"Whatever you do, no arguments with your father. He is not well. All this business upsets him quite enough as it is. A quarrel between the two of you would be terrible."

And this also, the idea of this illness of which he did not know the exact nature, but to which his heated imagination lent an added importance, this also tortured Philippe.

* * *

They all rose on the Sunday morning with the certainty that the news of war would reach them in the course of the day; and old Morestal was on the point of leaving for Saint-Elophe, to make the necessary arrangements in case of an alarm, when a ring of the telephone stopped him. It was the sub-prefect at Noirmont, who conveyed a fresh order to him from the prefecture. The two Morestals were to be at the Butte-aux-Loups at twelve o'clock.

A moment later, a telegram that appeared at the top of the front page of the Eclaireur des Vosges told them the meaning of this third summons:

"The German ambassador called on the prime minister at ten o'clock yesterday, Saturday, evening. After a long conversation, when on the point of concluding an interview that seemed unable to lead to any result, the ambassador received by express a personal note from the emperor, which he at once handed to the prime minister. In this note, the emperor proposed a renewed examination of the affair, for which purpose he would delegate the Governor of Alsace-Lorraine, with instructions to check the report of the police. An understanding was at once arrived at on this basis; and the French government has appointed a member of the cabinet, M. Le Corbier, under-secretary of state for home affairs, to act as its representative. It is possible that an interview may take place between these two prominent personages."

And the newspaper added:

"This intervention on the part of the emperor is a proof of his peaceful intentions, but it can hardly be said to alter the situation. If France be in the wrong—and it were almost to be hoped that she may be—then France will yield. But, if it be once more proved on our side that the arrest took place on French soil and if Germany refuse to yield, what will happen then?"



CHAPTER VI

THE BUTTE-AUX-LOUPS

Whatever might be the eventual outcome of this last effort, it was a respite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left a loop-hole, a chance of an arrangement.

And old Morestal, seized with fresh confidence and already triumphant, rejoiced, as he could not fail to do:

"Why, of course," he concluded, "it will all be settled! Didn't I tell you so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a little firmness.... We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show of conciliation which will deceive no one, the enemy forms a plan of retreat. For, mark you, that's all that it means...."

And, as he continued to read the paper, he exclaimed:

"Ah, just so!... I understand!... Listen, Philippe, to this little telegram, which sounds like nothing at all: 'England has recalled her squadrons from foreign waters and is concentrating them in the Channel and in the North Sea.' Aha, that solves the mystery! They have reflected ... and reflection is the mother of wisdom.... And here, Philippe, this other telegram, which is worth noting: 'Three hundred French aviators, from every part of France, have responded to the rousing appeal issued by Captain Leriot of the territorials, the hero of the Channel crossing. They will all be at Chalons camp on Tuesday, with their aeroplanes!'... Ha, what do you say to that, my boy? On the one side, the British fleet.... On the other side, our air fleet.... Wipe your pretty eyes, my sweet Suzanne, and get supper ready this evening for Papa Jorance! Ah, this time, mother, we'll drink champagne!"

His gaiety sounded a little forced and found no echo in his hearers. Philippe remained silent, with his forehead streaked with a wrinkle which Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of his eyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining the position from every point of view and seeking the best road to follow. Had he taken a resolution? And, if so, which? He seemed so hard, so stern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him.

After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a second telephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Elophe, where M. Le Corbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him.

Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to his room and locked himself in.

When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided to go with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urged him to look after his father.

The three of them walked away to the Col du Diable. A lowering sky, heavy with clouds, hung over the mountain-tops; but the weather was mild and the swards, studded with trees, still wore a look of summer.

Marthe, to break the silence, said:

"There is something soft and peaceful about the air to-day. That's a good sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry. For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state of their nerves, does it not, Philippe?"

"Yes," he said, "everything depends on them."

She continued:

"I don't think that they will ask you any questions. Your evidence is of such little importance. You see, the papers hardly mention it.... Except, of course, in so far as Dourlowski is concerned.... As for him, they haven't found him yet...."

Philippe did not reply. Had he as much as heard? With short movements of his stick, he was striking the heads off the flowers that lined the road: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered that this was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons.

Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that wound through the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbed it one behind the other. Marthe was in front of Philippe and Suzanne. Half-way up, the path made a sudden bend. When Marthe was out of sight, Philippe felt Suzanne's hand squeeze his and hold him back.

He stopped. She nimbly pulled herself up to him:

"Philippe, you are sad.... It's not about me, is it?"

"No," he confessed, frankly.

"I knew it," she said, without bitterness. "So much has happened these last three days!... I no longer count with you."

He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of her sometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom one covets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyze his feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles that overwhelmed him.

"I shall never forget you, Suzanne," he said.

"I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you.... Only, I wanted to tell you this, which will give you a little happiness: Philippe, I give you my promise that I will face the life before me ... that I will make a fresh start.... What I told you is happening within me.... I have more courage now that I ... now that I have that memory to support me.... You have given me happiness enough to last me all my life.... I shall be what I should not have been ... an honest woman.... I swear it, Philippe ... and a good wife...."

He understood that she meant to be married and he suffered at the thought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bare neck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person:

"Thank you, Suzanne.... It is the best proof of your love.... I thank you."

She went on to say to him:

"And then, Philippe, you see, I don't want to give my father pain.... Any one can feel that he has been very unhappy.... And the reason why I was afraid, the other morning, that Marthe might discover the truth ... was because of him."

"You need not fear, Suzanne."

"I need not, need I?" she said. "There is no danger of it.... And yet, this enquiry.... If you were compelled to confess?..."

"Oh, Suzanne, how can you think it?"

Their eyes mingled fondly, their hands had not parted. Philippe would have liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much he hoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save words of love; and he would not....

She gave a smile. A tear shone at the tip of her lashes. She stammered:

"I love you.... I shall always love you."

Then she released her hand.

Marthe, who had turned back, saw them standing together, motionless.

* * *

When they emerged at the corner of the Albern Path, they saw a group of journalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. The whole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Elophe rise. And, on the right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals.

They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almost level ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged like the colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide, runs through the middle.

On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron and bearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post.

On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and white spiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, "Deutsches Reich."

Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and were separated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flag of its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: a Prussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpine rifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order.

Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little camps pitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And the officers formed two groups.

French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches.

"You see, Marthe, you see," whispered Philippe, whose heart was gripped with emotion. "Isn't it terrible?"

"Yes, yes," she said.

But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfolio bulging with papers:

"M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. de Trebons, attached to the department of the under-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking to M. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait."

He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where they found, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussiere, who had likewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded the whole circus of the Butte.

"How pale you look, Philippe!" said Marthe. "Are you ill?"

"No," he said. "Please don't worry me."

Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent was lifted and a number of persons came out.

Suzanne gave a stifled cry:

"Papa!... Look ... Oh, my poor father!... I must go and kiss him...."

Philippe held her back and she obeyed, feebly. Jorance, besides, had disappeared, had been led by two gendarmes to the other camp; and Weisslicht the detective and his men were now being shown into the tent.

But the French tent opened, an instant after, to let old Morestal out. M. de Trebons was with him and went back with Saboureux and Old Poussiere. All this coming and going seemed to take place by rule and was effected in great silence, interrupted only by the sound of the footsteps.

Morestal also was very pale. As Philippe put no question to him, Marthe asked:

"Are you satisfied, father?"

"Yes, we began all over again from the start. I gave all my explanations on the spot. My proofs and arguments have made an impression on him. He is a serious man and he acts with great prudence."

In a few minutes, M. de Trebons returned with Saboureux and Old Poussiere. Farmer Saboureux continued disputing, in a state of great excitement:

"Hope they've finished this time! That makes three of them enquiring into me!... What do they want with me, after all? When I keep on telling everybody that I was fast asleep.... And Poussiere too.... Isn't it so, Poussiere, you and I saw none of it?"

And, suddenly seizing M. de Trebons by the arm, he said, in a choking voice:

"I say, there's not going to be a war, is there? Ah, no, we can't do with that! You can tell your gentry in Paris that we don't want it.... Oh, no, I've toiled enough as it is! War indeed! Uhlans burning everything!..."

He seemed terrified. His bony old hands clutched M. de Trebons' arm and his little eyes glittered with rage.

Old Poussiere jerked his head and stammered:

"Oh, no!... The Uhlans!... The Uhlans!..."

M. de Trebons released himself gently and made them sit down. Then, going up to Marthe:

"M. Le Corbier would be glad to see you, madame, at the same time as M. Philippe Morestal. And he also asks M. Morestal to be good enough to come back."

The two Morestals and Marthe walked away, leaving Suzanne Jorance behind.

But, at that moment, a strange thing happened, which, no doubt, had its effect on the march of events. From the German tent issued Weisslicht and his men, followed by an officer in full uniform, who crossed the open space, went up to M. de Trebons and told him that his excellency the Statthalter, having completed his enquiries, would feel greatly honoured if he could have a short conversation with the under-secretary of state.

M. de Trebons at once informed M. Le Corbier, who, escorted by the German officer, walked towards the road, while M. de Trebons showed the Morestal family in.

The tent, which was a fairly large one, was furnished with a few chairs and a table, on which lay the papers dealing with the case. A page lay open bearing Saboureux's clumsy signature and the mark made by Old Poussiere.

The Morestals were sitting down, when a sound of voices struck their ears and, through the opening in the fly of the tent, they caught sight of a person in a general's uniform, very tall, very thin, looking like a bird of prey, but presenting a fine appearance in a long black tunic. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he was striding along the road in the company of the under-secretary.

Morestal whispered:

"The Statthalter.... They have already had one meeting, an hour ago."

The two men disappeared at the end of the Butte, then returned and, this time, doubtless embarrassed by the propinquity of the German officers, penetrated a few paces into French territory.

A word, here and there, of the conversation reached the tent. Then the two speakers stood still and the Morestals distinctly heard the Statthalter's voice:

"Monsieur le ministre, my conclusion is necessarily different from yours, because all the police-officers who took part in the arrest are unanimous in declaring that it was effected on German soil."

"Commissary Jorance and M. Morestal," objected M. Le Corbier, "state the contrary."

"They are alone in saying so."

"M. Philippe Morestal took the evidence of Private Baufeld."

"Private Baufeld was a deserter," retorted the Statthalter. "His evidence does not count."

There was a pause. Then the German resumed, in terms which he picked slowly and carefully:

"Therefore, monsieur le ministre, as there is no outside evidence in support of either of the two contradictory versions, I can find no argument that would tend to destroy the conclusions to which all the German enquiries have led. That is what I shall tell the emperor this evening."

He bowed. M. Le Corbier took off his hat, hesitated a second and then, making up his mind:

"One word more, your excellency. Before finally going back to Paris, I determined to call the Morestal family for the last time. I will ask your excellency if it would be possible for Commissary Jorance to be present at the interview. I will answer for him on my honour."

The Statthalter appeared embarrassed. The proposal evidently went beyond his powers. Nevertheless, he said, decisively:

"You shall have your wish, monsieur le ministre. Commissary Jorance is here, at your disposal."

He clapped his heels together, raised his hand to his helmet and gave the military salute. The interview was ended.

The German crossed the frontier. M. Le Corbier watched him walk away, stood for a moment in thought and then returned to the French tent.

He was surprised to find the Morestals there. But he gave a gesture as though, after all, he was rather pleased than otherwise at this accident and he asked M. de Trebons:

"Did you hear?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre."

"Then do not lose a moment, my dear Trebons. You will find my car at the bottom of the hill. Go to Saint-Elophe, telephone to the prime minister and communicate the German reply to him officially. It is urgent. There may be immediate measures to be taken ... with regard to the frontier."

He said these last words in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the two Morestals, went out with M. de Trebons and accompanied him as far as the French camp.

A long silence followed upon his disappearance. Philippe, clenching his fists, blurted out:

"It's terrible ... it's terrible...."

And turning to his father:

"You are quite sure, I suppose, of what you are swearing?... Of the exact place?..."

Morestal shrugged his shoulders.

Philippe insisted:

"It was at night.... You may have made a mistake...."

"No, no, I tell you, no," growled Morestal, angrily. "I know what I am talking about. You'll end by annoying me."

Marthe tried to interfere:

"Come, Philippe.... Your father is accustomed to ..."

But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly:

"Hold your tongue ... I won't allow it.... What do you know?... What are you meddling for?"

He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit of weakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology:

"I beg your pardon, Marthe.... You too, father, forgive me.... Please forgive me.... There are situations in which we are bound to pardon one another for all the pain that we can give one another."

Judging by the contraction of his features, one would have thought that he was on the verge of crying, like a child trying to restrain its tears and failing in the effort.

Morestal stared at him in amazement. His wife looked at him aslant and felt fear rising within her, as at the approach of a great calamity.

But the tent opened once more. M. Le Corbier entered. Special Commissary Jorance, who had been brought to the French camp by the German gendarmes, was with him.

Jorance simply nodded to the Morestals and asked:

"Suzanne?"

"She is well," said Marthe.

Meanwhile, Le Corbier had sat down and was turning over the papers.

With his three-cornered face, ending in a short, peaked beard, his clean-shaven upper-lip, his sallow complexion and his black clothes, he wore the solemn mien of a Protestant divine. People said of him that, in the days of the Revolution, he would have been Robespierre or Saint-Just. His eyes, which expressed sympathy and almost affection, belied the suggestion. In reality, he was a conscientious man, who owed the gravity of his appearance to an excessive sense of duty.

He closed the bundles of papers and sat thinking for some time. His lips formed silent syllables. He was obviously composing his speech. And he spoke as follows, in a confidential and friendly tone which was infinitely perturbing:

"I am going back in an hour. In the train, I shall draw up a report, based on these notes and on the respective depositions which you have made or which you will make to me. At nine o'clock this evening, I shall be with the prime minister. At half-past nine, the prime minister will speak in the chamber; and he will speak according to the substance of my report. This is what I wish you to understand above all things. Next, I want you to know the German reply, I want you to realize the great, the irretrievable importance of every word which you utter. As for me, feeling as I do the full weight of my responsibilities, I wish to seek behind those words, beyond yourselves, whether there is not some detail unperceived by yourselves which will destroy the appalling truth established by your evidence. What I am seeking is—I tell you so frankly—a doubt on your part, a contradiction. I am seeking it ..."

He hesitated and, sinking his voice, concluded:

"I am almost hoping for it."

A great sense of peace filled the Morestals. Each of them, subduing his excitement, suddenly raised himself to the level of the task assigned to him and each of them was ready to fulfil it courageously, blindly, in the face of every obstacle.

And Le Corbier resumed:

"M. Morestal, here is your deposition. I ask you for the last time to affirm the exact, complete truth."

"I affirm it, monsieur le ministre."

"Still, Weisslicht and his men declare that the arrest took place on German soil."

"The upland widens out at this part," said Morestal, "and the road which marks the boundary winds.... It is possible for foreigners to make a mistake. It is not possible for us, for me. We were arrested on French soil."

"You certify this on your honour?"

"I swear it on the heads of my wife and son. I swear it to God."

Le Corbier turned to the special commissary:

"M. Jorance, do you confirm this deposition?"

"I confirm each of my friend Morestal's words in every respect," said the commissary. "They express the truth. I swear it on the head of my daughter."

"The policemen have taken just as solemn oaths," observed Le Corbier.

"The German policemen's evidence is interested. It helps them to shield the fault which they have committed. We have committed no fault. If chance had caused us to be arrested on German territory, no power on earth would have prevented Morestal and myself from admitting the fact. Morestal is free and fears nothing. Well, I, who am a prisoner, fear nothing either."

"That is the view which the French government has adopted," said the under-secretary. "Moreover, we have additional evidence: yours, M. Philippe Morestal. That evidence the government, through an excessive feeling of scruple, has not wished to recognize officially. As a matter of fact, it appeared to us less firm, more undecided, at the second hearing than at the first. But, such as it is, it assumes a peculiar value in my eyes, because it corroborates that of the two other witnesses. M. Philippe Morestal, do you maintain the terms of your deposition, word for word?"

Philippe rose, looked at his father, pushed back Marthe, who came running up to him, and replied, in a low voice:

"No, monsieur le ministre."



CHAPTER VII

MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION

The conflict was immediate. Between Morestal and Philippe, the duel set in at once. The events of the previous days had cleared the way for it: at the first word, they stood up to each other like irreconcilable adversaries, the father spirited and aggressive, the son anxious and sad, but inflexible.

Le Corbier at once foresaw a scene. He went out of the tent, ordered the sentry to stand away, made sure that the group of Germans could not hear the sound of the raised voices. Then, after carefully closing the fly, he returned to his place.

"You are mad! You are mad!" said Morestal, who had come up to his son. "How dare you?"

And Jorance joined in:

"Come, come, Philippe ... this is not serious.... You are not going to back out, to withdraw...."

Le Corbier silenced them and, addressing Philippe:

"Explain yourself, monsieur," he said. "I do not understand."

Philippe looked at his father again and, slowly, in a voice which he strove to render firm as he spoke, answered:

"I say, monsieur le ministre, that certain particulars in my evidence are not accurate and that it is my duty to correct them."

"Speak, monsieur," said the under-secretary, with some harshness.

Philippe did not hesitate. Facing old Morestal, who was quivering with indignation, he began, as though he were in a hurry to get it over:

"First of all, Private Baufeld did not say things that were quite as clear as those which I repeated. The words used were obscure and incoherent."

"What! Why, your declarations are precise...."

"Monsieur le ministre, when I gave my evidence for the first time before the examining-magistrate, I was under the shock of my father's arrest. I was under his influence. It seemed to me that the incident would have no consequences if the arrest had been effected on German territory; and, when relating Private Baufeld's last words, in spite of myself, without knowing it, I interpreted them in the sense of my own wishes. Later on, I understood my mistake. I am now repairing it."

He stopped. The under-secretary turned over his papers, no doubt read through Philippe's evidence and asked:

"As far as concerns Private Baufeld, have you nothing to add?"

Philippe's legs seemed on the point of giving way beneath him, so much so that Le Corbier asked him to sit down.

He obeyed and, mastering himself, said:

"Yes, I have. I have a revelation to make in this respect which is very painful to me. My father evidently attached no importance to it; but it seems to me ..."

"What do you mean?" cried Morestal.

"Oh, father, I beseech you!" entreated Philippe, folding his hands together. "We are not here to quarrel, nor to judge each other, but to do our duty. Mine is horrible. Do not discourage me. You shall condemn me afterwards, if you see cause."

"I condemn you as it is, Philippe."

Le Corbier made an imperious gesture and repeated, in a yet more peremptory tone:

"Speak, M. Philippe Morestal."

Philippe said, bringing the words out very quickly:

"Monsieur le ministre, Private Baufeld had relations on this side of the frontier. His desertion was prepared, backed up. He knew the safe road which he was to take."

