancé agreed. "An owl gives a duller, slowerhoot. .. . It really is like a signal, a hundred yards or so ahead ofus. .. . Smugglers, of course, French or German. "

"Suppose we turned back?" said Morestal. "Aren't you afraid of beingmixed up in an affair?. .. "

"Why? It's the custom-house people's business; it doesn't concern youand me. They can settle it among themselves. .. . "

They listened for a moment and then went on, thoughtfully, with watchfulears. 

After the Butte-aux-Loups, the ridge becomes flatter, the forest spreadsout and the road, now freer, winds among the trees, runs from one slopeto the other, avoids the big roots, passes round the inequalities of theground and, at times, disappears from sight under a bed of dead leaves. 

But the moon had come out again and Morestal walked straight in front ofhim, without hesitation. He knew the frontier so well! He could havefollowed it with his eyes closed, in the dusk of the darkest night! Atone place, there was a branch that blocked the way; at another, therewas the trunk of an old oak which sounded hollow when he hit it with hisstick. And he announced the branch before he came to it; and he struckat the old oak. 

His uneasiness, which began to seem unreasonable, was dispelled. Consulting his watch again, he hurried his steps, so as to reach home bythe time which he had said. 

But suddenly he stopped. He thought he saw a shadow hiding, thirty orforty yards away from him:

"Did you see?" he whispered. 

"Yes . .. I saw. .. . "

And, all at once, there came a shrill, strident whistle, apparently fromthe very place where the shadow had vanished. 

"Don't move, " said Jorancé. 

They waited, their hearts tense with the anguish of what was coming. 

A minute passed and more minutes; and then there was a sound offootsteps, below them, on the German side, the sound of a manhurrying. .. . 

Morestal thought of the precipitous hill which he had described toDourlowski as the way up to the frontier from the Albern Woods, by theCold Spring, the Fontaine-Froide. In all certainty, somebody was scalingthe upper portion of that precipice, clinging on to the branches anddragging himself along the pebbles. 

"A deserter!" whispered Jorancé. "No nonsense now!"

But Morestal pushed him away and began to run to where the two roadscrossed. At the very moment when he reached the spot, a man appeared, all frenzied and out of breath, and stammered, in French:

"Save me!. .. I've been given away!. .. I'm frightened!. .. "

Morestal seized hold of him and flung him off the road:

"Run!. .. Look sharp!. .. Straight ahead of you!"

There was the report of a rifle. The man staggered, with a moan; but hewas evidently only wounded, for, after a few seconds, he drew himselfup and made off through the woods. 

A chase ensued forthwith. Four or five Germans crossed the frontier andset off in pursuit of the fugitive, swearing as they went, while theircomrades, forming the greater number, turned towards Morestal. 

Jorancé took him round the waist and compelled him to recoil:

"This way, " he said, "over there. .. . They won't dare . .. "

They returned in the direction of the Butte-aux-Loups, but were at oncecaught up:

"Halt!" commanded a rough voice. "I arrest you. .. . You areaccomplices. .. . I arrest you. "

"We are in France, " retorted Jorancé, facing his aggressors. 

A hand fell on his shoulder:

"We'll see about that. .. . We'll see about that. .. . You're coming withus. "

The men surrounded them; but, vigorous both and exasperated, theysucceeded in fighting their way through with their fists:

"To the Butte-aux-Loups, " said Jorancé, "and keep to the left of theroad. "

"We're not on the left, " said Morestal, who saw, after a moment, thatthey had branched off to the right. 

They re-entered French territory; but the police who were pursuing thedeserter, having lost his tracks, now fell back in their direction. 

Thereupon they made a bend to the right, hesitated for a moment, carefulnot to cross the road, and then set off again; and, still tracked by themen, whom they felt close upon their heels, they reached the acclivityof the Butte-aux-Loups. At that moment, surrounded on all hands andutterly blown, they had to stop to take breath. 

"Arrest them!" said the leader of the men, in whom they recognized theGerman commissary, Weisslicht. "Arrest them! We are in Germany. "

"You lie!" roared Morestal, fighting with wild energy. "You have not theright. .. . It's a dirty trap!"

It was a violent struggle, but did not last long. He received a blow onthe chin with the butt of a rifle, reeled, but continued to defendhimself, hitting and biting his adversaries. At last, they succeeded inthrowing him and, to stifle his shouting, they gagged him. 

Jorancé, who had taken a leap to the rear and was standing with his backto a tree, resisted, protesting:

"I am M. Jorancé, special commissary at Saint-Élophe. I am on my ownground here. We are in France. There's the frontier. "

The men flung themselves upon him and dragged him away, while he shoutedat the top of his voice:

"Help! Help! They're arresting the French commissary on French soil!"

A report was heard, followed by another. Morestal, with a superhumaneffort, had knocked down the policeman who held him and once more tookto flight, with a cord cutting into one of his wrists and with a gag inhis mouth. 

But, two hundred yards further, as he was turning towards the Col duDiable, his foot knocked against the root of a tree and he fell. 

He was at once overtaken and firmly bound. 

 * * *

A few moments later, the two prisoners were carried by the police to theroad leading through the Albern Woods and hoisted on the backs of acouple of horses. They were taken to the Col du Diable and, from there, past the Wildermann factory and the hamlet of Torins, sent on to theGerman town of Börsweilen. 

PART II

CHAPTER I

THE TWO WOMEN

Suzanne Jorancé pushed the swing-gate and entered the grounds of the OldMill. 

She was dressed in white and her face looked fresh and cool under alarge hat of Leghorn straw, with its black-velvet strings hanging looseupon her shoulders. Her short skirt showed her dainty ankles. She walkedwith a brisk step, using a tall, iron-shod stick, while her disengagedhand crumpled some flowers which she had gathered on the way and whichshe dropped heedlessly as she went. 

The Morestals' peaceful house was waking in the morning sun. Several ofthe windows were open; and Suzanne saw Marthe writing at the table inher bedroom. 

She called out:

"Can I come up?"

But Mme. Morestal appeared at one of the windows of the drawing-room andmade an imperious sign to her:

"Hush! Don't speak!"

"What's the matter?" asked Suzanne, when she joined the old lady. 

"They're asleep. "

"Who?"

"Why, the father and son. "

"Oh!" said Suzanne. "Philippe too?. .. "

"Yes, they must have come in late and they are resting. Neither of themhas rung his bell yet. But tell me, Suzanne, aren't you going away?"

"To-morrow . .. Or the next day. .. . I confess, I'm in no hurry to go. "

Mme. Morestal took her to her daughter-in-law's room and asked:

"Philippe's still asleep, isn't he?"

"I suppose so, " said Marthe. "I haven't heard him move. .. . "

"Nor I Morestal. .. . And yet he's an early riser, as a rule. .. . AndPhilippe, who wanted to go tramping at daybreak!. .. However, so much thebetter, sleep suits both of my men. .. . By the way, Marthe, didn't theshooting wake you in the night?"

"The shooting!"

"Oh, of course, your room is on the other side. The sound came from thefrontier. .. . Some poacher, I suppose. .. . "

"Were M. Morestal and Philippe in?"

"Surely! It must have been one or two o'clock . .. Perhaps later . .. Idon't quite know. "

She put the tea-pot and the jar of honey, which Marthe had had forbreakfast, on the tray; and, with her mania for tidying, obeying somemysterious principle of symmetry, settled her daughter-in-law's thingsand any piece of furniture in the room that had been moved from itsplace. This done, with her hands hanging before her, she looked roundfor an excuse to discontinue this irksome activity. Then, discoveringnone, she left the room. 

"How early you are, " said Marthe to Suzanne. 

"I wanted air . .. And movement. .. . Besides, I told Philippe that I wouldcome and fetch him. I want to go and see the ruins of thePetite-Chartreuse with him . .. It's a bore that he's not up yet. "

She seemed disappointed at this accident which deprived her of apleasure. 

"Do you mind if I finish my letters?" asked Marthe, taking up her pen. 

Suzanne strolled round the room, looking out of the window, leant to seeif Philippe's was open, then sat down opposite Marthe and examined herlong and carefully. She noted the eye-lids, which were a little rumpled;the uneven colouring; the tiny wrinkles on the temples; a few whitehairs mingling with the dark tresses; all that proclaims time's littlevictories over waning youth. And, raising her eyes, she saw herself in aglass. 

Marthe surprised her glance and cried, with an admiration free from allenvy:

"You are splendid, Suzanne! You look like a triumphant goddess. Whattriumph have you achieved?"

Suzanne flushed and, in her confusion, said, at random:

"But you, Marthe, you look worried. .. . "

"Well, yes . .. Perhaps I am. "

And Marthe told how, on the previous evening, finding herself alone withher mother-in-law, she had spoken to her of Philippe's new ideas, thespirit of his work, his plan of resigning his position and his firmintention to have an explanation with M. Morestal. 

"Well?"

"Well, " said Marthe, "my mother-in-law flew out. She absolutely objectsto any explanation whatever. "

"Why?"

"M. Morestal is suffering from heart-trouble. Dr. Borel, who hasattended him for the last twenty years, says that he must be spared anyannoyance, any excessive excitement. And an interview with Philippemight have fatal results. .. . What can one reply to that?"

"You will have to tell Philippe. "

"Certainly. And he, he must either keep silent and continue to lead anintolerable existence, or else, at the cost of the most terribleanguish, face M. Morestal's anger. "

She was silent for a moment and then, striking the table with herclenched fists:

"Oh, " she exclaimed, "if I could only take all those worries upon myselfand save Philippe's peace of mind!"

Suzanne felt all the force of her vehemence and energy. No pain wouldhave frightened Marthe, no sacrifice would have been beyond herstrength. 

"Do you love Philippe very much?" she asked. 

Marthe smiled:

"With all my heart. .. . He deserves it. "

The younger woman felt a certain bitterness and could not help saying:

"Does he love you as much as you love him?"

"Why, yes, I think so. .. . I deserve it too. "

"And do you trust him?"

"Oh, fully! Philippe is the most loyal creature I know. "

"Still . .. "

"What?"

"Nothing. "

"Yes, say what you were going to. .. . Oh, you need not be afraid ofasking me questions!"

"Well, I was thinking . .. Suppose Philippe loved another woman. .. . "

Marthe burst out laughing:

"If you knew how little importance Philippe attaches to all thatbusiness of love!"

"However, supposing . .. "

"Very well, supposing, " she said, pretending to be serious. "Philippeloves another woman. He is madly in love with her. What then?"

"In that case, what would you do?"

"Upon my word . .. I've never thought about it. "

"Wouldn't you go for a divorce?"

"And my children?"

"But, if he wanted to be divorced?"

"Then it would be, 'Good-bye, M. Philippe!'"

Suzanne reflected, without taking her eyes from Marthe, as though shewere spying for a sign of uneasiness on her features or seeking tofathom the depths of her most secret thoughts. 

She murmured:

"And, if he deceived you?"

This time, the thrust went home. Marthe shivered, stung to the quick. Her face altered. And she said, in a voice which she made an effort tocontain:

"Oh, that, no! If Philippe fell in love with another woman, if he wantedto begin his life again, without me, and if he confessed it frankly, Ishould consent to everything . .. Yes, to everything, even to a divorce, however great my despair. .. . But treachery, lying . .. "

"You would not forgive him?"

"Never! Philippe is not a man whom one can forgive. He is a consciousman, who knows what he is doing, incapable of a weakness; and noforgiveness would absolve him. Besides, I myself could not . .. No . .. Icould not indeed. " And she added, "I have too much pride. "

The phrase was gravely and simply uttered and revealed a haughtiness ofsoul which Suzanne had not suspected. She felt a sort of confusion inthe presence of the rival whom she was attacking and who held her at baywith such disdain. 

A long silence divided the two women; and Marthe said:

"You're in one of your wicked moods to-day, Suzanne, aren't you?"

"I am too happy to be wicked, " chuckled the girl. "Only it's such astrange happiness! I am afraid it won't last. "

"Your marriage . .. "

"I won't get married!" declared Suzanne, excitedly. "I won't get marriedat any price! I hate that man. .. . He's not the only man in the world, ishe? There are others . .. Others who will love me. .. . I too am worthy ofbeing loved . .. Worthy of being lived for!. .. "

There were tears in her voice; and so great a despondency overwhelmedher features that Marthe felt a longing to console her, as was her habitin such cases. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Suzanne had wounded her, not so much by her questions as by her attitude, by a certain sarcasm inher accent and by an air of defiance that mingled with the expression ofher grief. 

She preferred to cut short a painful scene the meaning of which escapedher, although the scene itself did not astonish her on Suzanne's part:

"I am going downstairs, " she said. "It's time for the post; and I amexpecting letters. "

"So you're leaving me!" said Suzanne, in a broken voice. 

Marthe could not help laughing:

"Well, yes, I am leaving you in this room . .. Unless you refuse tostay. .. . "

Suzanne ran after her and, holding her back:

"You mustn't! I only ask for a movement, a kind word. .. . I am passingthrough a terrible time, I need help and you . .. You repel me. .. . It'syou who are repelling me, don't forget that. .. . It's you. .. . "

"That's understood, " said Marthe. "I am a cruel friend. .. . Only, yousee, my dear little Suzanne, if the thought of your marriage upsets youto that extent, it might be a good plan to tell your father. .. . Come, come along downstairs and calm yourself. "

They found Mme. Morestal below, feather-broom in hand, an apron tiedround her waist, waging her daily battle against a dust that existedonly in her imagination. 

"I suppose you know, mamma, that Philippe is not yet up?"

"The lazy fellow! It's nearly nine o'clock. I hope he's not ill!"

"Oh, no!" said Marthe. "But, all the same, when I go up again, I'll lookin and see. "

Mme. Morestal went as far as the hall with the two young women. Suzannewas already walking away, without a word, with the face which she woreon her black days, as Marthe said, when Mme. Morestal called her back:

"You're forgetting your stick, child. "

The old lady had taken the long, iron-shod walking-stick from theumbrella-stand. But, suddenly, she began to rummage among the canes andsunshades, muttering:

"Well, that's funny. .. . "

"What's the matter?" asked Marthe. 

"I can't find Morestal's stick. And yet it's always here. "

"He must have put it down somewhere else. "

"Impossible! If so, it would be the first time in his life. I know himso well!. .. What can it mean?. .. Victor!"

The man ran into the hall:

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Victor, why isn't your master's cane here?"

"I have a notion, ma'am, that the master has gone out. "

"Gone out! But you ought to have told me. .. . I was beginning to beanxious. "

"I said so just now to Catherine. "

"But what makes you think . .. ?"

"In the first place, the master did not put his boots outside his dooras usual. .. . M. Philippe neither. .. . "

"What!" said Marthe. "Has M. Philippe gone out too?"

"Very early this morning, ma'am . .. Before my time for getting up. "

In spite of herself, Suzanne Jorancé protested:

"But no, it's not conceivable. .. . "

"Why, when I came down, " said Victor, "the front-door was not locked. "

"And your master never forgets to turn the key, does he?"

"Never. As the door was not locked, it means either that the master hasgone out . .. Or else. .. . "

"Or else what?"

"That he hasn't come in. .. . Only, I say that as I might say anythingthat came into my head. .. . "

"Not come in!" exclaimed Mme. Morestal. 

She reflected for a second, then turned on her heels, ran up the stairswith surprising agility, crossed a passage and entered her husband'sbedroom. 

She uttered a cry and called:

"Marthe!. .. Marthe!. .. "

But the young woman, who had followed her, was already on her way to thesecond floor, with Suzanne. 

Philippe's room was at the back. She opened the door quickly and stoodon the threshold, speechless. 

Philippe was not there; and the bed had not even been undone. 

CHAPTER II

PHILIPPE TELLS A LIE

The three women met in the drawing-room. Mme. Morestal walked up anddown in dismay, hardly knowing what she was saying:

"Not in!. .. Philippe neither!. .. Victor, you must run . .. But whereto?. .. Where is he to look?. .. Oh, it's really too terrible!. .. "

She suddenly stepped in front of Marthe and stammered:

"The . .. The shots . .. Last night. .. . "

Marthe, pale with anxiety, did not reply. She had had the same awfulthought from the first moment. 

But Suzanne exclaimed:

"In any case, Marthe, you need not be alarmed. Philippe did not take theroad by the frontier. "

"Are you sure?"

"We separated at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne. M. Morestal and papa wenton by themselves. Philippe came straight back. "

"No, he can't have come straight back, or he would be here now, " saidMarthe. "What can he have been doing all night? He has not even setfoot in his room!"

But Mme. Morestal was terrified by what Suzanne had said. She could nowno longer doubt that her husband had taken the frontier-road; and theshots had come from the frontier!

"Yes, that's true, " said Suzanne, "but it was only ten o'clock when westarted from Saint-Élophe and the shots which you heard were fired atone or two o'clock in the morning. .. . You said so yourself. "

"How can I tell?" cried the old lady, who was beginning to lose her headentirely. "It may have been much earlier. "

"But your father must know, " said Marthe to Suzanne. "Did he tell younothing?"

"I have not seen my father this morning, " said Suzanne. "He was notawake. .. . "

She had not time to finish her sentence before an idea burst in uponher, an idea so natural that the two other women were struck by it alsoand none of them dared put it into words. 

Suzanne flew to the door, but Marthe held her back. Why not telephone toSaint-Élophe, to the special commissary's house?

A minute later, M. Jorancé's servant replied that she had just noticedthat her master was not in. His bed had not been touched either. 

"Oh!" said Suzanne, trembling all over. "My poor father!. .. Cananything have happened to him?. .. My poor father! I ought to have. .. . "

They stood for a moment as though paralyzed, all three, and incapable oftaking a resolution. The man-servant went out saying that he wouldsaddle the horse and gallop to the Col du Diable. 

Marthe, who was nearest to the telephone, rang up the mayor's office atSaint-Élophe, on the off-chance, and asked for news. They knew nothingthere. But two gendarmes, it seemed, had just crossed the square at agreat pace. Thereupon, at the suggestion of Mme. Morestal, who had takenup the second receiver, she asked to be put on to the gendarmery. Assoon as she was connected, she explained her reason for telephoning andwas informed that the sergeant was on his way to the frontier with apeasant who declared that he had found the body of a man in the woodsbetween the Butte-aux-Loups and the Col du Diable. That was all theywere able to tell her. .. . 

Mme. Morestal let go the receiver and fell in a dead faint. Marthe andSuzanne tried to attend to her. But their hands trembled and, whenCatherine, the maid-servant, appeared upon the scene, they both ran outof the room, roused by a sudden energy and an immense need of doingsomething, of walking, of laying eyes upon that dead body whoseblood-stained image obsessed their minds. 

They went down the stairs of the terrace and scurried in the directionof the Étang-des-Moines. They had not gone fifty yards, when they werepassed by Victor, who galloped by on horseback and shouted:

"Go in, go in! What's the use? I shall be back again!"

They went on nevertheless. But two roads offered: Suzanne wanted to takethe one leading to the pass, on the left; Marthe, the one on the right, through the woods. They exchanged sharp words, blocking each other'sway. 

Suddenly, Suzanne, without knowing what she was saying, flung herselfinto her friend's arms, blurting out:

"I must tell you. .. . It is my duty. .. . Besides, it is all my fault. .. . "

Marthe, enraged and not understanding the words, which she was toremember so clearly later, spoke to her roughly:

"You're quite mad to-day, " she said. "Leave me alone, do. "

She darted into the woods and, in a few minutes, came to an abandonedquarry. The path went no further. She had a fit of fury, was on theverge of throwing herself on the ground and bursting into tears andthen retraced her steps, for she thought she heard some one call. It wasSuzanne, who had seen a man coming from the frontier on horseback andwho had vainly tried to make herself heard. He was no doubt bringingnews. .. . 

Panting and exhausted, they went back again. But there was no one at theOld Mill, no one but Mme. Morestal and Catherine, who were praying onthe terrace. All the servants had gone off, without plan or purpose, insearch of information; and the man on the horse, a peasant, had passedwithout looking up. 

Then they dropped on a bench near the balustrade and sat stupefied, wornout by the effort which they had just made; and horrible minutesfollowed. Each of the three women thought of her own special sorrow andeach, besides, suffered the anguish of the unknown disaster thatthreatened all three of them. They dared not look at one another. Theydared not speak, although the silence tortured them. The least soundrepresented a source of foolish hope or horrid dread; and, with theireyes fixed on the line of dark woods, they waited. 

Suddenly, they rose with a start. Catherine, who was keeping a look-outon the steps of the staircase, had sprung to her feet:

"There's Henriot!" she cried. 

"Henriot?" echoed Mme. Morestal. 

"Yes, the gardener's boy: I can make him out from here. "

"Where? We haven't seen him come. "

"He must have taken a short cut. .. . He is coming up the stairs. .. . Quick, Henriot!. .. Hurry!. .. Do you know anything?"

She pulled open the gate and a lad of fifteen or so, his face bathed inperspiration, appeared. 

He at once said:

"There's a deserter been killed . .. A German deserter. "

And the three women were forthwith overcome with a great sense of peace. After the rush of events that had come upon them like a tempest, itseemed to them as though nothing could touch them now. The phantom ofdeath vanished from their minds. A man had been shot, no doubt, but thatdidn't matter, because the man was not one of theirs. And the gladnessthat revived them was such that they could almost have laughed. 

And, once again, Catherine appeared. She announced that Victor wasreturning. And the three women saw a man spurring his horse at the mouthof the pass, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck on the steepslope of the road. It was soon apparent, when the man reached theÉtang-des-Moines, that some one was following him with swift strides;and Marthe uttered cries of joy at recognizing the tall figure of herhusband. 

She waved her handkerchief. Philippe answered the signal. 

"It's he!" she said, almost swooning. "It's he, mamma. .. . I am sure thathe'll be able to tell us everything . .. And that M. Morestal is not faroff. .. . "

"Let us go and meet them, " Suzanne suggested. 

"Yes, I'll go, " said Marthe, quickly. "You stay here, Suzanne . .. Staywith mamma. "

She darted away, eager to be the first to welcome Philippe andrecovering enough strength to run to the bottom of the slope:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried. "You are back at last. .. . "

He lifted her off the ground and pressed her to him:

"My darling, I hear that you have been uneasy. .. . You need not havebeen. .. . I will tell you all about it. .. . "

"Yes, you will tell us. .. . But come . .. Come quick and kiss your motherand reassure her. .. . "

She dragged him along. They climbed the staircase and, on reaching theterrace, he suddenly found himself in the presence of Suzanne, who waswaiting, convulsed with jealousy and hatred. Philippe's emotion was sogreat that he did not even offer her his hand. Besides, at that moment, Mme. Morestal ran up to him:

"Your father?"

"Alive. "

And Suzanne, in her turn:

"Papa?"

"Alive also. .. . They have both been carried off by the German police, near the frontier. "

"What? Prisoners?"

"Yes. "

"They haven't hurt them?"

The three women all stood round him and pressed him with questions. Hereplied, laughing:

"A little calmness, first. .. . I confess I feel rather dazed. .. . Thismakes two exciting nights. .. . Also, I am simply starving. "

His shoes and clothes were grey with dust. There was blood on one of hisshirt-cuffs. 

"You are wounded!" cried Marthe. 

"No . .. Not I. .. . I'll explain to you. .. . "

Catherine brought him a cup of coffee, which he swallowed greedily, andhe began:

"It was about five o'clock in the morning when I got up; and I certainlyhad no idea, when I left my room . .. "

Marthe was stupefied. Why did Philippe say that he had slept there? Didhe not know that his absence had been discovered? But then why tellthat lie?

She instinctively placed herself in front of Suzanne and in front of hermother; and, as Philippe had broken off, himself embarrassed by theobvious commotion which he had caused, she asked him:

"So, last evening, you left your father and M. Jorancé?. .. "

"At the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne. "

"Yes, so Suzanne told us. And you came back straight?"

"Straight. "

"But you heard the shots fired?. .. "

"Shots?"

"Yes, on the frontier. "

"No. I must have gone to sleep at once. .. . I was tired. .. . Otherwise, ifI had heard them . .. "

He had an intuition of the danger which he was running, especially asSuzanne was trying to make signs to him. But he had prepared the openingof his story so carefully that, being unaccustomed to lying, he wouldhave been unable to alter a single word of it without losing the littlecoolness that remained to him. Moreover, himself worn out and incapableof resisting the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness that surroundedhim, how could he have perceived the trap which Marthe unconsciouslyhad laid for him? He, therefore, repeated:

"Once more, when I left my room, I had no idea of what had happened. Itwas an accident that put me in the way of it. I had reached the Col duDiable and was walking along the frontier-road when, half-way from theButte-aux-Loups, I heard moans and groans on my left. I went to the spotwhere they came from and discovered, among the bracken, a wounded man, covered in blood. .. . "

"The deserter, " said Mme. Morestal. 

"Yes, a German private, Johann Baufeld, " replied Philippe. 

He was now coming to the true portion of his story, for his interviewwith the deserter had really taken place when he was returning fromSaint-Élophe, at break of day; and he continued, with an easier mind:

"Johann Baufeld had only a few minutes to live. He had the death-rattlein his throat. Nevertheless, he had strength enough left to tell me hisname and to speak a few words; and he died in my arms, not, however, before I learnt from him that M. Jorancé and my father had tried toprotect him on French territory and that the police had turned uponthem. I therefore went in search of them. The track was easy to follow. It took me through the Col du Diable to the hamlet of Torins. There, theinn-keeper made no difficulty about telling me that a squad of police, several of whom were mounted, had passed his house on their way toBörsweilen, where they were conveying two French prisoners. One of thesewas wounded. I could not find out if it was your father, Suzanne, ormine. In any case, the wounds must have been slight, for both prisonerswere sitting their horses without assistance. I felt reassured andturned back. At the Col du Diable, I met Victor. .. . You know the rest. "

He seemed quite happy at finishing his story and poured himself out asecond cup of coffee, with the satisfied air of a man who has got offcheaply. 

The three women were silent. Suzanne lowered her head, lest she shouldbetray her emotion. At last, Marthe, who had no suspicions, but who wasworrying her head about Philippe's falsehood, resumed:

"At what time did you come in last night?"

"At a quarter to eleven. "

"And you went to bed at once?"

"At once. "

"Then how is it that your bed has not been touched?"

Philippe gave a start. The question took his breath away. Instead ofinventing some pretext or other, he stammered, guilelessly:

"Oh, so you went in . .. You saw . .. "

He had not thought of this detail, nor, for that matter, of any of thosewhich might make his story appear to clash with the facts; and he nolonger knew what to say. 

Suzanne suggested:

"Perhaps Philippe spent the night in a chair. .. . "

Marthe shrugged her shoulders; and Philippe, utterly at a loss, tryingto make up another version, did not even answer. He remained dumb, likea child caught at fault. 

"Come, Philippe, " asked Marthe, "what's underneath this? Didn't you comestraight back?"

"No, " he admitted. 

"You came back by the frontier?"

"Yes. "

"Then why conceal it? I couldn't very well be anxious now, seeing thatyou are here. "

"That's just it!" cried Philippe, plunging at a venture along this path. "That's just it! I did not want to tell you that I had spent the nightlooking for my father. "

"The night! Then you knew before this morning that he had been carriedoff?"

"Yes, last evening. "

"Last evening? But how? Who told you? You can only have known it bywitnessing the arrest. "

He hesitated for a second. He could have dated his interview with thedeserter Baufeld to that particular moment. But he did not think ofthis; and he declared, in a firm tone:

"Well, yes, I was there . .. Or, at least, not far off. .. . "

"And you heard the shots?"

"Yes, I heard the shots and also some cries of pain. .. . When I arrivedon the scene of the fighting, there was no one there. Then I huntedabout. .. . You understand, I was afraid that my father or M. Jorancé hadbeen hit by the bullets. .. . I hunted all night, following their track inthe dark: a wrong track, first of all, which led me towards the AlbernWoods. And then, this morning, I found Private Baufeld, who told mewhich way the attacking party had gone, and I pushed on to the factoryand to the inn at Torins. But if I had told you all that, oh, by Jove, how you would have fretted about my fatigue! Why, I can picture youdoing so, my poor Marthe!"

He pretended to be gay and careless. Marthe watched him in astonishment. She nodded her head with a thoughtful air:

"Yes . .. You are right. .. . "

"Don't you think so? It was much simpler to tell you that I had justleft my room, feeling fit and well, after a good night's rest. .. . Don'tyou agree with me, mother?. .. Besides, you yourself . .. "

But, at that moment, a sound of voices rose under the windows on thegarden-side and Catherine burst into the room, yelling:

"The master! The master!"

And Victor also bounded in:

"Here's the master coming! There he is!"

"Who? Who?" asked Mme. Morestal, hastening forward. 

"M. Morestal! There he is! We saw him at the end of the garden. .. . Look, over there, near the water-fall. .. . "

The old lady ran to one of the windows:

"Yes! He has seen us! O God, is it possible?"

Staggering with excitement, she leant heavily on Marthe's arm anddragged her to the staircase that led to the front hall and the steps. 

They had hardly disappeared when Suzanne flung herself upon Philippe:

"Oh, please, Philippe . .. Please!" she implored. 

He did not understand at first:

"What is it, Suzanne?"

"Please, please be careful. Don't let Marthe suspect. .. . "

"Do you think . .. ?"

"I thought so, for a second. .. . She gave me such a queer look. .. . Oh, itwould be terrible!. .. Please, please . .. "

She left him quickly, but her words and the scared look in her eyes gavePhilippe a real fright. Hitherto, he had felt towards Marthe only theembarrassment provoked by the annoyance of having to tell a lie. He nowsuddenly perceived the full gravity of the situation, the peril whichthreatened Suzanne and which might shatter the happiness of his ownhousehold. One blunder . .. And everything was discovered. And thisthought, instead of clearing his brain forthwith, merely increased hisconfusion. 

"I must save Suzanne, " he repeated. "Above all, I must save Suzanne. "

But he felt that he had no more power over the events at hand than a manhas over the approaching storm. And a dull fear arose within his breast. 

CHAPTER III

FATHER AND SON

Bare-headed, tangle-haired, his clothes torn, no collar, blood on hisshirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck, another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificentin energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented byold Morestal. 

He chortled:

"Here!" he shouted. 

An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache:

"Morestal? Here!. .. Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of theTeuton . .. And, for the second time, free!"

Philippe stared at him in dismay, as though at an apparition. 

"Well, sonny? Is that the way you welcome me home?"

He caught hold of a napkin and wiped his face with a great, widegesture. Then he drew his wife to him:

"Kiss me, mother!. .. And you, Philippe! And you, Marthe!. .. And youtoo, my pretty Suzanne: once for myself and once for your father!. .. Don't cry, my child. .. . Daddy's all right. .. . They're coddling him likean emperor, over there . .. Until they let him go. And that's not faroff. By Heaven, no! I hope the French government . .. "

He was talking like a drunken man, too fast and in an unsteady voice. His wife tried to make him sit down. He protested:

"Rest? Quite unnecessary, mother. A Morestal never rests. My wounds?Scratches! What? The doctor? If he sets foot in this house, I'll chuckhim out of the window!"

"Still, you ought to take something. .. . "

"Take something? A glass of wine, if you like . .. A glass of good Frenchwine. .. . That's it, uncork a bottle. .. . We'll have a glass all round. .. . Your health, Weisslicht!. .. Oh, what a joke!. .. When I think of the faceof Weisslicht, the special commissary of the imperial government!. .. Theprisoner's gone! The bird's flown!"

He laughed loudly and, after drinking two glasses of wine, one on top ofthe other, he kissed the three women once more, kissed Philippe, calledin Victor, Catherine, the gardener, shook hands with them, sent themaway again and began to walk up and down the room, saying:

"No time to be lost, children! I met the sergeant of gendarmes on theSaint-Élophe road. The authorities have been informed. .. . They can behere within half an hour. I want to present a report. Take a pen, Philippe. "

"What's much more important, " protested his wife, "is that you shouldnot excite yourself like this. Here, tell us all about it instead, quitecalmly. "

Old Morestal was never known to refuse to talk. He therefore began hisstory, in short, slow sentences, as she wished, describing all thedetails of attack and all the incidents of the journey to Börsweilen. But, carried away once more, he raised his voice, grew indignant, workedhimself into a rage, burst into sarcasm:

"Oh, they showed no lack of civility!. .. It was, 'Monsieur lecommissaire spécial!. .. Monsieur le conseiller d'arrondissement!'. .. Weisslicht had his mouth crammed with our titles!. .. All the same, atone o'clock in the morning, we were safely locked up in two nice littlerooms in the town-hall at Börsweilen. .. . In quod, what!. .. With aprobable indictment for complicity, espionage, high treason and thedevil knows what hanging over our heads!. .. Only, in that case, gentlemen, you should not carry politeness so far as to release yourcaptives from their handcuffs; and the windows of your cells ought notto be closed with bars too slight to be of any use; and you ought not tolet one of your prisoners keep his pocket-knife. If you do, as long asthat prisoner has any grit in him--and a file to his knife, by Jove!--hewill try what he can do. And I did try, by Jingo! At four o'clock in themorning, after cutting the window-pane and filing or loosening four ofthe bars, old Morestal let himself down by a waste-pipe and took to hisheels. Kind friends, farewell!. .. It was now only a question of gettinghome. .. . The Col du Diable? The Albern Woods? The Butte-aux-Loups? Nosuch fool! The vermin were bound to be swarming on that side. .. . And, infact, I heard the drums beating and the trumpets sounding the alarm andthe horses galloping. They were hunting for me, of course!. .. But howcould they have thought of hunting for me six miles away, in the Val deSainte-Marie, right in the middle of the Forest of Arzance? And Itrotted . .. I trotted until I was simply done. .. . I crossed the borderat eight o'clock, unseen and unknown. Morestal's foot was on his nativeheath! At ten o'clock, I saw the steeple of Saint-Élophe from theCôte-Blanche and I cut straight across, so as to get home quicker. Andhere I am! A bit tired, I admit, but quite presentable. .. . Well, what doyou say to old Morestal now, eh?"

He had stood up and, forgetting all about the fatigue of the night, wasenlivening his discourse with a savage display of gesture which alarmedhis wife. 

"And my poor father was not able to escape?" asked Suzanne. 

"No, they had taken care to search him, " replied Morestal. "Besides, they watched him more closely than they did me . .. So he could not do asI did. .. . " And he added. "And a good job too! For I should have beenleft to languish in their prisons until the end of an interminabletrial; whereas he, in forty-eight hours . .. But this is all talk. Theauthorities can't be far away. I want to have my report ready. There arecertain things which I suspect . .. The business was a plot from start tofinish. .. . "

He interrupted himself, as though startled by an unexpected thought, andsat for a long time motionless, with his head in his hands. Then, suddenly, he struck the table with his fist:

"That's it! I understand the whole thing now! Upon my word, it's takenme long enough!"

"What?" asked his wife. 

"Dourlowski, of course!"

"Dourlowski?"

"Why, yes! From the first minute, I guessed that it was a trap, a trapcontrived by inferior police-agents. But how was it laid? I see it now. Dourlowski came here yesterday, on some pretext or other. He knew thatJorancé and I would take the frontier-road in the evening; and thepassing of the deserter was contrived to take place at that moment, inconnivance with the German detectives! One of them whistles as soon aswe come up; and the soldier, who has been told, of course, that thiswhistle is a signal from the French accomplices, the soldier, whomDourlowski or his confederates hold in a leash, like a dog, the soldieris let go. That's the whole mystery! It was not he, the poor wretch, whom they were after, but Jorancé and Morestal. Morestal, right enough, flies to the rescue of the fugitive. They collar him, they lay hold ofJorancé; and there we are, accomplices both. Bravo, gentlemen! Wellplayed!"

Mme. Morestal murmured:

"But, I say, it might be a serious thing . .. "

"For Jorancé, " he replied, "yes, because he is in custody; only--thereis an 'only'--the pursuit of the deserter took place on French soil. Wealso were arrested on French soil. It was a flagrant violation of thefrontier. So there's nothing to be afraid of. "

"You think so?" asked Suzanne. "You think that my father . .. ?"

"Nothing to be afraid of, " repeated Morestal. And he declared, positively, "I look upon Jorancé as free. "

"Tut, tut!" mumbled the old lady. "Things won't go so fast as that. "

"Once more, I look upon Jorancé as free and for this good reason, thatthe frontier has been violated. "

"Who will prove the violation?"

"Who? Why, I, of course!. .. And Jorancé!. .. Do you think they'll doubtthe word of honest men like us? Besides, there are other proofs. Theywill find the traces of the pursuit, the traces of the attack, thetraces of the stand which we made. And who can tell? There may have beenwitnesses. .. . "

Marthe turned her eyes on Philippe. He was listening to his father, witha face so pale that she was astounded. She waited for a few seconds andthen, seeing that he did not speak, she said:

"There was a witness. "

Morestal started:

"What's that, Marthe?"

"Philippe was there. "

"Nonsense! We left Philippe at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne, at thebottom of the hill, didn't we, Suzanne? You remained behind together. "

Philippe intervened, quickly:

"Suzanne went off at once! and so did I . .. But I had not gone twohundred yards when I turned back. "

"So that was why you did not answer when I called to you, half-way upthe hill?"

"I expect so. I went back to the Grand-Chêne. "

"What for?"

"To join you. .. . I was sorry I had left you. "

"Then you were behind us at the time of the attack?"

"Yes. "

"In that case, of course, you heard the shots fired!. .. Let me see, youmust have been on the Butte-aux-Loups. .. . "

"Somewhere near there. .. . "

"And perhaps you saw us. .. . From above!. .. With the moonlight!. .. "

"Oh, no!" protested Philippe. "No, I saw nothing!"

"But, if you heard the firing, you must certainly have heard Jorancéshouting. .. . They stuffed a gag into my mouth. .. . But Jorancé kept onroaring, 'We are in France! We are on French territory!' You heardJorancé shouting, didn't you, now?"

Philippe hesitated before making a reply of which he vaguely felt thetremendous importance. But, opposite him, he saw Marthe watching himwith increasing surprise and, near Marthe, he saw Suzanne's drawnfeatures. He said:

"Yes, I heard him . .. I heard him at a distance. .. . "

Old Morestal could not contain himself for joy. And, when he learntbesides that Philippe had received the last words of Baufeld thedeserter, he burst out:

"You saw him? He was alive? He told you that they had set a trap for us, didn't he?"

"He mentioned the name of Dourlowski. "

"Capital! But our meeting with the soldier, the pursuit . .. He must havetold you that all this took place in France?"

"Yes, I seemed to understand . .. "

"We've got them!" shouted Morestal. "We've got them! Of course, I wasquite easy in my mind. .. . But all the same, Philippe's evidence, thedeclaration of the dying private. .. . Ah, the brigands, they'll have tolet go their prey!. .. We were in France, kind friends! There has been aviolation of the frontier!"

Philippe saw that he had gone too far; and he objected:

"My evidence is not evidence in the proper sense of the word. .. . As forthe soldier, I could hardly make out . .. "

"We've got them, I tell you. The little that you were able to see, thelittle that you were able to hear all agrees with my own evidence, thatis to say, with the truth. We've got them! And here come the gentlemenfrom the public prosecutor's office, who will be of my opinion, I betyou what you like! And it won't take long either! Jorancé will be freeto-morrow. "

He dropped the pen, which he had taken up in order to write his reporthimself, and went quickly to the window, attracted by the sound of amotor-car sweeping round the garden-lawn:

"The sub-prefect, " he said. "By Jove, so the government know about it!The examining-magistrate and the prosecutor. .. . Ha, ha, they are notwasting any time, I see!. .. Quick, mother, have them shown in here. .. . I'll be back in a minute: I must just put on a collar and change myjacket. .. . "

"Father!"

Morestal stopped in the doorway:

"What is it, my boy?" he asked. 

"I have something to say to you, " said Philippe, resolutely. 

"All right. But it'll keep until presently, won't it?"

"I have something to say to you now. "

"Oh! In that case, come along with me. Yes, you can give me a hand, instead of Victor, who is out. "

And, laughing, he went to his room. 

Marthe involuntarily took a few steps, as though she proposed to bepresent at the conversation. Philippe experienced a momentaryembarrassment. Then he quickly made up his mind:

"No, Marthe, you had better stay. "

"But . .. "

"No, once more, no. Excuse me. I will explain later. .. . "

And he followed his father. 

 * * *

As soon as they were alone, Morestal, who was thinking much more abouthis evidence than about Philippe's words, asked, casually:

"Is it private?"

"Yes . .. And very serious, " Philippe declared. 

"Nonsense!"

"Very serious, as you will see in a moment, father. .. . It's about aposition in which I find myself placed, a horrible position which Idon't know how to get out of, unless . .. "

He went no further. Acting under an instinctive impulse, thrown off hisbalance by the arrival of the examining-magistrate and by a suddenvision of the events to come, he had appealed to his father. He wantedto speak, to say the words that would deliver him. What words? He didnot quite know. But anything, anything rather than give false evidenceand affix his signature to a lying deposition!

He stammered at first, while his brain refused to act, seeking in vainfor an acceptable solution. How was he to stop on the downward coursealong which he was being dragged by a combination of hostile forces, accidents, coincidences and implacable, trifling facts? How was he tobreak through the circle which a cruel fate was doing its utmost totrace around him?

It suddenly burst in upon him that the only possible way out lay inproclaiming the immediate truth, in bluntly revealing his conduct. 

He shuddered with disgust. What! Accuse Suzanne! Was that thehalf-formed idea that inspired him, unknown to himself? Had he reallythought of ruining her in order that he might be saved? It was now thathe first realized the full nature of his predicament, for he would athousand times rather have died than dishonour the girl, even in hisfather's eyes alone. 

Morestal, who had finished dressing, chaffed him:

"Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Yes. .. . I made a mistake, " replied Philippe. "I thought . .. "

He was leaning on the window-rail and looked out inertly at the largesort of park formed by the clustering trees and the undulating meadowsof the Vosges. He was now obsessed by other thoughts, which mingled withhis own anxiety. He went back to old Morestal:

"Are you quite sure that the arrest took place on French soil?"

"Upon my word, you must be mad!"

"It's possible that, without noticing it, you crossed thefrontier-line. .. . "

"Yes . .. Exactly . .. So we did. But, at the moment of the first attackand again at the moment of the arrest, we were in France. There is nodoubt about that. "

"Just think, father, if there were the slightest doubt!. .. "

"Well, what then? What do you mean?"

"I mean that this incident will have further consequences. The affairwill create a noise. "

"What do I care? The truth comes first, surely? Once we are in theright, we are bound to see that our rights are recognized and thatJorancé is released. "

Morestal planted himself firmly in front of his son:

"You're of my way of thinking, I suppose?"

"No. "

"How do you mean, no?"

"Listen, father: the circumstances seem to me to be very serious. Theexamining-magistrate's enquiry is most important. It will serve as abasis for later enquiries. It seems to me that we ought to reflect andgive our evidence with a certain reserve, with caution. .. . We mustbehave prudently. .. . "

"We must behave like Frenchmen who are in the right, " cried Morestal, "and who, when they are in the right, fear nobody and nothing in thisworld!"

"Not even war?"

"War! What are you talking about? War! But there can't be war over anincident like this! The way things are shaping, Germany will yield. "

"Do you think so?" said Philippe, who seemed relieved by this assertion. 

"Certainly! But on one condition, that we establish our right firmly. There has been a violation of the frontier. That is beyond dispute. Letus prove it; and every chance of a conflict is removed. "

"But, if we don't succeed in proving it?" asked Philippe. 

"Ah, in that case, it can't be helped!. .. Of course, they will disputeit. But have no fear, my boy: the proofs exist; and we can safely goahead. .. . Come along, they're waiting for us downstairs. .. . "

He grasped the door-handle. 

"Father!"

"Look here, what's the matter with you to-day? Aren't you coming?"

"No, not yet, " said Philippe, who saw a way out and who was making alast effort to escape. "Presently. .. . I must absolutely tell you. .. . Youand I start from a different point of view. .. . I have rather differentideas from yours . .. And, as the occasion happens to present itself . .. "

"Impossible, my boy! They are waiting for us. .. . "

"You must hear me, " cried Philippe, blocking the way. "I refuse toaccept with a light heart a responsibility that is not in accordancewith my present opinions; and that is why an explanation between us hasbecome inevitable. "

Morestal looked at him with an air of amazement:

"Your present opinions! Ideas different from mine! What's all thisnonsense?"

Philippe felt, even more clearly than on the day before, the violence ofa conflict which a confession would provoke. But, this time, his resolvewas taken. There were too many reasons urging him towards a breach whichhe considered necessary. With his mind and his whole frame palpitatingwith his tense will, he was about to utter the irrevocable words, whenMarthe hurried into the room:

"Don't keep your father, Philippe; the examining-magistrate is askingfor him. "

"Ah!" said Morestal. "I am not sorry that you have come to release me, my dear Marthe. Your husband's crazy. He's been talking a string ofnonsense these past ten minutes. What you want, my boy, is rest. "

Philippe made a slight movement. Marthe whispered:

"Be quiet. "

And she said it in so imperious a tone that he was taken aback. 

Before leaving the room, Morestal walked to the window. Bugle-notessounded in the distance and he leant out to hear them better. 

Marthe at once said to Philippe:

"I came in on chance. I felt that you were seeking an explanation withyour father. "

"Yes, I had to. "

"About your ideas, I suppose?"

"Yes, I must. "

"Your father is ill. .. . It's his heart. .. . A fit of anger might provefatal . .. Especially after last night. Not a word, Philippe. "

At that moment, Morestal closed the window. He passed in front of themand then, turning and placing his hand on his son's shoulder, hemurmured, in accents of restrained ardour:

"Do you hear the enemy's bugle, over there? Ah, Philippe, I don't wantit to become a war-song!. .. But, all the same, if it should . .. If itshould!. .. "

 * * *

At one o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday the 2nd of September, Philippe, sitting opposite his father, before the pensive eyes ofMarthe, before the anxious eyes of Suzanne, Philippe, after relatingmost minutely his conversation with the dying soldier, declared that hehad heard at a distance the cries of protest uttered by Jorancé, thespecial commissary. 

Having made the declaration, he signed it. 

CHAPTER IV

THE ENQUIRIES

The tragedy enacted that night and morning was so harsh, so virulent andso swift that it left the inmates of the Old Mill as though stunned. Instead of uniting them in a common emotion, it scattered them, givingeach of them an impression of discomfort and uneasiness. 

In Philippe, this took the form of a state of torpor that kept himasleep until the next morning. He awoke, however, in excellentcondition, but with an immense longing for solitude. In reality, heshrank from finding himself in the presence of his father and his wife. 

He went out, therefore, very early, across the woods and fields, stoppedat an inn, climbed the Ballon de Vergix and did not come home untillunch-time. He was very calm by then and quite master of himself. 

To men like Philippe, men endowed with upright natures and generousminds, but not prone to waste time in reflecting upon the minor cases ofconscience that arise in daily life, the sense of duty performedbecomes, at critical periods, a sort of standard by which they judgetheir actions. This sense Philippe experienced in all its fulness. Placed by a series of abnormal circumstances between the necessity ofbetraying Suzanne or the necessity of swearing upon oath to a thingwhich he did not know, he felt that he was certainly entitled to lie. The lie seemed just and natural. He did not deny the fault which he hadcommitted in succumbing to the young girl's fascinations and wiles: but, having committed the fault, he owed it to Suzanne to keep it secret, whatever the consequences of his discretion might be. There was noexcuse that permitted him to break silence. 

