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 Jorance 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. "Jorance, 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-Elophe. 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...."

Jorance 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 Chene, 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."

Jorance 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-Elophe ... 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 Jorance. "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 Jorance, "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 Jorance 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 Jorance, "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 Cheminee-des-Fees," 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 Jorance, 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."

Jorance 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.

Jorance 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 ..." Jorance 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 Jorance.

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 Jorance. "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.

Jorance 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 Jorance, 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 Jorance, "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.

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

"I am M. Jorance, special commissary at Saint-Elophe. 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 Boersweilen.



PART II



CHAPTER I

THE TWO WOMEN

Suzanne Jorance 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 Jorance 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-Chene. 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-Elophe 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-Elophe, to the special commissary's house?

A minute later, M. Jorance'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-Elophe, 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 Etang-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 Etang-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. Jorance?..."

"At the Carrefour du Grand-Chene."

"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-Elophe, 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. Jorance 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 Boersweilen, 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. Jorance 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-Elophe 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 Boersweilen. 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 special!... 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 Boersweilen.... 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-Elophe from the Cote-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 Jorance 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 Jorance and Morestal. Morestal, right enough, flies to the rescue of the fugitive. They collar him, they lay hold of Jorance; and there we are, accomplices both. Bravo, gentlemen! Well played!"

Mme. Morestal murmured:

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

"For Jorance," 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 Jorance as free."

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

"Once more, I look upon Jorance as free and for this good reason, that the frontier has been violated."

"Who will prove the violation?"

"Who? Why, I, of course!... And Jorance!... 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-Chene, 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-Chene."

"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 Jorance shouting.... They stuffed a gag into my mouth.... But Jorance kept on roaring, 'We are in France! We are on French territory!' You heard Jorance 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! Jorance 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 Jorance 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 Jorance, 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 Eclaireur des Vosges; a Paris evening-paper; and the Boersweilener 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 Jorance case, his own part passed almost unnoticed. The Eclaireur 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. Jorance 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 Jorances:

"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. Jorance's return."

"But ... but where is she now?..."

"She is at Boersweilen ... 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-Elophe. 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-Elophe."

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-Elophe? 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. Jorance'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 Jorance 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 Jorance 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 Boersweilen 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 Boersweilen," 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-Elophe, 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-Elophe, 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-Elophe."

"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 Jorance. 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 Boersweilener 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 Boersweilen—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 Jorance 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-Elophe town-hall and discussing the German argument with him and the examining-magistrate. "The whole case depends upon him, monsieur le prefet. 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 Boersweilener 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 Jorance 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-Elophe 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 Eclaireur.

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 Boersweilener 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-Elophe, 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 Boersweilener 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 Jorance, 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 Eclaireur 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 Boersweilen 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: