The Frontier
by Maurice Leblanc · English · Gutenberg #28480 · 349,638 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Frontier
Author: Maurice Leblanc
Translator: Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
Release date: April 2, 2009 [eBook #28480]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28480
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Martin Pettit and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FRONTIER ***
Produced by Mark C. Orton, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE FRONTIER
BY
MAURICE LEBLANC
AUTHOR OF "ARSENE LUPIN," "813," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE 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 and
went and stood by the telescope, on its tripod, at the end of the
terrace.
"I can see nothing," she said, presently.
"Don't you see a tree standing out above the others, with lighter
foliage?"
"Yes."
"And, to the right of that tree, a little lower down, an empty space
surrounded by fir-trees?"
"Yes."
"That's the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups and it marks the frontier at
that 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 last
night's storm...."
"What are you talking about? It has been fairly felled with an axe: you
can 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 more
unpleasantness."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put up a
solid post, instead of their old bit of wood." And he added, in a tone
of 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 the
stone."
"Let them do as much then! It's not money they're wanting ... when you
think 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, on
the other side of the Vosges?"
He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcastic feeling of content that
filled his whole being and he walked up and down the terrace, stamping
his feet as hard as he could on the ground.
But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her by the arm and said, in
a 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-thirty
years, 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, where
she 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. As
long as your cupboards are tidy, your linen all complete and your jams
potted, you don't care!... Still, you ought not to forget that they
killed your poor father."
"I don't forget it ... only, what's the good? It's more than forty years
ago...."
"It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longer
ago than yesterday...."
"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change the
conversation.
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 arrive
this evening: he was to have left Paris this morning."
"Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over the letter. "Philippe and
his wife have taken their two boys to some friends at Versailles and
started with the intention of sleeping last night at the Ballon de
Colnard, 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 the
fellow's been through. It's eleven o'clock. He will be with us in an
hour."
"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 so
methodical, so orderly in her ways that she never made a superfluous
movement or one that was not calculated to bring her an immediate
advantage.
As for him, he resumed his walk between the terrace and the
drawing-room. He strode with long, even steps, holding his body erect,
his chest flung out and his hands in the pockets of his jacket, a
blue-drill gardening-jacket, with the point of a pruning-shears and the
stem of a pipe sticking out of it. He was tall and broad-shouldered; and
his fresh-coloured face seemed young still, in spite of the fringe of
white beard in which it was framed.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "what a treat to set eyes upon our dear Philippe
again! It must be three years since we saw him last. Yes, of course, not
since his appointment as professor of history in Paris. By Jove, the
chap has made his way in the world! What a time we shall give him during
the fortnight that he's with us! Walking ... exercise.... He's all for
the open-air life, like old Morestal!"
He began to laugh:
"Shall I tell you what would be the thing for him? Six months in camp
between 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 was
fairly started:
"Yes, yes, theories! I insist upon the word: theories! As a
district-councillor, as Mayor of Saint-Élophe, I have the right to be
present at his lessons. Oh, you have no idea of his way of teaching the
history of France!... In my time, the heroes were the Chevalier d'Assas,
Bayard, La Tour d'Auvergne, all those beggars who shed lustre on our
country. Nowadays, it's Mossieu Étienne Marcel, Mossieu Dolet.... Oh, a
nice set of theories, theirs!"
He barred the way to his wife, as she entered the room again, and roared
in 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-date
theories 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's
minds."
"It spoils my set."
"Oh, I swear to you, in the old days, we'd have ducked our school-master
in the horse-pond, if he had dared.... But, by Jove, France had a place
of her own in the world then! And such a place!
... That was the time of Solferino!... Of Magenta!... We weren't
satisfied with chucking down frontier-posts in those days: we crossed
the frontiers ... and at the double, believe me...."
He stopped, hesitating, pricking up his ears. Trumpet-blasts sounded in
the distance, ringing from valley to valley, echoing and re-echoing
against the obstacles formed by the great granite rocks and dying away
to 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 from
Noirmont.... Listen ... listen.... What gaiety!... What swagger!... I
tell 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 in
1870.... 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're
very fond of her.... I want the house to look nice for them, bright and
full 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 to
heal."
They looked at each other for a while with a great gentleness, like two
old travelling-companions, who, from time to time, for no particular
reason, stop, exchange glances or thoughts and then resume their
journey.
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 his
fathers' fortune tenfold by setting up a mechanical saw-yard at
Saint-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 course
through life, ideas as old and simple as could be. And those few ideas
themselves were subject to a principle that governed his whole existence
and 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 his
works and built, within view of the frontier, on the site of a ruined
mill, a large house designed after his own plans and constructed, so to
speak, under his own eyes. The Morestals had lived here for the last ten
years, with their two servants: Victor, a decent, stout, jolly-faced
man, 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 the
most 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 shelving
down in a series of fairly large gardens, which Morestal cultivated with
genuine enthusiasm. The property was surrounded by a high wall, the top
of which was finished off with an iron trellis bristling with spikes. A
spring leapt from place to place and fell in cascades to the bottom of
the 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 and
returned to the drawing-room, where he himself arranged the bunches in
large glass vases.
The room, a sort of hall occupying the centre of the house, with beams
of timber showing and a huge chimney covered with gleaming brasses, the
room was bright and cheerful and open at both fronts: to the east, on
the 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, district
maps. There was an oak gun-rack with twelve rifles, all alike and of the
latest pattern. Beside it, nailed flat to the wall and roughly stitched
together, 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 finished
arranging the flowers, as though his wife had been in the room. "And
now, 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 the
melancholy green of the firs and larches.
At thirty or forty feet below him ran the road that leads from
Saint-Élophe up to the Old Mill. It skirted the walls and then dipped
down again to the Étang-des-Moines, or Monks' Pool, of which it followed
the left bank. Breaking off suddenly, it narrowed into a rugged path
which could be seen in the distance, standing like a ladder against a
rampart, and which plunged into a narrow pass between two mountains
wilder in appearance and rougher in outline than the ordinary Vosges
landscape. This was the Col du Diable, or Devil's Pass, situated at a
distance 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 to
Saboureux's Farm. From Saboureux's Farm to the Butte-aux-Loups, or
Wolves' Knoll, which you saw on the left, you could make out or imagine
the frontier by following a line of which Morestal knew every
guiding-mark, every turn, every acclivity and every descent.
"The frontier!" he muttered. "The frontier here ... at twenty-five miles
from 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, through
vistas which his imagination contrived as it were to carve out of the
Vosges, he conjured up a vision of the German plain on the misty
horizon.
And this too he repeated to himself; and he did so this time as at every
other time, with a bitterness which the years that passed did nothing to
allay:
"The German plain ... the German hills ... all that land of Alsace in
which I used to wander as a boy.... The French Rhine, which was my river
and the river of my fathers.... And now _Deutschland_ ... _Deutsches
Rhein_...."
A faint whistle made him start. He leant over towards the staircase that
climbed the terrace, a staircase cut out of the rock, by which people
coming from the side of the frontier often entered his grounds so as to
avoid 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 same
modulations as before.
"It's he ... it's he ..." thought M. Morestal, with an uncomfortable
feeling of embarrassment.
A head popped from between the bushes, a head in which all the bones
stood out, joined by prominent muscles, which gave it the look of the
head of an anatomical model. On the bridge of the nose, a pair of
copper-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've
told you so before...."
But the man insisted:
"It's for this evening, for to-night.... It's a soldier of the
Börsweilen garrison.... He says he's sick of wearing the German
uniform."
"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 ... like
last time.... I shall expect you.... We'll have a talk ... and I shall
be 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's
twelve 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's
hurry 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.... The
eyes 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's
more to the point!"
Marthe flung herself into Mme. Morestal's arms and into her
father-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 want
picking 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 got
frightened!... 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 an
hour! He's the same strong chap he was.... And why didn't you bring the
boys? It's a pity. Two fine little fellows, I feel sure. And well
brought 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 have
separate rooms now?"
"Oh, no," said Marthe, "only down here!... Philippe wants to get up
before day-break and ramble about the roads ... whereas I need a little
rest."
"Capital! Capital! Show them to their rooms, mother ... and, when you're
ready, children, come down to lunch. As soon as we've finished, I'll
take the carriage and go and fetch your trunks at Saint-Élophe: the
railway-omnibus will have brought them there by this time. And, if I
meet my friend Jorancé, I'll bring him back with me. I expect he's in
the dumps. His daughter left for Lunéville this morning. But she said
she had written to you...."
"Yes," said Marthe, "I had a letter from Suzanne the other day. She
didn'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 the
peaceful 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 to
the Old Mill. He was at the boarding-school at Noirmont and used to have
glorious holidays playing in the village or roaming about the Vosges
with his father: Papa Trompette, as he always called him, because of all
the trumpets, bugles, horns and cornets which, together with drums of
every shape and kind, swords and dirks, helmets and breast-plates, guns
and pistols, were the only presents that his childhood knew. Morestal
was a little strict; a little too fond of everything that had to do with
principle, custom, discipline, exactness; a little quick-tempered; but,
at the same time, he was the kindest of men and had no difficulty in
winning his son's love, his frank and affectionate respect.
Their only quarrel was on the day when Philippe, who was then in the top
form, announced his intention of continuing his studies after he had
passed his examination and of entering the Normal School. The father's
whole dream was shattered, his great dream of seeing Philippe in
uniform, with his sword at his side and the gold braid on the sleeve of
his loose jacket.
It came as a violent and painful shock; and Morestal was stupefied to
find himself faced by an obstinate, deliberate Philippe, a Philippe
wholly master of himself and firmly resolved to lead his life according
to his own views and his own ambitions. For a week on end, the two
argued, hurt each other's feelings, made it up again, only to fall out
once more. Then the father suddenly yielded, in the middle of a
discussion and as though he had all at once realized the futility of his
efforts:
"You have made up your mind?" he cried. "Very well! An usher you shall
be, since that is your ideal; but I warn you that I decline all
responsibility for the future and that I wash my hands of anything that
happens."
What happened was simply that Philippe's career was swift and brilliant
and that, after a probationary term at Lunéville and another at
Châteauroux, he was appointed professor of history at Versailles. He
then published, at a few months' interval, two remarkable books, which
caused much heated controversy: _The Idea of Country in Ancient Greece_
and _The Idea of Country before the Revolution_. Three years later, he
was promoted to Paris, to the Lycée Carnot.
Philippe was now approaching his fortieth year. Day-work and night-work
seemed to have no effect upon his sturdy highland constitution.
Possessing a set of powerful muscles and built on the same strong lines
as his father, he found rest and recreation from study in violent
exercise, in long bicycle-rides into the country or through the woods on
the outskirts of Paris. The boys at the school, who held him in a sort
of veneration, told stories of his exploits and his feats of strength.
With all this, a great look of gentleness, especially about the eyes, a
pair of very good, blue eyes, which smiled when he spoke and which, when
at rest, were candid, childish almost, filled with dreams and kindness.
By this time, old Morestal was proud of his son. On the day when he
heard 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 to
deliver 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 that
explanation with my father before me ... the explanation which I came
down 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 her
distant cousin; and he had at once felt that she was the ideal companion
of his life, who would stand by him in hours of trouble, who would bear
him 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, she
had dreamt that a married woman is not merely the wife and mother, but
also her husband's lover. But she soon saw that love went for little
with Philippe, a studious man, much more interested in mental
speculation and social problems than in any manifestation of sentimental
feeling. She therefore loved him as he wished to be loved, stifling
within herself, like smothered flames, a whole throbbing passion made up
of unsatisfied longings, restrained ardours and needless jealousies and
allowing only just so much of this to escape her as was needed to give
him fresh courage at times of doubt and defeat.
Short, slender and of delicate build, she was plucky, hardened to
trouble, fearless in the face of obstacles, proof against disappointment
after a check. Her bright, dark eyes betokened her energy. In spite of
all the influence which Philippe wielded over her, in spite of the
admiration with which he inspired her, she retained her personality, her
own standpoint towards life, her likes and dislikes. And, to such a man
as 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 almost
done wrong in coming here and embracing him without first letting him
know 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 till
to-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 and
put you face to face with events. Another would have launched out into
words. But Marthe never shirked responsibility, even where it concerned
but the smallest facts of ordinary life. Philippe used to laugh and
call 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 resolved
to wait for him in the drawing-room. He lit a cigarette, let it go out
again and, at first in a spirit of distraction and then with a growing
interest, looked around him, as though he were trying to gather from
inanimate objects particulars relating to the man who lived in their
midst.