He found, on the drawing-room table, the three newspapers which weretaken at the Old Mill: the _Éclaireur des Vosges_; a Parisevening-paper; and the _Börsweilener Zeitung_, a morning-paper printedin German, but French in tone and inspiration. A glance at thesecompletely reassured him. Amid the confusion of the first reportsdevoted to the Jorancé case, his own part passed almost unnoticed. The_Éclaireur des Vosges_ summoned up his evidence in a couple of lines. When all was said, he was and would be no more than a supernumerary. 

"A walking gentleman, at the outside, " he murmured, with satisfaction. 

"Yes, at the outside. It's your father and M. Jorancé who play the starparts. "

Marthe had entered and caught his last words, which he had spoken aloud, and was answering him with a laugh. 

She put her arm around his neck with the fond gesture usual to her andsaid:

"Yes, Philippe, you need not worry yourself. Your evidence is of noimportance and cannot influence events in any way. You can be very sureof that. "

Their faces were quite close together and Philippe read nothing butgaiety and affection in Marthe's eyes. 

He understood that she had ascribed his behaviour of the previous day, his first, false version, his reticence and his confusion to scruples ofconscience and vague apprehensions. Anxious about the consequences ofthe business and dreading lest his testimony might complicate it, he hadtried to avoid the annoyance of giving evidence. 

"I believe you're right, " he said, with a view to confirming her in hermistake. "Besides, is the business so very serious?"

They talked together for a few minutes and, gradually, while watchingher, he changed the subject to the Jorancés:

"Has Suzanne been this morning?"

Marthe appeared astonished:

"Suzanne?" she said. "Don't you know?. .. Oh, of course, you were asleeplast evening. Suzanne spent the night here. "

He turned aside his head, to hide the flush that spread over hisfeatures, and he said:

"Oh, she slept here, did she?"

"Yes. M. Morestal wishes her to stay with us until M. Jorancé's return. "

"But . .. But where is she now?. .. "

"She is at Börsweilen . .. She has gone to ask for leave to see herfather. "

"Alone?"

"No, Victor went with her. "

With an air of indifference, Philippe asked:

"How is she? Depressed?"

"Very much depressed. .. . I don't know why, but she imagines that it washer fault that her father was kidnapped. .. . She says she urged him to gofor that walk!. .. Poor Suzanne, what interest could she have inremaining alone?. .. "

He plainly perceived, from his wife's voice and attitude, that, althoughcertain coincidences had surprised her, her mind had not been touched bythe shadow of a suspicion. On that side, everything was over. The dangerwas averted. 

Happily released from his fears, Philippe had the further satisfactionof learning that his father had spent a very good night and that he hadgone to the town-hall at Saint-Élophe. He questioned his mother. Mme. Morestal, yielding like Philippe to that desire for assuagement andsecurity which comes over us after any great shock, reassured him on thesubject of the old man's health. Certainly, there was something thematter with the heart: Dr. Borel insisted upon his leading the mostregular and monotonous life. But Dr. Borel always looked at the darkside of things; and, all considered, Morestal had borne the fatigueattendant on his capture and escape, hard though it was, very wellindeed. 

"Besides, you have only to look at him, " she concluded. "Here he comes, back from Saint-Élophe. "

They saw him alight from the carriage with the brisk and springy step ofa young man. He joined them in the drawing-room and at once cried:

"Oh, what an uproar! I've telephoned to town. .. . They're talking ofnothing else. .. . And who do you think swooped down upon me atSaint-Élophe? Quite half-a-dozen reporters! I sent them away with a fleain their ears! A set of fellows who make mischief wherever they go andwho arrange everything as it suits them!. .. They're the scourge of ourtime!. .. I shall give Catherine formal orders that no one is to beadmitted to the Old Mill. .. . Why, did you see how they report myescape? I'm supposed to have strangled the sentry and to have made acouple of Uhlans who pursued me bite the dust!. .. "

He could not succeed in concealing his satisfaction and drew himself tohis full height, like a man who sees nothing astonishing in an exploitof that kind. 

Philippe asked. 

"And what is the general feeling?"

"Just what the papers say. Jorancé's release is imminent. I told you asmuch. The more we assert ourselves, as we have every right to do, thesooner the thing will be over. You must understand that friend Jorancéis being examined at this moment and that he is giving exactly the samereplies that I did. So you see!. .. No, once more, Germany will give way. It is only a question of a day or two. So don't upset yourself, my boy, since you're so afraid of war . .. And the responsibilities attaching toit!. .. "

This, when all was said and done, was the motive to which he, likeMarthe, ascribed the incoherent words which Philippe had utteredprevious to his appearance before the magistrates; and, without goingdeeper into the matter, it gave him, on his side, a certain sense ofanger, mingled with a mild contempt. Philippe Morestal, old Morestal'sson, afraid of war! He was one more corrupted by the Paris poison!. .. 

Lunch was very lively. The old man never ceased talking. Hisgood-humour, his optimism, his steady belief in a favourable andimmediate solution overcame every resistance; and Philippe himself wasglad to share a conviction that delighted him. 

 * * *

The afternoon was continued under equally propitious auspices. Morestaland Philippe were sent for to the frontier, where, in the presence ofthe public prosecutor, the sub-prefect, the sergeant of gendarmes and anumber of journalists whom they tried in vain to send away, theexamining-magistrate carefully completed the investigations which he hadbegun the day before. Morestal had to repeat the story of the aggressionon the spot where it occurred, to point definitely to the road followedbefore the attack and during the flight, to fix the place where PrivateBaufeld had crossed the frontier-line and the place where the commissaryand himself were arrested. 

He did so without hesitation, walking to and fro, talking and making hisstatements so positively, so logically and so sincerely that the scene, as pictured by him, lived again before the spectators' eyes. Hisdemonstration was lucid and commanding. Here, the first shot was fired. There, a sharp divergence to the right, on German territory. Here, backin France and, further on, at that exact spot, fifteen yards on thisside of the frontier, the scene of the fight, the place of the arrest. Indications, undeniable indications, abounded. It was the truth, with nopossible fear of a mistake. 

Philippe was carried away and categorically confirmed his originaldeclaration. He had heard the special commissary shouting, as heapproached the Butte-aux-Loups. The words, "We are in France!. .. Thereis the frontier!" had reached him distinctly. And he described hissearch, his conversation with Private Baufeld and the wounded man'sevidence concerning the encroachment on French territory. 

The enquiry ended with a piece of good news. On Monday, a few hoursbefore the attack, Farmer Saboureux was said to have seen Weisslicht, the chief of the German detectives, and a certain Dourlowski, a hawker, walking in the woods and trying to keep hidden. Now Morestal, withoutconfessing the relations that existed between him and that individual, had nevertheless spoken of the visit of this Dourlowski and of hisproposal that the witness should act as an accomplice. An understandingbetween Dourlowski and Weisslicht was a proof that an ambush had beenlaid and that the passing of Private Baufeld across the frontier, arranged for half-past ten, was only a pretext to catch the specialcommissary and his friend in a trap. 

The magistrates made no secret of their satisfaction. The Jorancé case, a plot hatched by subordinate officials of police, whom the imperialgovernment would not hesitate to disown was becoming rapidly reduced tothe proportions of an incident which would lead to nothing and beforgotten on the morrow. 

"That's all right, " said Morestal, walking away with his son, while themagistrates went on to Saboureux's Farm. "It will be an even simplermatter than I hoped. The French government will know the results of theenquiry this evening. There will be an exchange of views with the Germanembassy; and to-morrow . .. "

"Do you think so?. .. "

"I go further. I believe that Germany will make the first advance. "

As they came to the Col du Diable, they passed a small company of menheaded by one in a gold-laced cap. 

Morestal took off his hat with a flourish and grinned:

"Good-afternoon!. .. I hope I see you well!"

The man passed without speaking. 

"Who is that?" asked Philippe. 

"Weisslicht, the chief of the detectives. "

"And the others?"

"The others?. .. It's the Germans making their investigation. "

It was then four o'clock in the afternoon. 

 * * *

The remainder of that day passed peacefully at the Old Mill. Suzannearrived from Börsweilen at nightfall, looking radiant. They had givenher a letter from her father and she would be authorized to see him onSaturday. 

"You will not even have to go back to Börsweilen, " said Morestal. "Yourfather will come to fetch you here, won't he, Philippe?"

Dinner brought them all five together under the family lamp; and theyexperienced a feeling of relaxation, comfort and repose. They drank tothe special commissary's health. And it seemed to them as if his placewere not even empty, so great was the certainty with which they expectedhis return. 

Philippe was the only one who did not share in the general gaiety. Sitting beside Marthe and opposite Suzanne, he was bound, with hisupright nature and his sane judgment, to suffer at finding himselfsituated in such a false position. Since the night before last, sincethe moment when he had left Suzanne while the dawning light of day stoleinto her room at Saint-Élophe, this was the first instant that he hadhad any sort of time to conjure up the memory of those unnerving hours. Alarmed by the course of events, obsessed by his anxiety about the wayin which he was to act, his one and only thought of Suzanne had been hownot to compromise her. 

Now, he saw her before him. He heard her laugh and talk. She lived inhis presence, not as he had known her in Paris and found her atSaint-Élophe, but adorned with a different charm, of which he knew themysterious secret. True, he remained master of himself and he clearlyfelt that no temptation would induce him to succumb a second time. Butcould he help it that she had fair hair, the colour of which bewitchedhim, and quivering lips and a voice melodious as a song? And could hehelp it that all this filled him with an emotion which every minute thatpassed made more profound?

Their eyes met. Suzanne trembled under Philippe's gaze. A sort ofbashfulness decked her as with a veil that gives added beauty to itswearer. She was as desirable as a wife and as winsome as a bride. 

At that moment, Marthe smiled to Philippe. He turned red and thought:

"I shall go away to-morrow. "

His decision was taken then and there. He would not remain a day longerbetween the two women. The mere sight of their intimacy was hateful tohim. He would go away without a word. He knew the danger ofleave-takings between people who love, knew how they soften us anddisarm us. He wanted none of those compromises and evasions. Temptation, even if we resist it, is a fault in itself. 

When dinner was over, he stood up and went to his bedroom, where Marthejoined him. He learnt from her that Suzanne's room was on the samefloor. Later, he heard the young girl come upstairs. But he knew thatnothing would make him fall again. 

As soon as he was alone, he opened his window, sat a long time staringat the vague outlines of the trees, then undressed and went to bed. 

 * * *

In the morning, Marthe brought him his letters. He at once recognizedthe writing of a friend on one of the envelopes:

"Good!" he said, jumping at the pretext. "A letter from Pierre Belum. Ihope it's not to tell me to come back!"

He opened the letter and, after reading it, said:

"It's as I feared! I shall have to go. "

"Not before this evening, my boy. "

It was old Morestal, who had entered the room with an open letter in hishand. 

"What's the matter, father?"

"We are specially summoned to appear before the Prefect of the Vosges inthe town-hall at Saint-Élophe. "

"I too?"

"You too. They want to verify certain points in your deposition. "

"So they are beginning all over again?"

"Yes, it's a fresh enquiry. It appears that things are becomingcomplicated. "

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying what this morning's papers say. According to the latesttelegrams, Germany has no intention of releasing Jorancé. Moreover, there have been manifestations in Paris. Berlin also is stirring. Theyellow press are adopting an arrogant tone. In short . .. "

"What?"

"Well, the matter is taking a very nasty turn. "

Philippe gave a start. He walked up to his father and, yielding to asudden fit of anger:

"There! Which of us was right? You see, you see what's happening now!If you had listened to me . .. "

"If I had listened to you?. .. " echoed Morestal, emphasizing each wordand at once preparing for a quarrel. 

But Philippe restrained himself. Marthe made a remark or two at random. And then all three were silent. 

Besides, of what use was speech? The thunderstorm had passed over theirheads and was rumbling over France. Henceforward powerless, they mustundergo its consequences and hear its distant echoes without being ableto influence the formidable elements that had been let loose during thatMonday night. 

CHAPTER V

THE THUNDERCLAP

The German argument was simple enough: the arrest had taken place inGermany. At least, that was what the newspapers stated in the extractswhich Philippe and his father read in the _Börsweilener Zeitung_. Was itnot to be expected that this would be the argument eventuallyadopted--if it was not adopted already--by the imperial government?

At Börsweilen--the _Zeitung_ made no mystery about it--people were verypositive. After twenty-four hours' silence, the authorities took theirstand upon the explanation given the day before by Weisslicht, in thecourse of an enquiry attended by several functionaries, who werementioned by name; and they declared aloud that everything had takenplace in due form and that it was impossible to go back uponaccomplished facts. Special Commissary Jorancé and Councillor Morestal, caught in the act of assisting a deserter, would be brought before theGerman courts and their case tried in accordance with German law. Besides, it was added, there were other charges against them. 

Of Dourlowski, there was no mention. He was ignored. 

"But the whole case depends upon him!" exclaimed Morestal, afterreceiving the Prefect of the Vosges at the Saint-Élophe town-hall anddiscussing the German argument with him and the examining-magistrate. "The whole case depends upon him, monsieur le préfet. Even supposingtheir argument to be correct, what is it worth, if we prove that we weredrawn into an ambush by Weisslicht and that Baufeld's desertion was agot-up job contrived by subordinate officials of police? And the proofof this rests upon Dourlowski!"

He was indignant at the hawker's disappearance. But he added:

"Fortunately, we have Farmer Saboureux's evidence. "

"We had it yesterday, " said the examining-magistrate, "but we haven't itto-day. "

"How so?"

"Yesterday, Wednesday, when I was questioning him, Farmer Saboureuxdeclared that he had seen Weisslicht and Dourlowski together. He evenused certain words which made me suspect that he had noticed thepreparations for the attack and that he was an unseen witness of it . .. And a valuable witness, as you will agree. This morning, Thursday, heretracts, he is not sure that it was Weisslicht he saw and, at night, hewas asleep . .. He heard nothing . .. Not even the shooting. .. . And helives at five hundred yards from the spot!"

"I never heard of such a thing! What does he mean by backing out likethat?"

"I can't say, " replied the magistrate. "Still, I saw a copy of the_Börsweilener Zeitung_ sticking out of his pocket . .. Things havealtered since yesterday . .. And Saboureux has been reflecting. .. . "

"Do you think so? Is he afraid of war?"

"Yes, afraid of reprisals. He told me an old story about Uhlans, about afarm that was burnt down. So that's what it is: he's afraid!. .. "

 * * *

The day began badly. Morestal and his son walked silently by the oldroad to the frontier, where the enquiry was resumed in detail. But, atthe Butte, they saw three men in gold-laced caps smoking their pipes bythe German frontier-post. 

And, further on, at the foot of the slope, in a sort of clearing on theleft, they perceived two more, lying flat on their stomachs, who werealso smoking. 

And, around these two, there were a number of freshly-paintedblack-and-yellow stakes, driven into the ground in a circle and ropedtogether. 

In reply to a question put to them, the men said that that was the placewhere Commissary Jorancé had been arrested. 

Now this place, adopted by the hostile enquiry, was on German territoryand at twenty yards beyond the road that marked the dividing-linebetween the two countries!

Philippe had to drag his father away. Old Morestal was choking withrage:

"They are lying! They are lying! It's scandalous. .. . And they know it!Is it likely I should be mistaken? Why, I belong here! Whereas they . .. A pack of police-spies!. .. "

When he had grown calmer, he began his explanations over again. Philippenext repeated his, in less definite terms, this time, and with ahesitation which old Morestal, absorbed in his grievances, did notobserve, but which could not well escape the others. 

The father and son returned to the Old Mill together, as on the daybefore. Morestal was no longer so triumphant and Philippe thought ofFarmer Saboureux, who, warned by his peasant shrewdness, varied hisevidence according to the threat of possible events. 

As soon as he reached home, he took refuge in his room. Marthe went upto him and found him lying on the bed, with his head between his hands. He would not even answer when she spoke to him. But, at four o'clock, hearing that his father, eager for news, had ordered the carriage, hewent downstairs. 

They drove to Saint-Élophe and then, growing more and more anxious, toNoirmont, twelve miles beyond it, where Morestal had many friends. Oneof these took them to the offices of the _Éclaireur_. 

Here, nothing was known as yet: the telegraph-and telephone-wires wereblocked. But, at eight o'clock, a first telegram got through: groups ofpeople had raised manifestations outside the German embassy. On thePlace de la Concorde, the statue of the city of Strasburg was coveredwith flags and flowers. 

Then the telegrams flowed in. 

Questioned in the Chamber, the prime minister had replied, amid theapplause of the whole house:

"We ask, we claim your absolute confidence, your blind confidence. Ifsome of you refuse it to the minister, at least grant it to theFrenchman. For it is a Frenchman who speaks in your name. And it is aFrenchman who will act. "

In the lobby outside the house, a member of the opposition had begun tosing the _Marseillaise_, which was taken up by all the rest of themembers in chorus. 

And then there was the other side of the question: telegrams fromGermany; the yellow press rabid; all the evening-papers adopting anuncompromising, aggressive attitude; Berlin in uproar. .. . 

 * * *

They drove back at midnight; and, although they were both seized with alike emotion, it aroused in them ideas so different that they did notexchange a word. Morestal himself, who was not aware of the divorce thathad taken place between their minds, dared not indulge in his usualspeeches. 

The next morning, the _Börsweilener Zeitung_ announced movements oftroops towards the frontier. The emperor, who was cruising in the NorthSea, had landed at Ostende. The chancellor was waiting for him atCologne. And it was thought that the French ambassador had also gone tomeet him. 

Thenceforward, throughout that Friday and the following Saturday, theinmates of the Old Mill lived in a horrible nightmare. The storm was nowshaking the whole of France and Germany, the whole of quivering Europe. They heard it roar. The earth cracked under its fury. What terriblecatastrophe would it produce?

And they, who had let it loose--the actors of no account, relegated tothe background, the supernumeraries whose parts were played--they couldsee nothing of the spectacle but distant, blood-red gleams. 

Philippe took refuge in a fierce silence that distressed his wife. Morestal was nervous, excited and in an execrable temper. He went outfor no reason, came in again at once, could not keep still:

"Ah, " he cried, in a moment of despondency in which his thoughts stoodplainly revealed, "why did we come home by the frontier? Why did I helpthat deserter? For there's no denying it: if I hadn't helped him, nothing would have happened. "

On Friday evening, it became known that the chancellor, who already hadthe German reports in his hands, now possessed the French papers, whichhad been communicated by our ambassador. The affair, hitherto purelyadministrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government wasdemanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-Élophe, who hadbeen arrested on French territory. 

"If they consent, all will be well, " said Morestal. "There is nohumiliation for Germany in disowning the action of a pack of minorofficials. But, if they refuse, if they believe the policemen's lies, what will happen then? France cannot give way. "

On Saturday morning, the _Börsweilener Zeitung_ printed the followingshort paragraph in a special edition:

 "After making a careful examination of the French papers, the chancellor has returned them to the French ambassador. The case of Commissary Jorancé, accused of the crime of high treason and arrested on German territory, will be tried in the German courts. "

It was a refusal. 

That morning, Morestal took his son to the Col du Diable and, bent intwo, following the road to the Butte-aux-Loups step by step, examiningeach winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, hereconstituted the plan of the attack. And he showed Philippe the treesagainst which he had brushed in his flight and the trees at the foot ofwhich he and his friend had stood and defended themselves:

"It was there, Philippe, and nowhere else. .. . Do you see that littleopen space? That's where it was. .. . I have often come and smoked my pipehere, because of this little mound to sit upon. .. . That's the place!"

He sat down on the same mound and said no more, staring before him, while Philippe looked at him. Several times, he repeated, between histeeth:

"Yes, this is certainly the place. .. . How could I be mistaken?"

And, suddenly, he pressed his two fists to his temples and blurted out:

"Still, suppose I were mistaken! Suppose I had branched off more to theright . .. And . .. "

He interrupted himself, cast his eyes around him, rising to his feet:

"It's impossible! One can't make as big a blunder as that, short ofbeing mad! How could I have? I was thinking of one thing only; I keptsaying to myself, 'I must remain in France, I must keep to the left ofthe line. ' And I did keep to it, hang it all! It is absolutelycertain. .. . What then? Am I to deny the truth in order to please them?"

And Philippe, who had never ceased watching him, replied, withinhimself:

"Why not, father? What would that little falsehood signify, comparedwith the magnificent result that would be obtained? If you would tell alie, father, or if only you would assert so fatal a truth less forcibly, France could give way without the least disgrace, since it is yourevidence alone that compels her to make her demand! And, in this way, you would have saved your country. .. . "

But he did not speak. His father was guided by a conception of dutywhich Philippe knew to be as lofty and as legitimate as his own. Whatright had he to expect his father to act according to his, Philippe's, conscience? What to one of them would be only a fib would be to theother, to old Morestal, a criminal betrayal of his own side. Morestal, when giving his evidence, was speaking in the name of France. And Francedoes not tell lies. 

"If there is a possible solution, " Philippe said to himself, "my fatheris not the man to be asked to provide it. My father represents a mass ofintangible ideas, principles and traditions. But I, I, I . .. What can Ido? What is my particular duty? What is the object for which I ought tomake in spite of every obstacle?"

Twenty times over, he was on the point of exclaiming:

"My evidence was false, father. I was not there. I was with Suzanne!"

What was the use? It meant dishonouring Suzanne; and the implacablemarch of events would continue just the same. Now that was the onlything that mattered. Every individual suffering, every attack ofconscience, every theory, all vanished before the tremendous catastrophewith which humanity was threatened and before the task that devolvedupon men like himself, men emancipated from the past and free to act inaccordance with a new conception of duty. 

 * * *

In the afternoon, they heard at the offices of the _Éclaireur_ that abomb had burst behind the German ambassador's motor-car in Paris. In theLatin Quarter, the ferment was at its height. Two Germans had beenroughly handled and a Russian, accused of spying, had been knocked down. There had been free fights at Lyons, Toulouse and Bordeaux. 

Similar disorders had taken place in Berlin and in the other big townsof the German Empire. The military party was directing the movement. 

Lastly, at six o'clock, it was announced as certain that Germany wasmobilizing three army-corps. 

A tragic evening was spent at the Old Mill. Suzanne arrived fromBörsweilen without having been allowed to see her father and added tothe general distress by her sobs and lamentations. Morestal andPhilippe, silent and fever-eyed, seemed to avoid each other. Marthe, whosuspected her husband's anguish, kept her eyes fixed upon him, as thoughshe feared some inconsiderate act on his part. And the same dread seemedto trouble Mme. Morestal, for she warned Philippe, time after time:

"Whatever you do, no arguments with your father. He is not well. Allthis business upsets him quite enough as it is. A quarrel between thetwo of you would be terrible. "

And this also, the idea of this illness of which he did not know theexact nature, but to which his heated imagination lent an addedimportance, this also tortured Philippe. 

 * * *

They all rose on the Sunday morning with the certainty that the news ofwar would reach them in the course of the day; and old Morestal was onthe point of leaving for Saint-Élophe, to make the necessaryarrangements in case of an alarm, when a ring of the telephone stoppedhim. It was the sub-prefect at Noirmont, who conveyed a fresh order tohim from the prefecture. The two Morestals were to be at theButte-aux-Loups at twelve o'clock. 