"Through whom did he know it?"

Philippe lowered his head and, with half-closed eyes, whispered:

"Through my father!"

"That's not true!" shouted old Morestal, purple with rage. "That's not true! I prepare ... I!..."

"Here is the paper which I found in Private Baufeld's pocket," said Philippe, handing a sheet of note-paper to Le Corbier. "It gives a sort of plan of escape, the road which the fugitive is to follow, the exact spot at which he is to cross the frontier so as to avoid the watchers."

"What are you saying? What are you daring to say? A correspondence between me and that wretch!"

"The two words, 'Albern Path,' are in your hand-writing, father, and it was through the Albern Path that the deserter entered France. The sheet is a sheet of your own note-paper."

Morestal gave a bound:

"And you took it from the waste-paper basket, where it lay torn and crumpled! You did a thing like that, you, my son! You had the infamy ..."

"Oh, father!"

"Then what? Answer!"

"Private Baufeld gave it me before his death."

Morestal was standing opposite Philippe, with his arms crossed over his chest, and, so far from defending himself against his son's accusations, seemed rather to be addressing a culprit.

And Philippe looked at him with eyes of anguish. At each blow that he struck, at each sentence that he uttered, he detected the mark of a wound on his father's face. A vein swelling on the old man's temples distressed him beyond measure. He was terrified to see streaks of blood mingle with the whites of his eyes. And he feared, at every moment, that his father would fall like a tree which the axe has struck to the heart.

The under-secretary, after examining the sheet of paper which Philippe had given him, resumed:

"In any case, M. Morestal, these lines were written by you?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre. I have already stated what the man Dourlowski tried to get out of me and the answer which I gave him."

"Was it the first time that the fellow made the attempt?..."

"The first time," said Morestal, after an imperceptible hesitation.

"Then this paper?... These lines?..."

"Those lines were written by me in the course of the conversation. Upon reflection, I threw away the paper. I see now that Dourlowski must have picked it up behind my back and used it in order to carry out his plan. If the police had discovered it on the deserter, it would have been a proof of my guilt. At least, they would have interpreted it in that way ... as my son does. I hope, monsieur le ministre, that that interpretation is not yours."

Le Corbier sat thinking for a moment or two, consulted the documents and said:

"The two governments have agreed to leave outside the discussion all that concerns Private Baufeld's desertion, the part played by the man Dourlowski and the accusation of complicity made against the French commissary and against yourself, M. Morestal. These are legal questions which concern the German courts. The only purpose for which I have been delegated is to ascertain whether or not the arrest took place on French territory. My instructions are extremely limited. I cannot go beyond them. I will ask you, therefore, M. Philippe Morestal, to tell me, or rather to confirm to me, what you know on this subject."

"I know nothing."

A moment of stupefaction followed. Morestal, utterly bewildered, did not even think of protesting. He evidently looked upon his son as mad.

"You know nothing?" said the under-secretary, who did not yet clearly see Philippe's object. "All the same, you have declared that you heard M. Jorance's exclamation, 'We are in France!... They are arresting the French commissary!...'"

"I did not hear it."

"What! What! But you were not two hundred yards away...."

"I was nowhere near. I left my father at the Carrefour du Grand-Chene and I neither saw nor heard what happened after we had parted."

"Then why did you state the contrary, monsieur?"

"I repeat, monsieur le ministre, when my father returned, I at once understood the importance of the first words which we should speak in the presence of the examining-magistrate. I thought that, by supporting my father's story, I should be helping to prevent trouble. To-day, in the face of the inexorable facts, I am reverting to the pure and simple truth."

His replies were clear and unhesitating. There was no doubt that he was following a line of conduct which he had marked out in advance and from which nothing would make him swerve.

Morestal and Jorance listened to him in dismay.

Marthe sat silent and motionless, with her eyes glued to her husband's.

Le Corbier concluded:

"You mean to say that you will not accept your share of the responsibility?"

"I accept the responsibility for all that I have done."

"But you withdraw from the case?"

"In so far as I am concerned, yes."

"Then I must cancel your evidence and rely upon the unshaken testimony of M. Morestal: is that it?"

Philippe was silent.

"Eh, what?" cried Morestal. "You don't answer?"

There was a sort of entreaty in the old man's voice, a desperate appeal to Philippe's better feelings. His anger almost fell, so great was his unhappiness at seeing his son, his boy, a prey to this madness.

"You mean that, don't you?" he resumed, gently. "You mean that monsieur le ministre can and must abide by my declarations?"

"No," said Philippe, stubbornly.

Morestal started:

"No? But why? What reason have you for answering like that? Why should you?"

"Because, father, though the nature of your declarations has not varied, your attitude, during the last three days, proves that you are experiencing a certain reticence, a certain hesitation."

"What makes you say that?" asked Morestal, trembling all over, but as yet retaining his self-control.

"Your certainty is not absolute."

"How do you know? If you make an accusation, you must prove it."

"I am not making an accusation. I am trying to state my exact impression."

"Your impression! What is that worth beside the facts? And it is facts that I am asserting."

"Facts interpreted by yourself, father, facts of which you cannot be sure. No, no, you cannot! Remember, the other morning, Friday morning, we came back here and, while you were once more showing me the road which you had covered, you said, 'Still, suppose I were mistaken! Suppose we had branched off more to the right! Suppose I were mistaken!'"

"That was an exaggeration of scruple! All my acts, on the contrary, all my reflections ..."

"There was no need to reflect! There was not even any need to return to this road! The fact that you returned to it shows that you were harassed by a doubt."

"I have not doubted for one second."

"You believe that you do not doubt, father! You believe blindly in your certainty! And you believe because you do not see clearly. You have within you a sentiment that soars above all your thoughts and all your actions, an admirable sentiment, a sentiment that makes you great: it is your love for France. You think that France is always in the right against one and all, come what may, and that she would be disgraced if she were ever in the wrong. That was the frame of mind in which you gave your evidence before the examining-magistrate. And that is the frame of mind which I ask you, monsieur le ministre, to take note of."

"And you," shouted old Morestal, bursting out at last, "I accuse you of being impelled by some horrible sentiment against your father, against your country, by I can't say what infamous ideas...."

"My ideas are outside the question...."

"Your ideas, which I can guess, are at the back of your conduct and of your mental aberration. If I love France too well, you, you are too ready to forget your duty to her."

"I love her as well as you do, father," cried Philippe, passionately, "and better, perhaps! It is a love that sometimes moves me to tears, when I think of what she has been, of what she is, so beautiful, so intelligent, so great, so adorable for her charm and her good faith! I love her because she is the mother of every lofty idea. I love her because her language is the clearest and noblest of all languages. I love her because she is always marching on, regardless of consequences, and because she sings as she marches and because she is gay and active and alive, always full of hopes and of illusions, and because she is the smile on the face of the world.... But I cannot see that she would be any the less great or admirable for admitting that one of her officials was captured twenty yards to the right of the frontier."

"Why should she admit it, if it is not true?" said Morestal.

"Why should she not admit it, if peace should be the outcome?" retorted Philippe.

"Peace! There's the great word at last!" sneered Morestal. "Peace! You too have allowed yourself to be poisoned by the theories of the day! Peace at the price of disgrace: that's it, is it not?"

"Peace at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem."

"That means dishonour."

"No, no," Philippe answered, in an outburst of enthusiasm. "It is the beauty of a nation to raise itself above those miserable questions. And France is worthy of it. You do not know it, father, but since the last forty years, since that execrable date, since that accursed war the memory of which obsesses your mind and closes your eyes to every reality of life, a new France has come into existence, a France whose gaze is fixed upon other truths, a France that longs to shake off the evil past, to repudiate all that remains to us of the ancient barbarism and to rid herself of the laws of blood and war. She cannot do so yet, but she is making for it with all her young ardour and all her growing conviction. And twice already, in ten years—in the heart of Africa, face to face with England; on the shores of Morocco, face to face with Germany—twice she has overcome her old barbarous instinct."

"Shameful memories, for which every Frenchman blushes!"

"Glorious memories, of which we should be proud! One day, those will be the fairest pages of our time; and those two dates will wipe out the execrable date. That is the true revenge! That a nation which has never known fear, which has always, at the tragic hours of its history, settled its quarrels in the old barbarous fashion, sword in hand, that such a nation should have raised itself to so magnificent a conception of beauty and civilization, that, I say, is its finest claim to glory!"

"Words! Words! It's the theory of peace at any price; and it is a lie that you are advising me to tell."

"No, it is the possible truth that I ask you to admit, cruel though it may be for you to do so."

"But you know the truth," cried Morestal, waving his arms in the air. "You've sworn it three times! You've signed it three times with your name! You saw and heard the truth on the night of the attack!"

"I do not know it," said Philippe, in a firm voice. "I was not there. I was not present when you were captured and carried off. I did not hear M. Jorance's call. I swear it on my honour. I swear it on the heads of my children. I was not there."

"Then where were you?" asked Marthe.



CHAPTER VIII

THE STAGES TO CALVARY

The little sentence, so terrible in its conciseness, set up a clear issue between the two adversaries.

Carried away by the exuberance of their convictions, they had widened the discussion into a sort of oratorical joust in which each fought eagerly for the opinions which he held dear. And Le Corbier knew better than to interrupt a duel whence he had little doubt that some unexpected light would flash, at last, from amid the superfluous words.