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 at
Saint-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 in
its smallest details, together with the country adjoining it on either
side of the Vosges.
He bent over the shelves of the little book-case and read the titles of
the works: _The War of 1870, prepared in the historical section of the
German General Staff_; _The Retreat of Bourbaki_; _The Way to prepare
our Revenge_; _The Crime of the Peace-at-any-Price Party_....
But one volume caught his attention more particularly. It was his own
book on the idea of country. He turned the pages and, seeing that some
of them were covered and scored with pencil-marks, he sat down and began
to read:
"It's as I thought," he muttered, presently. "How are he and I to
understand each other henceforth? What common ground is there between
us? I cannot expect him to accept my ideas. And how can I submit to
his?"
He went on reading and noticed comments the harshness of which
distressed 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 arms
stroking his face. He tried to release himself. The two arms clasped him
all 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 and
bashful, in an attitude of provocation and fear, with hands clasped,
then with arms again outstretched, beautiful, white, fragrant arms that
showed below the short sleeves of her fine cambric blouse. Her fair hair
was divided into two loose waves, whose rebellious curls played about
at random. She had grey, almond-shaped eyes, half-veiled by their dark
lashes; and her tiny teeth laughed at the edge of her red lips, lips so
red that one would have thought--and been quite wrong in thinking--that
they were painted.
It was Suzanne Jorancé, the daughter of Jorancé the special commissary
and a friend of Marthe, who knew her when she was quite a child at
Lunéville. Suzanne had spent four months, last winter, in Paris with the
Philippe Morestals.
"You!" he repeated. "You, Suzanne!"
She replied, gaily:
"Myself. Your father came to call on us at Saint-Élophe. And, as mine
was out for a walk, he brought me back with him. I have just got out of
the 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 you
were going away this morning. You ought not to have stayed. You know
quite 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 in
words 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 tears
stood in Suzanne's eyes and her face had flushed so deep a red that her
crimson lips seemed hardly red at all.
Petrified by the words which he had uttered and still more by those
which he had been on the verge of uttering, Philippe suddenly, in the
girl's presence, felt a need to be gentle and friendly and to make
amends for his inexplicable rudeness. An unexpected sense of pity
softened him. He took the small, ice-cold hands between his own and
said, kindly, with the intonation of a big brother scolding a younger
sister:
"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.... You
understand, don't you?..."
He was silent, rightly thinking that, if he answered the least word, she
would at once say something that he did not want to hear. And they no
longer knew how to stand opposite each other and they no longer dared
look each other in the face. But Philippe felt those small hands turn
warm at the touch of his and felt all the life rush once more through
that turbulent young being, like a source that is released and brings
back 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, the
children are here. Yes, yes, your daughter, too.... I brought her back
with 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 when
the door opened, said, in a tone of implacable resolve and as though the
promise must needs fill Philippe's heart with delight:
"No one shall ever see my bare arms again.... No one, Philippe, I swear
to you.... No one shall ever stroke them...."
CHAPTER III
THE VIOLET PAMPHLET
Jorancé was a heavy and rather unwieldy, pleasant-faced man. Twenty-five
years before, when secretary to the commissary at Noirmont, he had
married a girl of entrancing beauty, who used to teach the piano in a
boarding-school. One evening, after four years of marriage, four years
of torture, during which the unhappy man suffered every sort of
humiliation, Jorancé came home to find the house empty. His wife had
gone 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 the
child and saving her from the life which her mother's example would have
forced upon her in the future.
He did not have to look for her long. A month later, his wife sent back
the child, who was no doubt in her way. But the wound had cut deep and
lingered; and neither time nor the love which he bore his daughter could
wipe out the memory of that cruel story.
He buckled to his work, accepted the most burdensome tasks so as to
increase his income and give Suzanne a good education, was transferred
to the commissary's office at Lunéville and, somewhat late in life, was
promoted to be special commissary at the frontier. The position involved
the delicate functions of a sentry on outpost duty whose business it is
to see as much as possible of what goes on in the neighbour's country;
and Jorancé filled it so conscientiously, tactfully and skilfully that
the 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 his
grand-uncle by marriage and who was very much attached to him.
The two men saw each other almost every day. Jorancé and Suzanne used to
dine at the Old Mill on Thursdays and Sundays. Suzanne would also often
come alone and accompany the old man on his daily walk. He took a great
fancy to her; and it was upon his advice and at the urgent request of
Philippe and Marthe Morestal that Jorancé had taken Suzanne to Paris the
previous 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 with
you. Suzanne is young. And I approve of a little distraction."
He looked at Suzanne with the fervent glance of a father who has brought
up his daughter himself and whose love for her is mingled with a touch
of 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 him
very 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. I
must 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 he
was 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 then
continued:
"What do you say to it?"
"I say ... I say that it's most annoying.... They're in a very bad
temper 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 me
of encouraging the German deserters?"
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you, they are. It seems that there's a secret desertion-office
in these parts. I'm supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you are
the heart and soul of it."
"Oh, they can't stand me at any price!"
"Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Börsweilen, has
sworn 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 French
gold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see ...
with the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certain
to begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to be
opened...."
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 telegrams
in 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 German
officials. 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 has
been opened again. Then there's the espionage business and the story of
the French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and dropping
tricolour flags in the Strasburg streets.... For six months, it has been
one long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becoming
aggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengthening
their defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the two
governments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark ... and the
thing's done."
A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up the
sinister 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 out
in blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in the
face like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a day
comes 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 of
war, I gave my word not to serve in the French army again. I escaped, I
collected the young rapscallions of Saint-Élophe and round about, the
old men, the cripples, the women even.... We took to the woods. Three
rags served as a rallying-signal: a bit of white linen, a strip of red
flannel and a piece out of a blue apron ... the flag of the band! There
it 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 what
I am doing. But it is just as well that Philippe should know, too. Sit
down, 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 of
what he has most at heart:
"You know the frontier, Philippe, or rather the German side of the
frontier?... A craggy cliff, a series of peaks and ravines which make
this part of the Vosges an insuperable rampart...."
"Yes, absolutely insuperable," said Philippe.
"That's a mistake!" exclaimed Morestal. "A fatal mistake! From the
first moment when I began to think of these matters, I believed that a
day would come when the enemy would attack that rampart."
"Impossible!"
"That day has come, Philippe. For the last six months, not a week has
passed without my meeting some suspicious figure over there or knocking
up against men walking about in smocks that were hardly enough to
conceal their uniform.... It is a constant, progressive underhand work.
Everybody is helping in it. The electric factory which the Wildermann
firm has run up in that ridiculous fashion on the edge of the precipice
is 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. One
effort and the frontier's crossed."
"By a company," objected Jorancé.
"Where a company passes, a regiment can pass and a brigade can
follow.... At Börsweilen, five miles from the Vosges, there are three
thousand German soldiers: on a war-footing, mark you. At Gernach, twelve
miles further, there are twelve thousand; and four thousand horses; and
eight hundred waggons. By the evening of the day on which war is
declared, perhaps even earlier, those fifteen thousand men will have
crossed the Col du Diable. It's not a surprise which they mean to
attempt: that wouldn't be worth their while. It is the absolute
crossing of the frontier, the taking possession of our ridges, the
occupation of Saint-Élophe. When our troops arrive, it will be too late!
They will find Noirmont cut off, Belfort threatened, the south of the
Vosges invaded.... You can picture the moral effect: we shall be done
for! That is what is being prepared in the dark. That is what you have
been unable to see, Jorancé, in spite of all your watchfulness ... and
in spite of my warnings."
"I wrote to the prefect last week."
"You should have written last year! All this time, the other has been
coming on, the other has been advancing.... He hardly takes the trouble
to conceal himself.... There ... listen to him ... listen to him...."
In the far distance, like the sound of an echo, deadened by the mass of
trees, a bugle-call had rung out, somewhere, through the air. It was an
indistinct call, but Morestal was not mistaken and he hissed:
"Ah, it's he!... It's he.... I know the voice of Germany.... I know it
when 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 my
house 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 for
an alarm by setting up this unsuspected little fortress at twenty
minutes from the Col du Diable ... on the very threshold of the
frontier!"
He had planted himself with his face to the east, with his face to the
enemy; and, clutching his hips with his clenched hands, in an attitude
of defiance, he seemed to be awaiting the inevitable assault.
The special commissary, who still feared that his zeal had been caught
napping 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 is
not exactly the one hour which we shall want to gain?... An hour! You
never spoke a truer word: an hour of resistance to the first attack! An
hour of delay!... That's what I wanted, that's what I offer to my
country. Let every one be doing as I am, to the best of his power, let
every one be haunted to fever-point by the obsession of the personal
service which it is his duty to render to the country; and, if war
breaks 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 a
rush 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 against
the other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And he
uttered words at random:
"Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we can
entertain.... But, all the same ... don't you think we ought to face the
possibility?..."
"Face the possibility of defeat?" echoed the old man, who seemed
thunderstruck. "Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought to
influence France in her conduct?"
A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appeared
from the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashion
that 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 the
manoeuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. He
seemed 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 ideas
to take the least interest in the man's troubles; and the farmer's
presence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason for
returning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk about
than chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarming
rumours that were current?
"What do you say, Saboureux?"
The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom we
sometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern,
clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of our
Roman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched to
battle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness,
risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced to
ashes. Some passing Uhlans.... Since that time, he had laboured hard to
repair the harm done.
"And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning and
sacking?... Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be as
I 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 foot
on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed
his arms, with a serious air.
"And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?" asked
Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of
the 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 carved
out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every three
or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off
again.
"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 without
understanding. Saboureux grinned:
"He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if he
belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies
where the grub lies ... eh, Poussière?"
Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper and
let fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent--working-men, townsmen or
farmers--who think only of their comfort, without caring whether the
country is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect,
with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carried
to the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawked
about by travelling agents?
"Yes," he cried, "the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroying
us. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The very
army is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge of
mutiny...."
He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time,
nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father might
take 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 of
peace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the public
meetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and the
country with open doors and are backed up by our rulers.... And that's
only speaking of the capital!... Why, the very provinces haven't escaped
the contagion!... Here, have you read this abomination?"
He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heaped
up 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 more
dangerous because it's very well written, not by one of those wind-bags
to 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 our
name ... some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a large
family."
"Are you sure?" blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight of
the 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; and
the 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 reason
why I should be in a hurry to make his acquaintance! Besides, he himself
has 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 of
it...."
He continued to talk of it, nevertheless, and at great length, as well
as of all the questions of war and peace, history and politics that came
to his mind. It was not until he had "got his budget off his chest," as
he 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 your
poultry, have they? Are you coming, Jorancé? We'll see some fine
soldier-chaps making their soup. There's nothing jollier and livelier
than a French camp!"
CHAPTER IV
PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE
Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in
their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom
she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas
Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now
aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.
When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself
insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all
the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room a
look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite
books....
"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.... But
how 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 the
picture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimate
image 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 of
my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased
to love me...."
"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that
there is nothing in the world but love?"
"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't you
like 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 to
the two young women. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he sat
down 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 incident
of the pamphlet and the words which his father had spoken against the
author of that work. He repeated the words, a second time, with
increasing bitterness. Then he stopped, reflected and, pressing his
clenched fists to his temples, said, slowly, as though he were
explaining matters to himself:
"It's three years now that this has lasted ... ever since his letter on
my appointment, in which he wrote about my second book on the idea of
country. Perhaps I ought to have written to him then and there and told
him of the evolution of my mind and the tremendous change which the
study 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 him
so 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 the
living and splendid incarnation are so beautiful in themselves that,
after one has ceased to share them, one continues, for a long time, for
always, to retain a sort of involuntary affection for them, deep down in
one's inner self. They constituted the greatness of our country for
centuries. They are vigorous, like everything that is religious and
pure. One feels a renegade at losing them; and any word spoken against
them 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 to
hold. Yes, I have ceased to think as you do. My love of humanity does
not stop at the boundaries of the country in which I was born; and I do
not hate those who are on the other side of the frontier. I am one of
those men who will not have war, who will not have it at any price and
who would give their life-blood to save the world the horror of that
scourge.' 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 I
were hiding a shameful sore. At the meetings, in the newspapers to which
I contribute by stealth, to my adversaries and to the majority of the
men on my own side I was M. Philippe, denying my name and my
personality, setting a bad example to those who are silent for
prudence' sake and for fear of compromising themselves. I do not sign
the pamphlets which I write; and the book in which I give the conclusion
of my work has been ready for more than a year, without my daring to
publish 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 must
speak aloud, in the hearing of all men. I will speak."
He had gradually become animated, excited by his own words. His voice
had increased in volume. His face expressed the glowing, irresistible,
often blind enthusiasm of those who devote themselves to generous
causes. And, yielding to a need to speak out which was anything but
frequent with him, he went on:
"You don't know, you don't know what it means to a man to be fired with
a great idea ... whether it be love of humanity, hatred of war or any
other beautiful illusion. It lights us and leads us. It is our pride and
our faith. We seem to have a second life, the real life, that belongs to
it, and an unknown heart that beats for it alone. And we are prepared to
suffer any sacrifice, any pain, any wretchedness, any insult ...
provided that it gain the day."
Suzanne listened to him with obvious admiration. Marthe appeared
uneasy. Knowing Philippe's nature thoroughly, she was well aware that,
in thus letting himself go, he was not only being carried away by a
flood of eloquent words.
He opened the window and drew a deep breath of the pure air which he
loved. Then he returned and added:
"We are even prepared to sacrifice those around us."
Marthe felt all the importance which he attached to this little
sentence; 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 to
share your life, whatever it might be."
"My life as it looked like being, but not as I shall be compelled to
make it."
She looked at him with a glimmer of apprehension. For some time now, she
had noticed that he was even less communicative than usual, that he
hardly ever spoke of his plans and that he no longer told her what he
was 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 to
my father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of your
objections.... But I was wrong.... It is necessary that you should
know...."
"I don't understand," she stammered. "I don't understand...."
"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have taken
possession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myself
without reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They form
the belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is not
the belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the children
entrusted to my care."
She was on the verge--thinking of her own children, whose well-being and
whose future were about to suffer through this decision--she was on the
verge of exclaiming:
"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruples
and 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 poverty
and opprobrium rather than preach a religion which they no longer
believe.
And she simply said:
"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some that
terrify me ... especially those which I do not know, but which I half
suspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walk
to it with my eyes closed."
"And ... so far ... you approve?"
"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letter
and, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps he
will admit ..."
"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can still
understand the beliefs of former days, because those were their own
beliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannot
accept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with their
feelings and with their instincts."
"So ...?"
"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of it
distresses 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 than
you think. Wait a few days.... There is no hurry; and you will have time
to see ... to prepare...."
"Everything turns out well when you speak," he said, smiling and
allowing himself to be caressed.
"Unfortunately ..."
He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring at
the pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with a
terrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready to
fling 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 say
you, Suzanne?... Suppose you saw to putting away my things?... Is
everything done?"
Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, she
replied:
"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange them
yourself."
"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 when
Suzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretched
arms.
It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Marthe
asked, 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 a
look of her eyes that he yielded at once.
They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippe
fumed:
"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me here
indefinitely?..."
She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint and
implacable energy:
"I shall expect you this evening.... It's quite easy.... You can get
out.... 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 am
suffering more than I can bear.... It's enough to kill me."
Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her
lips trembled.
Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt
the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:
"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he
often 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 shall
indeed.... I don't care what happens!"
He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it
was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been
absurd.
But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out
and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation;
and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a
child'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 are
looking ..."
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 are
making signs to you."
Morestal and his friend were climbing up beside the waterfall and waving
their hands to attract Philippe's attention. When he came under the
windows, Morestal cried:
"This is what we have arranged, Philippe. You and I are dining at
Jorancé's."
"But ..."
"There's no but about it; we'll explain why. I'll have the carriage got
ready 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, I
implore 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 quite
natural 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 childish
delight:
"Oh, how happy I am!... How happy I am! My beautiful dream will be
fulfilled.... We shall walk together in the dark, without speaking a
word.... 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 the
staircase leading to the terrace and seized the clapper of the little
bell fastened to one of the bars. A push ... and the gate was open.
"Not much difficulty about that," said the man, carefully stepping on to
the terrace. "Since the mountain won't come to Dourlowski, Dourlowski
must ..."
The man stopped: he had heard voices. But, on listening, he found that
the sound of voices came from behind the house. He quietly entered the
drawing-room, therefore, walked straight across it and reached the
windows 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 in
it. The Morestal family were standing round the carriage.
"That's all right," said Morestal. "Philippe and I will walk ... and
we'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 Morestal
likes going to bed early. They will leave the house at ten o'clock
precisely; and I will go a bit of the way with them, as far as the
Butte."
"That's it," said Morestal. "We shall see the demolished post by
moonlight. And we shall be here by half-past ten, mother. That's a
promise. Off you go, Victor."
The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out his
watch and set it by the clock, whispering:
"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's a
good thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friend
Dourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home."
Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistle
which Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinished
note of certain birds:
"That's done it," he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He has
sent 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 the
collar of his jacket:
"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you?... I'll
show 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 small
round body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. And
all 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 the
Börsweilen garrison. He's too unhappy for words where he is ... and he's
mad at having to serve Germany."
"A ne'er-do-well," growled Morestal. "A slacker who doesn't want to
work."
"No, not this one, I tell you, not this one. He means to enlist in the
Foreign Legion. He loves France."
"Yes, always the same story. And then--pah!--one never hears of them
again. More gallows' seed!"
Dourlowski seemed shocked and scandalized:
"How can you say such a thing, M. Morestal?... If you only knew! A brave
soldier 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 the
least 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 in
this recollection. "Hold your tongue.... If the thing had never happened
..."
"It would happen just the same, because you are a good-natured man and
because there are things.... There.... It's like with this lad.... It
would break your heart to see him.... Johann Baufeld his name is.... His
father is just dead ... and he wants to go out to his mother, who was
divorced and who lives in Algeria.... Such a nice lad, full of
pluck...."
"Well," said Morestal, "he's only got to 'pass'! You don't want me for
that."
"And what about the money? He hasn't a sou. Besides, there's no one
like you to tell us all the paths, the best place to cross at, the best
time to select...."
"I'll see about it.... I'll see about it," said Morestal. "There's no
hurry...."
"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 a
suit 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 ... as
I 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 of
note-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 by
the Fontaine-Froide and take the first path to the left, by the Roche de
..."
He suddenly interrupted himself, looked at Dourlowski with a suspicious
air and said:
"But you know the road as well as I do ... there's no doubt about
that.... So ..."
"My word," said Dourlowski, "I always go by the Col du Diable and the
factory."
Morestal reflected for a moment, scribbled a few lines and a few words
in an absent-minded sort of way and then, with a movement of quick
resolution, took the sheet of note-paper, crumpled it into a ball and
flung 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 not
a business I care about.... A soldier's a soldier ... whatever uniform
he wears...."
"Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski.
"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German
commissary 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 a
second!... 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 the
waste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his
voice:
"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he
said. "I give it up."
"That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give
it 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 do
here ... absolutely nothing...."
He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he
reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the
staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill.
Dourlowski took off his hat and distributed bows all round. Then, as
soon 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 where
he 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 German
commissary, 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 with
that fellow. He's a bird of ill-omen."
"Come, come, mother, no hard words. This is a day of rejoicing.... Are
you ready, Philippe?"
CHAPTER VI
THE PLASTER STATUE
There were several ways leading to Saint-Élophe. First of all, the
high-road, which goes winding down a slope some two miles long; next, a
few rather steep short cuts; and, lastly, further north, the
forest-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 the
lieutenants of the manoeuvring company. We talked about the Saboureux
business 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 will
report it to his uncle Daspry; and Fort Morestal will be listed at
once...."
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 on
the 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 was
acting on Marthe's advice and delaying the painful explanation, life
seemed better to him, quite simple and quite easy, and he surrendered
himself to the pleasure of seeing his father again and the scenes which
he loved and renewing the childhood memories that seemed to await him at
every turn of the road and to rise up at his approach:
"Do you remember, father? This is where I fell off my bicycle.... I was
standing under that tree when it was struck by lightning...."
They stopped, recalled all the circumstances of the event and set off
again, arm in arm.
And, a little further, Morestal took up the thread:
"And over there, do you remember? That's where you killed your first
rabbit ... with a catapult! Ah, even in those days you promised to be a
good shot ... the best at Saint-Élophe, as I live!... But I was
forgetting: 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 quite
recovered from the wounds earned by its heroism during the war. It stood
crowding round an old ruined castle which became visible at the last
turn in the road. Nevertheless, situated on the borders of the
department, at twelve or thirteen miles from Noirmont, the
sub-prefecture, it owed a certain importance to its position near the
frontier, facing the German garrisons, whose increasing activity was
becoming a subject of uneasiness and had led to Jorancé's appointment as
special commissary.
Jorancé, the first holder of this newly-created office, lived at the
other end of the village and a little way outside it, in a low-storeyed
house which had been greatly improved by Suzanne's good taste and fancy.
It was surrounded by a garden with arbours and quaintly-clipped old
trees 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 room
hung with bright stuffs; flowers were scattered over the cloth; two
lamps shed a calm and even light; and Suzanne sat smiling, happy and
charming.
All this was very simple. And yet Philippe received the impression that
special 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 invisible
bonds. He felt sure of this; and Suzanne told him as much throughout
dinner, with her fond glances, her attentive movements, her whole person
bending 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's
discreet manner and her thoughtful air.
"How absorbed you are, Philippe!" cried Morestal, who had never ceased
talking while eating. "And you, Suzanne, what are you thinking about?
Your future husband?"
"Not I!" she replied, without the least embarrassment. "I was thinking
of 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 surprised
to realize the extent to which their lives had been mingled during that
stay. 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 and
castles of the Ile-de-France. An intimacy sprang up between them. And
now 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 to
go 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 the
hall-door, after a whispered colloquy with Jorancé, Morestal said to his
son:
"On second thoughts, it's better that we should go alone. The interview
must remain as secret as possible; and we shall be less easy if there
are three of us...."
"Besides," added the special commissary, "you may just as well keep
Suzanne company: it is her last evening. Good-bye for the present,
children. You can be sure that the two conspirators will be back when
the 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! I
sha'n't eat you, I promise you!"
"No, I don't expect you will," he said, laughing in his turn. "But, all
the same, it's strange ..."
"All the same, it's strange," she said, completing the sentence, "that
we should take a walk round the garden together, as I asked you. You
will 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 a
mountain-crest; and its light cast the regular shadows of the yews and
fir-trees on the lawns. The weather was heavy with approaching storms. A
warm breeze wafted the perfumes of plants and grass.
Three times, they followed the outer path, along a hedge and along a
wall. They said nothing; and this silence, which he found it impossible
to break, filled Philippe with remorse. At that moment, he experienced a
feeling 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, he
suspected her of some mysterious design.
"Let's go over there," said Suzanne, pointing to the middle of the
garden, where the shadows seemed to gather round a thick clump of
shrubs and hornbeams.
They made for the place through an arcade of verdure which brought them
to a short flight of steps. It was a sunk amphitheatre, surrounded by a
stone balustrade, with a small pond in the middle and, opposite, in a
leafy frame, a female statue, with a moonbeam quivering upon it. A musty
smell arose from this old-fashioned spot.
"Venus or Minerva? Corinne perhaps?" said Philippe, joking to conceal
his 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 her
head?"
"It depends," said Suzanne.
"How do you mean? What upon?"
"Yes, it depends upon my humour. When I'm good and sensible, she's
Minerva. 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 of
madness ... 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 every
day, 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 to
wait together. For whom? For the Blue Bird ... for Prince Charming. The
prince was to arrive on horseback, one day, jump the garden-wall and
carry 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 vows
I made to my dear goddess! Just think, Philippe: I promised her never to
bring 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 of
which 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 kiss
before her. Isn't it ridiculous? Poor goddess! She will never see that
kiss 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's
absurd. So you will admit that this dear goddess has no sense and that
she deserves to be punished."
With a quick movement of the arm, she gave a push to the statue, which
fell 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 and
wicked instincts which she was no longer able to control. She rushed
forwards 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 hate
you!... 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 not
already been reduced to fragments, he would certainly have flung her
from her pedestal. But, above all things, he was swayed by one idea: to
go 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, knowing
no other outlet by which to escape, he went through the passage. The
dining-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 know
the danger in those tears for him who is moved by the sight of their
flowing. But, had he known it, he would just the same have stayed; for
man'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 my
lips.... 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; all
this bewildered Philippe.
She began to laugh:
"Philippe! Philippe! You look as though you did not understand much
about women ... and even less about girls!"
She rose and went to the next room, which was her bedroom, as he saw by
the white curtains and the arrangement of the furniture; and she
returned with an album, in which she showed him, on the first page, the
photograph of a child, crying:
"Look, Philippe. I haven't changed. At two years old, just as now, I
used to have great big sorrows and eyes that flowed like taps."