A moment later, a telegram that appeared at the top of the front page ofthe _Éclaireur des Vosges_ told them the meaning of this third summons:

 "The German ambassador called on the prime minister at ten o'clock yesterday, Saturday, evening. After a long conversation, when on the point of concluding an interview that seemed unable to lead to any result, the ambassador received by express a personal note from the emperor, which he at once handed to the prime minister. In this note, the emperor proposed a renewed examination of the affair, for which purpose he would delegate the Governor of Alsace-Lorraine, with instructions to check the report of the police. An understanding was at once arrived at on this basis; and the French government has appointed a member of the cabinet, M. Le Corbier, under-secretary of state for home affairs, to act as its representative. It is possible that an interview may take place between these two prominent personages. "

And the newspaper added:

 "This intervention on the part of the emperor is a proof of his peaceful intentions, but it can hardly be said to alter the situation. If France be in the wrong--and it were almost to be hoped that she may be--then France will yield. But, if it be once more proved on our side that the arrest took place on French soil and if Germany refuse to yield, what will happen then?"

CHAPTER VI

THE BUTTE-AUX-LOUPS

Whatever might be the eventual outcome of this last effort, it was arespite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left aloop-hole, a chance of an arrangement. 

And old Morestal, seized with fresh confidence and already triumphant, rejoiced, as he could not fail to do:

"Why, of course, " he concluded, "it will all be settled! Didn't I tellyou so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a littlefirmness. .. . We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show ofconciliation which will deceive no one, the enemy forms a plan ofretreat. For, mark you, that's all that it means. .. . "

And, as he continued to read the paper, he exclaimed:

"Ah, just so!. .. I understand!. .. Listen, Philippe, to this littletelegram, which sounds like nothing at all: 'England has recalled hersquadrons from foreign waters and is concentrating them in the Channeland in the North Sea. ' Aha, that solves the mystery! They havereflected . .. And reflection is the mother of wisdom. .. . And here, Philippe, this other telegram, which is worth noting: 'Three hundredFrench aviators, from every part of France, have responded to therousing appeal issued by Captain Lériot of the territorials, the hero ofthe Channel crossing. They will all be at Châlons camp on Tuesday, withtheir aeroplanes!'. .. Ha, what do you say to that, my boy? On the oneside, the British fleet. .. . On the other side, our air fleet. .. . Wipeyour pretty eyes, my sweet Suzanne, and get supper ready this eveningfor Papa Jorancé! Ah, this time, mother, we'll drink champagne!"

His gaiety sounded a little forced and found no echo in his hearers. Philippe remained silent, with his forehead streaked with a wrinklewhich Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of hiseyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining theposition from every point of view and seeking the best road to follow. Had he taken a resolution? And, if so, which? He seemed so hard, sostern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him. 

After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a secondtelephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Élophe, where M. LeCorbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him. 

Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to hisroom and locked himself in. 

When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided togo with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urgedhim to look after his father. 

The three of them walked away to the Col du Diable. A lowering sky, heavy with clouds, hung over the mountain-tops; but the weather was mildand the swards, studded with trees, still wore a look of summer. 

Marthe, to break the silence, said:

"There is something soft and peaceful about the air to-day. That's agood sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry. For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state oftheir nerves, does it not, Philippe?"

"Yes, " he said, "everything depends on them. "

She continued:

"I don't think that they will ask you any questions. Your evidence is ofsuch little importance. You see, the papers hardly mention it. .. . Except, of course, in so far as Dourlowski is concerned. .. . As for him, they haven't found him yet. .. . "

Philippe did not reply. Had he as much as heard? With short movements ofhis stick, he was striking the heads off the flowers that lined theroad: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered thatthis was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons. 

Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that woundthrough the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbedit one behind the other. Marthe was in front of Philippe and Suzanne. Half-way up, the path made a sudden bend. When Marthe was out of sight, Philippe felt Suzanne's hand squeeze his and hold him back. 

He stopped. She nimbly pulled herself up to him:

"Philippe, you are sad. .. . It's not about me, is it?"

"No, " he confessed, frankly. 

"I knew it, " she said, without bitterness. "So much has happened theselast three days!. .. I no longer count with you. "

He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of hersometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom onecovets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyzehis feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles thatoverwhelmed him. 

"I shall never forget you, Suzanne, " he said. 

"I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you. .. . Only, Iwanted to tell you this, which will give you a little happiness:Philippe, I give you my promise that I will face the life before me . .. That I will make a fresh start. .. . What I told you is happening withinme. .. . I have more courage now that I . .. Now that I have that memory tosupport me. .. . You have given me happiness enough to last me all mylife. .. . I shall be what I should not have been . .. An honest woman. .. . I swear it, Philippe . .. And a good wife. .. . "

He understood that she meant to be married and he suffered at thethought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bareneck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person:

"Thank you, Suzanne. .. . It is the best proof of your love. .. . I thankyou. "

She went on to say to him:

"And then, Philippe, you see, I don't want to give my father pain. .. . Any one can feel that he has been very unhappy. .. . And the reason why Iwas afraid, the other morning, that Marthe might discover the truth . .. Was because of him. "

"You need not fear, Suzanne. "

"I need not, need I?" she said. "There is no danger of it. .. . And yet, this enquiry. .. . If you were compelled to confess?. .. "

"Oh, Suzanne, how can you think it?"

Their eyes mingled fondly, their hands had not parted. Philippe wouldhave liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much hehoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save wordsof love; and he would not. .. . 

She gave a smile. A tear shone at the tip of her lashes. She stammered:

"I love you. .. . I shall always love you. "

Then she released her hand. 

Marthe, who had turned back, saw them standing together, motionless. 

 * * *

When they emerged at the corner of the Albern Path, they saw a group ofjournalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. Thewhole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Élophe rise. And, onthe right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals. 

They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almostlevel ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged likethe colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide, runs through the middle. 

On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron andbearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post. 

On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and whitespiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, "_DeutschesReich_. "

Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and wereseparated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flagof its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: aPrussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpinerifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order. 

Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little campspitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And theofficers formed two groups. 

French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches. 

"You see, Marthe, you see, " whispered Philippe, whose heart was grippedwith emotion. "Isn't it terrible?"

"Yes, yes, " she said. 

But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfoliobulging with papers:

"M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. De Trébons, attached to thedepartment of the under-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking toM. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait. "

He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where theyfound, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussière, who hadlikewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded thewhole circus of the Butte. 

"How pale you look, Philippe!" said Marthe. "Are you ill?"

"No, " he said. "Please don't worry me. "

Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent waslifted and a number of persons came out. 

Suzanne gave a stifled cry:

"Papa!. .. Look . .. Oh, my poor father!. .. I must go and kiss him. .. . "

Philippe held her back and she obeyed, feebly. Jorancé, besides, haddisappeared, had been led by two gendarmes to the other camp; andWeisslicht the detective and his men were now being shown into the tent. 

But the French tent opened, an instant after, to let old Morestal out. M. De Trébons was with him and went back with Saboureux and OldPoussière. All this coming and going seemed to take place by rule andwas effected in great silence, interrupted only by the sound of thefootsteps. 

Morestal also was very pale. As Philippe put no question to him, Martheasked:

"Are you satisfied, father?"

"Yes, we began all over again from the start. I gave all my explanationson the spot. My proofs and arguments have made an impression on him. Heis a serious man and he acts with great prudence. "

In a few minutes, M. De Trébons returned with Saboureux and OldPoussière. Farmer Saboureux continued disputing, in a state of greatexcitement:

"Hope they've finished this time! That makes three of them enquiringinto me!. .. What do they want with me, after all? When I keep on tellingeverybody that I was fast asleep. .. . And Poussière too. .. . Isn't it so, Poussière, you and I saw none of it?"

And, suddenly seizing M. De Trébons by the arm, he said, in a chokingvoice:

"I say, there's not going to be a war, is there? Ah, no, we can't dowith that! You can tell your gentry in Paris that we don't want it. .. . Oh, no, I've toiled enough as it is! War indeed! Uhlans burningeverything!. .. "

He seemed terrified. His bony old hands clutched M. De Trébons' arm andhis little eyes glittered with rage. 

Old Poussière jerked his head and stammered:

"Oh, no!. .. The Uhlans!. .. The Uhlans!. .. "

M. De Trébons released himself gently and made them sit down. Then, going up to Marthe:

"M. Le Corbier would be glad to see you, madame, at the same time as M. Philippe Morestal. And he also asks M. Morestal to be good enough tocome back. "

The two Morestals and Marthe walked away, leaving Suzanne Jorancébehind. 

But, at that moment, a strange thing happened, which, no doubt, had itseffect on the march of events. From the German tent issued Weisslichtand his men, followed by an officer in full uniform, who crossed theopen space, went up to M. De Trébons and told him that his excellencythe Statthalter, having completed his enquiries, would feel greatlyhonoured if he could have a short conversation with the under-secretaryof state. 

M. De Trébons at once informed M. Le Corbier, who, escorted by theGerman officer, walked towards the road, while M. De Trébons showed theMorestal family in. 

The tent, which was a fairly large one, was furnished with a few chairsand a table, on which lay the papers dealing with the case. A page layopen bearing Saboureux's clumsy signature and the mark made by OldPoussière. 

The Morestals were sitting down, when a sound of voices struck theirears and, through the opening in the fly of the tent, they caught sightof a person in a general's uniform, very tall, very thin, looking like abird of prey, but presenting a fine appearance in a long black tunic. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he was striding along the roadin the company of the under-secretary. 

Morestal whispered:

"The Statthalter. .. . They have already had one meeting, an hour ago. "

The two men disappeared at the end of the Butte, then returned and, thistime, doubtless embarrassed by the propinquity of the German officers, penetrated a few paces into French territory. 

A word, here and there, of the conversation reached the tent. Then thetwo speakers stood still and the Morestals distinctly heard theStatthalter's voice:

"Monsieur le ministre, my conclusion is necessarily different fromyours, because all the police-officers who took part in the arrest areunanimous in declaring that it was effected on German soil. "

"Commissary Jorancé and M. Morestal, " objected M. Le Corbier, "state thecontrary. "

"They are alone in saying so. "

"M. Philippe Morestal took the evidence of Private Baufeld. "

"Private Baufeld was a deserter, " retorted the Statthalter. "Hisevidence does not count. "

There was a pause. Then the German resumed, in terms which he pickedslowly and carefully:

"Therefore, monsieur le ministre, as there is no outside evidence insupport of either of the two contradictory versions, I can find noargument that would tend to destroy the conclusions to which all theGerman enquiries have led. That is what I shall tell the emperor thisevening. "

He bowed. M. Le Corbier took off his hat, hesitated a second and then, making up his mind:

"One word more, your excellency. Before finally going back to Paris, Idetermined to call the Morestal family for the last time. I will askyour excellency if it would be possible for Commissary Jorancé to bepresent at the interview. I will answer for him on my honour. "

The Statthalter appeared embarrassed. The proposal evidently went beyondhis powers. Nevertheless, he said, decisively:

"You shall have your wish, monsieur le ministre. Commissary Jorancé ishere, at your disposal. "

He clapped his heels together, raised his hand to his helmet and gavethe military salute. The interview was ended. 

The German crossed the frontier. M. Le Corbier watched him walk away, stood for a moment in thought and then returned to the French tent. 

He was surprised to find the Morestals there. But he gave a gesture asthough, after all, he was rather pleased than otherwise at this accidentand he asked M. De Trébons:

"Did you hear?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre. "

"Then do not lose a moment, my dear Trébons. You will find my car at thebottom of the hill. Go to Saint-Élophe, telephone to the prime ministerand communicate the German reply to him officially. It is urgent. Theremay be immediate measures to be taken . .. With regard to the frontier. "

He said these last words in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the twoMorestals, went out with M. De Trébons and accompanied him as far as theFrench camp. 

A long silence followed upon his disappearance. Philippe, clenching hisfists, blurted out:

"It's terrible . .. It's terrible. .. . "

And turning to his father:

"You are quite sure, I suppose, of what you are swearing?. .. Of theexact place?. .. "

Morestal shrugged his shoulders. 

Philippe insisted:

"It was at night. .. . You may have made a mistake. .. . "

"No, no, I tell you, no, " growled Morestal, angrily. "I know what I amtalking about. You'll end by annoying me. "

Marthe tried to interfere:

"Come, Philippe. .. . Your father is accustomed to . .. "

But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly:

"Hold your tongue . .. I won't allow it. .. . What do you know?. .. What areyou meddling for?"

He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit ofweakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology:

"I beg your pardon, Marthe. .. . You too, father, forgive me. .. . Pleaseforgive me. .. . There are situations in which we are bound to pardon oneanother for all the pain that we can give one another. "

Judging by the contraction of his features, one would have thought thathe was on the verge of crying, like a child trying to restrain its tearsand failing in the effort. 

Morestal stared at him in amazement. His wife looked at him aslant andfelt fear rising within her, as at the approach of a great calamity. 

But the tent opened once more. M. Le Corbier entered. SpecialCommissary Jorancé, who had been brought to the French camp by theGerman gendarmes, was with him. 

Jorancé simply nodded to the Morestals and asked:

"Suzanne?"

"She is well, " said Marthe. 

Meanwhile, Le Corbier had sat down and was turning over the papers. 

With his three-cornered face, ending in a short, peaked beard, hisclean-shaven upper-lip, his sallow complexion and his black clothes, hewore the solemn mien of a Protestant divine. People said of him that, inthe days of the Revolution, he would have been Robespierre orSaint-Just. His eyes, which expressed sympathy and almost affection, belied the suggestion. In reality, he was a conscientious man, who owedthe gravity of his appearance to an excessive sense of duty. 

He closed the bundles of papers and sat thinking for some time. His lipsformed silent syllables. He was obviously composing his speech. And hespoke as follows, in a confidential and friendly tone which wasinfinitely perturbing:

"I am going back in an hour. In the train, I shall draw up a report, based on these notes and on the respective depositions which you havemade or which you will make to me. At nine o'clock this evening, Ishall be with the prime minister. At half-past nine, the prime ministerwill speak in the chamber; and he will speak according to the substanceof my report. This is what I wish you to understand above all things. Next, I want you to know the German reply, I want you to realize thegreat, the irretrievable importance of every word which you utter. Asfor me, feeling as I do the full weight of my responsibilities, I wishto seek behind those words, beyond yourselves, whether there is not somedetail unperceived by yourselves which will destroy the appalling truthestablished by your evidence. What I am seeking is--I tell you sofrankly--a doubt on your part, a contradiction. I am seeking it . .. "

He hesitated and, sinking his voice, concluded:

"I am almost hoping for it. "

A great sense of peace filled the Morestals. Each of them, subduing hisexcitement, suddenly raised himself to the level of the task assigned tohim and each of them was ready to fulfil it courageously, blindly, inthe face of every obstacle. 

And Le Corbier resumed:

"M. Morestal, here is your deposition. I ask you for the last time toaffirm the exact, complete truth. "

"I affirm it, monsieur le ministre. "

"Still, Weisslicht and his men declare that the arrest took place onGerman soil. "

"The upland widens out at this part, " said Morestal, "and the road whichmarks the boundary winds. .. . It is possible for foreigners to make amistake. It is not possible for us, for me. We were arrested on Frenchsoil. "

"You certify this on your honour?"

"I swear it on the heads of my wife and son. I swear it to God. "

Le Corbier turned to the special commissary:

"M. Jorancé, do you confirm this deposition?"

"I confirm each of my friend Morestal's words in every respect, " saidthe commissary. "They express the truth. I swear it on the head of mydaughter. "

"The policemen have taken just as solemn oaths, " observed Le Corbier. 

"The German policemen's evidence is interested. It helps them to shieldthe fault which they have committed. We have committed no fault. Ifchance had caused us to be arrested on German territory, no power onearth would have prevented Morestal and myself from admitting the fact. Morestal is free and fears nothing. Well, I, who am a prisoner, fearnothing either. "

"That is the view which the French government has adopted, " said theunder-secretary. "Moreover, we have additional evidence: yours, M. Philippe Morestal. That evidence the government, through an excessivefeeling of scruple, has not wished to recognize officially. As a matterof fact, it appeared to us less firm, more undecided, at the secondhearing than at the first. But, such as it is, it assumes a peculiarvalue in my eyes, because it corroborates that of the two otherwitnesses. M. Philippe Morestal, do you maintain the terms of yourdeposition, word for word?"

Philippe rose, looked at his father, pushed back Marthe, who camerunning up to him, and replied, in a low voice:

"No, monsieur le ministre. "

CHAPTER VII

MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION

The conflict was immediate. Between Morestal and Philippe, the duel setin at once. The events of the previous days had cleared the way for it:at the first word, they stood up to each other like irreconcilableadversaries, the father spirited and aggressive, the son anxious andsad, but inflexible. 

Le Corbier at once foresaw a scene. He went out of the tent, ordered thesentry to stand away, made sure that the group of Germans could not hearthe sound of the raised voices. Then, after carefully closing the fly, he returned to his place. 

"You are mad! You are mad!" said Morestal, who had come up to his son. "How dare you?"

And Jorancé joined in:

"Come, come, Philippe . .. This is not serious. .. . You are not going toback out, to withdraw. .. . "

Le Corbier silenced them and, addressing Philippe:

"Explain yourself, monsieur, " he said. "I do not understand. "

Philippe looked at his father again and, slowly, in a voice which hestrove to render firm as he spoke, answered:

"I say, monsieur le ministre, that certain particulars in my evidenceare not accurate and that it is my duty to correct them. "

"Speak, monsieur, " said the under-secretary, with some harshness. 

Philippe did not hesitate. Facing old Morestal, who was quivering withindignation, he began, as though he were in a hurry to get it over:

"First of all, Private Baufeld did not say things that were quite asclear as those which I repeated. The words used were obscure andincoherent. "

"What! Why, your declarations are precise. .. . "

"Monsieur le ministre, when I gave my evidence for the first time beforethe examining-magistrate, I was under the shock of my father's arrest. Iwas under his influence. It seemed to me that the incident would have noconsequences if the arrest had been effected on German territory; and, when relating Private Baufeld's last words, in spite of myself, withoutknowing it, I interpreted them in the sense of my own wishes. Later on, I understood my mistake. I am now repairing it. "

He stopped. The under-secretary turned over his papers, no doubt readthrough Philippe's evidence and asked:

"As far as concerns Private Baufeld, have you nothing to add?"

Philippe's legs seemed on the point of giving way beneath him, so muchso that Le Corbier asked him to sit down. 

He obeyed and, mastering himself, said:

"Yes, I have. I have a revelation to make in this respect which is verypainful to me. My father evidently attached no importance to it; but itseems to me . .. "

"What do you mean?" cried Morestal. 

"Oh, father, I beseech you!" entreated Philippe, folding his handstogether. "We are not here to quarrel, nor to judge each other, but todo our duty. Mine is horrible. Do not discourage me. You shall condemnme afterwards, if you see cause. "

"I condemn you as it is, Philippe. "

Le Corbier made an imperious gesture and repeated, in a yet moreperemptory tone:

"Speak, M. Philippe Morestal. "

Philippe said, bringing the words out very quickly:

"Monsieur le ministre, Private Baufeld had relations on this side of thefrontier. His desertion was prepared, backed up. He knew the safe roadwhich he was to take. "

"Through whom did he know it?"

Philippe lowered his head and, with half-closed eyes, whispered:

"Through my father!"

"That's not true!" shouted old Morestal, purple with rage. "That's nottrue! I prepare . .. I!. .. "

"Here is the paper which I found in Private Baufeld's pocket, " saidPhilippe, handing a sheet of note-paper to Le Corbier. "It gives a sortof plan of escape, the road which the fugitive is to follow, the exactspot at which he is to cross the frontier so as to avoid the watchers. "

"What are you saying? What are you daring to say? A correspondencebetween me and that wretch!"

"The two words, 'Albern Path, ' are in your hand-writing, father, and itwas through the Albern Path that the deserter entered France. The sheetis a sheet of your own note-paper. "

Morestal gave a bound:

"And you took it from the waste-paper basket, where it lay torn andcrumpled! You did a thing like that, you, my son! You had the infamy. .. "

"Oh, father!"

"Then what? Answer!"

"Private Baufeld gave it me before his death. "

Morestal was standing opposite Philippe, with his arms crossed over hischest, and, so far from defending himself against his son's accusations, seemed rather to be addressing a culprit. 

And Philippe looked at him with eyes of anguish. At each blow that hestruck, at each sentence that he uttered, he detected the mark of awound on his father's face. A vein swelling on the old man's templesdistressed him beyond measure. He was terrified to see streaks of bloodmingle with the whites of his eyes. And he feared, at every moment, thathis father would fall like a tree which the axe has struck to the heart. 

The under-secretary, after examining the sheet of paper which Philippehad given him, resumed:

"In any case, M. Morestal, these lines were written by you?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre. I have already stated what the manDourlowski tried to get out of me and the answer which I gave him. "

"Was it the first time that the fellow made the attempt?. .. "

"The first time, " said Morestal, after an imperceptible hesitation. 

"Then this paper?. .. These lines?. .. "

"Those lines were written by me in the course of the conversation. Uponreflection, I threw away the paper. I see now that Dourlowski must havepicked it up behind my back and used it in order to carry out his plan. If the police had discovered it on the deserter, it would have been aproof of my guilt. At least, they would have interpreted it in that way. .. As my son does. I hope, monsieur le ministre, that thatinterpretation is not yours. "

Le Corbier sat thinking for a moment or two, consulted the documents andsaid:

"The two governments have agreed to leave outside the discussion allthat concerns Private Baufeld's desertion, the part played by the manDourlowski and the accusation of complicity made against the Frenchcommissary and against yourself, M. Morestal. These are legal questionswhich concern the German courts. The only purpose for which I have beendelegated is to ascertain whether or not the arrest took place on Frenchterritory. My instructions are extremely limited. I cannot go beyondthem. I will ask you, therefore, M. Philippe Morestal, to tell me, orrather to confirm to me, what you know on this subject. "

"I know nothing. "

A moment of stupefaction followed. Morestal, utterly bewildered, did noteven think of protesting. He evidently looked upon his son as mad. 

"You know nothing?" said the under-secretary, who did not yet clearlysee Philippe's object. "All the same, you have declared that you heardM. Jorancé's exclamation, 'We are in France!. .. They are arresting theFrench commissary!. .. '"

"I did not hear it. "

"What! What! But you were not two hundred yards away. .. . "

"I was nowhere near. I left my father at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêneand I neither saw nor heard what happened after we had parted. "

"Then why did you state the contrary, monsieur?"

"I repeat, monsieur le ministre, when my father returned, I at onceunderstood the importance of the first words which we should speak inthe presence of the examining-magistrate. I thought that, by supportingmy father's story, I should be helping to prevent trouble. To-day, inthe face of the inexorable facts, I am reverting to the pure and simpletruth. "

His replies were clear and unhesitating. There was no doubt that he wasfollowing a line of conduct which he had marked out in advance and fromwhich nothing would make him swerve. 

Morestal and Jorancé listened to him in dismay. 

Marthe sat silent and motionless, with her eyes glued to her husband's. 

Le Corbier concluded:

"You mean to say that you will not accept your share of theresponsibility?"

"I accept the responsibility for all that I have done. "

"But you withdraw from the case?"

"In so far as I am concerned, yes. "

"Then I must cancel your evidence and rely upon the unshaken testimonyof M. Morestal: is that it?"

Philippe was silent. 

"Eh, what?" cried Morestal. "You don't answer?"

There was a sort of entreaty in the old man's voice, a desperate appealto Philippe's better feelings. His anger almost fell, so great was hisunhappiness at seeing his son, his boy, a prey to this madness. 

"You mean that, don't you?" he resumed, gently. "You mean that monsieurle ministre can and must abide by my declarations?"

"No, " said Philippe, stubbornly. 

Morestal started:

"No? But why? What reason have you for answering like that? Why shouldyou?"

"Because, father, though the nature of your declarations has not varied, your attitude, during the last three days, proves that you areexperiencing a certain reticence, a certain hesitation. "

"What makes you say that?" asked Morestal, trembling all over, but asyet retaining his self-control. 