Marthe's little sentence evoked that light. Le Corbier, from the beginning of the scene, had noticed the young woman's strange attitude, her silence, her fevered glances that seemed to probe Philippe Morestal's very soul. He understood the full value of the question from her accent. No more vain declamations and eloquent theories! It was no longer a matter of knowing which of the two, the father or the son, thought the more justly and served his country with the greater devotion. One thing alone carried weight; and Marthe had stated it in undeniable fashion.

Philippe stood dumbfoundered. In the course of his reflections, he had foreseen every demand, every supposition, every difficulty, in short, all the consequences of the action upon which he had resolved. But how could he have foreseen this one, not knowing that Marthe would be present at that last and greatest interview? Before Le Corbier, before his father, supposing this detail entered their heads, he could invent an excuse of some kind. But before Marthe?...

From that moment, he had the terrifying vision of the catastrophe that was preparing. A sweat covered his whole body. He ought to have faced the danger bravely and piled explanation on explanation at the risk of contradicting himself. As it was, he turned red and stammered. And, in so doing, he put himself out of court.

Morestal had resumed his seat. Le Corbier was waiting, impassively. Amid the great silence, Marthe, now quite pale, speaking in a slow voice, which let fall the syllables one by one, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, I accuse my husband of perjury and falsehood. It is now, when he withdraws his former evidence, that he is sinning against the truth, against a truth which he knows ... yes, he knows it, that I declare. By all that he has told me; by all that I know, I swear that he never questioned his father's word. And I swear that he was present at the attack."

"Then," asked Le Corbier, "why does M. Philippe Morestal act as he is doing now?"

"Monsieur le ministre," replied Marthe, "my husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled, Peace before All!"

The disclosure created a sort of sensation. Le Corbier gave a start. The commissary wore an indignant air. As for old Morestal, he tried to stand up, staggered and at once fell back in his seat. All his strength had left him. His anger gave way before an immense despair. He could not have suffered more had he heard that Philippe was dead.

And Marthe repeated:

"My husband is the author of the pamphlet entitled Peace before All! For the sake of his opinions, for the sake of consistency with the profound, the exalted faith to which his views give rise within him, my husband is capable ..."

Le Corbier suggested:

"Of going to the length of a lie?"

"Yes," she said. "False evidence can only appear insignificant to him beside the great catastrophe which he wishes to avert; and his conscience alone dictates his duty to him. Is it true, Philippe?"

He replied, gravely:

"Certainly. In the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed, when two nations are at daggers drawn over a wretched question of self-esteem, I should not shrink from a lie that appears to me a duty. But I have no need to resort to that expedient. I have truth itself on my side. I was not there."

"Then where were you?" repeated Marthe.

The little sentence rang out again, pitilessly. But, this time, Marthe uttered it in a more hostile tone and with a gesture that underlined all its importance. And she at once added, plying him with questions:

"You did not come in until eight o'clock in the morning. Your bed was not undone. Consequently, you had not slept at the Old Mill. Where did you spend the night?"

"I was looking for my father."

"You did not know that your father had been carried off until Private Baufeld told you, at five o'clock in the morning. Consequently, it was five o'clock in the morning before you began to look for your father."

"Yes."

"And, at that moment, you had not yet returned to the Old Mill, because, I repeat, your bed was not undone."

"No."

"And where did you come from? What were you doing from eleven o'clock in the evening, when you left your father, until five o'clock in the morning, when you heard of his capture?"

The cross-examination, with its unimpeachable logic, left Philippe no loop-hole for escape. He felt that he was lost.

For a moment, he was on the point of throwing up the game and exclaiming:

"Well, yes, I was there. I heard everything. My father is right. We must accept his word...."

This was a display of weakness which a man like Philippe was bound and fated to resist. On the other hand, how could he betray Suzanne?

He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered:

"I have nothing to say."

Marthe, suddenly dropping her accusing tone and shaking with anguish, rushed up to him and cried:

"You have nothing to say? What do you mean? Oh, Philippe, I entreat you, speak!... Confess that you are lying and that you were there ... I beseech you.... My mind is full of horrible thoughts.... Things have been happening—I have noticed them—which obsess me now.... It's not true, tell me that it's not true!"

He thought that he beheld salvation in this unexpected distress. Disarmed, reduced to silence by a sort of confession which he could retract at leisure, his wife was making herself his accomplice and rescuing him by ceasing to attack him.

"You must be silent," he said, in a tone of command. "Your personal grief must make way...."

"What are you saying?"

"Be silent, Marthe. We shall have the explanation which you demand. We shall have it later. But be silent."

It was a useless piece of blundering. Like all women who love, Marthe only suffered the more from this semi-avowal. She fired up in her grief:

"No, Philippe, I will not be silent.... I want to know what your words mean.... You have no right to escape by a subterfuge.... I demand an immediate explanation, here and now."

She had stood up and, facing her husband, emphasized each of her words with a short movement of the hand. Seeing that Philippe made no reply, Le Corbier now joined in:

"Mme. Philippe Morestal is right, monsieur. You must explain yourself and not so much for her—that is a matter between yourselves—as for me, for the purpose of the clearness of my enquiry. Ever since we began, you have kept to a sort of programme settled in advance and easily seen through. After denying your first depositions, you are trying to demolish your own father's evidence. The doubt which I was seeking behind your replies you are now endeavouring to create in my mind by throwing suspicion upon your father's statements by every means in your power. I have the right to ask myself if one of those means is not falsehood—the word is not mine, monsieur, but your wife's—and if the love of your opinions does not take precedence of the love of truth."

"I am telling the truth, monsieur le ministre."

"Then prove it. Are you giving false evidence now? Or was it on the former occasions? How am I to know? I require a positive certainty. If I can't have that, I shall take no notice of what you say and rely upon the evidence of a witness who, at any rate, has never varied."

"My father is mistaken.... My father is a victim of illusions...."

"Until I receive a proof to the contrary, monsieur, your accusations can carry no weight with me. They will do so only if you give me an undeniable proof of your sincerity. Now there is only one that would bear that undeniable character; and you refuse to supply me with it...."

"But ..."

"I tell you, monsieur," Le Corbier interrupted, impatiently, "that there is no other question at issue. Either you were on the frontier at the time of the attack and heard M. Jorance's protests, in which case your former evidence and M. Morestal's retain all their importance, or else you were not there, in which case it becomes your imperative duty to prove to me that you were not there. It is very easy: where were you at that moment?"

Philippe had a fit of rebellion and, replying aloud to the thoughts that tortured him:

"Ah, no!" he said. "Ah, no!... It's not possible that I should be forced to.... Nonsense, it would be monstrous!..."

It seemed to him as though a malevolent genius had been trying, for four days past, to direct events in such a way that he, Philippe, was under the terrible necessity of accusing Suzanne.

"No, a thousand times no!" he repeated, angrily. "There is no power that can compel me.... Say that I spent the night walking about, or sleeping by the roadside. Say what you please.... But leave me free in my actions and my words."

"In that case," said the under-secretary of state, gathering up his papers, "the enquiry is at an end and M. Morestal's evidence will serve as the basis on which I shall form my conclusions."

"Very well," retorted Philippe, beside himself.

He began to walk, almost to run, around the tent. He was like a wild animal seeking an outlet. Was he to throw up the work which he had undertaken? Was he, the frail obstacle self-set against the torrent, to be vanquished in his turn? Oh, how gladly he would have given his own life! He became aware of this, deep down in his inner consciousness. And he understood, as it were physically, the sacrifice of those who go to their death smiling, when a great idea uplifts them.

But in what respect would death have settled things? He must either speak—and speak against Suzanne: a torture infinitely more exquisite than death—or else resign himself. It was this or that: there was no alternative.

He walked to and fro, as though tormented by the fire that devoured him. Was he to fling himself on his knees before Marthe and ask for mercy or to fold his hands before Le Corbier? He did not know. His brain was bursting. And he had the harrowing feeling that all his efforts were in vain and turning against himself.

He stopped and said:

"Monsieur le ministre, your opinion alone matters; and I will attempt impossibilities to make that opinion agree with the real facts. I am prepared for anything, monsieur le ministre ... on one condition, however, that our interview is private. To you and to you alone I can ..."

Once more, he found Marthe facing him, Marthe, the unforeseen enemy, who seemed to hold him gripped as a prey and who, fierce and pitiless and alive to the least attempt at stratagem, would never let him go.

"I have the right to be there!" she cried. "You must explain yourself in my presence! Your word will have no value unless I am there.... If not, I shall challenge it as a fresh lie. Monsieur le ministre, I put you on your guard against a trick...."

Le Corbier gave a sign of approval and, addressing Philippe:

"What is the use of a private interview, monsieur? Whatever credit I may attach to your confidential statements, if I am to believe them frankly I must have a check with which only your wife and your father can supply me. Unfortunately, after all your contradictory versions, I am entitled to doubt ..."

"Monsieur le ministre," Philippe hinted, "there are sometimes circumstances ... facts that cannot be revealed ... secrets of such a nature ..."

"You lie! You lie!" cried Marthe, maddened by the admission. "It is not true. A woman: is that what you mean? No ... no.... Ah, Philippe, I beseech you!... Monsieur le ministre, I swear to you that he is lying ... I swear it to you.... He is keeping up his falsehood to the bitter end. He betray me! He love another woman! You're lying, Philippe, are you not? Oh, hush, hush!"

Suddenly, Philippe felt a hand wringing his arm. Turning round, he saw Commissary Jorance, with a white, threatening face, and heard him say, in a dull voice:

"What did you mean to suggest? Whom are you talking about? Oh, I'll make you answer, trust me!"