He turned the pages of the album. There were portraits of Suzanne at all
ages: Suzanne as a child, Suzanne as a little girl, Suzanne as a young
girl; 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 beauty
and 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, he
thought her lovelier still; and he turned the pages. Two loose
photographs slipped to the floor. She put out her hand to take them, but
did 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! And
why 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 should
have given his daughter the portrait of a mother whom she had been
taught to believe long dead. And he remembered the riotous adventures of
the divorced wife, now the beautiful Mme. de Glaris, who was celebrated
in the chronicles of fast society for her dresses and her jewellery and
whose photographs were displayed in the shop-windows of the Rue de
Rivoli 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 clearly
recognized Suzanne's mother, or rather the Mme. de Glaris of the Rue de
Rivoli, bare-shouldered, decked in her pearls and diamonds, shameless
and magnificent.
Suzanne, who kept her eyes raised to his face, did not speak; and they
remained opposite each other, motionless and silent.
"Does she know the truth?" Philippe asked himself. "No ... no ... it's
not possible.... She must have bought this photograph, because of the
likeness to herself which she saw in it, and she does not suspect
anything...."
But he was not satisfied with his surmise and he dared not question the
girl, for fear of touching upon one of those mysterious griefs which
become more acute when once they are no longer secret.
She put the two portraits back in the album and locked the clasp with a
little key. Then, after a long pause, laying her hand on Philippe's arm,
she said to him, in words that corresponded strangely with the thoughts
that troubled him:
"Do not be angry with me, dear, and, above all, do not judge me too
severely. There is a Suzanne in me whom I do not know well ... and who
often frightens me.... She is capricious, jealous, wrong-headed, capable
of anything ... yes, of anything.... The real Suzanne is good and
sensible: 'You're _my_ daughter to-day,' papa used to say to me, when I
was a little girl. And he said it in such a happy tone! But, the next
day, I was his daughter no longer; and, struggle and fight as hard as I
might, I could not become so again.... Things prevented me; and I used
to 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 the
world so hard ... because the other ... the other one does not want
to.... And besides ..."
"What?"
She waited a moment, as though hesitating, and continued:
"And, besides, what she wants, what the other Suzanne wants does not
appear to me so very unreasonable. It is an immense longing to love
somebody, but to love madly, boundlessly, to love too well.... Then it
seems to me that life has no other object ... and all the rest bores
me.... You know, Philippe, even when I was ever so small, that word love
used to upset me. And, later ... and now, at certain times, I feel my
brain going and all my soul seeking, waiting...."
She hid her face again, as though seized with a sudden feeling of
bashfulness, and Philippe saw, between her fingers, her crimson forehead
and cheeks.
His pity swelled within him. Through those desultory confidences, he saw
Suzanne as she was, ignorant, ill-informed about herself and about the
realities of life, troubled with desires which she took for unsatisfied
feelings, torn by the implacable duel between contrary instincts and
possessing nothing to counteract her woman's nature but a wayward and
melancholy 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 always
went away after a few days. One would almost think that they were afraid
of me ... or that they had heard things ... against me.... Besides ... I
didn'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 he
ardently 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 long
silence that followed. And Suzanne experienced a great joy, as though
the indissoluble bond of words were linking them together. She added:
"It was a little your fault, Philippe, and you felt it, in a way, at
dinner. Yes, a little your fault.... In Paris, I lived a dangerous life
beside 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 was
no one in the world but you and I. It was for me that you talked, it was
to make me worthy of yourself that you explained things to me which I
did not know, that you took me to see the beautiful sights in the
churches, in the old towns.... And I, I was amazed. At what I was
learning? Oh, no, Philippe, but at the new world that suddenly opened up
to me. I did not listen to your words, but I listened to the sound of
your voice. My eyes saw only your eyes. It was your admiration that I
admired; your love for the beautiful was what I loved. All that you
taught me to know ... and to love, Philippe, was ... yourself."
Notwithstanding his inward rebellion, the words entered into Philippe's
being like a caress; and he too almost forgot himself in the pleasure of
listening to the sound of a soft voice and looking into eyes that are
dear to one.
He said, simply:
"And Marthe?"
She did not answer; and he felt that, like many women, she was
indifferent to considerations of that sort. To them, love is a reason
that excuses everything.
Then, seeking to create a diversion, he repeated:
"You must get married, Suzanne, you must. That is where your safety
lies."
"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.... The
thought that I too shall have had my spell of love.... But that short
spell 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 to
me.... I want, once at least, to feel a pair of arms around me, nothing
but that, I assure you ... to lay my head on your shoulder and to remain
like that, for an instant."
She was so near to Philippe that the muslin of her bodice touched his
clothes and he breathed the scent of her hair. He felt a mad temptation
to take her in his arms. And it would have been a very small thing, as
she had said: one of those moments of happiness which one plucks like a
flower 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 your
imagination ..."
"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, the
action 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 him
eagerly:
"You were in love with me, before I fell in love with you. It was your
love 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, a
woman is never mistaken.... Your eyes, when they looked at me, had a new
look in them ... there, the look of just now. You have never looked like
that at any woman, Philippe; not even at Marthe, ... no ... not even at
her.... You never loved her, her nor the others. I was the first. Love
was a thing unknown to you and you do not understand it yet ... and you
sit there in front of me, nonplussed and dumbfoundered, because the
truth appears to you and because you love me, Philippe, because you love
me, my dear Philippe...."
She clung to him, in an upheaval of hope and certainty, and he seemed
not to resist.
"You were afraid, Philippe. That is why you made up your mind not to see
me again.... That is why you spoke so harshly to me just now.... You
were afraid, because you love me.... Do you understand now?... Oh,
Philippe, I should not have acted with you as I have done, if you did
not love me.... I should never have had the presumption!... But I
knew.... I knew ... and you don't deny it, do you?... Oh, how I
suffered! My jealousy of Marthe!... To-day again, when she kissed
you.... And the thought of going away without as much as saying good-bye
to you!... And the thought of that marriage!... What a torture!... But
it's over now, is it not? I shall suffer no more ... because you love
me."
She spoke these last words with a sort of timorous hesitation and
without taking her eyes from Philippe's face, as though expecting him to
give an answer that would calm the sudden anguish with which she was
torn.
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 was
there so close to him, her arms clinging to his arms.
She whispered:
"Philippe.... Philippe...."
Had he heard? He remained impassive. Then, little by little, Suzanne
released her embrace. Her hands fell to her sides. She gazed with
infinite distress upon the man she loved and, suddenly, sank into a
heap, 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 sound
of the sobs roused Philippe from his dream. He listened to it sadly and
then began to pace the room. Moved though he was, what was passing
within him troubled him even more. He loved Suzanne!
It did not for a second occur to him to deny the truth. From the first
sentences that Suzanne had spoken and without his having to seek for
further proofs, he had admitted his love even as one admits the presence
of a thing that one sees and touches. And that was why Suzanne, at the
mere sight of Philippe's attitude, had suddenly realized the imprudence
which she had committed in speaking: Philippe, once warned, was escaping
her. He was one of those men who become conscious of their duty at the
very 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, grief
decked 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, one
does not repel the thing one loves.... And you love me...."
The pretty mouth was all entreaty. Philippe observed its voluptuous
action. It was as though the two lips delighted in uttering words of
love and as though they could pronounce no others.
He turned away his eyes to escape the fascination and, controlling
himself, 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 did
not attempt to protest. It was finished. And she knew this so thoroughly
that, a moment later, when Philippe opened the door and prepared to go
away, she did not even raise her head.
He did not go, however, for fear of offending her. He sat down. There
was only a little table between them. But how far he was from her! And
how it must surprise her that all her feminine wiles, her coquetry, the
allurement of her lips were powerless to subjugate the will of that man
who loved her!
The belfry-clock struck ten. When Morestal and Jorancé arrived, Suzanne
and Philippe had not exchanged a single word.
*
* *
"Ready to start, Philippe?" cried Morestal. "Have you said good-bye to
Suzanne?"
She replied:
"Yes, we have said good-bye."
"Well, then it's my turn," he said, kissing her. "Jorancé, it's settled
that 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 may
just 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 silk
scarf round her head:
"Here I am," she said.
The four of them walked off, along the sleeping streets of the little
town, and Morestal at once began to comment on his interview with
Captain Daspry. A very intelligent man, the captain, who had not failed
to see the importance of the Old Mill as a block-house, to use his
expression. But, from another point of view, he had given something of a
shock to Morestal's opinions on the attitude which a French officer
should maintain towards his inferiors.
"Just imagine, Philippe: he refuses to punish the soldiers I told him
about ... you know, the pillagers whom Saboureux complained of.... Well,
he refuses to punish them ... even the leader of the band, one
Duvauchel, a lover of every country but his own, who glories in his
ideas, they say. Can you understand it? The rascal escapes with a fine
of ten francs, an apology, a promise not to do it again and a lecture
from his captain! And Mossieu Daspry pretends that, with kindness and
patience, he succeeds in turning Duvauchel and fellows of his kidney
into his best soldiers! What humbug! As though there were any way of
taming those beggars, short of discipline! A pack of good-for-nothing
scoundrels, who would fly across the frontier the moment the first shot
was fired!"
Philippe had instinctively slackened his pace. Suzanne was walking
beside 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 in
the 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 of
whom one is very fond. But the silence was sweeter still and he did not
wish 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's
conversation:
"Oh, yes! Captain Daspry! Leniency, friendly relations between superiors
and inferiors, the barracks looked upon as a school of brotherhood, with
the officers for instructors! That's all very well; but do you know what
a 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 of
pleasing her. And he felt, besides, a great relief at seeing that she
leant against him with the confidence of a friend. They were going to
part and nothing would tarnish the pure memory of that day. It was a
comforting impression, which nevertheless caused him a certain sadness.
Duty fulfilled always leaves a taste of bitterness behind. The
intoxication of sacrifice no longer stimulates you; and you begin to
understand 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 and
greedily and reflected that no scent had ever excited him before:
"Good-bye," he said, within himself. "Good-bye, little girl; good-bye to
what was my love."
And, during those last minutes, as though he were granting a crowning
grace to his impossible longings and his forbidden dreams, he yielded to
the delights of that love which had blossomed so mysteriously in the
unknown 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 two
paths met, the wider of which, the one on the left, climbed up towards
the frontier. The spot was known as the Carrefour du Grand Chêne, or
Great Oak Crossways.
Morestal kissed the girl again:
"Good-bye, for the present, Suzanne. And don't forget that I'm coming to
your 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 get
on...."
"Look here, father, if you don't mind, I would rather take the direct
road.... The path by the Butte-aux-Loups is longer; and I am feeling
rather tired."
In reality, like Suzanne, Philippe wanted to go home alone, so that
nothing might disturb the melancholy charm of his dream. Old Morestal's
long speeches terrified him.
"As you please, my boy," cried the old man. "But mind you don't put up
the bolt or the chain on the hall-door."
Jorancé impressed the same injunctions on Suzanne and the two walked
away.
"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 steps
back. He hesitated. But she had come towards him and, very gently, drew
him to the foot of the path:
"Philippe, we must not part like this.... It is too sad! Let us go back
together 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 little
longer.... 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 a
swift movement and flung her arms round his neck.
He felt that he was lost and made a despairing effort. Suzanne's lips
were close to his, offering themselves.
"Oh, Suzanne ... Suzanne, my darling ..." he whispered, abandoning all
resistance and pressing the girl to his breast....
CHAPTER VIII
THE TRAP
The road which Morestal and his friend followed first makes a bend and
climbs the wooded side of a ravine. It was formerly used for foresting
purposes and is still paved with large stones which are covered with mud
after 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 places
denuded of trees, they were able to distinguish the other side of the
ravine.
He called out:
"Hullo!... Philippe!"
"I tell you what," said Jorancé. "I expect Philippe did not like to let
Suzanne go home alone and he is taking her back, at any rate as far as
the houses."
"I dare say," said Morestal. "Poor Suzanne, she doesn't look very
bright. 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 two
large trees, after which the road turned to the right. From that point
onwards, running through pine-woods along the line of the ridges, it
marked 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 might
have met a younger man ... a better-looking man ... but no one more
respectable or more serious.... To say nothing of his having a very firm
character; 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 inherits
from me an upright nature and strict principles ... but she is not only
my daughter ... and sometimes I am afraid of finding ... bad instincts
in her."
"Have you discovered anything?"