"Your certainty is not absolute. "

"How do you know? If you make an accusation, you must prove it. "

"I am not making an accusation. I am trying to state my exactimpression. "

"Your impression! What is that worth beside the facts? And it is factsthat I am asserting. "

"Facts interpreted by yourself, father, facts of which you cannot besure. No, no, you cannot! Remember, the other morning, Friday morning, we came back here and, while you were once more showing me the roadwhich you had covered, you said, 'Still, suppose I were mistaken!Suppose we had branched off more to the right! Suppose I weremistaken!'"

"That was an exaggeration of scruple! All my acts, on the contrary, allmy reflections . .. "

"There was no need to reflect! There was not even any need to return tothis road! The fact that you returned to it shows that you were harassedby a doubt. "

"I have not doubted for one second. "

"You believe that you do not doubt, father! You believe blindly in yourcertainty! And you believe because you do not see clearly. You havewithin you a sentiment that soars above all your thoughts and all youractions, an admirable sentiment, a sentiment that makes you great: it isyour love for France. You think that France is always in the rightagainst one and all, come what may, and that she would be disgraced ifshe were ever in the wrong. That was the frame of mind in which you gaveyour evidence before the examining-magistrate. And that is the frame ofmind which I ask you, monsieur le ministre, to take note of. "

"And you, " shouted old Morestal, bursting out at last, "I accuse you ofbeing impelled by some horrible sentiment against your father, againstyour country, by I can't say what infamous ideas. .. . "

"My ideas are outside the question. .. . "

"Your ideas, which I can guess, are at the back of your conduct and ofyour mental aberration. If I love France too well, you, you are tooready to forget your duty to her. "

"I love her as well as you do, father, " cried Philippe, passionately, "and better, perhaps! It is a love that sometimes moves me to tears, when I think of what she has been, of what she is, so beautiful, sointelligent, so great, so adorable for her charm and her good faith! Ilove her because she is the mother of every lofty idea. I love herbecause her language is the clearest and noblest of all languages. Ilove her because she is always marching on, regardless of consequences, and because she sings as she marches and because she is gay and activeand alive, always full of hopes and of illusions, and because she is thesmile on the face of the world. .. . But I cannot see that she would beany the less great or admirable for admitting that one of her officialswas captured twenty yards to the right of the frontier. "

"Why should she admit it, if it is not true?" said Morestal. 

"Why should she not admit it, if peace should be the outcome?" retortedPhilippe. 

"Peace! There's the great word at last!" sneered Morestal. "Peace! Youtoo have allowed yourself to be poisoned by the theories of the day!Peace at the price of disgrace: that's it, is it not?"

"Peace at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem. "

"That means dishonour. "

"No, no, " Philippe answered, in an outburst of enthusiasm. "It is thebeauty of a nation to raise itself above those miserable questions. AndFrance is worthy of it. You do not know it, father, but since the lastforty years, since that execrable date, since that accursed war thememory of which obsesses your mind and closes your eyes to everyreality of life, a new France has come into existence, a France whosegaze is fixed upon other truths, a France that longs to shake off theevil past, to repudiate all that remains to us of the ancient barbarismand to rid herself of the laws of blood and war. She cannot do so yet, but she is making for it with all her young ardour and all her growingconviction. And twice already, in ten years--in the heart of Africa, face to face with England; on the shores of Morocco, face to face withGermany--twice she has overcome her old barbarous instinct. "

"Shameful memories, for which every Frenchman blushes!"

"Glorious memories, of which we should be proud! One day, those will bethe fairest pages of our time; and those two dates will wipe out theexecrable date. That is the true revenge! That a nation which has neverknown fear, which has always, at the tragic hours of its history, settled its quarrels in the old barbarous fashion, sword in hand, thatsuch a nation should have raised itself to so magnificent a conceptionof beauty and civilization, that, I say, is its finest claim to glory!"

"Words! Words! It's the theory of peace at any price; and it is a liethat you are advising me to tell. "

"No, it is the possible truth that I ask you to admit, cruel though itmay be for you to do so. "

"But you know the truth, " cried Morestal, waving his arms in the air. "You've sworn it three times! You've signed it three times with yourname! You saw and heard the truth on the night of the attack!"

"I do not know it, " said Philippe, in a firm voice. "I was not there. Iwas not present when you were captured and carried off. I did not hearM. Jorancé's call. I swear it on my honour. I swear it on the heads ofmy children. I was not there. "

"Then where were you?" asked Marthe. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE STAGES TO CALVARY

The little sentence, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clearissue between the two adversaries. 

Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widenedthe discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each foughteagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew betterthan to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpectedlight would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words. 

Marthe's little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbier, from thebeginning of the scene, had noticed the young woman's strange attitude, her silence, her fevered glances that seemed to probe PhilippeMorestal's very soul. He understood the full value of the question fromher accent. No more vain declamations and eloquent theories! It was nolonger a matter of knowing which of the two, the father or the son, thought the more justly and served his country with the greaterdevotion. One thing alone carried weight; and Marthe had stated it inundeniable fashion. 

Philippe stood dumbfoundered. In the course of his reflections, he hadforeseen every demand, every supposition, every difficulty, in short, all the consequences of the action upon which he had resolved. But howcould he have foreseen this one, not knowing that Marthe would bepresent at that last and greatest interview? Before Le Corbier, beforehis father, supposing this detail entered their heads, he could inventan excuse of some kind. But before Marthe?. .. 

From that moment, he had the terrifying vision of the catastrophe thatwas preparing. A sweat covered his whole body. He ought to have facedthe danger bravely and piled explanation on explanation at the risk ofcontradicting himself. As it was, he turned red and stammered. And, inso doing, he put himself out of court. 

Morestal had resumed his seat. Le Corbier was waiting, impassively. Amidthe great silence, Marthe, now quite pale, speaking in a slow voice, which let fall the syllables one by one, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, I accuse my husband of perjury and falsehood. Itis now, when he withdraws his former evidence, that he is sinningagainst the truth, against a truth which he knows . .. Yes, he knows it, that I declare. By all that he has told me; by all that I know, I swearthat he never questioned his father's word. And I swear that he waspresent at the attack. "

"Then, " asked Le Corbier, "why does M. Philippe Morestal act as he isdoing now?"

"Monsieur le ministre, " replied Marthe, "my husband is the author of thepamphlet entitled, _Peace before All_!"

The disclosure created a sort of sensation. Le Corbier gave a start. Thecommissary wore an indignant air. As for old Morestal, he tried to standup, staggered and at once fell back in his seat. All his strength hadleft him. His anger gave way before an immense despair. He could nothave suffered more had he heard that Philippe was dead. 

And Marthe repeated:

"My husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled _Peace before All_!For the sake of his opinions, for the sake of consistency with theprofound, the exalted faith to which his views give rise within him, myhusband is capable . .. "

Le Corbier suggested:

"Of going to the length of a lie?"

"Yes, " she said. "False evidence can only appear insignificant to himbeside the great catastrophe which he wishes to avert; and hisconscience alone dictates his duty to him. Is it true, Philippe?"

He replied, gravely:

"Certainly. In the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed, whentwo nations are at daggers drawn over a wretched question ofself-esteem, I should not shrink from a lie that appears to me a duty. But I have no need to resort to that expedient. I have truth itself onmy side. I was not there. "

"Then where were you?" repeated Marthe. 

The little sentence rang out again, pitilessly. But, this time, Martheuttered it in a more hostile tone and with a gesture that underlined allits importance. And she at once added, plying him with questions:

"You did not come in until eight o'clock in the morning. Your bed wasnot undone. Consequently, you had not slept at the Old Mill. Where didyou spend the night?"

"I was looking for my father. "

"You did not know that your father had been carried off until PrivateBaufeld told you, at five o'clock in the morning. Consequently, it wasfive o'clock in the morning before you began to look for your father. "

"Yes. "

"And, at that moment, you had not yet returned to the Old Mill, because, I repeat, your bed was not undone. "

"No. "

"And where did you come from? What were you doing from eleven o'clock inthe evening, when you left your father, until five o'clock in themorning, when you heard of his capture?"

The cross-examination, with its unimpeachable logic, left Philippe noloop-hole for escape. He felt that he was lost. 

For a moment, he was on the point of throwing up the game andexclaiming:

"Well, yes, I was there. I heard everything. My father is right. We mustaccept his word. .. . "

This was a display of weakness which a man like Philippe was bound andfated to resist. On the other hand, how could he betray Suzanne?

He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered:

"I have nothing to say. "

Marthe, suddenly dropping her accusing tone and shaking with anguish, rushed up to him and cried:

"You have nothing to say? What do you mean? Oh, Philippe, I entreat you, speak!. .. Confess that you are lying and that you were there . .. Ibeseech you. .. . My mind is full of horrible thoughts. .. . Things havebeen happening--I have noticed them--which obsess me now. .. . It's nottrue, tell me that it's not true!"

He thought that he beheld salvation in this unexpected distress. Disarmed, reduced to silence by a sort of confession which he couldretract at leisure, his wife was making herself his accomplice andrescuing him by ceasing to attack him. 

"You must be silent, " he said, in a tone of command. "Your personalgrief must make way. .. . "

"What are you saying?"

"Be silent, Marthe. We shall have the explanation which you demand. Weshall have it later. But be silent. "

It was a useless piece of blundering. Like all women who love, Martheonly suffered the more from this semi-avowal. She fired up in her grief:

"No, Philippe, I will not be silent. .. . I want to know what your wordsmean. .. . You have no right to escape by a subterfuge. .. . I demand animmediate explanation, here and now. "

She had stood up and, facing her husband, emphasized each of her wordswith a short movement of the hand. Seeing that Philippe made no reply, Le Corbier now joined in:

"Mme. Philippe Morestal is right, monsieur. You must explain yourselfand not so much for her--that is a matter between yourselves--as for me, for the purpose of the clearness of my enquiry. Ever since we began, youhave kept to a sort of programme settled in advance and easily seenthrough. After denying your first depositions, you are trying todemolish your own father's evidence. The doubt which I was seekingbehind your replies you are now endeavouring to create in my mind bythrowing suspicion upon your father's statements by every means in yourpower. I have the right to ask myself if one of those means is notfalsehood--the word is not mine, monsieur, but your wife's--and if thelove of your opinions does not take precedence of the love of truth. "

"I am telling the truth, monsieur le ministre. "

"Then prove it. Are you giving false evidence now? Or was it on theformer occasions? How am I to know? I require a positive certainty. If Ican't have that, I shall take no notice of what you say and rely uponthe evidence of a witness who, at any rate, has never varied. "

"My father is mistaken. .. . My father is a victim of illusions. .. . "

"Until I receive a proof to the contrary, monsieur, your accusations cancarry no weight with me. They will do so only if you give me anundeniable proof of your sincerity. Now there is only one that wouldbear that undeniable character; and you refuse to supply me with it. .. . "

"But . .. "

"I tell you, monsieur, " Le Corbier interrupted, impatiently, "thatthere is no other question at issue. Either you were on the frontier atthe time of the attack and heard M. Jorancé's protests, in which caseyour former evidence and M. Morestal's retain all their importance, orelse you were not there, in which case it becomes your imperative dutyto prove to me that you were not there. It is very easy: where were youat that moment?"

Philippe had a fit of rebellion and, replying aloud to the thoughts thattortured him:

"Ah, no!" he said. "Ah, no!. .. It's not possible that I should be forcedto. .. . Nonsense, it would be monstrous!. .. "

It seemed to him as though a malevolent genius had been trying, for fourdays past, to direct events in such a way that he, Philippe, was underthe terrible necessity of accusing Suzanne. 

"No, a thousand times no!" he repeated, angrily. "There is no power thatcan compel me. .. . Say that I spent the night walking about, or sleepingby the roadside. Say what you please. .. . But leave me free in my actionsand my words. "

"In that case, " said the under-secretary of state, gathering up hispapers, "the enquiry is at an end and M. Morestal's evidence will serveas the basis on which I shall form my conclusions. "

"Very well, " retorted Philippe, beside himself. 

He began to walk, almost to run, around the tent. He was like a wildanimal seeking an outlet. Was he to throw up the work which he hadundertaken? Was he, the frail obstacle self-set against the torrent, tobe vanquished in his turn? Oh, how gladly he would have given his ownlife! He became aware of this, deep down in his inner consciousness. Andhe understood, as it were physically, the sacrifice of those who go totheir death smiling, when a great idea uplifts them. 

But in what respect would death have settled things? He must eitherspeak--and speak against Suzanne: a torture infinitely more exquisitethan death--or else resign himself. It was this or that: there was noalternative. 

He walked to and fro, as though tormented by the fire that devoured him. Was he to fling himself on his knees before Marthe and ask for mercy orto fold his hands before Le Corbier? He did not know. His brain wasbursting. And he had the harrowing feeling that all his efforts were invain and turning against himself. 

He stopped and said:

"Monsieur le ministre, your opinion alone matters; and I will attemptimpossibilities to make that opinion agree with the real facts. I amprepared for anything, monsieur le ministre . .. On one condition, however, that our interview is private. To you and to you alone I can. .. "

Once more, he found Marthe facing him, Marthe, the unforeseen enemy, who seemed to hold him gripped as a prey and who, fierce and pitilessand alive to the least attempt at stratagem, would never let him go. 

"I have the right to be there!" she cried. "You must explain yourself inmy presence! Your word will have no value unless I am there. .. . If not, I shall challenge it as a fresh lie. Monsieur le ministre, I put you onyour guard against a trick. .. . "

Le Corbier gave a sign of approval and, addressing Philippe:

"What is the use of a private interview, monsieur? Whatever credit I mayattach to your confidential statements, if I am to believe them franklyI must have a check with which only your wife and your father can supplyme. Unfortunately, after all your contradictory versions, I am entitledto doubt . .. "

"Monsieur le ministre, " Philippe hinted, "there are sometimescircumstances . .. Facts that cannot be revealed . .. Secrets of such anature . .. "

"You lie! You lie!" cried Marthe, maddened by the admission. "It is nottrue. A woman: is that what you mean? No . .. No. .. . Ah, Philippe, Ibeseech you!. .. Monsieur le ministre, I swear to you that he is lying. .. I swear it to you. .. . He is keeping up his falsehood to the bitterend. He betray me! He love another woman! You're lying, Philippe, areyou not? Oh, hush, hush!"

Suddenly, Philippe felt a hand wringing his arm. Turning round, he sawCommissary Jorancé, with a white, threatening face, and heard him say, in a dull voice:

"What did you mean to suggest? Whom are you talking about? Oh, I'll makeyou answer, trust me!"

Philippe stared at him in stupefaction. And he also stared at Marthe'sdistorted features. And he was surprised, for he did not think that hehad spoken words that could arouse their suspicions. 

"But you are all mad!" he said. "Come, M. Jorancé. .. . Come, Marthe. .. . What's the matter? I don't know what you can have understood. .. . Perhapsit's my fault . .. I am so tired!"

"Whom have you been talking about?" repeated Jorancé, shaking with rage. 

"Confess! Confess!" demanded Marthe, pressing him hard with all herjealous hatred. 

And, behind her, Philippe saw old Morestal, huddled in his chair, asthough unable to recover from the blows that had struck him. That wasPhilippe's first victim. Was he to offer up two more? He started:

"Enough! Enough!. .. This is all hateful. .. . There is a terriblemisunderstanding between us. .. . And all that I say only makes itworse. .. . We will have an explanation later, I promise you, M. Jorancé. .. . You also, Marthe, I swear it. .. . And you will realize yourmistake. But let us be silent now, please. .. . We have tortured oneanother long enough. "

He spoke in so resolute a voice that Jorancé stood undecided and Martheherself was shaken. Was he stating the truth? Was it simply amisunderstanding that divided them?

Le Corbier guessed the tragedy and, attacking Philippe in his turn, said:

"So, monsieur, I must look for no enlightenment on the point to whichyou drew my attention? And it is you yourself, is it not, who, by yourdefinite attitude, close the discussion?"

"Yes, " replied Philippe, firmly. 

"No, " protested Marthe, returning to the charge with indefatigablevigour. "No, it is not finished, monsieur le ministre; it cannot finishlike this. My husband, whether he meant to or not, has uttered wordswhich we have all interpreted in the same sense. If there is amisunderstanding, let it be dispelled now. And there is only one personwho can do so. That person is here. I ask to have that person calledin. "

"I don't know what you mean, " stammered Philippe. 

"Yes, you do, Philippe. You know to whom I refer and all the proofs thatgive me the right to . .. "

"Silence, Marthe, " commanded Philippe, beside himself. 

"Then confess. If not, I swear that . .. "

The sight of M. Jorancé stayed her threat. Unaware of Suzanne's presenceat the Butte-aux-Loups, Jorancé had ceased to understand; and hissuspicions, aroused by Philippe's imprudence, had become graduallyallayed. At the last moment, when on the point of putting herirreparable accusation into words, Marthe hesitated. Her hatred wasvanquished by the sight of the father's grief. 

Moreover, just then, a diversion occurred to bring about an armistice, as it were, in the midst of the implacable conflict. Le Corbier hadrisen hurriedly from his seat and drawn back the tent-fly. A quick stepwas heard outside. 

"Ah, there you are, Trébons!"

And he almost ran to fetch the young man in and plied him withquestions:

"Did you speak to the prime minister? What did he say?"

M. De Trébons entered the tent. But, on catching sight of the Morestalfamily, he turned back:

"Monsieur le ministre, I think it would be better . .. "

"No, no, Trébons. No one here is in the way . .. On the contrary. .. . Come, what is it? Bad news?"

"Very bad news, monsieur le ministre. The French embassy in Berlin hasbeen burnt down. .. . "

"Oh!" said Le Corbier. "Wasn't it guarded?"

"Yes, but the troops were overborne by the crowd. "

"Next?"

"Germany is mobilizing all her frontier army-corps. "

"But in Paris? What about Paris?"

"Nothing but riots. .. . The boulevards are overrun. .. . At this moment, the municipal guards are charging the mob to clear the approaches to thePalais-Bourbon. "

"But what do they want, when all is said?"

"War. "

The word rang out like a death-knell. After a few seconds, Le Corbierasked:

"Is that all?"

"The prime minister is anxiously awaiting your return. 'Don't let himlose a minute, ' he said. 'His report might spell safety. It is my lastshot. If it misses fire, I can't answer for what will happen. ' And headded, 'And, even then, it may be too late. '"

The silence was really excruciating around the table, in the littlespace inside that tent in which the cruelest of tragedies was hurlingagainst one another a group of noble souls united by the most loyalaffection. Each of them forgot his private suffering and thought only ofthe horror that loomed ahead. The sinister word was echoed in all theirhearts. 

Le Corbier gave a gesture of despair:

"His last shot! Yes, if my report gave him an opportunity of retreating!But . .. "

He watched old Morestal, as though he were still expecting a suddenretractation. What was the good? Supposing he took it upon himself toextenuate the old man's statements, Morestal was the sort ofuncompromising man who would give him the lie in public. And then thegovernment would find itself in an unenviable plight indeed!

"Well, " he said, "let fate take its course! We have done our veryutmost. My dear Trébons, is the motor at the cross-roads?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre. "

"Please collect the papers; we will go. We have an hour to reach thestation. It's more than we want. "

He picked up his hat, his coat, took a few steps to and fro and stoppedin front of Philippe. Philippe, he half thought, had perhaps not donehis utmost. Philippe perhaps had still one stage to travel. But how wasLe Corbier to find out? How was he to fathom that mysterious soul andread its insoluble riddle? Le Corbier knew those men endowed with themissionary spirit and capable, in furtherance of their cause, ofadmirable devotion, of almost superhuman sacrifice, but also ofhypocrisy, of craft, sometimes of crime. What was this PhilippeMorestal's evidence worth? What part exactly was he playing? Had hedeliberately and falsely given rise to the suspicion of some amorousmeeting? Or was he really carrying his heroism to the point of tellingthe truth?

Slowly, thoughtfully, as though in obedience to a new hope, Le Corbierwent back to his seat, flung his motor-coat on the table, sat down and, addressing M. De Trébons:

"One second more. .. . Leave the papers. And pray bring Mlle. SuzanneJorancé here. "

M. De Trébons left the tent. 

"Is Suzanne there?" asked Jorancé, in an anxious voice. "Was she therejust now?. .. "

He received no reply; and he vainly scrutinized the faces, one after theother, of those whom he was questioning. During the three or fourminutes that elapsed, none of the actors in the drama made the leastmovement. Morestal remained seated, with his head hanging on his chest. Marthe kept her eyes fixed on the opening of the tent. As for Philippe, he awaited this additional blow with anguish in his heart. The massacrewas not ended. Destiny ordained that, following upon his father, uponhis wife, upon Jorancé, he himself should sacrifice this fourth victim. 

Le Corbier, who was watching him, was overcome with an involuntaryfeeling of compassion, of sympathy almost. At that moment, Philippe'ssincerity seemed to him absolute and he felt inclined to abandon thetest. But distrust carried the day. Absurd though the supposition mightbe, he had an impression that this man was capable of falsely accusingthe girl in the presence of his wife, of his father and of Jorancéhimself. With Suzanne present, falsehood became impossible. The test wasa cruel one, but, however it was decided, it carried with it theunimpeachable certainty without which Le Corbier was unwilling to closehis enquiry. 

Philippe shook all over. Marthe and Jorancé rose from their seats. Thetent-fly was drawn aside. Suzanne entered. 

She at once gave a movement of recoil. At the first glance, at the firstsight of those motionless people, she suspected the danger which herfeminine instinct had already foreseen. And, deathly pale, deprived ofall her strength, she dared not come forward. 

Le Corbier took her hand and, gently:

"Please be seated, mademoiselle. It is possible that your evidence maybe of value to us to clear up a few points. "

There was only one vacant chair, next to Jorancé. Suzanne took a fewsteps and looked at her father, whom she had not seen since the eveningat Saint-Élophe. He turned away his head. She sat down trembling. 

Then Le Corbier, who was in a hurry to finish the business, walkedquickly up to Philippe and said:

"It is the last time, monsieur, that I shall apply to you. In a fewminutes, everything will be irrevocably ended. It depends on your goodwill. .. . "

But he went no further. Never had he beheld a face ravaged as Philippe'swas, nor ever so great an expression of strength and energy as showedthrough the chaos of those distorted features. He understood thatPhilippe had resolved to travel the last stage. He waited, without aword. 

And indeed, as though he too were eager to reach the terrible goal, Philippe spoke and said:

"Monsieur le ministre, if I tell you for certain how I spent my night, will my words have an unimpeachable value in your mind?"

His voice was almost calm. His eyes had selected a spot in the tent fromwhich he no longer dared remove them, for he feared to meet Marthe'seyes, or Jorancé's, or Suzanne's. 

Le Corbier replied:

"An unimpeachable value. "

"Will they tend to lessen the importance of my father's statements?"

"Yes, for I shall have to weigh those statements against the words of aman whose perfect sincerity I shall no longer have cause to doubt. "

Philippe was silent. His forehead oozed sweat at every pore and hestaggered like a drunken man on the point of falling. 

Le Corbier insisted:

"Speak without scruple, monsieur. There are circumstances in which a manmust look straight before him and in which the aim to be attained must, in a measure, blind him. "

Philippe continued:

"And you think, monsieur le ministre, that your report, thus modified, may have a decisive influence in Paris?"

"I say so, positively. The prime minister has allowed me to look intohis secret thoughts. Moreover, I know what he is capable of doing. Ifthe conclusions of my report give him a little latitude, he will ring upthe German embassy and mount the tribune in order to bring the chamber, to bring the country face to face with the facts as they are. Thecabinet will fall amid a general outcry, there will be a few riots, butwe shall have peace . .. And peace, as you, monsieur, were saying amoment ago, peace without dishonour, at the price of an infinitesimalsacrifice of self-esteem, which will make France greater than ever. "

"Yes . .. Yes . .. " said Philippe. "But, if it should be too late? If itshould no longer be possible to prevent anything?"