Philippe stared at him in stupefaction. And he also stared at Marthe's distorted features. And he was surprised, for he did not think that he had spoken words that could arouse their suspicions.

"But you are all mad!" he said. "Come, M. Jorance.... Come, Marthe.... What's the matter? I don't know what you can have understood.... Perhaps it's my fault ... I am so tired!"

"Whom have you been talking about?" repeated Jorance, shaking with rage.

"Confess! Confess!" demanded Marthe, pressing him hard with all her jealous hatred.

And, behind her, Philippe saw old Morestal, huddled in his chair, as though unable to recover from the blows that had struck him. That was Philippe's first victim. Was he to offer up two more? He started:

"Enough! Enough!... This is all hateful.... There is a terrible misunderstanding between us.... And all that I say only makes it worse.... We will have an explanation later, I promise you, M. Jorance.... You also, Marthe, I swear it.... And you will realize your mistake. But let us be silent now, please.... We have tortured one another long enough."

He spoke in so resolute a voice that Jorance stood undecided and Marthe herself was shaken. Was he stating the truth? Was it simply a misunderstanding that divided them?

Le Corbier guessed the tragedy and, attacking Philippe in his turn, said:

"So, monsieur, I must look for no enlightenment on the point to which you drew my attention? And it is you yourself, is it not, who, by your definite attitude, close the discussion?"

"Yes," replied Philippe, firmly.

"No," protested Marthe, returning to the charge with indefatigable vigour. "No, it is not finished, monsieur le ministre; it cannot finish like this. My husband, whether he meant to or not, has uttered words which we have all interpreted in the same sense. If there is a misunderstanding, let it be dispelled now. And there is only one person who can do so. That person is here. I ask to have that person called in."

"I don't know what you mean," stammered Philippe.

"Yes, you do, Philippe. You know to whom I refer and all the proofs that give me the right to ..."

"Silence, Marthe," commanded Philippe, beside himself.

"Then confess. If not, I swear that ..."

The sight of M. Jorance stayed her threat. Unaware of Suzanne's presence at the Butte-aux-Loups, Jorance had ceased to understand; and his suspicions, aroused by Philippe's imprudence, had become gradually allayed. At the last moment, when on the point of putting her irreparable accusation into words, Marthe hesitated. Her hatred was vanquished by the sight of the father's grief.

Moreover, just then, a diversion occurred to bring about an armistice, as it were, in the midst of the implacable conflict. Le Corbier had risen hurriedly from his seat and drawn back the tent-fly. A quick step was heard outside.

"Ah, there you are, Trebons!"

And he almost ran to fetch the young man in and plied him with questions:

"Did you speak to the prime minister? What did he say?"

M. de Trebons entered the tent. But, on catching sight of the Morestal family, he turned back:

"Monsieur le ministre, I think it would be better ..."

"No, no, Trebons. No one here is in the way ... on the contrary.... Come, what is it? Bad news?"

"Very bad news, monsieur le ministre. The French embassy in Berlin has been burnt down...."

"Oh!" said Le Corbier. "Wasn't it guarded?"

"Yes, but the troops were overborne by the crowd."

"Next?"

"Germany is mobilizing all her frontier army-corps."

"But in Paris? What about Paris?"

"Nothing but riots.... The boulevards are overrun.... At this moment, the municipal guards are charging the mob to clear the approaches to the Palais-Bourbon."

"But what do they want, when all is said?"

"War."

The word rang out like a death-knell. After a few seconds, Le Corbier asked:

"Is that all?"

"The prime minister is anxiously awaiting your return. 'Don't let him lose a minute,' he said. 'His report might spell safety. It is my last shot. If it misses fire, I can't answer for what will happen.' And he added, 'And, even then, it may be too late.'"

The silence was really excruciating around the table, in the little space inside that tent in which the cruelest of tragedies was hurling against one another a group of noble souls united by the most loyal affection. Each of them forgot his private suffering and thought only of the horror that loomed ahead. The sinister word was echoed in all their hearts.

Le Corbier gave a gesture of despair:

"His last shot! Yes, if my report gave him an opportunity of retreating! But ..."

He watched old Morestal, as though he were still expecting a sudden retractation. What was the good? Supposing he took it upon himself to extenuate the old man's statements, Morestal was the sort of uncompromising man who would give him the lie in public. And then the government would find itself in an unenviable plight indeed!

"Well," he said, "let fate take its course! We have done our very utmost. My dear Trebons, is the motor at the cross-roads?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre."

"Please collect the papers; we will go. We have an hour to reach the station. It's more than we want."

He picked up his hat, his coat, took a few steps to and fro and stopped in front of Philippe. Philippe, he half thought, had perhaps not done his utmost. Philippe perhaps had still one stage to travel. But how was Le Corbier to find out? How was he to fathom that mysterious soul and read its insoluble riddle? Le Corbier knew those men endowed with the missionary spirit and capable, in furtherance of their cause, of admirable devotion, of almost superhuman sacrifice, but also of hypocrisy, of craft, sometimes of crime. What was this Philippe Morestal's evidence worth? What part exactly was he playing? Had he deliberately and falsely given rise to the suspicion of some amorous meeting? Or was he really carrying his heroism to the point of telling the truth?

Slowly, thoughtfully, as though in obedience to a new hope, Le Corbier went back to his seat, flung his motor-coat on the table, sat down and, addressing M. de Trebons:

"One second more.... Leave the papers. And pray bring Mlle. Suzanne Jorance here."

M. de Trebons left the tent.

"Is Suzanne there?" asked Jorance, in an anxious voice. "Was she there just now?..."

He received no reply; and he vainly scrutinized the faces, one after the other, of those whom he was questioning. During the three or four minutes that elapsed, none of the actors in the drama made the least movement. Morestal remained seated, with his head hanging on his chest. Marthe kept her eyes fixed on the opening of the tent. As for Philippe, he awaited this additional blow with anguish in his heart. The massacre was not ended. Destiny ordained that, following upon his father, upon his wife, upon Jorance, he himself should sacrifice this fourth victim.

Le Corbier, who was watching him, was overcome with an involuntary feeling of compassion, of sympathy almost. At that moment, Philippe's sincerity seemed to him absolute and he felt inclined to abandon the test. But distrust carried the day. Absurd though the supposition might be, he had an impression that this man was capable of falsely accusing the girl in the presence of his wife, of his father and of Jorance himself. With Suzanne present, falsehood became impossible. The test was a cruel one, but, however it was decided, it carried with it the unimpeachable certainty without which Le Corbier was unwilling to close his enquiry.

Philippe shook all over. Marthe and Jorance rose from their seats. The tent-fly was drawn aside. Suzanne entered.

She at once gave a movement of recoil. At the first glance, at the first sight of those motionless people, she suspected the danger which her feminine instinct had already foreseen. And, deathly pale, deprived of all her strength, she dared not come forward.

Le Corbier took her hand and, gently:

"Please be seated, mademoiselle. It is possible that your evidence may be of value to us to clear up a few points."

There was only one vacant chair, next to Jorance. Suzanne took a few steps and looked at her father, whom she had not seen since the evening at Saint-Elophe. He turned away his head. She sat down trembling.

Then Le Corbier, who was in a hurry to finish the business, walked quickly up to Philippe and said:

"It is the last time, monsieur, that I shall apply to you. In a few minutes, everything will be irrevocably ended. It depends on your good will...."

But he went no further. Never had he beheld a face ravaged as Philippe's was, nor ever so great an expression of strength and energy as showed through the chaos of those distorted features. He understood that Philippe had resolved to travel the last stage. He waited, without a word.

And indeed, as though he too were eager to reach the terrible goal, Philippe spoke and said:

"Monsieur le ministre, if I tell you for certain how I spent my night, will my words have an unimpeachable value in your mind?"

His voice was almost calm. His eyes had selected a spot in the tent from which he no longer dared remove them, for he feared to meet Marthe's eyes, or Jorance's, or Suzanne's.

Le Corbier replied:

"An unimpeachable value."

"Will they tend to lessen the importance of my father's statements?"

"Yes, for I shall have to weigh those statements against the words of a man whose perfect sincerity I shall no longer have cause to doubt."

Philippe was silent. His forehead oozed sweat at every pore and he staggered like a drunken man on the point of falling.

Le Corbier insisted:

"Speak without scruple, monsieur. There are circumstances in which a man must look straight before him and in which the aim to be attained must, in a measure, blind him."

Philippe continued:

"And you think, monsieur le ministre, that your report, thus modified, may have a decisive influence in Paris?"

"I say so, positively. The prime minister has allowed me to look into his secret thoughts. Moreover, I know what he is capable of doing. If the conclusions of my report give him a little latitude, he will ring up the German embassy and mount the tribune in order to bring the chamber, to bring the country face to face with the facts as they are. The cabinet will fall amid a general outcry, there will be a few riots, but we shall have peace ... and peace, as you, monsieur, were saying a moment ago, peace without dishonour, at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem, which will make France greater than ever."

"Yes ... yes ..." said Philippe. "But, if it should be too late? If it should no longer be possible to prevent anything?"

"That," said Le Corbier, "is a thing which we cannot foretell.... It may, as a matter of fact, be too late...."

This was the hardest thought of all for Philippe. Deep hollows appeared in his cheeks. The minutes seemed to age him like long years of sickness. The sight of him suggested the faces of the dying martyrs in certain primitive pictures. Nothing short of physical pain can thus convulse the features of a man's countenance. And he really suffered as much as if he were being stretched on the rack and burnt with red-hot pincers. Nevertheless, he felt that his mind remained lucid, as must be that of the martyrs undergoing torture, and he clearly understood that, in consequence of a series of inexorable facts, he had, for a few moments—but on the most terrible conditions!—the power of perhaps ... of perhaps saving the world from the great scourge of war.