"Oh, no! And I am sure that there is nothing to discover. But it's the
future 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. When
that time comes, will she know how to resist? Oh, Morestal, the thought
of it drives me mad! I couldn't bear it.... Just think, the daughter,
following after the mother.... Oh, I believe ... I believe I should kill
her!..."
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't
forget.... And I don't want to, either. My duty is to think of
everything and to give her a guide, a master who will advise her.... I
know 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 your
fancies.... 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 personal
prejudice, resumed:
"By the way, can you tell me--if it's not a professional secret, of
course--can you tell me who that man Dourlowski is exactly?"
"Six months ago," replied Jorancé, "I should not have been able to
answer 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's
not much to be said in the fellow's favour. Why do you ask? Have you
anything to do with him?"
"No, no," said Morestal, remaining thoughtful.
They went on in silence. The wind, which blew more strongly on the
ridge, played among the trees. The pine-needles crackled under the soles
of their boots. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was white with
light.
"The Pierre-Branlante.... The Cheminée-des-Fées," said Morestal,
pointing to the vaguely-seen shapes of two huge boulders known by those
names 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 the
arm.
"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 a
bad moment to have chosen."
"Why?"
"Well, now that the German post has been cut down, it's likely that all
this 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. This
was the Butte-aux-Loups. The road cut it in two; and the posts of each
country stood facing each other.
Jorancé noticed that the German post had been put up again, but in a
makeshift fashion, with the aid of a number of large stones which kept
it 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't
you see yourself toppling it over and having the police down upon
you?... You'd better make a strategic movement to the rear, my
friend!..."
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, slower
hoot.... It really is like a signal, a hundred yards or so ahead of
us.... Smugglers, of course, French or German."
"Suppose we turned back?" said Morestal. "Aren't you afraid of being
mixed up in an affair?..."
"Why? It's the custom-house people's business; it doesn't concern you
and me. They can settle it among themselves...."
They listened for a moment and then went on, thoughtfully, with watchful
ears.
After the Butte-aux-Loups, the ridge becomes flatter, the forest spreads
out and the road, now freer, winds among the trees, runs from one slope
to the other, avoids the big roots, passes round the inequalities of the
ground 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 of
him, without hesitation. He knew the frontier so well! He could have
followed it with his eyes closed, in the dusk of the darkest night! At
one place, there was a branch that blocked the way; at another, there
was the trunk of an old oak which sounded hollow when he hit it with his
stick. And he announced the branch before he came to it; and he struck
at 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 by
the time which he had said.
But suddenly he stopped. He thought he saw a shadow hiding, thirty or
forty yards away from him:
"Did you see?" he whispered.
"Yes ... I saw...."
And, all at once, there came a shrill, strident whistle, apparently from
the 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 of
footsteps, below them, on the German side, the sound of a man
hurrying....
Morestal thought of the precipitous hill which he had described to
Dourlowski as the way up to the frontier from the Albern Woods, by the
Cold Spring, the Fontaine-Froide. In all certainty, somebody was scaling
the upper portion of that precipice, clinging on to the branches and
dragging himself along the pebbles.
"A deserter!" whispered Jorancé. "No nonsense now!"
But Morestal pushed him away and began to run to where the two roads
crossed. 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 he
was evidently only wounded, for, after a few seconds, he drew himself
up and made off through the woods.
A chase ensued forthwith. Four or five Germans crossed the frontier and
set off in pursuit of the fugitive, swearing as they went, while their
comrades, 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 once
caught up:
"Halt!" commanded a rough voice. "I arrest you.... You are
accomplices.... 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 with
us."
The men surrounded them; but, vigorous both and exasperated, they
succeeded in fighting their way through with their fists:
"To the Butte-aux-Loups," said Jorancé, "and keep to the left of the
road."
"We're not on the left," said Morestal, who saw, after a moment, that
they had branched off to the right.
They re-entered French territory; but the police who were pursuing the
deserter, having lost his tracks, now fell back in their direction.
Thereupon they made a bend to the right, hesitated for a moment, careful
not to cross the road, and then set off again; and, still tracked by the
men, whom they felt close upon their heels, they reached the acclivity
of the Butte-aux-Loups. At that moment, surrounded on all hands and
utterly blown, they had to stop to take breath.
"Arrest them!" said the leader of the men, in whom they recognized the
German commissary, Weisslicht. "Arrest them! We are in Germany."
"You lie!" roared Morestal, fighting with wild energy. "You have not the
right.... It's a dirty trap!"
It was a violent struggle, but did not last long. He received a blow on
the chin with the butt of a rifle, reeled, but continued to defend
himself, hitting and biting his adversaries. At last, they succeeded in
throwing him and, to stifle his shouting, they gagged him.
Jorancé, who had taken a leap to the rear and was standing with his back
to a tree, resisted, protesting:
"I am M. Jorancé, special commissary at Saint-Élophe. I am on my own
ground here. We are in France. There's the frontier."
The men flung themselves upon him and dragged him away, while he shouted
at 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 superhuman
effort, had knocked down the policeman who held him and once more took
to flight, with a cord cutting into one of his wrists and with a gag in
his mouth.
But, two hundred yards further, as he was turning towards the Col du
Diable, 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 the
road leading through the Albern Woods and hoisted on the backs of a
couple 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 the
German town of Börsweilen.
PART II
CHAPTER I
THE TWO WOMEN
Suzanne Jorancé pushed the swing-gate and entered the grounds of the Old
Mill.
She was dressed in white and her face looked fresh and cool under a
large hat of Leghorn straw, with its black-velvet strings hanging loose
upon her shoulders. Her short skirt showed her dainty ankles. She walked
with a brisk step, using a tall, iron-shod stick, while her disengaged
hand crumpled some flowers which she had gathered on the way and which
she dropped heedlessly as she went.
The Morestals' peaceful house was waking in the morning sun. Several of
the windows were open; and Suzanne saw Marthe writing at the table in
her bedroom.
She called out:
"Can I come up?"
But Mme. Morestal appeared at one of the windows of the drawing-room and
made 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 them
has 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.... And
Philippe, who wanted to go tramping at daybreak!... However, so much the
better, sleep suits both of my men.... By the way, Marthe, didn't the
shooting wake you in the night?"
"The shooting!"
"Oh, of course, your room is on the other side. The sound came from the
frontier.... Some poacher, I suppose...."
"Were M. Morestal and Philippe in?"
"Surely! It must have been one or two o'clock ... perhaps later ... I
don't quite know."
She put the tea-pot and the jar of honey, which Marthe had had for
breakfast, on the tray; and, with her mania for tidying, obeying some
mysterious principle of symmetry, settled her daughter-in-law's things
and any piece of furniture in the room that had been moved from its
place. This done, with her hands hanging before her, she looked round
for an excuse to discontinue this irksome activity. Then, discovering
none, she left the room.
"How early you are," said Marthe to Suzanne.
"I wanted air ... and movement.... Besides, I told Philippe that I would
come and fetch him. I want to go and see the ruins of the
Petite-Chartreuse with him ... It's a bore that he's not up yet."
She seemed disappointed at this accident which deprived her of a
pleasure.
"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 see
if Philippe's was open, then sat down opposite Marthe and examined her
long and carefully. She noted the eye-lids, which were a little rumpled;
the uneven colouring; the tiny wrinkles on the temples; a few white
hairs mingling with the dark tresses; all that proclaims time's little
victories over waning youth. And, raising her eyes, she saw herself in a
glass.
Marthe surprised her glance and cried, with an admiration free from all
envy:
"You are splendid, Suzanne! You look like a triumphant goddess. What
triumph 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 with
her mother-in-law, she had spoken to her of Philippe's new ideas, the
spirit of his work, his plan of resigning his position and his firm
intention to have an explanation with M. Morestal.
"Well?"
"Well," said Marthe, "my mother-in-law flew out. She absolutely objects
to any explanation whatever."
"Why?"
"M. Morestal is suffering from heart-trouble. Dr. Borel, who has
attended him for the last twenty years, says that he must be spared any
annoyance, any excessive excitement. And an interview with Philippe
might 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 an
intolerable existence, or else, at the cost of the most terrible
anguish, face M. Morestal's anger."
She was silent for a moment and then, striking the table with her
clenched fists:
"Oh," she exclaimed, "if I could only take all those worries upon myself
and save Philippe's peace of mind!"
Suzanne felt all the force of her vehemence and energy. No pain would
have frightened Marthe, no sacrifice would have been beyond her
strength.
"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 of
asking 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 that
business of love!"
"However, supposing ..."
"Very well, supposing," she said, pretending to be serious. "Philippe
loves 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 she
were spying for a sign of uneasiness on her features or seeking to
fathom 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 to
contain:
"Oh, that, no! If Philippe fell in love with another woman, if he wanted
to begin his life again, without me, and if he confessed it frankly, I
should 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 conscious
man, who knows what he is doing, incapable of a weakness; and no
forgiveness would absolve him. Besides, I myself could not ... no ... I
could not indeed." And she added, "I have too much pride."
The phrase was gravely and simply uttered and revealed a haughtiness of
soul which Suzanne had not suspected. She felt a sort of confusion in
the presence of the rival whom she was attacking and who held her at bay
with 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 a
strange happiness! I am afraid it won't last."
"Your marriage ..."
"I won't get married!" declared Suzanne, excitedly. "I won't get married
at any price! I hate that man.... He's not the only man in the world, is
he? There are others ... others who will love me.... I too am worthy of
being loved ... worthy of being lived for!..."
There were tears in her voice; and so great a despondency overwhelmed
her features that Marthe felt a longing to console her, as was her habit
in such cases. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Suzanne had wounded her,
not so much by her questions as by her attitude, by a certain sarcasm in
her accent and by an air of defiance that mingled with the expression of
her grief.
She preferred to cut short a painful scene the meaning of which escaped
her, 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 am
expecting 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 to
stay...."
Suzanne ran after her and, holding her back:
"You mustn't! I only ask for a movement, a kind word.... I am passing
through a terrible time, I need help and you ... you repel me.... It's
you who are repelling me, don't forget that.... It's you...."
"That's understood," said Marthe. "I am a cruel friend.... Only, you
see, my dear little Suzanne, if the thought of your marriage upsets you
to 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 tied
round her waist, waging her daily battle against a dust that existed
only 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 look
in and see."
Mme. Morestal went as far as the hall with the two young women. Suzanne
was already walking away, without a word, with the face which she wore
on 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 the
umbrella-stand. But, suddenly, she began to rummage among the canes and
sunshades, 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 him
so 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 be
anxious."
"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 door
as 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 has
gone out ... or else...."
"Or else what?"
"That he hasn't come in.... Only, I say that as I might say anything
that came into my head...."
"Not come in!" exclaimed Mme. Morestal.
She reflected for a second, then turned on her heels, ran up the stairs
with surprising agility, crossed a passage and entered her husband's
bedroom.
She uttered a cry and called:
"Marthe!... Marthe!..."
But the young woman, who had followed her, was already on her way to the
second floor, with Suzanne.
Philippe's room was at the back. She opened the door quickly and stood
on 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 and
down in dismay, hardly knowing what she was saying:
"Not in!... Philippe neither!... Victor, you must run ... but where
to?... 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 awful
thought from the first moment.
But Suzanne exclaimed:
"In any case, Marthe, you need not be alarmed. Philippe did not take the
road by the frontier."
"Are you sure?"
"We separated at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne. M. Morestal and papa went
on by themselves. Philippe came straight back."
"No, he can't have come straight back, or he would be here now," said
Marthe. "What can he have been doing all night? He has not even set
foot in his room!"
But Mme. Morestal was terrified by what Suzanne had said. She could now
no longer doubt that her husband had taken the frontier-road; and the
shots had come from the frontier!
"Yes, that's true," said Suzanne, "but it was only ten o'clock when we
started from Saint-Élophe and the shots which you heard were fired at
one 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 head
entirely. "It may have been much earlier."
"But your father must know," said Marthe to Suzanne. "Did he tell you
nothing?"
"I have not seen my father this morning," said Suzanne. "He was not
awake...."
She had not time to finish her sentence before an idea burst in upon
her, an idea so natural that the two other women were struck by it also
and none of them dared put it into words.
Suzanne flew to the door, but Marthe held her back. Why not telephone to
Saint-Élophe, to the special commissary's house?
A minute later, M. Jorancé's servant replied that she had just noticed
that her master was not in. His bed had not been touched either.
"Oh!" said Suzanne, trembling all over. "My poor father!... Can
anything have happened to him?... My poor father! I ought to have...."