"That, " said Le Corbier, "is a thing which we cannot foretell. .. . Itmay, as a matter of fact, be too late. .. . "

This was the hardest thought of all for Philippe. Deep hollows appearedin his cheeks. The minutes seemed to age him like long years ofsickness. The sight of him suggested the faces of the dying martyrs incertain primitive pictures. Nothing short of physical pain can thusconvulse the features of a man's countenance. And he really suffered asmuch as if he were being stretched on the rack and burnt with red-hotpincers. Nevertheless, he felt that his mind remained lucid, as must bethat of the martyrs undergoing torture, and he clearly understood that, in consequence of a series of inexorable facts, he had, for a fewmoments--but on the most terrible conditions!--the power of perhaps . .. Of perhaps saving the world from the great scourge of war. 

He stiffened himself and, livid in the face, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, what my wife suspected, what you have alreadyguessed, is the exact truth. On Monday night, while the arrest wastaking place and while the two captives were being carried to Germany, Iwas with Suzanne Jorancé. "

It was as though Jorancé, standing behind him, had been waiting for theaccusation as for an attack that must be parried without delay:

"Suzanne! My daughter!" he cried, seizing Philippe by the collar of hisjacket. "What are you saying, you villain? How dare you?"

Marthe had not stirred, remained as though stunned. Old Morestalprotested indignantly. Philippe whispered:

"I am saying what happened. "

"You lie! You lie!" roared Jorancé. "My daughter, the purest, the mosthonest girl in the world! Why don't you confess that you lie?. .. Confessit!. .. Confess it!. .. "

The poor man was choking. The words were caught short in his throat. Hiswhole frame seemed to quiver; and his eyes were filled with gleams ofhatred and murderous longings and anger and, above all, pain, infinite, pitiless, human pain. 

And he entreated and commanded by turns:

"Confess, confess!. .. You're lying, aren't you?. .. It's because of youropinions, that's it, because of your opinions!. .. You want a proof . .. An alibi . .. And so . .. "

And, addressing Le Corbier:

"Leave me alone with him, monsieur le ministre. .. . He will confess to methat he is lying, that he is talking like that because he has to . .. Orbecause he is mad . .. Who knows? Yes, because he is mad!. .. How couldshe love you? Why should she? Since when? She, who is your wife'sfriend. .. . Get out, I know my daughter!. .. But answer, you villain!. .. Morestal, my friend, make him answer . .. Make him give his proofs. .. . And you, Suzanne, why don't you spit in his face?"

He turned upon Suzanne; and Marthe, rousing herself from her torpor, went up to the girl, as he did. 

Suzanne stood tottering on her feet, with averted gaze. 

"Well, what's this?" roared her father. "Won't you answer either?Haven't you a word to answer to that liar?"

She tried to speak, stammered a few confused syllables and was silent. 

Philippe met her eyes, the eyes of a hunted fawn, a pair of poor eyespleading for help. 

"You admit it! You admit it!" shouted Jorancé. 

And he made a sudden rush at her; and Philippe, as in a nightmare, sawSuzanne flung back, shaken by her father, struck by Marthe, who, shetoo, in an abrupt fit of fury, demanded the useless confession. 

It was a horrible and violent scene. Le Corbier and M. De Trébonsinterfered, while Morestal, shaking his fist at Philippe, cried:

"I curse you! You're a criminal! Let her be, Jorancé. She couldn't helpit, poor thing. He is the one to blame. .. . Yes, you, you, my son!. .. AndI curse you. .. . I turn you out. .. . "

The old man pressed his hand to his heart, stammered a few words more, begging Jorancé's pardon and promising to look after his daughter, thenturned on his heels and fell against the table, fainting. .. . 

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE ARMED VIGIL

"Ma'am!"

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Mme. Morestal, waking with astart. 

"It's I, Catherine. "

"Well?"

"They have sent from the town-hall, ma'am. .. . They are asking for themaster. .. . They want instructions. .. . Victor says the troops are beingmobilized. .. . "

The day before, after his fainting-fit at the Butte-aux-Loups, oldMorestal was carried back to the Old Mill on a litter by the soldiers ofthe detachment. Marthe, who came with him, flung a few words ofexplanation to her mother-in-law and, without paying attention to thegood woman's lamentations, without even speaking to her of Philippe andof what could have become of him, ran to her room and locked herself in. 

Dr. Borel was hurriedly sent for. He examined the patient, diagnosedserious trouble in the region of the heart and refused to give anopinion. 

The house was at sixes and sevens during the evening and all throughthat Sunday night. Catherine and Victor ran to and fro. Mme. Morestal, generally so level-headed, but accustomed to bewail her fate on greatoccasions, nursed the sick man and issued a multiplicity of orders. Twice she sent the gardener to the chemist at Saint-Élophe. 

At midnight, the old man was suffering so much that Dr. Borel was calledin again. He seemed anxious and administered an injection of morphia. 

There followed a few hours of comparative calm; and Mme. Morestal, although tortured at Philippe's absence and fearing that he might dosomething rash, was able to lie down on the sofa. 

It was then that Catherine rushed into the room, at the risk ofdisturbing the patient's rest. 

Mme. Morestal ended by bundling her off:

"Hold your tongue, can't you? Don't you see that your master's asleep?"

"They're mobilizing the troops, ma'am. .. . It's certain that we shallhave war. .. . "

"Oh, don't bother us with your war!" growled the good woman, pushing herout of the room. "Boil some water for your master and don't waste yourtime talking nonsense. "

She herself went to work at once. But all around her was a confusednoise of murmurs and exclamations, coming from the terrace, the gardenand the house. 

Morestal woke up at nine o'clock. 

"Suzanne! Where's Suzanne?" he asked, almost before he opened his eyes. 

"What! Suzanne!. .. "

"Why, yes . .. Why, of course, Suzanne!. .. I promised her father. .. . Noone has a better right to live in this house. .. . Philippe's not here, Isuppose?"

He raised himself in bed, furious at the mere thought. 

"He has not come in, " said his wife. "We don't know where he is. .. . "

"That's all right! He'd better not come back!. .. I've turned him out. .. . And now I want Suzanne. .. . She shall nurse me . .. She alone, do youunderstand?. .. "

"Come, Morestal, you surely wouldn't ask . .. It's not possible forSuzanne to . .. "

But her husband's features were contracted with such a look of angerthat she dared not protest further:

"As you please, " she said. "After all, if you think right. .. . "

She consulted Dr. Borel by telephone. He replied that the patient muston no account be thwarted. Moreover, he undertook to see the girl, topoint out to her the duty that called her to the Old Mill and toovercome any reluctance on her part. 

Dr. Borel himself brought Suzanne to the house at about twelve o'clock. Red with shame, her eyes swollen with tears, she submitted to Mme. Morestal's humiliating reception and took her seat by the old man'sbedside. 

He gave a sigh of content when he saw her:

"Ah, I'm glad!. .. I feel better already. .. . You won't leave me, willyou, my little Suzanne?"

And he fell asleep again almost at once, under the action of a freshinjection of morphia. 

As on the previous evening, the dining-room at the Old Mill remainedempty. The maid took a light meal on a tray to Mme. Morestal and, next, to Marthe. But Marthe did not even answer her knock. 

Marthe Morestal had not left her room during the morning; and all dayshe stayed alone, with her door bolted and her shutters closed. She saton the edge of a chair and, bent in two, held her fists to her jaws andclenched her teeth so as not to scream aloud. It would have done hergood to cry; and she sometimes thought that her suffering was about tofind an outlet in sobbing; but the relief of tears did not come tomoisten her eyes. And, stubbornly, viciously, she went over the wholepitiful story, recalling Suzanne's stay in Paris, the excursions onwhich Philippe used to take the young girl and from which they bothreturned looking so happy and glad, their meeting at the Old Mill, Philippe's departure for Saint-Élophe and, the next day, Suzanne'sstrange attitude, her ambiguous questions, her spiteful smile, as of arival endeavouring to hurt the wife and hoping to supplant her. Oh, whata cruel business! And how hateful and wicked life, once so sweet, nowseemed to her!

At six o'clock, driven by hunger, she went down to the dining-room. Asshe came out, after eating a little bread and drinking a glass of water, she saw Mme. Morestal going down the front-door steps to meet thedoctor. She then remembered that her father-in-law was ill and that shehad not yet seen him. His bedroom was close by. She crossed the passage, knocked, heard a voice--the voice of a nurse, she thought--say "Comein, " and opened the door. 

Opposite her, at a few steps' distance, beside the sleeping man, wasSuzanne. 

"You! You!" fumed Marthe. "You here!. .. "

Suzanne began to tremble under her fixed gaze and stammered:

"It was your father-in-law. .. . He insisted. .. . The doctor came . .. "

And, with her knees giving way beneath her, she said, over and overagain:

"I beg your pardon. .. . Forgive me . .. Forgive me. .. . It was my fault. .. . Philippe would never have . .. "

Marthe at first listened without stirring. Perhaps she might have beenjust able to restrain herself. But, at the name of Philippe, at the nameof Philippe uttered by Suzanne, she gave a bound, clutched the girl bythe throat and flung her back against the table. She quivered with ragelike an animal that at last holds its foe. She would have liked todestroy that body which her husband had clasped in his arms, to tear it, bite it, hurt it, hurt it as much as she could. 

Suzanne gurgled under the onslaught. Then, losing her head, Marthe, stiff-fingered, clawed her with her nails on the forehead, on thecheeks, on the lips, those moist, red lips which Philippe had kissed. Her hatred gained new life with every movement. Blood flowed and mingledwith Suzanne's tears. Marthe vilified her with abominable words, wordswhich she had never spoken before. And, drunk with rage, thrice she spatin her face. 

She ran out of the room, turned back, hissed a parting insult, slammedthe door and went down the passage, calling:

"Victor! Catherine!"

Once in her room, she pressed the bell-push until the servants came:

"My trunk! Bring it down! And get the carriage ready, Victor, do youhear? At once!. .. "

Mme. Morestal appeared, attracted by the noise. Dr. Borel was with her. 

"What's the matter, Marthe? What is it?"

"I refuse to stay here another hour!" retorted Marthe, heedless of thepresence of the doctor and the servants. "You can choose between Suzanneand me. .. . "

"My husband promised . .. "

"Very well. As you choose that woman, I am going. "

She opened the drawers of the chest and flung the dresses and linen outpromiscuously. With an abrupt movement, she pulled the cloth from thetable. All the knicknacks fell to the floor. 

Dr. Borel tried to argue with her:

"This is all very well, but where are you going?"

"To Paris. My boys will come to me there. "

"But haven't you seen the papers? The position is growing more seriousevery hour. The frontier-corps are being mobilized. Are you sure ofgetting through?"

"I am going, " she said. 

"And suppose you don't reach Paris?"

"I am going, " she repeated. 

"What about Philippe?"

She shrugged her shoulders. He understood that nothing mattered to her, neither her husband's existence nor the threat of war, and that therewas no fighting against her despair. Nevertheless, as he went away withMme. Morestal, he said, loud enough for Marthe to hear:

"By the way, don't be uneasy about Philippe. He has been to see me andto enquire after his father. He will come back. I promised to let himknow how things were going. .. . "

When Victor came, at seven o'clock, to say that the carriage was ready, Marthe had changed her mind. The thought that Philippe was hanging aboutthe neighbourhood, that he might return to the house, that Suzanne andhe would stay under the same roof and see each other as and when theypleased was more than she could bear. She remained, therefore, butstanding behind her door, with her ears pricked up to catch the firstsound. When everybody had gone to bed, she went downstairs and hidherself, until break of day, in a recess in the entrance-hall. She wasprepared to spring out at the least creak on the stair, for she feltconvinced that Suzanne would slip out in the dark with the object ofjoining Philippe. This time, Marthe would have killed her. And herjealousy was so exasperated that she lay in wait, not with fear, butwith the fierce hope that Suzanne was really going to appear before her. 

Fits such as these, which are abnormal in a woman like Marthe, who, atordinary times, obeyed her reason more readily than her instinct, fitssuch as these do not last. Marthe ended by suddenly bursting into sobs. After crying for a long time, she went up to her room and, worn out withfatigue, got into bed. 

 * * *

That morning, on the Tuesday, Philippe came to the Old Mill. Mme. Morestal was told and hurried down, in a great state of excitement, eager to vent her wrath upon her unworthy son. But, at the sight of himstanding outside on the terrace, she overcame her need of recriminationand uttered no reproach, so frightened was she at seeing him look sopale and sad. 

She asked:

"Where have you been?"

"What does it matter?" replied Philippe. "I ought not to have come back. .. But I could not keep away, because of father. .. . I was too muchupset. .. . How is he?"

"Dr. Borel won't say anything definite yet. "

"And what is your opinion?"

"My opinion? Well, frankly speaking, I am very hopeful. Your father isso strong! But, all the same, it was a violent shock. .. . "

"Yes, " he said, "that is what alarms me. I have not lived, these lasttwo days. How could I possibly go before knowing for certain?. .. "

She hinted, with a certain feeling of apprehension:

"Then you want to stay here?"

"Yes . .. Provided he does not know. "

"The fact is . .. It's like this . .. Suzanne is here, in your father'sroom. .. . He insisted on her coming. .. . "

"Oh!" he said. "Is Suzanne here?"

"Where would you have her go? She has no one left. Who knows whenJorancé will be out of prison? And, besides, will he ever forgive her?"

He stood wrapped in thought and asked:

"Has Marthe met her?"

"There was a terrible scene between them. I found Suzanne with her facestreaming with blood, all over scratches. "

"Oh, the poor things!" he murmured. "The poor things!. .. "

His head fell; and, presently, she saw that he was weeping. 

As she had no word of consolation to offer him, she turned round andwalked to the drawing-room, where she shifted the furniture so as tohave the satisfaction of putting it back in its place. She tried to finda pretext to utter her resentment. When Philippe sat down at the table, she showed him the newspapers:

"Have you seen them?"

"Yes, the news is bad. "

"That's not the point. The point is that the cabinet has fallen on thepublication of the under-secretary's report. The whole Chamber rose upin protest. "

"Well?"

"Well, that report is the one based upon the last enquiry . .. Of twodays ago . .. At the Butte-aux-Loups. .. . So you see . .. "

Philippe felt a need to justify himself:

"You forget, mother, that there was an unexpected factor in the case. Before the sitting of the Chamber, a telegram had been publishedreporting the words spoken by the emperor after hearing theStatthalter's explanation. "

He pointed to one of the papers:

"Here, mother, read this. These are the emperor's own words: 'Ourconscience is now at ease. We had the might; we have the right. Goddecide the issue! I am ready. ' And the Chamber, when condemning andoverthrowing a ministry that was prepared for conciliation, intended toreply to words which it looked upon as provocative. "

"Very well, " said the old lady. "But, all the same, the report made nodifference. "

"Yes, that is so. "

"Then what was the good of all your fuss and bothering? It was no usedoing so much harm, considering that it served no purpose. "

Philippe shook his head:

"It had to be. Certain actions must be performed and they should not bejudged by the consequences which accident thrusts upon them, but bythose which we expected of them, in all human logic and in all goodfaith. "

"Empty phrases!" she said, obstinately. "You ought not to have doneit. .. . It was a very useless piece of heroism. .. . "

"Don't think that, mother. There was no need to be a hero to act as Idid. It was enough to be an honest man. No one with the same clearvision as myself of what might happen would have hesitated any more thanI did. "

"So you regret nothing?"

He took her hand and, sadly:

"Oh, mother, how can you talk like that, you who know me? How can I beindifferent to all this break-up around me?"

He spoke the words with such despondency that she received an insightinto his distress. But her anger with him was too great and especiallytheir natures were too different for her to be touched by it. Sheconcluded:

"No matter, my boy, it's all your fault. If you had not listened toSuzanne. .. . "

He did not reply. The accusation cut into the most sensitive part of awound which nothing could allay; and he was not the man to seek excuses. 

"Come, " said his mother. 

She took him to another room on the second floor, further than the firstfrom that which Marthe occupied:

"Victor will bring you your bag and serve your meals in here; that willbe best. And I will let your wife know. "

"Give her this letter, which I got ready for her, " he said. "It is onlyasking for an interview, an explanation. She can't refuse. "

 * * *

In this way, in the course of that Tuesday, the Morestal family wereonce more gathered under the same roof; but in what heart-rendingconditions! And how great was the hatred that now divided those beingsonce united by so warm an affection!

Philippe felt the disaster in a way that was, so to speak, visible andpalpable, during these hours in which each of his victims remainedlocked up, as though in a torture-chamber. Nothing could have distractedhis mind from its obsession, and even the fear of that accursed warwhich he had not been able to avert. 

And yet news reached him at every moment, threatening news, like thenews of a plague that comes nearer and nearer, despite the distance, despite the intervening waters. 

At lunch-time, it was Victor, who had hardly entered the room withPhilippe's tray before he exclaimed:

"Have you heard of the telegram from England, sir? The British premierhas declared in parliament that, if war came, he would land a hundredthousand men at Brest and Cherbourg. That means an open alliance. "

Later on, he heard the gardener's son, Henriot, returning on his bicyclefrom Saint-Élophe, shouting to his father and Victor:

"There's a mutiny at Strasburg! They're barricading the streets! They'veblown up one of the barracks!"

And Victor at once telephoned to the _Éclaireur des Vosges_, pretendingthat he was doing so on behalf of M. Morestal, and came running up toPhilippe's room:

"M. Philippe, Strasburg is in a state of insurrection. .. . All thepeasants of the country around have taken up arms. "

And Philippe reflected that there was no hope, that the governmentswould have their hands forced. And he reflected upon it almost calmly. His part was played. Nothing interested him now but his personal sorrow, the health of his father, the sufferings of Marthe and Suzanne, thosefirst victims of the hateful scourge. 

At five o'clock, he heard that one of the countries had issued anultimatum against the other. Which of the two countries? And what wasthe purport of the ultimatum? He was unable to learn. 

At nine o'clock, the telegrams announced that the new cabinet, chosenfor the greater part from among the members of the opposition, had movedthe immediate creation of "a Committee of National Safety, charged totake all the necessary measures for the defence of the country in caseof war. " The Chamber had passed the motion through its various stages inone sitting and had appointed the Governor of Paris head of theCommittee of National Safety, with discretionary powers. This implied aneventual dictatorship. 

All that Tuesday night, the Old Mill, silent and gloomy within doors, was filled with noise and excitement from without, a prey to the feverthat precedes great catastrophes. Victor, the gardener and thegardener's son by turns bicycled at full speed to Saint-Élophe, whereother people were bringing news from the sub-prefecture. The womenmoaned and wailed. At three o'clock in the morning, Philippedistinguished the angry voice of Farmer Saboureux. 

At daybreak, there was a lull. Philippe, exhausted by so many sleeplessnights, ended by dozing off and, while still asleep, heard the sound offootsteps coming and going over the pebbles in the garden. Then, suddenly, pretty late in the morning, he was awakened by a clamouroutside. 

He sprang out of bed. In front of the steps, Victor leapt from hishorse, shouting:

"The ultimatum is rejected. It's war. It's war!"

CHAPTER II

THEY WHO GO TO THEIR DEATH

Philippe went downstairs as soon as he was dressed. He found all theservants gathered in the hall, discussing the news. Victor confirmed it:he had come straight from Noirmont. 

Moreover, the postman had heard from a gendarme that the railway-stationat the sub-prefecture was occupied by soldiers. He himself, when he leftSaint-Élophe, had seen army telegraphists on duty in the post-office. 

These hasty measures fitted in with the rejection of the ultimatum andwent to prove the imminence of the dreaded catastrophe. 

Philippe could not help saying:

"That means war. "

"It's what I've been shouting from the house-tops for the last twodays!" proclaimed Victor, who seemed greatly excited. "Oughtn't we tomake preparations, here? At two steps from the frontier?"

But a bell rang. Catherine ran to the drawing-room, where Mme. Morestalappeared:

"Where were you? I have been looking for you. Hasn't the doctor been?Oh, there you are, Philippe! Quick, telephone to the doctor. .. . "

"Is my father . .. ?"

"Your father is better; but, all the same, he's sleeping longer than heought. .. . It may be the morphia. .. . You had better telephone. "

She left the room. Philippe was taking down the receiver, when some onetapped him on the shoulder. It was Victor, whose excitement wasincreasing every moment and who asked him with a perplexed air:

"What are we to do, M. Philippe? Are we going to stay here? Or go awayand shut up the house? The mistress does not realize . .. "

And, without waiting for the answer, he turned round:

"Isn't it so, Catherine, the mistress does not realize. .. . The master'squite well again. .. . Well, then, they should make up their minds!. .. "

"Of course, one must be prepared for everything, " said the maid-servant. "Suppose the enemy invade us?"

They both of them walked up and down the drawing-room, opening thedoors, shutting them again, making gestures through the window. 

An old woman entered, an old woman who was employed at the Old Mill asa charwoman. She waved her arms about:

"Is it true? Is it true? Are we going to war? And my son, the youngest, who is with his regiment?. .. And the other, who is in the reserve?. .. Isit true? No, tell me it's not true! It's all nonsense they're talking!"

"Nonsense, indeed!" said the gardener's wife, appearing on the scene. "You'll soon see if it's nonsense!. .. They'll all have to go . .. Myhusband too, who's in the reserve of veterans. "

She was accompanied by a child of three or four years old and in herarms carried another, in swaddling-clothes, who was whimpering. 

"Of course they'll have to go, " said Victor. "And what about me? You'llsee, they'll call me to the colours, though I'm past the age!. .. You'llsee!. .. "

"You as well as the rest, " grinned the gardener, who now entered in histurn. "As long as one can hold a rifle. .. . But our eldest, Henriot, who's sixteen: do you think they'll forget him?"

"Oh, as for him, " scolded the mother, "I shall hide him if they try totake him from me!"

"And what about the gendarmes?"

All were gesticulating and talking together. And Victor repeated:

"Meantime, we had better be off. Shut up the house and go. That's thewisest. We can't remain here like this, at two steps from the frontier. "

In his eyes, war represented the disordered flight of the old men andthe women, running away in herds and pushing before them carts loadedwith furniture and bedding. And he stamped his foot, resolved uponmaking an immediate move. 

But a great hullabaloo arose on the terrace. A little farm-labourer camerushing into the drawing-room:

"He's seen some! He's seen some!"

He was running in front of his employer, Farmer Saboureux, who arrivedlike a whirlwind, with his eyes starting out of his head:

"I've seen some! I've seen some! There were five of them! I've seensome!"

"Seen what? Seen what?" said Victor, shaking him. "What have you seen?"

"Uhlans!"

"Uhlans! Are you sure?"

"As I see you now! There were five of them on horseback! Oh, I knew themagain . .. It wasn't the first time!. .. Uhlans, I tell you!. .. They'llburn everything down!"

Mme. Morestal came running up at the noise which he made:

"Do be quiet! What's the matter with you?"

"I've seen some!" yelled Saboureux. "Uhlans! They've gone off to fetchthe others. "

"Uhlans!" she gasped in dismay. 

"Yes, like last time!"

"Oh, heaven! Is it possible?"

"I saw them, I say. .. . Go and tell monsieur le maire. "

She lost her temper:

"Tell him? But he's ill!. .. And be quiet, you, I've had enough of it. .. . Philippe, is the doctor coming?"

Philippe put down the telephone:

"The line is engaged by the military, it's not available for privatecommunications. "

"Oh, but this is terrible!" said the old lady. "What's to become of us?"

She thought only of Morestal, confined to his room, and of theinconvenience which he would suffer through this state of things. 

A bicycle-bell was heard outside. 