He stiffened himself and, livid in the face, said:

"Monsieur le ministre, what my wife suspected, what you have already guessed, is the exact truth. On Monday night, while the arrest was taking place and while the two captives were being carried to Germany, I was with Suzanne Jorance."

It was as though Jorance, standing behind him, had been waiting for the accusation as for an attack that must be parried without delay:

"Suzanne! My daughter!" he cried, seizing Philippe by the collar of his jacket. "What are you saying, you villain? How dare you?"

Marthe had not stirred, remained as though stunned. Old Morestal protested indignantly. Philippe whispered:

"I am saying what happened."

"You lie! You lie!" roared Jorance. "My daughter, the purest, the most honest girl in the world! Why don't you confess that you lie?... Confess it!... Confess it!..."

The poor man was choking. The words were caught short in his throat. His whole frame seemed to quiver; and his eyes were filled with gleams of hatred and murderous longings and anger and, above all, pain, infinite, pitiless, human pain.

And he entreated and commanded by turns:

"Confess, confess!... You're lying, aren't you?... It's because of your opinions, that's it, because of your opinions!... You want a proof ... an alibi ... and so ..."

And, addressing Le Corbier:

"Leave me alone with him, monsieur le ministre.... He will confess to me that he is lying, that he is talking like that because he has to ... or because he is mad ... who knows? Yes, because he is mad!... How could she love you? Why should she? Since when? She, who is your wife's friend.... Get out, I know my daughter!... But answer, you villain!... Morestal, my friend, make him answer ... make him give his proofs.... And you, Suzanne, why don't you spit in his face?"

He turned upon Suzanne; and Marthe, rousing herself from her torpor, went up to the girl, as he did.

Suzanne stood tottering on her feet, with averted gaze.

"Well, what's this?" roared her father. "Won't you answer either? Haven't you a word to answer to that liar?"

She tried to speak, stammered a few confused syllables and was silent.

Philippe met her eyes, the eyes of a hunted fawn, a pair of poor eyes pleading for help.

"You admit it! You admit it!" shouted Jorance.

And he made a sudden rush at her; and Philippe, as in a nightmare, saw Suzanne flung back, shaken by her father, struck by Marthe, who, she too, in an abrupt fit of fury, demanded the useless confession.

It was a horrible and violent scene. Le Corbier and M. de Trebons interfered, while Morestal, shaking his fist at Philippe, cried:

"I curse you! You're a criminal! Let her be, Jorance. She couldn't help it, poor thing. He is the one to blame.... Yes, you, you, my son!... And I curse you.... I turn you out...."

The old man pressed his hand to his heart, stammered a few words more, begging Jorance's pardon and promising to look after his daughter, then turned on his heels and fell against the table, fainting....



PART III



CHAPTER I

THE ARMED VIGIL

"Ma'am!"

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Mme. Morestal, waking with a start.

"It's I, Catherine."

"Well?"

"They have sent from the town-hall, ma'am.... They are asking for the master.... They want instructions.... Victor says the troops are being mobilized...."

The day before, after his fainting-fit at the Butte-aux-Loups, old Morestal was carried back to the Old Mill on a litter by the soldiers of the detachment. Marthe, who came with him, flung a few words of explanation to her mother-in-law and, without paying attention to the good woman's lamentations, without even speaking to her of Philippe and of what could have become of him, ran to her room and locked herself in.

Dr. Borel was hurriedly sent for. He examined the patient, diagnosed serious trouble in the region of the heart and refused to give an opinion.

The house was at sixes and sevens during the evening and all through that Sunday night. Catherine and Victor ran to and fro. Mme. Morestal, generally so level-headed, but accustomed to bewail her fate on great occasions, nursed the sick man and issued a multiplicity of orders. Twice she sent the gardener to the chemist at Saint-Elophe.

At midnight, the old man was suffering so much that Dr. Borel was called in again. He seemed anxious and administered an injection of morphia.

There followed a few hours of comparative calm; and Mme. Morestal, although tortured at Philippe's absence and fearing that he might do something rash, was able to lie down on the sofa.

It was then that Catherine rushed into the room, at the risk of disturbing the patient's rest.

Mme. Morestal ended by bundling her off:

"Hold your tongue, can't you? Don't you see that your master's asleep?"

"They're mobilizing the troops, ma'am.... It's certain that we shall have war...."

"Oh, don't bother us with your war!" growled the good woman, pushing her out of the room. "Boil some water for your master and don't waste your time talking nonsense."

She herself went to work at once. But all around her was a confused noise of murmurs and exclamations, coming from the terrace, the garden and the house.

Morestal woke up at nine o'clock.

"Suzanne! Where's Suzanne?" he asked, almost before he opened his eyes.

"What! Suzanne!..."

"Why, yes ... why, of course, Suzanne!... I promised her father.... No one has a better right to live in this house.... Philippe's not here, I suppose?"

He raised himself in bed, furious at the mere thought.

"He has not come in," said his wife. "We don't know where he is...."

"That's all right! He'd better not come back!... I've turned him out.... And now I want Suzanne.... She shall nurse me ... she alone, do you understand?..."

"Come, Morestal, you surely wouldn't ask ... It's not possible for Suzanne to ..."

But her husband's features were contracted with such a look of anger that she dared not protest further:

"As you please," she said. "After all, if you think right...."

She consulted Dr. Borel by telephone. He replied that the patient must on no account be thwarted. Moreover, he undertook to see the girl, to point out to her the duty that called her to the Old Mill and to overcome any reluctance on her part.

Dr. Borel himself brought Suzanne to the house at about twelve o'clock. Red with shame, her eyes swollen with tears, she submitted to Mme. Morestal's humiliating reception and took her seat by the old man's bedside.

He gave a sigh of content when he saw her:

"Ah, I'm glad!... I feel better already.... You won't leave me, will you, my little Suzanne?"

And he fell asleep again almost at once, under the action of a fresh injection of morphia.

As on the previous evening, the dining-room at the Old Mill remained empty. The maid took a light meal on a tray to Mme. Morestal and, next, to Marthe. But Marthe did not even answer her knock.

Marthe Morestal had not left her room during the morning; and all day she stayed alone, with her door bolted and her shutters closed. She sat on the edge of a chair and, bent in two, held her fists to her jaws and clenched her teeth so as not to scream aloud. It would have done her good to cry; and she sometimes thought that her suffering was about to find an outlet in sobbing; but the relief of tears did not come to moisten her eyes. And, stubbornly, viciously, she went over the whole pitiful story, recalling Suzanne's stay in Paris, the excursions on which Philippe used to take the young girl and from which they both returned looking so happy and glad, their meeting at the Old Mill, Philippe's departure for Saint-Elophe and, the next day, Suzanne's strange attitude, her ambiguous questions, her spiteful smile, as of a rival endeavouring to hurt the wife and hoping to supplant her. Oh, what a cruel business! And how hateful and wicked life, once so sweet, now seemed to her!

At six o'clock, driven by hunger, she went down to the dining-room. As she came out, after eating a little bread and drinking a glass of water, she saw Mme. Morestal going down the front-door steps to meet the doctor. She then remembered that her father-in-law was ill and that she had not yet seen him. His bedroom was close by. She crossed the passage, knocked, heard a voice—the voice of a nurse, she thought—say "Come in," and opened the door.

Opposite her, at a few steps' distance, beside the sleeping man, was Suzanne.

"You! You!" fumed Marthe. "You here!..."

Suzanne began to tremble under her fixed gaze and stammered:

"It was your father-in-law.... He insisted.... The doctor came ..."

And, with her knees giving way beneath her, she said, over and over again:

"I beg your pardon.... Forgive me ... forgive me.... It was my fault.... Philippe would never have ..."

Marthe at first listened without stirring. Perhaps she might have been just able to restrain herself. But, at the name of Philippe, at the name of Philippe uttered by Suzanne, she gave a bound, clutched the girl by the throat and flung her back against the table. She quivered with rage like an animal that at last holds its foe. She would have liked to destroy that body which her husband had clasped in his arms, to tear it, bite it, hurt it, hurt it as much as she could.

Suzanne gurgled under the onslaught. Then, losing her head, Marthe, stiff-fingered, clawed her with her nails on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips, those moist, red lips which Philippe had kissed. Her hatred gained new life with every movement. Blood flowed and mingled with Suzanne's tears. Marthe vilified her with abominable words, words which she had never spoken before. And, drunk with rage, thrice she spat in her face.

She ran out of the room, turned back, hissed a parting insult, slammed the door and went down the passage, calling:

"Victor! Catherine!"

Once in her room, she pressed the bell-push until the servants came:

"My trunk! Bring it down! And get the carriage ready, Victor, do you hear? At once!..."

Mme. Morestal appeared, attracted by the noise. Dr. Borel was with her.

"What's the matter, Marthe? What is it?"

"I refuse to stay here another hour!" retorted Marthe, heedless of the presence of the doctor and the servants. "You can choose between Suzanne and me...."

"My husband promised ..."

"Very well. As you choose that woman, I am going."

She opened the drawers of the chest and flung the dresses and linen out promiscuously. With an abrupt movement, she pulled the cloth from the table. All the knicknacks fell to the floor.

Dr. Borel tried to argue with her:

"This is all very well, but where are you going?"

"To Paris. My boys will come to me there."

