“I know, the blue room. I was here yesterday, helping Mme. Morestal. I must run up and give her a kiss.”
She turned round in the doorway and kissed her hand to the three men, keeping her eyes fixed on Philippe.
“How pretty and charming your daughter is!” said Morestal to Jorancé.
But they could see that he was thinking of something else and that he was eager to change the conversation. He shut the door quickly and, returning to the special commissary, said:
“Did you come by the frontier-road?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t been told yet?”
“What?”
“The German post ... at the Butte-aux-Loups....”
“Knocked down?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, by Jove!”
Morestal stopped to enjoy the effect which he had produced and then continued:
“What do you say to it?”
“I say ... I say that it’s most annoying.... They’re in a very bad temper as it is, on the other side. This means trouble for me.”
“Why?”
“Well, of course. Haven’t you heard that they’re beginning to accuse me of encouraging the German deserters?”
“Nonsense!”
“I tell you, they are. It seems that there’s a secret desertion-office in these parts. I’m supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you are the heart and soul of it.”
“Oh, they can’t stand me at any price!”
“Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Börsweilen, has sworn a mortal hatred against me. We cut each other now when we meet. There’s not a doubt but that he is responsible for the calumnies.”
“But what proofs do they put forward?”
“Any number ... all equally bad.... Among others, this: pieces of French gold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see ... with the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certain to begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to be opened....”
Philippe went up to him:
“Come, come, I don’t suppose it’s so serious as all that.”
“You think not, my boy? Then you haven’t seen the stop-press telegrams in this morning’s papers?”
“No,” said Philippe and his father. “What’s the news?”
“An incident in Asia Minor. A quarrel between the French and German officials. One of the consuls has been killed.”
“Oh, oh!” said Morestal. “This time ...”
And Jorancé went into details:
“Yes, the position is exceedingly strained. The Morocco question has been opened again. Then there’s the espionage business and the story of the French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and dropping tricolour flags in the Strasburg streets.... For six months, it has been one long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becoming aggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengthening their defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the two governments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark ... and the thing’s done.”
A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up the sinister vision according to his own temperament and instincts.
Jorancé repeated:
“A spark ... and the thing’s done.”
“Well, let it be done!” said Morestal, with an angry gesture.
Philippe gave a start:
“What are you saying, father?”
“Well, what! There must be an end to all this.”
“But the end need not be in blood.”
“Nonsense ... nonsense.... There are injuries that can only be wiped out in blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in the face like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a day comes when it returns the slap in the face ... and with both hands!”
“And suppose we are beaten?” said Philippe.
“Can’t be helped! Honour comes first! Besides, we sha’n’t be beaten. Let every man do his duty and we shall see! In 1870, as a prisoner of war, I gave my word not to serve in the French army again. I escaped, I collected the young rapscallions of Saint-Élophe and round about, the old men, the cripples, the women even.... We took to the woods. Three rags served as a rallying-signal: a bit of white linen, a strip of red flannel and a piece out of a blue apron ... the flag of the band! There it hangs.... It shall see the light of day again, if necessary.”
Jorancé could not help laughing:
“Do you think that will stop the Prussians?”
“Don’t laugh, my friend.... You know the view I take of my duty and what I am doing. But it is just as well that Philippe should know, too. Sit down, my boy.”
He himself sat down, put aside the pipe which he was smoking and began, with the obvious satisfaction of a man who is at last able to speak of what he has most at heart:
“You know the frontier, Philippe, or rather the German side of the frontier?... A craggy cliff, a series of peaks and ravines which make this part of the Vosges an insuperable rampart....”
“Yes, absolutely insuperable,” said Philippe.
“That’s a mistake!” exclaimed Morestal. “A fatal mistake! From the first moment when I began to think of these matters, I believed that a day would come when the enemy would attack that rampart.”
“Impossible!”