"Ah!" cried the gardener, leaning out of the window on the garden side. "There's my boy coming. .. . How the rascal is growing! And you think, mother, that they'll leave him at home to pluck the geese? A sharp ladlike that?. .. "

A few seconds later, the boy was in the drawing-room. Breathless, staggering, he reeled back against the table and blurted out, in ahollow voice:

"It's . .. War!. .. "

Philippe, who retained some hope in spite of everything, flew at him:

"War?"

"Yes . .. It's declared. .. . "

"By whom?"

"They didn't say. "

And Saboureux, seized with fresh anger, stuttered:

"Of course!. .. I said so!. .. I saw the Uhlans . .. There were five ofthem. "

There was a stir among the servants. All rushed to meet a new arrival, Gridoux, the official game-keeper, who came prancing along the terrace, brandishing a stick. He pushed them aside:

"Don't bother me!. .. I've a message to give! Where's monsieur le maire?He must come at once! They're waiting for him!"

He seemed furious at not finding the Mayor of Saint-Élophe there, readyto go back with him. 

"Not so loud, not so loud, Gridoux, " Mme. Morestal ordered. "You'll wakehim up. "

"He's got to be woke up. I've been sent from the town-hall. .. . He's gotto come at once. "

Philippe laid hold of him:

"Stop that noise, I tell you, hang it all! My father is ill. "

"That doesn't matter. I've got the butcher's cart. .. . I'll take him withme straight away, as he is. "

"But it's impossible, " moaned Mme. Morestal. "He's in bed. "

"That doesn't matter. .. . There's orders to be given. .. . There's a wholecompany of soldiers . .. Soldiers from the manoeuvres. .. . The town-hallis upside down. .. . He's the only one to put things right. "

"Nonsense! Where are his deputies? Arnauld? Walter?"

"They've lost their heads. "

"Who's at the town-hall?"

"Everybody. "

"The parish-priest?"

"A milksop!"

"The parson?"

"An ass! There's only one man who isn't crying like the others. .. . ButM. Morestal would never consent. .. . They're not friends. "

"Who is that?"

"The school-master. "

"Let them obey him, then!. .. The school-master will do!. .. Let him giveorders in my husband's name. "

The wish to save Morestal any annoyance gave her a sudden authority. And she pushed everybody out, to the stairs, to the hall:

"There, go away, all of you. .. . Gridoux, go back to the town-hall. .. . "

"Yes, that's it, " said Saboureux, gripping the gamekeeper's arm, "goback to Saint-Élophe, Gridoux, and send the soldiers to me, eh? Let themdefend me, hang it all! The Uhlans will burn down everything, my house, my barn!"

They all went out in high excitement. Philippe was able for a long timeto distinguish Farmer Saboureux's exclamations through the gardenwindow. And the picture of all those anxious, noisy people, drunk withtalk and action, rushing from side to side in obedience to unreasoningimpulses, that picture suggested to him a vision of the great mad crowdswhich the war was about to let loose like the waves of a sea. 

"Come on, " he said. "It's time to act. "

He took a railway-guide from the table and turned up the station atLangoux. The new strategic line passed through Langoux, the line whichfollows the Vosges and runs down to Belfort and Switzerland. He foundthat he could reach Bâle and sleep at Zurich that same evening. 

He stood up and looked around him, with his heart wrung at the thoughtof going away like that, without bidding good-bye to any one. Marthehad not answered his letter and remained invisible. His father hadturned him out and would never forgive him. He must go away by stealth, like a malefactor. "Well, " he murmured, thinking of the act which he wason the point of accomplishing, "it's better so. In any case and in spiteof everything, I was bound, now that war has been declared, to appear amiscreant and a renegade in my father's eyes. Have I the right to robhim of the least affectionate word?"

Mme. Morestal came up from the garden and he heard her moaning:

"War! Oh, heaven, war, like last time! And your poor father forced tokeep his bed! Ah, Philippe, it's the end of all things!"

She shifted a few chairs in their places, wiped the table-cover with herapron and, when the drawing-room seemed tidy to her eyes, went to thedoor:

"Perhaps he is awake. .. . What will he want to do, when he hears?. .. Ifonly he keeps quiet! A man of his age . .. "

Philippe went up to her, in an instinctive burst of confidence:

"You know I'm going, mother?"

She replied:

"You're going? Well, yes, you are right. I dare say I shall persuadeMarthe to come back to you. .. . "

He shook his head:

"I'm afraid not. .. . "

"Yes, yes, " she declared, "Marthe loves you very much. And then thereare the children to bring you together. Leave it to me. .. . The same withyour father: don't be alarmed. .. . Everything will smooth down in timebetween the two of you. Go, my boy. .. . Write to me often. .. . "

"Won't you kiss me, mother?"

She kissed him on the forehead, a quick, cold kiss that revealed herlingering bitterness. 

But, as she was opening the door, she stopped, reflected and said:

"You are going back to Paris, are you not? To your own place?"

"Why do you ask, mother?"

"An idea that came to me, that's all. My head is in such a state, because of your father, that I did not think of it before. .. . "

"What idea? Can you tell me?"

"About this war. .. . But, no, as a professor, you're exempt, aren't you?"

He understood her fears and, as he was unable to reassure her byconfessing his secret intentions, he did not enlighten her further:

"Yes, " he said, "I'm exempt. "

"Still, you spent some time in the reserve?"

"Only at the government offices. And that's where we serve in time ofwar. "

"Oh, " she said, "that's all right, that's all right!. .. Else I shouldhave been very anxious. .. . You see, the mere thought that you might befighting . .. That you might be wounded . .. Oh, it would be horrible!"

She drew him to her with a sort of violence that delighted Philippe andkissed him as he had longed to be kissed. He was nearly saying:

"Do you understand, mother darling?. .. Do you understand what I wastrying to do, the other day? Thousands and thousands of mothers will bemade to shed tears. .. . Great as our private troubles are, they willpass. Those which begin to-morrow will never pass. Death isirreparable. "

But why waste words? Did not his mother's emotion prove him absolutelyright?

They remained for a few moments locked in each other's embrace and theold lady's tears fell upon Philippe's cheeks. 

At last, she said:

"You are not going at once, are you?"

"As soon as I have packed my bag. "

"What a hurry you are in! Besides, there's no train yet. No, I want tokiss you once more and to make sure that you have all you want. Andthen it's impossible for you and Marthe to part like this. I will speakto her presently. But I must go to your father first: he may wantme. .. . "

He went with her as far as the sick man's room and, as she had takenfrom a cupboard a pile of towels that filled her arms, she said:

"Open the door for me, will you?"

Then he saw his father at the other end of the room, lying lifeless, very pale in the face, and Suzanne sitting at the foot of the bed. Heclearly distinguished the red scratches on her cheeks and chin. 

"Shut the door, Suzanne, " said Mme. Morestal, when she was inside. 

Suzanne did so. As she approached, she saw Philippe in the dusk of thepassage. She did not make a movement nor give a start; and she closedthe door upon him as though he had not been there. 

"She too, " thought Philippe, "she too will never forgive me, any morethan my father or Marthe. "

And he resolved to go away at once, now that his mother's affection hadgiven him a little comfort. 

He found Victor at the foot of the garden-steps, indulging inlamentations in the midst of the other servants and recommendingimmediate flight:

"We can pack up the plate, the clocks, the valuables in an hour and beoff. .. . When the enemy arrive, they will find no one here. .. . "

Philippe called him and asked if it was possible to get a carriage atSaint-Élophe:

"Oh, are you going, sir? You are quite right. But not just yet, are you?Presently, I suppose, with Mme. Philippe? I've orders to drive Mme. Philippe to Saint-Élophe. From there, there's the diligence that goes toNoirmont. "

"No, I am not going in that direction. "

"How do you mean, sir? There's only one line to Paris. "

"I sha'n't go straight to Paris. I want to take the train at Langoux. "

"The new line to Switzerland? But that's an endless journey, sir! Itgoes all the way down to Belfort. "

"Yes, that's it. How far is it from Saint-Élophe to Langoux?"

"Three miles and a bit. "

"In that case, I shall walk, " said Philippe. "Thank you. "

He was in a hurry to leave the Old Mill, for he felt that events werehastening to a crisis and that, at any moment, he might be preventedfrom carrying out his plan. 

As a matter of fact, when he turned back, he was passed by Henriot, thegardener's son, who was clapping his hands:

"There they are! The soldiers of the manoeuvring company!. .. They aregoing to the Col du Diable, at the quick step. We shall see them fromthe terrace. "

He was followed by the other servants, by his mother, by his littlebrother, who, like himself, was waving his hands; and they all crossedthe drawing-room. 

Philippe went to the edge of the terrace. The troops were alreadydebouching in good order. They were young soldiers, beardless boys forthe most part, and looked almost like children amusing themselves bymarching in file. But he saw an unaccustomed expression of anxiety anddoubt on their faces. They marched in silence, hanging their heads andas though bent by the fatigue of the recent manoeuvres. 

A word of command sounded in the rear and was repeated in a sharp voiceby two non-commissioned officers. There was a momentary undulatingmovement. Then the column proceeded at the double down the slope thatled to the Étang-des-Moines. 

And, when the last ranks had filed off below the terrace, two officersappeared, followed by a bugler. One of the two sprang briskly from hishorse, flung the reins to the bugler and ran up the staircase, shouting:

"I'll be with you presently, Fabrègues. .. . Meet me in the Col duDiable. .. . Take up your position at Saboureux's Farm. "

On reaching the terrace, he raised his hand to his cap:

"Can I see M. Morestal, please?"

Philippe stepped forward:

"My father is laid up, captain. "

The officer was obviously affected by the news:

"Oh!" he said. "I was relying on M. Morestal. I have had the pleasure ofmaking his acquaintance and he spoke to me of the Old Mill. .. . I now seewhat he meant. The position is really excellent. But, for the moment, monsieur, would you mind?. .. I know you are on the telephone here and Ihave an urgent message. .. . Excuse me . .. It is such a serious time. .. . "

Philippe took him to the telephone. The officer pressed the buttonimpatiently and, as he did not receive a reply at once, turned round:

"Meanwhile, allow me to introduce myself . .. Captain Daspry. .. . I metyour father in connection with a rather funny incident, the slaughter ofFarmer Saboureux's fowls. .. . Hullo! Hullo! Gad, how difficult it is toget put on!. .. Hullo! Hullo!. .. I even shocked M. Morestal by refusingto punish the culprit, one Duvauchel, an incorrigibleanti-militarist. .. . An excuse like that would just have served thebeggar's turn. .. . "

He had a rather vulgar type of face and a complexion that was too red;but his frank eyes and his gaiety of manner made him exceedinglyattractive. He began to laugh:

"To show his gratitude, Duvauchel promised me, this morning, to turn hisback on the enemy, at the first shot, and to desert. .. . He has achauffeur's place reserved for him in Switzerland. .. . And, as Duvauchelsays, 'There's nothing like a French greaser. '. .. Hullo!. .. Ah, atlast!. .. Hullo! Captain Daspry speaking. .. . I want the military post atNoirmont. .. . Yes, at once, please. .. . Hullo!. .. Is that Noirmont? Themilitary post? I want Major Dutreuil. .. . Switch me on to him. .. . It'surgent. "

Captain Daspry ceased. Instinctively, Philippe took up the otherreceiver:

"May I?"

"Oh, certainly!. .. "

And Philippe heard the following dialogue, with its swift and anxiousquestions and answers:

"Is that you, Daspry?"

"Yes, major. "

"Did the cyclists catch you up?"

"Which cyclists?"

"I sent three after you. "

"I've seen nothing of them so far. I'm at Morestal's. "

"The Old Mill?"

"Yes, major . .. I wrote to you about it. "

"Well, what is it, Daspry?"

"Uhlans have been seen in the Col du Diable. "

"Yes, I know. The Börsweiler cavalry are on the march. "

"What!"

"They will cross the frontier in an hour from now, supported by tworegiments of infantry. "

"What!"

"That's what I sent my cyclists to tell you. Get to the Col du Diable asfast as you can. "

"My men are there, major. As soon as the enemy arrives, we will fallback, keeping in touch with them as we do so. "

"No. "

"Eh? But I can't do otherwise, I have only my company. "

"You must stand your ground, Daspry. You must stand your ground for twohours and a half or three hours. My battalion has just left barracks. The 28th are following us by forced marches. We shall be at the frontierby two o'clock in the afternoon. You must stand your ground. "

"But I say, major!"

"You must stand your ground, Daspry. "

With a mechanical movement, the officer drew himself up, brought hisheels together and replied:

"We shall stand our ground, major. "

He replaced the receiver and thought for a few minutes. Then he said, with a smile:

"By Jove, that's a nice beginning! Two hundred men against somethousands . .. For three hours! If one of the 4th company remains alive, he'll be a lucky man. .. . "

"But it's madness!" Philippe protested. 

"Monsieur, the Alpine Rifles and the 28th of the line are on their way;and Dornat's division is certainly behind them. If they arrive too late, if the ridges of the Vosges are taken, if the frontier is crossed, ifthe Saint-Élophe valley is occupied and all this on the very day onwhich war is declared, you can imagine the consternation which thisfirst check will produce all over France. If, on the other hand, ahandful of men sacrifice themselves . .. And _succeed_, the moral effectwill be incalculable. I shall stand my ground for three hours, monsieur. "

The words were spoken simply, with the profound conviction of a man whorealizes the full importance of his act. He was already on his way downthe stone steps. Saluting Philippe, he added:

"You can congratulate M. Morestal, monsieur. He is a far-seeingFrenchman. He foresaw everything that is happening. Let us hope that itis not too late. "

He leapt into the saddle, spurred his horse and set off at a gallop. 

Philippe followed him with his eyes as far as the Étang-des-Moines. Whenthe officer had disappeared behind a dip in the ground, he gave way toan angry movement and muttered:

"Play-acting!"

However, he turned the telescope on the Col du Diable and saw soldiersall around Saboureux's Farm, running, scrambling up the rocks on everyside with the agility of young goats. He reflected that they hadforgotten their weariness and seemed to be diverting themselves with anexercise to which each contributed his own effort, his individualtactics and his qualities of self-reliance and initiative. 

He stood pensive for a few minutes. But time was pressing. He calledVictor and went up to his room:

"Quick, my bag. "

They stuffed the papers and manuscripts into it promiscuously, togetherwith a little linen and the toilet-articles. The bag was strapped up. Philippe seized it:

"Good-bye, Victor. Tell my mother I sent her my love. "

He crossed the landing. But some one darted out of an adjacent room. Itwas Marthe. She barred his way:

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

CHAPTER III

IDEAS AND FACTS

Marthe, who had kept her room since the day before, but remainedattentive to all that was happening at the Old Mill, had, through heropen door and window, heard and seen the hubbub, the fuss made by theservants, all the mad fluster of a house that feels itself threatened byan approaching cyclone. 

She had overcome her fit of anger and hatred, was now mistress ofherself and was no longer frightened of a possible meeting betweenPhilippe and Suzanne. Another torment obsessed her. What did her husbandmean to do? Brought face to face with an eventuality which he had oftencontemplated, what line of conduct would he pursue?

And it was he that she was watching. Before she went away, she wished toknow. She overheard his first conversation with Victor. She saw hismeeting with Captain Daspry from a distance. She saw him go to his room. She saw him come out again. And, in spite of herself, although urged bya very definite feeling, she stood up before him like an obstacle:

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

Philippe did not lose countenance. He replied:

"What interest can that have for you?"

"Come, " she said, "we have to speak to each other. .. . Come in here. "

She took him into her room, shut the door and repeated, in a masterfultone:

"Where are you going, Philippe?"

He replied, with the same decision:

"I am going away. "

"There is no carriage. "

"I shall walk. "

"Where to?"

"To Noirmont. "

"To take which train?"

"The train to Paris. "

"That's not true, " she said, vehemently. "You are not going to Paris. You are going to Langoux, to take the train to Belfort. "

"Just so, but I shall be in Paris to-morrow morning. "

"That's not true! You do not mean to stop at Belfort. You will go on toBâle, to Switzerland. And, if you go to Switzerland, it will not be fora day, it will be for months . .. For your life!"

"And what then?"

"You intend to desert, Philippe. "

He did not speak. And his silence dumbfoundered her. Violent as was thecertainty that filled and angered her, Marthe was stupefied when he madeno protest. 

She stammered:

"Is it possible? You really intend to desert?"

Philippe grew irritable:

"Well, what has it to do with you? You had a letter from me yesterday, offering you an explanation. You have not even troubled to reply! Verywell! I have done you an irreparable wrong. Our whole married life isshattered by my fault. Your attitude up to the present shows me that younever mean to forgive me. .. . Then what right have you to call me toaccount for what I do?"

She repeated, in a low voice, with fixed eyes:

"You intend to desert. .. . "

"Yes. "

"Is it really credible? I knew your ideas against war . .. All the ideasin your books . .. Which agree with my own. .. . But I never thought ofthis. .. . You never spoke to me of it. .. . And then, no . .. I could neverhave believed it. .. . "

"You will have to believe it, for all that, Marthe. "

He turned to the door. Once again she stood up in front of him. 

"Let me pass, " he said. 

"No. "

"You are mad!"

"Listen to me . .. Philippe. .. . "

"I refuse to listen. This is not the time for quarrelling. I have madeup my mind to go. I will go. It is not a rash impulse. It is a decisiontaken silently and calmly. Let me pass. "

He tried to clear the door. She pushed him back, suddenly seized with anenergy which became all the fiercer as she felt her husband to be moreinflexible. She had only a few minutes; and that was what frightenedher. In those few minutes, by means of phrases, poor phrases flung outat random, she had to win the battle and to win it against a foe withwhose mettle and obstinacy she was well acquainted. 

"Let me pass, " he repeated. 

"Well, then, no, no, no!" she cried. "You shall not desert! No, youshall not do that infamous thing! There are things that one can't do. .. . This thing, Philippe, is monstrous!. .. Listen, Philippe, listen while Itell you. .. . "

She went up to him and, under her breath:

"Listen, Philippe . .. Listen to this confession. .. . Philippe, you knowwhat you did on Sunday, your cruelty to your father, to Suzanne, to allof us: well, yes, I understood it. .. . I suffered the pangs of death, Isuffered more than any of the others. .. . Each word that you spoke burntinto me like fire. .. . But, all the same, Philippe, I understood. .. . Youhad to sacrifice us to the cause of peace. It was your right, it wasyour duty to victimize us all in order that you might save a wholenation. .. . But what you now propose to do. .. . Oh, the shame of it!. .. Listen, if you did that . .. I should think of you as one thinks of . .. Idon't know what . .. As one thinks of the most contemptible, the mostrevolting . .. "

Shrugging his shoulders impatiently, he interrupted her:

"I can't help it if you do not understand. It is my right . .. And myduty also. .. . "

"Your duty is to join your regiment, now that war is declared, and tofight, yes, to fight for France, like every other Frenchman . .. Like thefirst peasant that comes along, who may tremble with all his poor humanflesh, it is true, and whose heart sinks within him and whose stomachturns cold, but who believes that his duty lies in being there . .. Andwho goes ahead, come what may! March on, as he does, Philippe! I haveaccepted all your opinions, I have shared them and backed them. .. . Ifthere is to be an end of our union, at least let me address this lastentreaty to you: join your regiment!. .. Your place is over there. .. . "

"My place is anywhere except where men commit the odious act ofkilling, " exclaimed Philippe, who had listened to her in spite ofhimself and who now suddenly collected himself. "My place is with myfriends. They trust me and I trust them. They are the men whom I mustjoin. "

"Where? In Paris?"

"No. We swore, at the first signal, to meet at Zurich. From there, weshall issue a manifesto calling upon all the thinkers and all the men ofindependent views in Germany and France. "

"But no one will answer your appeal!"

"Never mind! The appeal will have gone forth. The world will have heardthe protest of a few free men, professors like myself, tutors, writers, men who reflect, men who act in accordance with their convictions, andnot like animals led to the slaughter. "

"You must defend your country, " said Marthe, seeking to gain time, inthe hope that something would come to her assistance. 

"I must defend my ideas!" declared Philippe. "If my country chooses tocommit an act of folly, that is no reason why I should follow her. Whatnonsense it is, these two great nations, the most civilized in theworld, going to war because they can't agree about the arrest of a pettyofficial, or because one of them wants to eat up Morocco and the otheris incensed at not being invited to the banquet! And, for that, they aregoing to fly at each other's throats, like wild beasts! To scattermourning and misery on every side! No, I refuse to take part in it!These hands, Marthe, these hands shall not kill! I have brothers inGermany as well as France. I have no enmity against them. I will notkill them. "

She pretended to listen to his arguments with attention, knowing that, in this way, she would detain him a little longer. And she said:

"Ah, your German brothers, whether they feel enmity or not, you may besure that they will march against France! Is not your love for her thegreater?"

"Yes, yes, I love her, but just for the very reason that she is the mostgenerous and noble of countries, that in her alone the idea of revoltagainst the law of blood and war can take root and sprout and blossom. "

"You will be treated as a coward. "

"To-day, perhaps . .. But, in ten years, in twenty years, we shall betreated as heroes. Our names will be quoted as the names of thebenefactors of humanity. And it will be France again that shall have hadthat honour . .. Through us! Through me!"

"But your name will be reviled during your lifetime. "

"Reviled by those whom I despise, by those who have the cast of mind ofthat captain--though he's one of the best of them--who laughs and jokeswhen he is sent to certain death, he and his company. "

Marthe answered indignantly:

"It's the laughter of a Frenchman, Philippe, of a Frenchman hiding hisanguish under a little light chaff. A glorious laughter, which forms thepride of our race!"

"One does not laugh in the presence of the death of others. "

"Yes, Philippe, when it is to hide the danger from them and to keep allthe horror and all the terror for one's self alone. .. . Listen, Philippe!. .. "

The sound of firing came from the distance, on the other side of thehouse. For some seconds, there was an uninterrupted crackle of musketry;then it came at rarer intervals; and, presently, there was no sound atall. 

Marthe whispered:

"The first shot fired in the war, Philippe. .. . They are fighting on thefrontier. .. . It's your country they are defending. .. . France is indanger. .. . Oh, doesn't your heart quiver like the heart of a son? Don'tyou feel the wounds they are giving her . .. The wounds they intend togive her?. .. "

He wore his attitude of suffering, keeping his arms crossed stiffly overhis chest and half-closing his eyes. He answered, sorrowfully:

"Yes, yes, I feel those wounds. .. . But why is she fighting? For what madlove of glory? Is she not intoxicated with successes and conquests?Remember our journey through Europe. .. . Wherever we went, we foundtraces of her passage: cemeteries and charnel-houses to bear witnessthat she was the great victress. Isn't that enough of conquests andtriumphs?"

"But, fool that you are, " cried Marthe, "she is not trying to conquer!She is defending herself! Picture this vision, for a moment: Franceinvaded once more . .. France dismembered . .. France wiped from the faceof the earth. .. . "

"But no, no, " he said, with a gesture of protest, "there is no questionof that!"

"Yes, there is, there is a question of that: it's a question of life ordeath to her. .. . And you, you are deserting!"

Philippe did not stir. Marthe felt that he was, if not shaken, at leastanxious, uneasy. But, suddenly, he uncrossed his arms and, striking thetable with his fist:

"I must! I must! I promised to!. .. And I was right to promise! And Iwill keep my oath! What you call deserting is fighting, but fighting thereal fight! I too am going to wage war, but it will be the war ofindependence and brains; and my comrades in heroism are waiting for me. There, Marthe, I won't listen to you any longer!"

She glued her back to the door, with her arms outstretched:

"And the children! The children whom you are abandoning!"

"You will send them to me later. "

She raised her hand:

"Never, I swear it on their heads, never shall you set eyes on themagain! The sons of a deserter!. .. They will disown you!"