They stood for a moment as though paralyzed, all three, and incapable of
taking a resolution. The man-servant went out saying that he would
saddle the horse and gallop to the Col du Diable.
Marthe, who was nearest to the telephone, rang up the mayor's office at
Saint-Élophe, on the off-chance, and asked for news. They knew nothing
there. But two gendarmes, it seemed, had just crossed the square at a
great pace. Thereupon, at the suggestion of Mme. Morestal, who had taken
up the second receiver, she asked to be put on to the gendarmery. As
soon as she was connected, she explained her reason for telephoning and
was informed that the sergeant was on his way to the frontier with a
peasant who declared that he had found the body of a man in the woods
between the Butte-aux-Loups and the Col du Diable. That was all they
were able to tell her....
Mme. Morestal let go the receiver and fell in a dead faint. Marthe and
Suzanne tried to attend to her. But their hands trembled and, when
Catherine, the maid-servant, appeared upon the scene, they both ran out
of the room, roused by a sudden energy and an immense need of doing
something, of walking, of laying eyes upon that dead body whose
blood-stained image obsessed their minds.
They went down the stairs of the terrace and scurried in the direction
of the Étang-des-Moines. They had not gone fifty yards, when they were
passed 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 take
the one leading to the pass, on the left; Marthe, the one on the right,
through the woods. They exchanged sharp words, blocking each other's
way.
Suddenly, Suzanne, without knowing what she was saying, flung herself
into 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 to
remember 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 abandoned
quarry. The path went no further. She had a fit of fury, was on the
verge of throwing herself on the ground and bursting into tears and
then retraced her steps, for she thought she heard some one call. It was
Suzanne, who had seen a man coming from the frontier on horseback and
who had vainly tried to make herself heard. He was no doubt bringing
news....
Panting and exhausted, they went back again. But there was no one at the
Old Mill, no one but Mme. Morestal and Catherine, who were praying on
the terrace. All the servants had gone off, without plan or purpose, in
search of information; and the man on the horse, a peasant, had passed
without looking up.
Then they dropped on a bench near the balustrade and sat stupefied, worn
out by the effort which they had just made; and horrible minutes
followed. Each of the three women thought of her own special sorrow and
each, besides, suffered the anguish of the unknown disaster that
threatened all three of them. They dared not look at one another. They
dared not speak, although the silence tortured them. The least sound
represented a source of foolish hope or horrid dread; and, with their
eyes fixed on the line of dark woods, they waited.
Suddenly, they rose with a start. Catherine, who was keeping a look-out
on 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 in
perspiration, 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, it
seemed to them as though nothing could touch them now. The phantom of
death vanished from their minds. A man had been shot, no doubt, but that
didn't matter, because the man was not one of theirs. And the gladness
that revived them was such that they could almost have laughed.
And, once again, Catherine appeared. She announced that Victor was
returning. And the three women saw a man spurring his horse at the mouth
of the pass, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck on the steep
slope of the road. It was soon apparent, when the man reached the
Étang-des-Moines, that some one was following him with swift strides;
and Marthe uttered cries of joy at recognizing the tall figure of her
husband.
She waved her handkerchief. Philippe answered the signal.
"It's he!" she said, almost swooning. "It's he, mamma.... I am sure that
he'll be able to tell us everything ... and that M. Morestal is not far
off...."
"Let us go and meet them," Suzanne suggested.
"Yes, I'll go," said Marthe, quickly. "You stay here, Suzanne ... stay
with mamma."
She darted away, eager to be the first to welcome Philippe and
recovering 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 have
been.... I will tell you all about it...."
"Yes, you will tell us.... But come ... come quick and kiss your mother
and reassure her...."
She dragged him along. They climbed the staircase and, on reaching the
terrace, he suddenly found himself in the presence of Suzanne, who was
waiting, convulsed with jealousy and hatred. Philippe's emotion was so
great 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. He
replied, laughing:
"A little calmness, first.... I confess I feel rather dazed.... This
makes two exciting nights.... Also, I am simply starving."
His shoes and clothes were grey with dust. There was blood on one of his
shirt-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, and
he began:
"It was about five o'clock in the morning when I got up; and I certainly
had no idea, when I left my room ..."
Marthe was stupefied. Why did Philippe say that he had slept there? Did
he not know that his absence had been discovered? But then why tell
that lie?
She instinctively placed herself in front of Suzanne and in front of her
mother; and, as Philippe had broken off, himself embarrassed by the
obvious 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, if
I had heard them ..."
He had an intuition of the danger which he was running, especially as
Suzanne was trying to make signs to him. But he had prepared the opening
of his story so carefully that, being unaccustomed to lying, he would
have been unable to alter a single word of it without losing the little
coolness that remained to him. Moreover, himself worn out and incapable
of resisting the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness that surrounded
him, how could he have perceived the trap which Marthe unconsciously
had laid for him? He, therefore, repeated:
"Once more, when I left my room, I had no idea of what had happened. It
was an accident that put me in the way of it. I had reached the Col du
Diable and was walking along the frontier-road when, half-way from the
Butte-aux-Loups, I heard moans and groans on my left. I went to the spot
where 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 interview
with the deserter had really taken place when he was returning from
Saint-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-rattle
in his throat. Nevertheless, he had strength enough left to tell me his
name 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 to
protect him on French territory and that the police had turned upon
them. 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, the
inn-keeper made no difficulty about telling me that a squad of police,
several of whom were mounted, had passed his house on their way to
Börsweilen, where they were conveying two French prisoners. One of these
was wounded. I could not find out if it was your father, Suzanne, or
mine. In any case, the wounds must have been slight, for both prisoners
were sitting their horses without assistance. I felt reassured and
turned 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 a
second cup of coffee, with the satisfied air of a man who has got off
cheaply.
The three women were silent. Suzanne lowered her head, lest she should
betray her emotion. At last, Marthe, who had no suspicions, but who was
worrying 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 of
inventing 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 those
which might make his story appear to clash with the facts; and he no
longer knew what to say.
Suzanne suggested:
"Perhaps Philippe spent the night in a chair...."
Marthe shrugged her shoulders; and Philippe, utterly at a loss, trying
to make up another version, did not even answer. He remained dumb, like
a child caught at fault.
"Come, Philippe," asked Marthe, "what's underneath this? Didn't you come
straight back?"
"No," he admitted.
"You came back by the frontier?"
"Yes."
"Then why conceal it? I couldn't very well be anxious now, seeing that
you 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 night
looking for my father."
"The night! Then you knew before this morning that he had been carried
off?"
"Yes, last evening."
"Last evening? But how? Who told you? You can only have known it by
witnessing the arrest."
He hesitated for a second. He could have dated his interview with the
deserter Baufeld to that particular moment. But he did not think of
this; 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 arrived
on the scene of the fighting, there was no one there. Then I hunted
about.... You understand, I was afraid that my father or M. Jorancé had
been hit by the bullets.... I hunted all night, following their track in
the dark: a wrong track, first of all, which led me towards the Albern
Woods. And then, this morning, I found Private Baufeld, who told me
which way the attacking party had gone, and I pushed on to the factory
and 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 you
doing 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 just
left my room, feeling fit and well, after a good night's rest.... Don't
you agree with me, mother?... Besides, you yourself ..."
But, at that moment, a sound of voices rose under the windows on the
garden-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 and
dragged 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, it
would be terrible!... Please, please ..."
She left him quickly, but her words and the scared look in her eyes gave
Philippe a real fright. Hitherto, he had felt towards Marthe only the
embarrassment provoked by the annoyance of having to tell a lie. He now
suddenly perceived the full gravity of the situation, the peril which
threatened Suzanne and which might shatter the happiness of his own
household. One blunder ... and everything was discovered. And this
thought, instead of clearing his brain forthwith, merely increased his
confusion.
"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 man
has 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 his
shirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck,
another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificent
in energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented by
old Morestal.
He chortled:
"Here!" he shouted.
An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache:
"Morestal? Here!... Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of the
Teuton ... 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, wide
gesture. Then he drew his wife to him:
"Kiss me, mother!... And you, Philippe! And you, Marthe!... And you
too, my pretty Suzanne: once for myself and once for your father!...
Don't cry, my child.... Daddy's all right.... They're coddling him like
an emperor, over there ... until they let him go. And that's not far
off. 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 chuck
him out of the window!"
"Still, you ought to take something...."
"Take something? A glass of wine, if you like ... a glass of good French
wine.... 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 face
of Weisslicht, the special commissary of the imperial government!... The
prisoner's gone! The bird's flown!"
He laughed loudly and, after drinking two glasses of wine, one on top of
the other, he kissed the three women once more, kissed Philippe, called
in Victor, Catherine, the gardener, shook hands with them, sent them
away again and began to walk up and down the room, saying:
"No time to be lost, children! I met the sergeant of gendarmes on the
Saint-Élophe road. The authorities have been informed.... They can be
here 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 should
not excite yourself like this. Here, tell us all about it instead, quite
calmly."
Old Morestal was never known to refuse to talk. He therefore began his
story, in short, slow sentences, as she wished, describing all the
details of attack and all the incidents of the journey to Börsweilen.
But, carried away once more, he raised his voice, grew indignant, worked
himself into a rage, burst into sarcasm:
"Oh, they showed no lack of civility!... It was, 'Monsieur le
commissaire spécial!... Monsieur le conseiller d'arrondissement!'...
Weisslicht had his mouth crammed with our titles!... All the same, at
one o'clock in the morning, we were safely locked up in two nice little
rooms in the town-hall at Börsweilen.... In quod, what!... With a
probable indictment for complicity, espionage, high treason and the
devil knows what hanging over our heads!... Only, in that case,
gentlemen, you should not carry politeness so far as to release your
captives from their handcuffs; and the windows of your cells ought not
to be closed with bars too slight to be of any use; and you ought not to
let one of your prisoners keep his pocket-knife. If you do, as long as
that prisoner has any grit in him--and a file to his knife, by Jove!--he
will try what he can do. And I did try, by Jingo! At four o'clock in the
morning, after cutting the window-pane and filing or loosening four of
the bars, old Morestal let himself down by a waste-pipe and took to his
heels. Kind friends, farewell!... It was now only a question of getting
home.... The Col du Diable? The Albern Woods? The Butte-aux-Loups? No
such fool! The vermin were bound to be swarming on that side.... And, in
fact, I heard the drums beating and the trumpets sounding the alarm and
the horses galloping. They were hunting for me, of course!... But how
could they have thought of hunting for me six miles away, in the Val de
Sainte-Marie, right in the middle of the Forest of Arzance? And I
trotted ... I trotted until I was simply done.... I crossed the border
at eight o'clock, unseen and unknown. Morestal's foot was on his native
heath! At ten o'clock, I saw the steeple of Saint-Élophe from the
Côte-Blanche and I cut straight across, so as to get home quicker. And
here I am! A bit tired, I admit, but quite presentable.... Well, what do
you say to old Morestal now, eh?"
He had stood up and, forgetting all about the fatigue of the night, was
enlivening his discourse with a savage display of gesture which alarmed
his 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 as
I did...." And he added. "And a good job too! For I should have been
left to languish in their prisons until the end of an interminable
trial; whereas he, in forty-eight hours ... But this is all talk. The
authorities can't be far away. I want to have my report ready. There are
certain things which I suspect ... the business was a plot from start to
finish...."
He interrupted himself, as though startled by an unexpected thought, and
sat 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 taken
me long enough!"
"What?" asked his wife.
"Dourlowski, of course!"
"Dourlowski?"
"Why, yes! From the first minute, I guessed that it was a trap, a trap
contrived by inferior police-agents. But how was it laid? I see it now.
Dourlowski came here yesterday, on some pretext or other. He knew that
Jorancé and I would take the frontier-road in the evening; and the
passing of the deserter was contrived to take place at that moment, in
connivance with the German detectives! One of them whistles as soon as
we come up; and the soldier, who has been told, of course, that this
whistle is a signal from the French accomplices, the soldier, whom
Dourlowski or his confederates hold in a leash, like a dog, the soldier
is 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 of
Jorancé; and there we are, accomplices both. Bravo, gentlemen! Well
played!"
Mme. Morestal murmured:
"But, I say, it might be a serious thing ..."
"For Jorancé," he replied, "yes, because he is in custody; only--there
is an 'only'--the pursuit of the deserter took place on French soil. We
also were arrested on French soil. It was a flagrant violation of the
frontier. 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, that
the frontier has been violated."
"Who will prove the violation?"