“That day has come, Philippe. For the last six months, not a week has passed without my meeting some suspicious figure over there or knocking up against men walking about in smocks that were hardly enough to conceal their uniform.... It is a constant, progressive underhand work. Everybody is helping in it. The electric factory which the Wildermann firm has run up in that ridiculous fashion on the edge of the precipice is only a make-believe. The road that leads to it is a military road. From the factory to the Col du Diable is less than half a mile. One effort and the frontier’s crossed.”
“By a company,” objected Jorancé.
“Where a company passes, a regiment can pass and a brigade can follow.... At Börsweilen, five miles from the Vosges, there are three thousand German soldiers: on a war-footing, mark you. At Gernach, twelve miles further, there are twelve thousand; and four thousand horses; and eight hundred waggons. By the evening of the day on which war is declared, perhaps even earlier, those fifteen thousand men will have crossed the Col du Diable. It’s not a surprise which they mean to attempt: that wouldn’t be worth their while. It is the absolute crossing of the frontier, the taking possession of our ridges, the occupation of Saint-Élophe. When our troops arrive, it will be too late! They will find Noirmont cut off, Belfort threatened, the south of the Vosges invaded.... You can picture the moral effect: we shall be done for! That is what is being prepared in the dark. That is what you have been unable to see, Jorancé, in spite of all your watchfulness ... and in spite of my warnings.”
“I wrote to the prefect last week.”
“You should have written last year! All this time, the other has been coming on, the other has been advancing.... He hardly takes the trouble to conceal himself.... There ... listen to him ... listen to him....”
In the far distance, like the sound of an echo, deadened by the mass of trees, a bugle-call had rung out, somewhere, through the air. It was an indistinct call, but Morestal was not mistaken and he hissed:
“Ah, it’s he!... It’s he.... I know the voice of Germany.... I know it when I hear it ... the hoarse, the odious voice!...”
Presently, Philippe, who had not taken his eyes off his father, said:
“And then, father?”
“And then, my son, it was in anticipation of that day that I built my house on this hill, that I surrounded my gardens with a wall, that, unknown to anybody, I stocked the out-houses with means of defence: ammunition, bags of sand, gun-powder ... that, in short, I prepared for an alarm by setting up this unsuspected little fortress at twenty minutes from the Col du Diable ... on the very threshold of the frontier!”
He had planted himself with his face to the east, with his face to the enemy; and, clutching his hips with his clenched hands, in an attitude of defiance, he seemed to be awaiting the inevitable assault.
The special commissary, who still feared that his zeal had been caught napping in this business, growled:
“Your shanty won’t hold out for an hour.”
“And who tells you,” shouted Morestal, “who tells you that that hour is not exactly the one hour which we shall want to gain?... An hour! You never spoke a truer word: an hour of resistance to the first attack! An hour of delay!... That’s what I wanted, that’s what I offer to my country. Let every one be doing as I am, to the best of his power, let every one be haunted to fever-point by the obsession of the personal service which it is his duty to render to the country; and, if war breaks out, you shall see how a great nation can take its revenge!”
“And suppose we are beaten, in spite of all?” Philippe asked again.
“What’s that?”
Old Morestal turned to his son as though he had received a blow; and a rush of blood inflamed his features. He looked Philippe in the face:
“What do you say?”
Philippe had an inkling of the conflict that would hurl them one against the other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And he uttered words at random:
“Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we can entertain.... But, all the same ... don’t you think we ought to face the possibility?...”
“Face the possibility of defeat?” echoed the old man, who seemed thunderstruck. “Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought to influence France in her conduct?”
A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appeared from the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashion that Morestal did not wait for his son to reply:
“Is that you, Saboureux? What a row you’re making!”
It was Farmer Saboureux, whose house could be seen on the Col du Diable. He was accompanied by an old, ragged tramp.
Saboureux had come to complain. Some soldiers taking part in the manœuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. He seemed beside himself, furious at the catastrophe:
“Only, I’ve a witness in old Poussière here. And I want an indemnity, not to speak of damages and punishment. I call it a calamity, I do: soldiers of our own country!... I’m a good Frenchman, but, all the same ...”