"But haven't you seen the papers? The position is growing more serious every hour. The frontier-corps are being mobilized. Are you sure of getting through?"

"I am going," she said.

"And suppose you don't reach Paris?"

"I am going," she repeated.

"What about Philippe?"

She shrugged her shoulders. He understood that nothing mattered to her, neither her husband's existence nor the threat of war, and that there was no fighting against her despair. Nevertheless, as he went away with Mme. Morestal, he said, loud enough for Marthe to hear:

"By the way, don't be uneasy about Philippe. He has been to see me and to enquire after his father. He will come back. I promised to let him know how things were going...."

When Victor came, at seven o'clock, to say that the carriage was ready, Marthe had changed her mind. The thought that Philippe was hanging about the neighbourhood, that he might return to the house, that Suzanne and he would stay under the same roof and see each other as and when they pleased was more than she could bear. She remained, therefore, but standing behind her door, with her ears pricked up to catch the first sound. When everybody had gone to bed, she went downstairs and hid herself, until break of day, in a recess in the entrance-hall. She was prepared to spring out at the least creak on the stair, for she felt convinced that Suzanne would slip out in the dark with the object of joining Philippe. This time, Marthe would have killed her. And her jealousy was so exasperated that she lay in wait, not with fear, but with the fierce hope that Suzanne was really going to appear before her.

Fits such as these, which are abnormal in a woman like Marthe, who, at ordinary times, obeyed her reason more readily than her instinct, fits such as these do not last. Marthe ended by suddenly bursting into sobs. After crying for a long time, she went up to her room and, worn out with fatigue, got into bed.

* * *

That morning, on the Tuesday, Philippe came to the Old Mill. Mme. Morestal was told and hurried down, in a great state of excitement, eager to vent her wrath upon her unworthy son. But, at the sight of him standing outside on the terrace, she overcame her need of recrimination and uttered no reproach, so frightened was she at seeing him look so pale and sad.

She asked:

"Where have you been?"

"What does it matter?" replied Philippe. "I ought not to have come back ... but I could not keep away, because of father.... I was too much upset.... How is he?"

"Dr. Borel won't say anything definite yet."

"And what is your opinion?"

"My opinion? Well, frankly speaking, I am very hopeful. Your father is so strong! But, all the same, it was a violent shock...."

"Yes," he said, "that is what alarms me. I have not lived, these last two days. How could I possibly go before knowing for certain?..."

She hinted, with a certain feeling of apprehension:

"Then you want to stay here?"

"Yes ... provided he does not know."

"The fact is ... it's like this ... Suzanne is here, in your father's room.... He insisted on her coming...."

"Oh!" he said. "Is Suzanne here?"

"Where would you have her go? She has no one left. Who knows when Jorance will be out of prison? And, besides, will he ever forgive her?"

He stood wrapped in thought and asked:

"Has Marthe met her?"

"There was a terrible scene between them. I found Suzanne with her face streaming with blood, all over scratches."

"Oh, the poor things!" he murmured. "The poor things!..."

His head fell; and, presently, she saw that he was weeping.

As she had no word of consolation to offer him, she turned round and walked to the drawing-room, where she shifted the furniture so as to have the satisfaction of putting it back in its place. She tried to find a pretext to utter her resentment. When Philippe sat down at the table, she showed him the newspapers:

"Have you seen them?"

"Yes, the news is bad."

"That's not the point. The point is that the cabinet has fallen on the publication of the under-secretary's report. The whole Chamber rose up in protest."

"Well?"

"Well, that report is the one based upon the last enquiry ... of two days ago ... at the Butte-aux-Loups.... So you see ..."

Philippe felt a need to justify himself:

"You forget, mother, that there was an unexpected factor in the case. Before the sitting of the Chamber, a telegram had been published reporting the words spoken by the emperor after hearing the Statthalter's explanation."

He pointed to one of the papers:

"Here, mother, read this. These are the emperor's own words: 'Our conscience is now at ease. We had the might; we have the right. God decide the issue! I am ready.' And the Chamber, when condemning and overthrowing a ministry that was prepared for conciliation, intended to reply to words which it looked upon as provocative."

"Very well," said the old lady. "But, all the same, the report made no difference."

"Yes, that is so."

"Then what was the good of all your fuss and bothering? It was no use doing so much harm, considering that it served no purpose."

Philippe shook his head:

"It had to be. Certain actions must be performed and they should not be judged by the consequences which accident thrusts upon them, but by those which we expected of them, in all human logic and in all good faith."

"Empty phrases!" she said, obstinately. "You ought not to have done it.... It was a very useless piece of heroism...."

"Don't think that, mother. There was no need to be a hero to act as I did. It was enough to be an honest man. No one with the same clear vision as myself of what might happen would have hesitated any more than I did."

"So you regret nothing?"

He took her hand and, sadly:

"Oh, mother, how can you talk like that, you who know me? How can I be indifferent to all this break-up around me?"

He spoke the words with such despondency that she received an insight into his distress. But her anger with him was too great and especially their natures were too different for her to be touched by it. She concluded:

"No matter, my boy, it's all your fault. If you had not listened to Suzanne...."

He did not reply. The accusation cut into the most sensitive part of a wound which nothing could allay; and he was not the man to seek excuses.

"Come," said his mother.

She took him to another room on the second floor, further than the first from that which Marthe occupied:

"Victor will bring you your bag and serve your meals in here; that will be best. And I will let your wife know."

"Give her this letter, which I got ready for her," he said. "It is only asking for an interview, an explanation. She can't refuse."

* * *

In this way, in the course of that Tuesday, the Morestal family were once more gathered under the same roof; but in what heart-rending conditions! And how great was the hatred that now divided those beings once united by so warm an affection!

Philippe felt the disaster in a way that was, so to speak, visible and palpable, during these hours in which each of his victims remained locked up, as though in a torture-chamber. Nothing could have distracted his mind from its obsession, and even the fear of that accursed war which he had not been able to avert.

And yet news reached him at every moment, threatening news, like the news of a plague that comes nearer and nearer, despite the distance, despite the intervening waters.

At lunch-time, it was Victor, who had hardly entered the room with Philippe's tray before he exclaimed:

"Have you heard of the telegram from England, sir? The British premier has declared in parliament that, if war came, he would land a hundred thousand men at Brest and Cherbourg. That means an open alliance."

Later on, he heard the gardener's son, Henriot, returning on his bicycle from Saint-Elophe, shouting to his father and Victor:

"There's a mutiny at Strasburg! They're barricading the streets! They've blown up one of the barracks!"

And Victor at once telephoned to the Eclaireur des Vosges, pretending that he was doing so on behalf of M. Morestal, and came running up to Philippe's room:

"M. Philippe, Strasburg is in a state of insurrection.... All the peasants of the country around have taken up arms."

And Philippe reflected that there was no hope, that the governments would have their hands forced. And he reflected upon it almost calmly. His part was played. Nothing interested him now but his personal sorrow, the health of his father, the sufferings of Marthe and Suzanne, those first victims of the hateful scourge.

At five o'clock, he heard that one of the countries had issued an ultimatum against the other. Which of the two countries? And what was the purport of the ultimatum? He was unable to learn.

At nine o'clock, the telegrams announced that the new cabinet, chosen for the greater part from among the members of the opposition, had moved the immediate creation of "a Committee of National Safety, charged to take all the necessary measures for the defence of the country in case of war." The Chamber had passed the motion through its various stages in one sitting and had appointed the Governor of Paris head of the Committee of National Safety, with discretionary powers. This implied an eventual dictatorship.

All that Tuesday night, the Old Mill, silent and gloomy within doors, was filled with noise and excitement from without, a prey to the fever that precedes great catastrophes. Victor, the gardener and the gardener's son by turns bicycled at full speed to Saint-Elophe, where other people were bringing news from the sub-prefecture. The women moaned and wailed. At three o'clock in the morning, Philippe distinguished the angry voice of Farmer Saboureux.

At daybreak, there was a lull. Philippe, exhausted by so many sleepless nights, ended by dozing off and, while still asleep, heard the sound of footsteps coming and going over the pebbles in the garden. Then, suddenly, pretty late in the morning, he was awakened by a clamour outside.

He sprang out of bed. In front of the steps, Victor leapt from his horse, shouting:

"The ultimatum is rejected. It's war. It's war!"



CHAPTER II

THEY WHO GO TO THEIR DEATH

Philippe went downstairs as soon as he was dressed. He found all the servants gathered in the hall, discussing the news. Victor confirmed it: he had come straight from Noirmont.

Moreover, the postman had heard from a gendarme that the railway-station at the sub-prefecture was occupied by soldiers. He himself, when he left Saint-Elophe, had seen army telegraphists on duty in the post-office.

These hasty measures fitted in with the rejection of the ultimatum and went to prove the imminence of the dreaded catastrophe.

Philippe could not help saying:

"That means war."

"It's what I've been shouting from the house-tops for the last two days!" proclaimed Victor, who seemed greatly excited. "Oughtn't we to make preparations, here? At two steps from the frontier?"

But a bell rang. Catherine ran to the drawing-room, where Mme. Morestal appeared:

"Where were you? I have been looking for you. Hasn't the doctor been? Oh, there you are, Philippe! Quick, telephone to the doctor...."

"Is my father ...?"

"Your father is better; but, all the same, he's sleeping longer than he ought.... It may be the morphia.... You had better telephone."

