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. Jorancé'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 Jorancé, with a white, threatening face, and heard him say,

in a dull voice:

"What did you mean to suggest? Whom are you talking about? Oh, I'll 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. Jorancé.... 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 Jorancé, 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.

Jorancé.... 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 Jorancé 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. Jorancé stayed her threat. Unaware of Suzanne's presence

at the Butte-aux-Loups, Jorancé 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, Trébons!"

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 Trébons 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, Trébons. No one here is in the way ... on the contrary....

Come, what is it? Bad news?"

"Very bad news, monsieur le ministre. The French embassy in Berlin 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 Trébons, is the motor at the cross-roads?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre."

"Please collect the papers; we will go. We have an hour to reach 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 Trébons:

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

Jorancé here."

M. de Trébons left the tent.

"Is Suzanne there?" asked Jorancé, 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 Jorancé, 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 Jorancé

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 Jorancé 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 Jorancé. Suzanne took a few

steps and looked at her father, whom she had not seen since the evening

at Saint-Élophe. 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 Jorancé's, or Suzanne's.

Le Corbier replied:

"An unimpeachable value."

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

"Yes, for I shall have to weigh those statements against the words of 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 Jorancé."

It was as though Jorancé, 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 Jorancé. "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 Jorancé.

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 Trébons

interfered, while Morestal, shaking his fist at Philippe, cried:

"I curse you! You're a criminal! Let her be, Jorancé. 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 Jorancé'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-Élophe.

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-Élophe 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

Jorancé 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-Élophe, 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 _Éclaireur 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-Élophe, 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-Élophe, 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-Élophe 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-Élophe, 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 Bâle 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.

"Shut the door, Suzanne," said Mme. Morestal, when she was inside.

Suzanne did so. As she approached, she saw Philippe in the dusk of the

passage. She did not make a movement nor give a start; and she closed

the door upon him as though he had not been there.

"She too," thought Philippe, "she too will never forgive me, any more

than my father or Marthe."

And he resolved to go away at once, now that his mother's affection had

given him a little comfort.

He found Victor at the foot of the garden-steps, indulging in

lamentations in the midst of the other servants and recommending

immediate flight:

"We can pack up the plate, the clocks, the valuables in an hour and be

off.... When the enemy arrive, they will find no one here...."

Philippe called him and asked if it was possible to get a carriage at

Saint-Élophe:

"Oh, are you going, sir? You are quite right. But not just yet, are you?

Presently, I suppose, with Mme. Philippe? I've orders to drive Mme.

Philippe to Saint-Élophe. From there, there's the diligence that goes to

Noirmont."

"No, I am not going in that direction."

"How do you mean, sir? There's only one line to Paris."

"I sha'n't go straight to Paris. I want to take the train at Langoux."

"The new line to Switzerland? But that's an endless journey, sir! It

goes all the way down to Belfort."

"Yes, that's it. How far is it from Saint-Élophe to Langoux?"

"Three miles and a bit."

"In that case, I shall walk," said Philippe. "Thank you."

He was in a hurry to leave the Old Mill, for he felt that events were

hastening to a crisis and that, at any moment, he might be prevented

from carrying out his plan.

As a matter of fact, when he turned back, he was passed by Henriot, the

gardener's son, who was clapping his hands:

"There they are! The soldiers of the manoeuvring company!... They are

going to the Col du Diable, at the quick step. We shall see them from

the terrace."

He was followed by the other servants, by his mother, by his little

brother, who, like himself, was waving his hands; and they all crossed

the drawing-room.

Philippe went to the edge of the terrace. The troops were already

debouching in good order. They were young soldiers, beardless boys for

the most part, and looked almost like children amusing themselves by

marching in file. But he saw an unaccustomed expression of anxiety and

doubt on their faces. They marched in silence, hanging their heads and

as though bent by the fatigue of the recent manoeuvres.

A word of command sounded in the rear and was repeated in a sharp voice

by two non-commissioned officers. There was a momentary undulating

movement. Then the column proceeded at the double down the slope that

led to the Étang-des-Moines.

And, when the last ranks had filed off below the terrace, two officers

appeared, followed by a bugler. One of the two sprang briskly from his

horse, flung the reins to the bugler and ran up the staircase, shouting:

"I'll be with you presently, Fabrègues.... Meet me in the Col du

Diable.... Take up your position at Saboureux's Farm."

On reaching the terrace, he raised his hand to his cap:

"Can I see M. Morestal, please?"