"Who? Why, I, of course!... And Jorancé!... Do you think they'll doubt
the word of honest men like us? Besides, there are other proofs. They
will find the traces of the pursuit, the traces of the attack, the
traces of the stand which we made. And who can tell? There may have been
witnesses...."
Marthe turned her eyes on Philippe. He was listening to his father, with
a face so pale that she was astounded. She waited for a few seconds and
then, 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 the
bottom 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 two
hundred yards when I turned back."
"So that was why you did not answer when I called to you, half-way up
the 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, you
must 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 Jorancé
shouting.... They stuffed a gag into my mouth.... But Jorancé kept on
roaring, 'We are in France! We are on French territory!' You heard
Jorancé shouting, didn't you, now?"
Philippe hesitated before making a reply of which he vaguely felt the
tremendous importance. But, opposite him, he saw Marthe watching him
with increasing surprise and, near Marthe, he saw Suzanne's drawn
features. He said:
"Yes, I heard him ... I heard him at a distance...."
Old Morestal could not contain himself for joy. And, when he learnt
besides that Philippe had received the last words of Baufeld the
deserter, 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 have
told 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 was
quite easy in my mind.... But all the same, Philippe's evidence, the
declaration of the dying private.... Ah, the brigands, they'll have to
let go their prey!... We were in France, kind friends! There has been a
violation 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 for
the soldier, I could hardly make out ..."
"We've got them, I tell you. The little that you were able to see, the
little that you were able to hear all agrees with my own evidence, that
is to say, with the truth. We've got them! And here come the gentlemen
from the public prosecutor's office, who will be of my opinion, I bet
you what you like! And it won't take long either! Jorancé will be free
to-morrow."
He dropped the pen, which he had taken up in order to write his report
himself, and went quickly to the window, attracted by the sound of a
motor-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 not
wasting 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 my
jacket...."
"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 be
present at the conversation. Philippe experienced a momentary
embarrassment. 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 about
his 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 a
position in which I find myself placed, a horrible position which I
don't know how to get out of, unless ..."
He went no further. Acting under an instinctive impulse, thrown off his
balance by the arrival of the examining-magistrate and by a sudden
vision of the events to come, he had appealed to his father. He wanted
to speak, to say the words that would deliver him. What words? He did
not quite know. But anything, anything rather than give false evidence
and affix his signature to a lying deposition!
He stammered at first, while his brain refused to act, seeking in vain
for an acceptable solution. How was he to stop on the downward course
along which he was being dragged by a combination of hostile forces,
accidents, coincidences and implacable, trifling facts? How was he to
break through the circle which a cruel fate was doing its utmost to
trace around him?
It suddenly burst in upon him that the only possible way out lay in
proclaiming the immediate truth, in bluntly revealing his conduct.
He shuddered with disgust. What! Accuse Suzanne! Was that the
half-formed idea that inspired him, unknown to himself? Had he really
thought of ruining her in order that he might be saved? It was now that
he first realized the full nature of his predicament, for he would a
thousand times rather have died than dishonour the girl, even in his
father'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 large
sort of park formed by the clustering trees and the undulating meadows
of the Vosges. He was now obsessed by other thoughts, which mingled with
his 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 the
frontier-line...."
"Yes ... exactly ... so we did. But, at the moment of the first attack
and again at the moment of the arrest, we were in France. There is no
doubt 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 affair
will create a noise."
"What do I care? The truth comes first, surely? Once we are in the
right, we are bound to see that our rights are recognized and that
Jorancé 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. The
examining-magistrate's enquiry is most important. It will serve as a
basis for later enquiries. It seems to me that we ought to reflect and
give our evidence with a certain reserve, with caution.... We must
behave 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 this
world!"
"Not even war?"
"War! What are you talking about? War! But there can't be war over an
incident 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. Let
us 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 dispute
it. But have no fear, my boy: the proofs exist; and we can safely go
ahead.... 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 a
last effort to escape. "Presently.... I must absolutely tell you.... You
and I start from a different point of view.... I have rather different
ideas 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 to
accept with a light heart a responsibility that is not in accordance
with my present opinions; and that is why an explanation between us has
become inevitable."
Morestal looked at him with an air of amazement:
"Your present opinions! Ideas different from mine! What's all this
nonsense?"
Philippe felt, even more clearly than on the day before, the violence of
a conflict which a confession would provoke. But, this time, his resolve
was taken. There were too many reasons urging him towards a breach which
he considered necessary. With his mind and his whole frame palpitating
with his tense will, he was about to utter the irrevocable words, when
Marthe hurried into the room:
"Don't keep your father, Philippe; the examining-magistrate is asking
for 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 of
nonsense 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-notes
sounded 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 with
your 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 prove
fatal ... especially after last night. Not a word, Philippe."
At that moment, Morestal closed the window. He passed in front of them
and then, turning and placing his hand on his son's shoulder, he
murmured, in accents of restrained ardour:
"Do you hear the enemy's bugle, over there? Ah, Philippe, I don't want
it to become a war-song!... But, all the same, if it should ... if it
should!..."
*
* *
At one o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday the 2nd of September,
Philippe, sitting opposite his father, before the pensive eyes of
Marthe, before the anxious eyes of Suzanne, Philippe, after relating
most minutely his conversation with the dying soldier, declared that he
had heard at a distance the cries of protest uttered by Jorancé, the
special commissary.
Having made the declaration, he signed it.
CHAPTER IV
THE ENQUIRIES
The tragedy enacted that night and morning was so harsh, so virulent and
so swift that it left the inmates of the Old Mill as though stunned.
Instead of uniting them in a common emotion, it scattered them, giving
each of them an impression of discomfort and uneasiness.
In Philippe, this took the form of a state of torpor that kept him
asleep until the next morning. He awoke, however, in excellent
condition, but with an immense longing for solitude. In reality, he
shrank from finding himself in the presence of his father and his wife.
He went out, therefore, very early, across the woods and fields, stopped
at an inn, climbed the Ballon de Vergix and did not come home until
lunch-time. He was very calm by then and quite master of himself.
To men like Philippe, men endowed with upright natures and generous
minds, but not prone to waste time in reflecting upon the minor cases of
conscience that arise in daily life, the sense of duty performed
becomes, at critical periods, a sort of standard by which they judge
their actions. This sense Philippe experienced in all its fulness.
Placed by a series of abnormal circumstances between the necessity of
betraying Suzanne or the necessity of swearing upon oath to a thing
which 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 had
committed 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 no
excuse that permitted him to break silence.
He found, on the drawing-room table, the three newspapers which were
taken at the Old Mill: the _Éclaireur des Vosges_; a Paris
evening-paper; and the _Börsweilener Zeitung_, a morning-paper printed
in German, but French in tone and inspiration. A glance at these
completely reassured him. Amid the confusion of the first reports
devoted 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 star
parts."
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 and
said:
"Yes, Philippe, you need not worry yourself. Your evidence is of no
importance and cannot influence events in any way. You can be very sure
of that."
Their faces were quite close together and Philippe read nothing but
gaiety 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 of
conscience and vague apprehensions. Anxious about the consequences of
the business and dreading lest his testimony might complicate it, he had
tried to avoid the annoyance of giving evidence.
"I believe you're right," he said, with a view to confirming her in her
mistake. "Besides, is the business so very serious?"
They talked together for a few minutes and, gradually, while watching
her, 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 asleep
last evening. Suzanne spent the night here."
He turned aside his head, to hide the flush that spread over his
features, 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 her
father."
"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 was
her fault that her father was kidnapped.... She says she urged him to go
for that walk!... Poor Suzanne, what interest could she have in
remaining alone?..."
He plainly perceived, from his wife's voice and attitude, that, although
certain coincidences had surprised her, her mind had not been touched by
the shadow of a suspicion. On that side, everything was over. The danger
was averted.
Happily released from his fears, Philippe had the further satisfaction
of learning that his father had spent a very good night and that he had
gone to the town-hall at Saint-Élophe. He questioned his mother. Mme.
Morestal, yielding like Philippe to that desire for assuagement and
security which comes over us after any great shock, reassured him on the
subject of the old man's health. Certainly, there was something the
matter with the heart: Dr. Borel insisted upon his leading the most
regular and monotonous life. But Dr. Borel always looked at the dark
side of things; and, all considered, Morestal had borne the fatigue
attendant on his capture and escape, hard though it was, very well
indeed.
"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 of
a 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 of
nothing else.... And who do you think swooped down upon me at
Saint-Élophe? Quite half-a-dozen reporters! I sent them away with a flea
in their ears! A set of fellows who make mischief wherever they go and
who arrange everything as it suits them!... They're the scourge of our
time!... I shall give Catherine formal orders that no one is to be
admitted to the Old Mill.... Why, did you see how they report my
escape? I'm supposed to have strangled the sentry and to have made a
couple of Uhlans who pursued me bite the dust!..."
He could not succeed in concealing his satisfaction and drew himself to
his full height, like a man who sees nothing astonishing in an exploit
of that kind.
Philippe asked.
"And what is the general feeling?"
"Just what the papers say. Jorancé's release is imminent. I told you as
much. The more we assert ourselves, as we have every right to do, the
sooner the thing will be over. You must understand that friend Jorancé
is being examined at this moment and that he is giving exactly the same
replies 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 to
it!..."
This, when all was said and done, was the motive to which he, like
Marthe, ascribed the incoherent words which Philippe had uttered
previous to his appearance before the magistrates; and, without going
deeper into the matter, it gave him, on his side, a certain sense of
anger, mingled with a mild contempt. Philippe Morestal, old Morestal's
son, afraid of war! He was one more corrupted by the Paris poison!...
Lunch was very lively. The old man never ceased talking. His
good-humour, his optimism, his steady belief in a favourable and
immediate solution overcame every resistance; and Philippe himself was
glad to share a conviction that delighted him.
*
* *
The afternoon was continued under equally propitious auspices. Morestal
and Philippe were sent for to the frontier, where, in the presence of
the public prosecutor, the sub-prefect, the sergeant of gendarmes and a
number of journalists whom they tried in vain to send away, the
examining-magistrate carefully completed the investigations which he had
begun the day before. Morestal had to repeat the story of the aggression
on the spot where it occurred, to point definitely to the road followed
before the attack and during the flight, to fix the place where Private
Baufeld had crossed the frontier-line and the place where the commissary
and himself were arrested.
He did so without hesitation, walking to and fro, talking and making his
statements so positively, so logically and so sincerely that the scene,
as pictured by him, lived again before the spectators' eyes. His
demonstration was lucid and commanding. Here, the first shot was fired.
There, a sharp divergence to the right, on German territory. Here, back
in France and, further on, at that exact spot, fifteen yards on this
side of the frontier, the scene of the fight, the place of the arrest.
Indications, undeniable indications, abounded. It was the truth, with no
possible fear of a mistake.
Philippe was carried away and categorically confirmed his original
declaration. He had heard the special commissary shouting, as he
approached the Butte-aux-Loups. The words, "We are in France!... There
is the frontier!" had reached him distinctly. And he described his
search, his conversation with Private Baufeld and the wounded man's
evidence concerning the encroachment on French territory.
The enquiry ended with a piece of good news. On Monday, a few hours
before 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, without
confessing the relations that existed between him and that individual,
had nevertheless spoken of the visit of this Dourlowski and of his
proposal that the witness should act as an accomplice. An understanding
between Dourlowski and Weisslicht was a proof that an ambush had been
laid and that the passing of Private Baufeld across the frontier,
arranged for half-past ten, was only a pretext to catch the special
commissary 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 imperial
government would not hesitate to disown was becoming rapidly reduced to
the proportions of an incident which would lead to nothing and be
forgotten on the morrow.
"That's all right," said Morestal, walking away with his son, while the
magistrates went on to Saboureux's Farm. "It will be an even simpler
matter than I hoped. The French government will know the results of the
enquiry this evening. There will be an exchange of views with the German
embassy; 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 men
headed 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. Suzanne
arrived from Börsweilen at nightfall, looking radiant. They had given
her a letter from her father and she would be authorized to see him on
Saturday.
"You will not even have to go back to Börsweilen," said Morestal. "Your
father will come to fetch you here, won't he, Philippe?"
Dinner brought them all five together under the family lamp; and they
experienced a feeling of relaxation, comfort and repose. They drank to
the special commissary's health. And it seemed to them as if his place
were not even empty, so great was the certainty with which they expected
his return.
Philippe was the only one who did not share in the general gaiety.