Morestal was too much absorbed in the discussion of his favourite ideas to take the least interest in the man’s troubles; and the farmer’s presence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason for returning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk about than chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarming rumours that were current?
“What do you say, Saboureux?”
The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom we sometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern, clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of our Roman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched to battle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness, risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced to ashes. Some passing Uhlans.... Since that time, he had laboured hard to repair the harm done.
“And you want it all over again?” he said. “More Uhlans burning and sacking?... Oh, no, I’ve had enough of that game! You just let me be as I am!”
He was filled with the small land-owner’s hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious foot on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed his arms, with a serious air.
“And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?” asked Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, breaking a crust.
The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carved out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every three or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off again.
“What country do you belong to, to begin with?”
He grunted:
“Don’t know much about it ... it’s so long ago....”
“Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?”
The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps without understanding. Saboureux grinned:
“He doesn’t look at the roads, not he! He doesn’t as much as know if he belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies where the grub lies ... eh, Poussière?”
Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper and let fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent — working-men, townsmen or farmers — who think only of their comfort, without caring whether the country is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect, with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carried to the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawked about by travelling agents?
“Yes,” he cried, “the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroying us. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The very army is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge of mutiny....”
He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time, nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father might take for one of approval.
“Isn’t it so, Philippe? You see the thing close at hand, where you are: all those poltroons who weaken our energies with their fine dreams of peace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the public meetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and the country with open doors and are backed up by our rulers.... And that’s only speaking of the capital!... Why, the very provinces haven’t escaped the contagion!... Here, have you read this abomination?”
He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heaped up on his table and held it before his son’s eyes. And he continued:
“Peace before All! No author’s name. A book that’s all the more dangerous because it’s very well written, not by one of those wind-bags to whom I was referring just now, but by a scholar, a provincial and, what’s more, a Frenchman from the frontier. He seems even to bear our name ... some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a large family.”
“Are you sure?” blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight of the pamphlet. “How do you know?”
“Oh, by accident.... A letter which was addressed to me and which said, ‘All good wishes for the success of your pamphlet, my dear Morestal.’”
Philippe remembered. He was to have gone to the Old Mill last year; and the letter must have been sent to him by one of his friends.
“And haven’t you tried to find out?”
“What for? Because I have a scoundrel in my family, that’s no reason why I should be in a hurry to make his acquaintance! Besides, he himself has had the decency not to put his name to his scurrilous nonsense.... No matter: if ever I lay my hands on him!... But don’t let’s talk of it....”
He continued to talk of it, nevertheless, and at great length, as well as of all the questions of war and peace, history and politics that came to his mind. It was not until he had “got his budget off his chest,” as he said, that he exclaimed, suddenly:
“Enough of this palavering, my friends! Why, it’s four o’clock! Saboureux, I’m your man.... So they’ve been making free with your poultry, have they? Are you coming, Jorancé? We’ll see some fine soldier-chaps making their soup. There’s nothing jollier and livelier than a French camp!”
CHAPTER IV
PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE
MARTHE AND SUZANNE were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-temper
ed with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.
When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one’s room a look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite books....
“You’ll be very snug here, Marthe,” she said. “It’s a nice, light room ... and there’s only a dressing-room between you and Philippe.... But how did you come to want two bedrooms?”
“It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings....”
“Oh,” repeated the girl. “It was Philippe’s suggestion....”
Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:
“How like his father your son Jacques is!... Much more so than Paul ... don’t you think?”
Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at the picture with those mother’s eyes which seem to see in the inanimate image the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one.
“Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?” asked Suzanne.
“What a question! If you were a mother....”
“If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most of my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased to love me....”
“You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that there is nothing in the world but love?”
“There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn’t you like love to fill a greater place in your life?”
This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway.
Suzanne at once cried:
“We were talking about you, Philippe.”
He made no reply. He went to the window, closed it and then came back to the two young women. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he sat down by Marthe; and Marthe saw by his look that something had happened:
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 329