Philippe stepped forward:

"My father is laid up, captain."

The officer was obviously affected by the news:

"Oh!" he said. "I was relying on M. Morestal. I have had the pleasure of

making his acquaintance and he spoke to me of the Old Mill.... I now see

what he meant. The position is really excellent. But, for the moment,

monsieur, would you mind?... I know you are on the telephone here and I

have an urgent message.... Excuse me ... it is such a serious time...."

Philippe took him to the telephone. The officer pressed the button

impatiently and, as he did not receive a reply at once, turned round:

"Meanwhile, allow me to introduce myself ... Captain Daspry.... I met

your father in connection with a rather funny incident, the slaughter of

Farmer Saboureux's fowls.... Hullo! Hullo! Gad, how difficult it is to

get put on!... Hullo! Hullo!... I even shocked M. Morestal by refusing

to punish the culprit, one Duvauchel, an incorrigible

anti-militarist.... An excuse like that would just have served the

beggar's turn...."

He had a rather vulgar type of face and a complexion that was too red;

but his frank eyes and his gaiety of manner made him exceedingly

attractive. He began to laugh:

"To show his gratitude, Duvauchel promised me, this morning, to turn his

back on the enemy, at the first shot, and to desert.... He has a

chauffeur's place reserved for him in Switzerland.... And, as Duvauchel

says, 'There's nothing like a French greaser.'... Hullo!... Ah, at

last!... Hullo! Captain Daspry speaking.... I want the military post at

Noirmont.... Yes, at once, please.... Hullo!... Is that Noirmont? The

military post? I want Major Dutreuil.... Switch me on to him.... It's

urgent."

Captain Daspry ceased. Instinctively, Philippe took up the other

receiver:

"May I?"

"Oh, certainly!..."

And Philippe heard the following dialogue, with its swift and anxious

questions and answers:

"Is that you, Daspry?"

"Yes, major."

"Did the cyclists catch you up?"

"Which cyclists?"

"I sent three after you."

"I've seen nothing of them so far. I'm at Morestal's."

"The Old Mill?"

"Yes, major ... I wrote to you about it."

"Well, what is it, Daspry?"

"Uhlans have been seen in the Col du Diable."

"Yes, I know. The Börsweiler cavalry are on the march."

"What!"

"They will cross the frontier in an hour from now, supported by two

regiments of infantry."

"What!"

"That's what I sent my cyclists to tell you. Get to the Col du Diable as

fast as you can."

"My men are there, major. As soon as the enemy arrives, we will fall

back, keeping in touch with them as we do so."

"No."

"Eh? But I can't do otherwise, I have only my company."

"You must stand your ground, Daspry. You must stand your ground for two

hours and a half or three hours. My battalion has just left barracks.

The 28th are following us by forced marches. We shall be at the frontier

by two o'clock in the afternoon. You must stand your ground."

"But I say, major!"

"You must stand your ground, Daspry."

With a mechanical movement, the officer drew himself up, brought his

heels together and replied:

"We shall stand our ground, major."

He replaced the receiver and thought for a few minutes. Then he said,

with a smile:

"By Jove, that's a nice beginning! Two hundred men against some

thousands ... for three hours! If one of the 4th company remains alive,

he'll be a lucky man...."

"But it's madness!" Philippe protested.

"Monsieur, the Alpine Rifles and the 28th of the line are on their way;

and Dornat's division is certainly behind them. If they arrive too late,

if the ridges of the Vosges are taken, if the frontier is crossed, if

the Saint-Élophe valley is occupied and all this on the very day on

which war is declared, you can imagine the consternation which this

first check will produce all over France. If, on the other hand, a

handful of men sacrifice themselves ... and _succeed_, the moral effect

will be incalculable. I shall stand my ground for three hours,

monsieur."

The words were spoken simply, with the profound conviction of a man who

realizes the full importance of his act. He was already on his way down

the stone steps. Saluting Philippe, he added:

"You can congratulate M. Morestal, monsieur. He is a far-seeing

Frenchman. He foresaw everything that is happening. Let us hope that it

is not too late."

He leapt into the saddle, spurred his horse and set off at a gallop.

Philippe followed him with his eyes as far as the Étang-des-Moines. When

the officer had disappeared behind a dip in the ground, he gave way to

an angry movement and muttered:

"Play-acting!"