Sitting beside Marthe and opposite Suzanne, he was bound, with his
upright nature and his sane judgment, to suffer at finding himself
situated in such a false position. Since the night before last, since
the moment when he had left Suzanne while the dawning light of day stole
into her room at Saint-Élophe, this was the first instant that he had
had 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 way
in which he was to act, his one and only thought of Suzanne had been how
not to compromise her.
Now, he saw her before him. He heard her laugh and talk. She lived in
his presence, not as he had known her in Paris and found her at
Saint-Élophe, but adorned with a different charm, of which he knew the
mysterious secret. True, he remained master of himself and he clearly
felt that no temptation would induce him to succumb a second time. But
could he help it that she had fair hair, the colour of which bewitched
him, and quivering lips and a voice melodious as a song? And could he
help it that all this filled him with an emotion which every minute that
passed made more profound?
Their eyes met. Suzanne trembled under Philippe's gaze. A sort of
bashfulness decked her as with a veil that gives added beauty to its
wearer. 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 longer
between the two women. The mere sight of their intimacy was hateful to
him. He would go away without a word. He knew the danger of
leave-takings between people who love, knew how they soften us and
disarm 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 Marthe
joined him. He learnt from her that Suzanne's room was on the same
floor. Later, he heard the young girl come upstairs. But he knew that
nothing would make him fall again.
As soon as he was alone, he opened his window, sat a long time staring
at the vague outlines of the trees, then undressed and went to bed.
*
* *
In the morning, Marthe brought him his letters. He at once recognized
the writing of a friend on one of the envelopes:
"Good!" he said, jumping at the pretext. "A letter from Pierre Belum. I
hope 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 his
hand.
"What's the matter, father?"
"We are specially summoned to appear before the Prefect of the Vosges in
the 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 becoming
complicated."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying what this morning's papers say. According to the latest
telegrams, Germany has no intention of releasing Jorancé. Moreover,
there have been manifestations in Paris. Berlin also is stirring. The
yellow 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 a
sudden 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 word
and 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 their
heads and was rumbling over France. Henceforward powerless, they must
undergo its consequences and hear its distant echoes without being able
to influence the formidable elements that had been let loose during that
Monday night.
CHAPTER V
THE THUNDERCLAP
The German argument was simple enough: the arrest had taken place in
Germany. At least, that was what the newspapers stated in the extracts
which Philippe and his father read in the _Börsweilener Zeitung_. Was it
not to be expected that this would be the argument eventually
adopted--if it was not adopted already--by the imperial government?
At Börsweilen--the _Zeitung_ made no mystery about it--people were very
positive. After twenty-four hours' silence, the authorities took their
stand upon the explanation given the day before by Weisslicht, in the
course of an enquiry attended by several functionaries, who were
mentioned by name; and they declared aloud that everything had taken
place in due form and that it was impossible to go back upon
accomplished facts. Special Commissary Jorancé and Councillor Morestal,
caught in the act of assisting a deserter, would be brought before the
German 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, after
receiving the Prefect of the Vosges at the Saint-Élophe town-hall and
discussing the German argument with him and the examining-magistrate.
"The whole case depends upon him, monsieur le préfet. Even supposing
their argument to be correct, what is it worth, if we prove that we were
drawn into an ambush by Weisslicht and that Baufeld's desertion was a
got-up job contrived by subordinate officials of police? And the proof
of 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 it
to-day."
"How so?"
"Yesterday, Wednesday, when I was questioning him, Farmer Saboureux
declared that he had seen Weisslicht and Dourlowski together. He even
used certain words which made me suspect that he had noticed the
preparations for the attack and that he was an unseen witness of it ...
and a valuable witness, as you will agree. This morning, Thursday, he
retracts, he is not sure that it was Weisslicht he saw and, at night, he
was asleep ... he heard nothing ... not even the shooting.... And he
lives at five hundred yards from the spot!"
"I never heard of such a thing! What does he mean by backing out like
that?"
"I can't say," replied the magistrate. "Still, I saw a copy of the
_Börsweilener Zeitung_ sticking out of his pocket ... things have
altered 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 a
farm 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 old
road to the frontier, where the enquiry was resumed in detail. But, at
the Butte, they saw three men in gold-laced caps smoking their pipes by
the German frontier-post.
And, further on, at the foot of the slope, in a sort of clearing on the
left, they perceived two more, lying flat on their stomachs, who were
also smoking.
And, around these two, there were a number of freshly-painted
black-and-yellow stakes, driven into the ground in a circle and roped
together.
In reply to a question put to them, the men said that that was the place
where Commissary Jorancé had been arrested.
Now this place, adopted by the hostile enquiry, was on German territory
and at twenty yards beyond the road that marked the dividing-line
between the two countries!
Philippe had to drag his father away. Old Morestal was choking with
rage:
"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. Philippe
next repeated his, in less definite terms, this time, and with a
hesitation which old Morestal, absorbed in his grievances, did not
observe, but which could not well escape the others.
The father and son returned to the Old Mill together, as on the day
before. Morestal was no longer so triumphant and Philippe thought of
Farmer Saboureux, who, warned by his peasant shrewdness, varied his
evidence according to the threat of possible events.
As soon as he reached home, he took refuge in his room. Marthe went up
to 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, he
went downstairs.
They drove to Saint-Élophe and then, growing more and more anxious, to
Noirmont, twelve miles beyond it, where Morestal had many friends. One
of these took them to the offices of the _Éclaireur_.
Here, nothing was known as yet: the telegraph-and telephone-wires were
blocked. But, at eight o'clock, a first telegram got through: groups of
people had raised manifestations outside the German embassy. On the
Place de la Concorde, the statue of the city of Strasburg was covered
with flags and flowers.
Then the telegrams flowed in.
Questioned in the Chamber, the prime minister had replied, amid the
applause of the whole house:
"We ask, we claim your absolute confidence, your blind confidence. If
some of you refuse it to the minister, at least grant it to the
Frenchman. For it is a Frenchman who speaks in your name. And it is a
Frenchman who will act."
In the lobby outside the house, a member of the opposition had begun to
sing the _Marseillaise_, which was taken up by all the rest of the
members in chorus.
And then there was the other side of the question: telegrams from
Germany; the yellow press rabid; all the evening-papers adopting an
uncompromising, aggressive attitude; Berlin in uproar....
*
* *
They drove back at midnight; and, although they were both seized with a
like emotion, it aroused in them ideas so different that they did not
exchange a word. Morestal himself, who was not aware of the divorce that
had taken place between their minds, dared not indulge in his usual
speeches.
The next morning, the _Börsweilener Zeitung_ announced movements of
troops towards the frontier. The emperor, who was cruising in the North
Sea, had landed at Ostende. The chancellor was waiting for him at
Cologne. And it was thought that the French ambassador had also gone to
meet him.
Thenceforward, throughout that Friday and the following Saturday, the
inmates of the Old Mill lived in a horrible nightmare. The storm was now
shaking the whole of France and Germany, the whole of quivering Europe.
They heard it roar. The earth cracked under its fury. What terrible
catastrophe would it produce?
And they, who had let it loose--the actors of no account, relegated to
the background, the supernumeraries whose parts were played--they could
see 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 out
for no reason, came in again at once, could not keep still:
"Ah," he cried, in a moment of despondency in which his thoughts stood
plainly revealed, "why did we come home by the frontier? Why did I help
that 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 had
the German reports in his hands, now possessed the French papers, which
had been communicated by our ambassador. The affair, hitherto purely
administrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government was
demanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-Élophe, who had
been arrested on French territory.
"If they consent, all will be well," said Morestal. "There is no
humiliation for Germany in disowning the action of a pack of minor
officials. 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 following
short 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 in
two, following the road to the Butte-aux-Loups step by step, examining
each winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, he
reconstituted the plan of the attack. And he showed Philippe the trees
against which he had brushed in his flight and the trees at the foot of
which he and his friend had stood and defended themselves:
"It was there, Philippe, and nowhere else.... Do you see that little
open space? That's where it was.... I have often come and smoked my pipe
here, 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 his
teeth:
"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 the
right ... 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 of
being mad! How could I have? I was thinking of one thing only; I kept
saying to myself, 'I must remain in France, I must keep to the left of
the line.' And I did keep to it, hang it all! It is absolutely
certain.... What then? Am I to deny the truth in order to please them?"
And Philippe, who had never ceased watching him, replied, within
himself:
"Why not, father? What would that little falsehood signify, compared
with the magnificent result that would be obtained? If you would tell a
lie, father, or if only you would assert so fatal a truth less forcibly,
France could give way without the least disgrace, since it is your
evidence 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 duty
which Philippe knew to be as lofty and as legitimate as his own. What
right 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 the
other, to old Morestal, a criminal betrayal of his own side. Morestal,
when giving his evidence, was speaking in the name of France. And France
does not tell lies.
"If there is a possible solution," Philippe said to himself, "my father
is not the man to be asked to provide it. My father represents a mass of
intangible ideas, principles and traditions. But I, I, I ... what can I
do? What is my particular duty? What is the object for which I ought to
make 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 implacable
march of events would continue just the same. Now that was the only
thing that mattered. Every individual suffering, every attack of
conscience, every theory, all vanished before the tremendous catastrophe
with which humanity was threatened and before the task that devolved
upon men like himself, men emancipated from the past and free to act in
accordance with a new conception of duty.
*
* *
In the afternoon, they heard at the offices of the _Éclaireur_ that a
bomb had burst behind the German ambassador's motor-car in Paris. In the
Latin Quarter, the ferment was at its height. Two Germans had been
roughly 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 towns
of the German Empire. The military party was directing the movement.
Lastly, at six o'clock, it was announced as certain that Germany was
mobilizing three army-corps.
A tragic evening was spent at the Old Mill. Suzanne arrived from
Börsweilen without having been allowed to see her father and added to
the general distress by her sobs and lamentations. Morestal and
Philippe, silent and fever-eyed, seemed to avoid each other. Marthe, who
suspected her husband's anguish, kept her eyes fixed upon him, as though
she feared some inconsiderate act on his part. And the same dread seemed
to trouble Mme. Morestal, for she warned Philippe, time after time:
"Whatever you do, no arguments with your father. He is not well. All
this business upsets him quite enough as it is. A quarrel between the
two of you would be terrible."
And this also, the idea of this illness of which he did not know the
exact nature, but to which his heated imagination lent an added
importance, this also tortured Philippe.
*
* *
They all rose on the Sunday morning with the certainty that the news of
war would reach them in the course of the day; and old Morestal was on
the point of leaving for Saint-Élophe, to make the necessary
arrangements in case of an alarm, when a ring of the telephone stopped
him. It was the sub-prefect at Noirmont, who conveyed a fresh order to
him from the prefecture. The two Morestals were to be at the
Butte-aux-Loups at twelve o'clock.
A moment later, a telegram that appeared at the top of the front page of
the _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 a
respite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left a
loop-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 tell
you so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a little
firmness.... We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show of
conciliation which will deceive no one, the enemy forms a plan of
retreat. 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 little
telegram, which sounds like nothing at all: 'England has recalled her
squadrons from foreign waters and is concentrating them in the Channel
and in the North Sea.' Aha, that solves the mystery! They have
reflected ... and reflection is the mother of wisdom.... And here,
Philippe, this other telegram, which is worth noting: 'Three hundred
French aviators, from every part of France, have responded to the
rousing appeal issued by Captain Lériot of the territorials, the hero of
the Channel crossing. They will all be at Châlons camp on Tuesday, with
their aeroplanes!'... Ha, what do you say to that, my boy? On the one
side, the British fleet.... On the other side, our air fleet.... Wipe
your pretty eyes, my sweet Suzanne, and get supper ready this evening
for 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 wrinkle
which Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of his
eyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining the
position 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, so
stern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him.
After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a second
telephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Élophe, where M. Le
Corbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him.
Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to his
room and locked himself in.
When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided to
go with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urged
him 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 mild
and 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 a
good sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry.
For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state of
their 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 of
such 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 of
his stick, he was striking the heads off the flowers that lined the
road: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered that
this was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons.
Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that wound
through the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbed
it 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 these
last three days!... I no longer count with you."
He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of her
sometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom one
covets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyze
his feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles that
overwhelmed him.
"I shall never forget you, Suzanne," he said.
"I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you.... Only, I
wanted 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 within
me.... I have more courage now that I ... now that I have that memory to
support me.... You have given me happiness enough to last me all my
life.... 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 the
thought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bare
neck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person:
"Thank you, Suzanne.... It is the best proof of your love.... I thank
you."
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 I
was 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 would
have liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much he
hoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save words
of 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."
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