"They will love me, if they understand. "

"I will teach them not to understand you. "

"If they do not understand me, it is I who will disown them. So much theworse for them!"

He took her by the shoulders and tried to push her away. And, whenMarthe resisted, he jostled her, exasperated by the fear of theunforeseen obstacle that might spring up, the arrival of his mother, perhaps the apparition of old Morestal himself. 

Marthe weakened. He at once seized her wrist and pulled at the door. But, with one last effort, she thrust back her husband and, panting, indespair:

"One word! One word more!" she implored. "Listen, Philippe, don't dothis thing. .. . And, if you do not do it, well, I think I could. .. . Oh, it is horrible to coerce me like this!. .. Still, I won't have you go. .. . Listen, Philippe. You know my pride, the bitterness of my feelings andall that I have suffered, all that I am suffering because of Suzanne. Well, I will forget everything. I offer not only to forgive, but toforget. Never a single word shall remind you of the past . .. Never anallusion . .. I swear it! But don't desert, Philippe, I entreat you, don't do that!"

She hung on to his clothes and pressed herself against him, stammering:

"No, don't do that. .. . Do not inflict that disgrace upon your children!The sons of a deserter!. .. Oh, I entreat you, Philippe, stay! We will goaway together . .. And we will begin life again as it was before. .. . "

She dragged herself at his feet, humble and supplicating, and shereceived the terrible impression that her words were of no avail. Shewas encountering a rival idea, against which all her strength wasshattered. Philippe did not hear her. No feeling of pity even turned himtowards her. 

Calmly, with an irresistible movement, he clasped Marthe's wrists, gathered them in one of his hands, opened the door with the other and, flinging his wife from him, fled. 

Marthe was seized with a feeling akin to despair. However, the bag wasstill there and she believed that he would come back to fetch it. Then, realizing her mistake, she suddenly rose and started to run:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried. 

Like him, she was thinking of some outside interference, of oldMorestal, whom the outcries might attract and whom Philippe would findon his path. 

"Philippe! Philippe!"

She became scared, not knowing where to look for him. There was nobodyin the garden. She returned to the drawing-room, for she seemed to heara sound of voices. And in fact she saw a sergeant and a private soldierhurriedly crossing the terrace, with the gardener's son leading the way. 

"Follow me!" the brat commanded. "We'll go up to the roof. .. . You cansee the whole valley from there. .. . Ah, the telescope!. .. "

He caught up the instrument as he passed. 

Marthe rushed at them:

"What's happening?"

"Impossible to hold out over there, " said the sergeant. "There are toomany of them. .. . We're falling back. .. . "

"But, in that case, _they_ will be coming?"

"Yes, yes, they're coming, right enough!. .. "

Marthe went out on the terrace. A swarm of soldiers came running up thestaircase. 

She saw Philippe in a corner. He was speaking to the men:

"Are they coming?"

"Yes. "

"Have they crossed the frontier?"

"No, not yet. "

He turned to his wife and said to her, as a piece of good news:

"They have not crossed the frontier yet. "

And he went to meet another group of soldiers. 

Then Marthe believed that fate had sent her the aid for which she waspraying. She could now do nothing more but trust to events. 

CHAPTER IV

THE SACRED SOIL

"Bugler!. .. Sound the rally . .. At the double . .. And quietly. "

It was Captain Daspry who now arrived, with a brisk gait, but with thegrave and resolute face of a leader who is commanding at a solemnmoment. 

He said to Philippe:

"Is M. Morestal still unwell?"

Mme. Morestal ran out from the house:

"My husband is asleep. .. . He is very tired. .. . The morphia. .. . But, ifthere is anything you want, I can take his place. I know his intentions, his preparations. "

"We shall attempt the impossible, " said the officer. And, addressing hislieutenant, he added, "It would have been madness to stay over there, wouldn't it, Fabrègues? It's not a question of demolishing a few Uhlans, as we did, but of standing our ground against a whole brigade who wereclimbing the other slope. .. . Oh, it was all planned long ago!. .. And M. Morestal is a jolly clever man!. .. "

The bugle sounded a low call and the Alpine Rifles emerged from everyside, through the terrace, the garden and the back entrances. 

"That will do!" said the officer to the bugler. "They have heard . .. AndI don't want the enemy to hear as well. "

He took out his watch:

"Twelve o'clock. .. . Two hours more, at least. .. . Oh, if I only hadtwenty-five minutes or half an hour in which to prepare myresistance. .. . But nothing will stop them. .. . The passage is free. .. . "

He called:

"Fabrègues!"

"Yes, captain. "

"All the men in front of the coach-house, on the left of the garden. Atthe back of the coach-house is a hay-loft. Break down the door. .. . "

"Victor, show the gentleman the way, " said Mme. Morestal to the servant. "Here is the key. "

"In the loft, " continued the captain, "you will find two hundred bags ofplaster. .. . Use them to block up the parapet of this terrace. .. . Quickas you can!. .. Every minute is worth an hour. "

He himself went to the parapet, measured it and counted the balusters. In the distance, within rifle-range, the Col du Diable formed a deepgash between the great rocks. Saboureux's Farm guarded the entrance. Asyet, not a single figure of the enemy showed. 

"Ah, twenty minutes!. .. If I only had twenty minutes!" repeated theofficer. "The position of the Old Mill is hard to beat. One would standa chance or two . .. "

An adjutant and a couple more soldiers appeared at the top of thestaircase. 

"Well?" asked Captain Daspry. "Are they coming?"

"The vanguard was turning the corner of the factory, at five hundredyards from the pass, " replied the adjutant. 

"Are there any more of our men behind you?"

"Yes, captain, there's Duvauchel. He's wounded. They've laid him on astretcher. .. . "

"Duvauchel!" cried the officer, anxiously. "It's not a serious wound, Ihope?"

"Upon my word . .. I shouldn't like to say. "

"Dash it all! But then one saw nothing but that devil in the frontline. .. . There was no holding him. .. . "

"Yes, " chuckled the adjutant, "he has a way of his own of deserting inthe face of the enemy!. .. He charges straight at them, the beggar!"

But Mme. Morestal grew frightened:

"A man wounded! I will go and prepare some bandages, get out themedicine-chest. .. . We have all that's wanted. .. . Will you come, Marthe?"

"Yes, mother, " replied Marthe, without budging. 

She did not remove her eyes from her husband and tried to read onPhilippe's face the feelings that stirred him. She had first of all seenhim go back to the drawing-room and cross the entrance-hall, as thoughhe were thinking of the way out through the garden, which was stillfree. The sudden arrival of the riflemen pushed him back; and he talkedto several of them in a low voice and gave them some bread and a flaskof brandy. Then he returned to the terrace. His inaction, in the midstof the constant traffic to and fro, was obviously irksome to him. Twicehe consulted the drawing-room clock; and Marthe guessed that he wasthinking of the hour of the train and the time which he would need toreach Langoux Station. But she did not alarm herself. Every second wasweaving bonds around him that tied him down without his knowing it; andit seemed to Marthe as though events had no other object than to makeher husband's departure impossible. 

The resistance, meanwhile, was being organized. Swiftly, the riflemenbrought the bags of plaster, which the captain at once ordered to beplaced between every pair of balusters. Each of the bags was of theheight and width corresponding with the dimensions of the intervals andleft an empty space, a loop-hole, on either side. And old Morestal hadeven had the forethought to match the colour of the sacking with that ofthe parapet, so that it might not be suspected in the distance thatthere was a defence behind which sharpshooters lay hidden. 

On either side of the terrace, the wall surrounding the garden was theobject of similar cares. The captain ordered the soldiers to set outbags at the foot of the wall so as to make the top accessible from theinside. 

But a sound of shouting recalled the captain to the drawing-room. Thegardener's son came tumbling down from his observatory, yelling:

"Saboureux's Farm is on fire! You can see the smoke! You can see theflames!"

The captain leapt out on the terrace. 

The smoke was whirling above the barn. Gleams kindled, faint as yet andhesitating. And, suddenly, as though set free, the flames shot up inangry spirals. The wind at once beat them down again. The roof of thehouse took fire. And, in a few minutes, it was a violent flare, accompanied by the quick blaze of the rotten beams, the dry thatch, thetrusses of hay and straw heaped up by the hundred in the barn and in thesheds. 

"To work!" shouted the captain, gleefully. "The Col du Diable is blockedby the flames. .. . They'll last for quite fifteen or twenty minutes . .. And the enemy have no other road. .. . "

His excitement communicated itself to the men. Not one of them brokedown beneath the weight of the bags, heavy though these were. Thecaptain posted the non-commissioned officers at regular intervals, sothat his orders could be passed on from the terrace to every end of theproperty. 

Lieutenant Fabrègues came up. The materials were beginning to fall shortand the lofty wall remained inaccessible to the marksmen in severalplaces. 

Mme. Morestal behaved like a heroine:

"Take the furniture, captain, the chairs, the tables. Break them up, ifnecessary. .. . Burn them even. .. . Do just as if my husband were here. "

"M. Morestal said something about a stock of cartridges, " asked thecaptain. 

"In the boxes in the harness-room. Here are the keys. "

The men redoubled their activity. The Old Mill was ransacked; and thesoldiers passed laden with mattresses, sofas, old oak chests, hangingsalso and carpets, with which they stopped up the holes and the windows. 

"The flames are spreading, " said the captain, going to the top of thestaircase. "There's nothing left of Farmer Saboureux's buildings. .. . Butby what miracle . .. ? Who set the place on fire?. .. "

"I did. "

A peasant stood at the top of the steps, in a scorched blouse, with hisface all blackened. 

"You, Saboureux?"

"Yes, I, " growled Saboureux, fiercely. "I had to. .. . I heard you overthere: 'If we could only stop them, ' says you. 'If I had half an hour tospare!'. .. Well, there's your half an hour for you. .. . I set fire tothe shanty. "

"And very nearly roasted me inside it, " grinned Old Poussière, who waswith the farmer. "I was asleep in the straw. .. . "

The captain nodded his head:

"By Jove, Farmer Saboureux, but that's a damned sportsmanlike thingyou've done! I formed a wrong opinion of you. I apologize. May I shakeyou by the hand?"

The peasant put out his hand and then walked away, with his back bent intwo. He sat down in a corner of the drawing-room. Poussière also huddledinto a chair, took a piece of bread from his pocket, broke it and gavehalf to Saboureux, as though he thought it only natural to share what hehad with the man who had nothing left. 

"Here's Duvauchel, sir!" announced a rifleman. "Here's Duvauchel!"

The staircase was too narrow and they had to bring the stretcher roundby the garden. The captain ran to meet the wounded man, who made aneffort to stand on his legs:

"What's up, Duvauchel? Are you hit?"

"Not I, sir, not I, " said the man, whose face was livid and his eyesburning with fever. "A cherry-stone tickled my shoulder, by way of alark. It's nothing. .. . "

"But the blood's flowing. .. . "

"It's nothing, I tell you, sir. .. . I know all about it. .. . Saw plenty ofit as a greaser!. .. It won't show in five minutes . .. And then I'moff. .. . "

"Oh, of course, I forgot, you're deserting!. .. "

"Rather! The comrades are waiting for me. .. . "

"Then begin by getting your wound dressed. .. . "

"My wound dressed? Oh, that's a good one! I tell you, sir, it's nothing. .. Less than nothing . .. A kiss . .. A puff of wind. .. . "

He stood up for an instant, but his eyelids flickered, his hands soughtfor support and he fell back upon the litter. 

Mme. Morestal and Marthe hastened to his side:

"Let me, mamma, please, " said Marthe, "I'm used to it. .. . But you'veforgotten the absorbent wool . .. And the peroxide of hydrogen. .. . Quick, mamma . .. And more bandages, lots of bandages. .. . "

Mme. Morestal went out. Marthe bent over the wounded man and felt hispulse without delay:

"Quite right, it's nothing, " she said. "The artery is uninjured. "

She uncovered the wound and, very tenderly, staunched the blood thattrickled from it:

"The peroxide, quick, mamma. "

She took the bottle which some one held out to her and, raising herhead, saw Suzanne stooping like herself over the wounded man. 

"M. Morestal is waking up, " said the girl. "Mme. Morestal sent me in herstead. .. . "

Marthe did not so much as start. She did not even feel as though anunpleasant memory had flitted through her mind, compelling her to makean effort to suppress her hatred:

"Unroll the bandages, " she said. 

And Suzanne also was calm in the face of her enemy. No sense of shame orembarrassment troubled her. Their mingled breath caressed the soldier'sface. 

Nor did it seem that any memory of love existed between Philippe andSuzanne or that a carnal bond united them. They looked at each otherunmoved. Marthe herself told Philippe to uncork a bottle of boracic. Hedid so. His hand touched Suzanne's. Neither he nor Suzanne felt athrill. 

Around them continued the uninterrupted work of the men, each of whomobeyed orders and executed them according to his own initiative, withoutfuss or confusion. The servants were all in the drawing-room. The womenaided in the work. Amid the great anguish that oppressed every heart atthe first formidable breath of war, no one thought of anything but hisindividual task, that contribution of heroism which fate was claimingfrom one and all. What mattered the petty wounds of pride, the pettygriefs to which the subtleties of love give rise! What signified thepetty treacheries of daily life!

"He's better, " said Marthe. "Here, Suzanne, let him sniff at thesmelling-salts. "

Duvauchel opened his eyes. He saw Marthe and Suzanne, smiled andmurmured:

"By Jingo!. .. It was worth while!. .. Duvauchel's a lucky dog!. .. "

But an unexpected silence fell upon the great drawing-room, like aspontaneous cessation of all the organs at work. And, suddenly, a voicewas heard on the threshold:

"_They_ have crossed the frontier! Two of them have crossed thefrontier!"

And Victor exclaimed:

"And there are more coming! You can see their helmets. .. . They arecoming! They are in France!"

The women fell on their knees. One of them moaned:

"O God, have pity on us!"

Marthe had joined Philippe at the terrace-door and they heard CaptainDaspry repeating in a low voice, with an accent of despair:

"Yes, they are in France . .. They have crossed the frontier. "

"They are in France, Philippe, " said Marthe, taking her husband's hand. 

And she felt his hand tremble. 

Drawing himself up quickly, the captain commanded:

"Not a shot!. .. Let no one show himself!"

The order flew from mouth to mouth and silence and immobility reigned inthe Old Mill, from one end to the other of the house and grounds. Eachone stood at his post. All along the wall, the soldiers kept themselveshidden, perched upright on their improvised talus. 

At that moment, one of the drawing-room doors opened and old Morestalappeared on his wife's arm. Dressed in a pair of trousers and awaistcoat, bare-headed, tangle-haired, with a handkerchief fastenedround his neck, he staggered on his wavering legs. Nevertheless, a sortof gladness, like an inward smile, lighted his features. 

"Let me be, " he said to his wife, who was endeavouring to support him. 

He steadied his gait and walked to the gun-rack, where the twelve riflesstood in a row. 

He took out one with feverish haste, felt it, with the touch of asportsman recognizing his favourite weapon, passed in front of Philippe, without appearing to see him, and went out on the terrace. 

"You, M. Morestal!" said Captain Daspry. 

Pointing to the frontier, the old man asked:

"Are they there?"

"Yes. "

"Are you making a resistance?"

"Yes. "

"Are there many of them?"

"There are twenty to one. "

"If so . .. ?"

"We've got to. "

"But . .. "

"We've got to, M. Morestal; and be easy, we shall stand our ground. .. . I'm certain of it. "

Morestal said, in a low voice:

"Remember what I told you, captain. .. . The road is undermined at twohundred yards from the terrace. .. . A match and . .. "

"Oh, " protested the officer, "I hope it won't come to that! I amexpecting relief. "

"Very well!" said Morestal. "But anything rather than let them come upto the Old Mill!"

"They won't come up. It's out of the question that they should come upbefore the arrival of the French troops. "

"Good! As long as the Old Mill remains in our hands, they won't be ableto man the heights and threaten Saint-Élophe. "

They could plainly see columns of infantry winding along the Col duDiable. There, they divided and one part of the men turned towards theButte-aux-Loups, while the others--consisting of the greater number, forthis was evidently the enemy's object--went down towards the Étang-desMoines, to seize the high-road. 

These disappeared for a moment, hidden by the bend of the ground. 

The captain said to Morestal:

"Once the road is held and the assault begins, it will be impossible toget away. .. . It would be better, therefore, for the ladies . .. And foryou yourself . .. "

Morestal gave him such a look that the officer did not insist:

"Come, come, " he said, smiling, "don't be angry. .. . Rather help me tomake these good people understand. .. . "

He turned to the servants, to Victor, who was taking down a rifle, tothe gardener, to Henriot, and warned them that none but combatants muststay at the Old Mill, as any man captured with arms in his hands exposedhimself to reprisals. 

They let him talk; and Victor, without thinking of retiring, answered:

"That's as may be, captain. But it's one of the things one doesn't thinkabout. I'm staying. "

"And you, Farmer Saboureux? You're running a big risk, if they provethat you set fire to your farm. "

"I'm staying, " growled the peasant, laconically. 

"And you, tramp?"

Old Poussière had not finished eating the piece of bread which he hadtaken from his wallet. He was listening and observing, with eyes wideopen and an evident effort to attend. He examined the captain, hisuniform, the braid upon his sleeve, seemed to reflect on mysteriousthings, stood up and seized a rifle. 

"That's right, Poussière, " grinned Morestal. "You know your countryright enough, once it needs defending. "

A man had made the same movement as the tramp, almost at the same time. One more division in the gun-rack was empty. 

It was Duvauchel, still rather unsteady on his pins, but wearing anundaunted look. 

"What, Duvauchel!" asked Captain Daspry. "Aren't we deserting?"

"You're getting at me, captain! Let the beggars clear out of Francefirst! I'll desert afterwards. "

"But you've only one arm that's any good. "

"A greaser's arm, captain . .. And a French greaser's at that . .. Isworth two, any day. "

"Pass me one of them rifles, " said the gardener's son. "I know my wayabout with 'em. "

Duvauchel began to laugh:

"You too, sonnie? You want one? You'll see, the babes at the breast willbe rising up next, like the others. Lord, but it makes my blood boil tothink that they're in France!"

All followed the captain, who allotted them a post along the parapet. The women busied themselves in placing ammunition within reach of themarksmen. 

Marthe was left alone with her husband. She saw that the scene hadstirred him. In the way in which those decent folk realized their dutyand performed it without being compelled to, simply and spontaneously, there was that sort of greatness which touches a man to the very depthsof his soul. 

She said to him:

"Well, Philippe?"

His face was drawn; he did not reply. 

She continued:

"Well, go. .. . What are you waiting for? No one will notice yourflight. .. . Be quick. .. . Take the opportunity while it's here. .. . "

They heard the captain addressing his lieutenant:

"Keep down your head, Fabrègues, can't you? They'll see you, if you'renot careful. .. . "

Marthe seized Philippe's arm and, bending towards him:

"Now confess that you can't go . .. That all this upsets your notions . .. And that your duty is here . .. That you feel it. "

"There they are! There they are!" said a voice. 

"Yes, " said Captain Daspry, searching the road through the orifice of aloop-hole, "yes, there they are!. .. At six hundred yards, at most . .. It's the vanguard. .. . They are skirting the pool and they haven't anotion that . .. "

A sergeant came to tell him that the enemy had hoisted a gun on theslope of the pass. The officer was alarmed, but old Morestal began tolaugh:

"Let them bring up as many guns as they please!. .. They can only take uppositions which we command and which I have noted. A few good marksmenare enough to keep them from placing a battery. "

And, turning to his son, he said to him, quite naturally, as thoughnothing had ever parted them:

"Are you coming, Philippe? We'll demolish them between us. "

Captain Daspry interfered:

"Don't fire! We are not discovered yet. Wait till I give the order. .. . There'll be time enough later. .. . "

Old Morestal had moved away. 

Philippe walked resolutely towards the gate that led to the garden, tothe open country. But he had not taken ten steps, when he stopped. Heseemed to be vaguely suffering; and Marthe, who had not left his side, Marthe, anxious, full of mingled hope and apprehension, watched everyphase of the tragic struggle:

"All the past is calling on you, Philippe; all the love for France thatthe past has bequeathed to you. Listen to its voice. "

And, replying to every possible objection:

"Yes, I know, your intelligence rebels against it. But is one'sintelligence everything?. .. Obey your instinct, Philippe. .. . It's yourinstinct that is right. "

"No, no, " he stammered, "one's instinct is never right. .. . "

"It is right. But for that, you would be far away by now. But you can'tgo. Your whole being refuses to go. Your legs have not the strength forflight. "

The Col du Diable was pouring forth troops and more troops, whoseswarming masses showed along the slope. Others must be coming by theAlbern Road; and, on every side, along every path and through every gap, the men of Germany were invading the soil of France. 

The vanguard reached the high-road, at the end of the Étang-des-Moines. 

There was a dull roll of the drum; and, suddenly, in the near silence, ahoarse voice barked out a German word of command. 

Philippe started as though he had been struck. 

And Marthe clung to him, pitilessly:

"Do you hear, Philippe? Do you understand? The German speech on Frenchsoil! Their language forced upon us!"

"Oh, no!" he said. "That can't be. .. . That will never be!"

"Why should it never be? Invasion comes first . .. And then conquest . .. And subjection. .. . "

Near them, the captain ordered:

"Let no one stir!"

Bullets spluttered against the walls, while the sounds of firingreverberated. A window-pane was smashed on the floor above. And morebullets broke fragments of stone from the coping of the parapet. Theenemy, surprised at the disappearance of the French troops, were feelingtheir way before passing below that house, whose gloomy aspect mustneeds strike them as suspicious. 

"Ah!" said a soldier, spinning on his heels and falling on the thresholdof the drawing-room, his face covered with blood. 

The women ran to his assistance. 

Philippe gazed haggard-eyed at that man who was about to die, at thatman who belonged to the same race, who lived under the same sky ashimself, who breathed the same air, ate the same bread and drank thesame wine. 

Marthe had taken down a rifle and handed it to Philippe. He grasped itwith a sort of despair:

"Who would ever have told me . .. ?" he stammered. 

"I, Philippe . .. I was sure of you. We have not to do with theories, butwith implacable facts. These are realities, to-day. .. . The enemy istreading the bit of earth where you were born, where you played as achild. The enemy is forcing his way into France. Defend her, Philippe. .. . "

He clenched his fists around his rifle and she saw that his eyes werefull of tears. 

He murmured, quivering with inward rebellion:

"Our sons will refuse . .. I shall teach them to refuse. .. . What I cannotdo, what I have not the courage to do they shall do. "

"Perhaps, but what does the future matter!" she said, eagerly. "Whatdoes to-morrow's duty matter! Our duty, yours and mine, is the duty ofto-day. "

A voice whispered:

"They're coming near, captain. .. . They're coming near. .. . "

Another voice, beside Philippe, the voice of one of the women tendingthe wounded man, moaned:

"He's dead. .. . Poor fellow!. .. He's dead. .. . "

The guns roared on the frontier. 

"Are you coming, Philippe?" asked old Morestal. 

"I'm coming, father, " he said. 

Very quickly, he walked out on the terrace and knelt beside his father, against the balusters. Marthe knelt down behind him and wept at thethought of what he must be suffering. Nevertheless, she did not doubtbut that, notwithstanding his despair, he was acting in all conscience. 

The captain said, clearly, and the order was repeated to the end of thegarden:

"Fire as you please. .. . Sight at three hundred yards. .. . "

There were a few seconds of solemn waiting . .. Then the terrible word:

"Fire!"

Yonder, along the barrel of his rifle, near an old oak in whose brancheshe once used to climb, Philippe saw a great lubber in uniform throw uphis hands, bend his legs one after the other and stretch himself alongthe ground, slowly, as though to sleep. .. . 

THE END