She left the room. Philippe was taking down the receiver, when some one tapped him on the shoulder. It was Victor, whose excitement was increasing every moment and who asked him with a perplexed air:

"What are we to do, M. Philippe? Are we going to stay here? Or go away and shut up the house? The mistress does not realize ..."

And, without waiting for the answer, he turned round:

"Isn't it so, Catherine, the mistress does not realize.... The master's quite well again.... Well, then, they should make up their minds!..."

"Of course, one must be prepared for everything," said the maid-servant. "Suppose the enemy invade us?"

They both of them walked up and down the drawing-room, opening the doors, shutting them again, making gestures through the window.

An old woman entered, an old woman who was employed at the Old Mill as a charwoman. She waved her arms about:

"Is it true? Is it true? Are we going to war? And my son, the youngest, who is with his regiment?... And the other, who is in the reserve?... Is it true? No, tell me it's not true! It's all nonsense they're talking!"

"Nonsense, indeed!" said the gardener's wife, appearing on the scene. "You'll soon see if it's nonsense!... They'll all have to go ... my husband too, who's in the reserve of veterans."

She was accompanied by a child of three or four years old and in her arms carried another, in swaddling-clothes, who was whimpering.

"Of course they'll have to go," said Victor. "And what about me? You'll see, they'll call me to the colours, though I'm past the age!... You'll see!..."

"You as well as the rest," grinned the gardener, who now entered in his turn. "As long as one can hold a rifle.... But our eldest, Henriot, who's sixteen: do you think they'll forget him?"

"Oh, as for him," scolded the mother, "I shall hide him if they try to take him from me!"

"And what about the gendarmes?"

All were gesticulating and talking together. And Victor repeated:

"Meantime, we had better be off. Shut up the house and go. That's the wisest. We can't remain here like this, at two steps from the frontier."

In his eyes, war represented the disordered flight of the old men and the women, running away in herds and pushing before them carts loaded with furniture and bedding. And he stamped his foot, resolved upon making an immediate move.

But a great hullabaloo arose on the terrace. A little farm-labourer came rushing into the drawing-room:

"He's seen some! He's seen some!"

He was running in front of his employer, Farmer Saboureux, who arrived like a whirlwind, with his eyes starting out of his head:

"I've seen some! I've seen some! There were five of them! I've seen some!"

"Seen what? Seen what?" said Victor, shaking him. "What have you seen?"

"Uhlans!"

"Uhlans! Are you sure?"

"As I see you now! There were five of them on horseback! Oh, I knew them again ... it wasn't the first time!... Uhlans, I tell you!... They'll burn everything down!"

Mme. Morestal came running up at the noise which he made:

"Do be quiet! What's the matter with you?"

"I've seen some!" yelled Saboureux. "Uhlans! They've gone off to fetch the others."

"Uhlans!" she gasped in dismay.

"Yes, like last time!"

"Oh, heaven! Is it possible?"

"I saw them, I say.... Go and tell monsieur le maire."

She lost her temper:

"Tell him? But he's ill!... And be quiet, you, I've had enough of it.... Philippe, is the doctor coming?"

Philippe put down the telephone:

"The line is engaged by the military, it's not available for private communications."

"Oh, but this is terrible!" said the old lady. "What's to become of us?"

She thought only of Morestal, confined to his room, and of the inconvenience which he would suffer through this state of things.

A bicycle-bell was heard outside.

"Ah!" cried the gardener, leaning out of the window on the garden side. "There's my boy coming.... How the rascal is growing! And you think, mother, that they'll leave him at home to pluck the geese? A sharp lad like that?..."

A few seconds later, the boy was in the drawing-room. Breathless, staggering, he reeled back against the table and blurted out, in a hollow voice:

"It's ... war!..."

Philippe, who retained some hope in spite of everything, flew at him:

"War?"

"Yes ... it's declared...."

"By whom?"

"They didn't say."

And Saboureux, seized with fresh anger, stuttered:

"Of course!... I said so!... I saw the Uhlans ... there were five of them."

There was a stir among the servants. All rushed to meet a new arrival, Gridoux, the official game-keeper, who came prancing along the terrace, brandishing a stick. He pushed them aside:

"Don't bother me!... I've a message to give! Where's monsieur le maire? He must come at once! They're waiting for him!"

He seemed furious at not finding the Mayor of Saint-Elophe there, ready to go back with him.

"Not so loud, not so loud, Gridoux," Mme. Morestal ordered. "You'll wake him up."

"He's got to be woke up. I've been sent from the town-hall.... He's got to come at once."

Philippe laid hold of him:

"Stop that noise, I tell you, hang it all! My father is ill."

"That doesn't matter. I've got the butcher's cart.... I'll take him with me straight away, as he is."

"But it's impossible," moaned Mme. Morestal. "He's in bed."

"That doesn't matter.... There's orders to be given.... There's a whole company of soldiers ... soldiers from the manoeuvres.... The town-hall is upside down.... He's the only one to put things right."

"Nonsense! Where are his deputies? Arnauld? Walter?"

"They've lost their heads."

"Who's at the town-hall?"

"Everybody."

"The parish-priest?"

"A milksop!"

"The parson?"

"An ass! There's only one man who isn't crying like the others.... But M. Morestal would never consent.... They're not friends."

"Who is that?"

"The school-master."

"Let them obey him, then!... The school-master will do!... Let him give orders in my husband's name."

The wish to save Morestal any annoyance gave her a sudden authority. And she pushed everybody out, to the stairs, to the hall:

"There, go away, all of you.... Gridoux, go back to the town-hall...."

"Yes, that's it," said Saboureux, gripping the gamekeeper's arm, "go back to Saint-Elophe, Gridoux, and send the soldiers to me, eh? Let them defend me, hang it all! The Uhlans will burn down everything, my house, my barn!"

They all went out in high excitement. Philippe was able for a long time to distinguish Farmer Saboureux's exclamations through the garden window. And the picture of all those anxious, noisy people, drunk with talk and action, rushing from side to side in obedience to unreasoning impulses, that picture suggested to him a vision of the great mad crowds which the war was about to let loose like the waves of a sea.

"Come on," he said. "It's time to act."

He took a railway-guide from the table and turned up the station at Langoux. The new strategic line passed through Langoux, the line which follows the Vosges and runs down to Belfort and Switzerland. He found that he could reach Bale and sleep at Zurich that same evening.

He stood up and looked around him, with his heart wrung at the thought of going away like that, without bidding good-bye to any one. Marthe had not answered his letter and remained invisible. His father had turned him out and would never forgive him. He must go away by stealth, like a malefactor. "Well," he murmured, thinking of the act which he was on the point of accomplishing, "it's better so. In any case and in spite of everything, I was bound, now that war has been declared, to appear a miscreant and a renegade in my father's eyes. Have I the right to rob him of the least affectionate word?"

Mme. Morestal came up from the garden and he heard her moaning:

"War! Oh, heaven, war, like last time! And your poor father forced to keep his bed! Ah, Philippe, it's the end of all things!"

She shifted a few chairs in their places, wiped the table-cover with her apron and, when the drawing-room seemed tidy to her eyes, went to the door:

"Perhaps he is awake.... What will he want to do, when he hears?... If only he keeps quiet! A man of his age ..."

Philippe went up to her, in an instinctive burst of confidence:

"You know I'm going, mother?"

She replied:

"You're going? Well, yes, you are right. I dare say I shall persuade Marthe to come back to you...."

He shook his head:

"I'm afraid not...."

"Yes, yes," she declared, "Marthe loves you very much. And then there are the children to bring you together. Leave it to me.... The same with your father: don't be alarmed.... Everything will smooth down in time between the two of you. Go, my boy.... Write to me often...."

"Won't you kiss me, mother?"

She kissed him on the forehead, a quick, cold kiss that revealed her lingering bitterness.

But, as she was opening the door, she stopped, reflected and said:

"You are going back to Paris, are you not? To your own place?"

"Why do you ask, mother?"

"An idea that came to me, that's all. My head is in such a state, because of your father, that I did not think of it before...."

"What idea? Can you tell me?"

"About this war.... But, no, as a professor, you're exempt, aren't you?"

He understood her fears and, as he was unable to reassure her by confessing his secret intentions, he did not enlighten her further:

"Yes," he said, "I'm exempt."

"Still, you spent some time in the reserve?"

"Only at the government offices. And that's where we serve in time of war."

"Oh," she said, "that's all right, that's all right!... Else I should have been very anxious.... You see, the mere thought that you might be fighting ... that you might be wounded ... oh, it would be horrible!"

She drew him to her with a sort of violence that delighted Philippe and kissed him as he had longed to be kissed. He was nearly saying:

"Do you understand, mother darling?... Do you understand what I was trying to do, the other day? Thousands and thousands of mothers will be made to shed tears.... Great as our private troubles are, they will pass. Those which begin to-morrow will never pass. Death is irreparable."

But why waste words? Did not his mother's emotion prove him absolutely right?

They remained for a few moments locked in each other's embrace and the old lady's tears fell upon Philippe's cheeks.

At last, she said:

"You are not going at once, are you?"

"As soon as I have packed my bag."

"What a hurry you are in! Besides, there's no train yet. No, I want to kiss you once more and to make sure that you have all you want. And then it's impossible for you and Marthe to part like this. I will speak to her presently. But I must go to your father first: he may want me...."

He went with her as far as the sick man's room and, as she had taken from a cupboard a pile of towels that filled her arms, she said:

"Open the door for me, will you?"

Then he saw his father at the other end of the room, lying lifeless, very pale in the face, and Suzanne sitting at the foot of the bed. He clearly distinguished the red scratches on her cheeks and chin.