However, he turned the telescope on the Col du Diable and saw soldiers

all around Saboureux's Farm, running, scrambling up the rocks on every

side with the agility of young goats. He reflected that they had

forgotten their weariness and seemed to be diverting themselves with an

exercise to which each contributed his own effort, his individual

tactics and his qualities of self-reliance and initiative.

He stood pensive for a few minutes. But time was pressing. He called

Victor and went up to his room:

"Quick, my bag."

They stuffed the papers and manuscripts into it promiscuously, together

with a little linen and the toilet-articles. The bag was strapped up.

Philippe seized it:

"Good-bye, Victor. Tell my mother I sent her my love."

He crossed the landing. But some one darted out of an adjacent room. It

was Marthe. She barred his way:

"Where are you going?" she asked.

CHAPTER III

IDEAS AND FACTS

Marthe, who had kept her room since the day before, but remained

attentive to all that was happening at the Old Mill, had, through her

open door and window, heard and seen the hubbub, the fuss made by the

servants, all the mad fluster of a house that feels itself threatened by

an approaching cyclone.

She had overcome her fit of anger and hatred, was now mistress of

herself and was no longer frightened of a possible meeting between

Philippe and Suzanne. Another torment obsessed her. What did her husband

mean to do? Brought face to face with an eventuality which he had often

contemplated, what line of conduct would he pursue?

And it was he that she was watching. Before she went away, she wished to

know. She overheard his first conversation with Victor. She saw his

meeting with Captain Daspry from a distance. She saw him go to his room.

She saw him come out again. And, in spite of herself, although urged by

a very definite feeling, she stood up before him like an obstacle:

"Where are you going?" she asked.

Philippe did not lose countenance. He replied:

"What interest can that have for you?"

"Come," she said, "we have to speak to each other.... Come in here."

She took him into her room, shut the door and repeated, in a masterful

tone:

"Where are you going, Philippe?"

He replied, with the same decision:

"I am going away."

"There is no carriage."

"I shall walk."

"Where to?"

"To Noirmont."

"To take which train?"

"The train to Paris."

"That's not true," she said, vehemently. "You are not going to Paris.

You are going to Langoux, to take the train to Belfort."

"Just so, but I shall be in Paris to-morrow morning."

"That's not true! You do not mean to stop at Belfort. You will go on to

Bâle, to Switzerland. And, if you go to Switzerland, it will not be for

a day, it will be for months ... for your life!"

"And what then?"

"You intend to desert, Philippe."

He did not speak. And his silence dumbfoundered her. Violent as was the

certainty that filled and angered her, Marthe was stupefied when he made

no protest.

She stammered:

"Is it possible? You really intend to desert?"

Philippe grew irritable:

"Well, what has it to do with you? You had a letter from me yesterday,

offering you an explanation. You have not even troubled to reply! Very

well! I have done you an irreparable wrong. Our whole married life is

shattered by my fault. Your attitude up to the present shows me that you

never mean to forgive me.... Then what right have you to call me to

account for what I do?"

She repeated, in a low voice, with fixed eyes:

"You intend to desert...."

"Yes."

"Is it really credible? I knew your ideas against war ... all the ideas

in your books ... which agree with my own.... But I never thought of

this.... You never spoke to me of it.... And then, no ... I could never

have believed it...."

"You will have to believe it, for all that, Marthe."

He turned to the door. Once again she stood up in front of him.

"Let me pass," he said.

"No."

"You are mad!"

"Listen to me ... Philippe...."

"I refuse to listen. This is not the time for quarrelling. I have made

up my mind to go. I will go. It is not a rash impulse. It is a decision

taken silently and calmly. Let me pass."

He tried to clear the door. She pushed him back, suddenly seized with an

energy which became all the fiercer as she felt her husband to be more

inflexible. She had only a few minutes; and that was what frightened

her. In those few minutes, by means of phrases, poor phrases flung out

at random, she had to win the battle and to win it against a foe with

whose mettle and obstinacy she was well acquainted.

"Let me pass," he repeated.

"Well, then, no, no, no!" she cried. "You shall not desert! No, you

shall not do that infamous thing! There are things that one can't do....

This thing, Philippe, is monstrous!... Listen, Philippe, listen while I

tell you...."

She went up to him and, under her breath:

"Listen, Philippe ... listen to this confession.... Philippe, you know

what you did on Sunday, your cruelty to your father, to Suzanne, to all

of us: well, yes, I understood it.... I suffered the pangs of death, I

suffered more than any of the others.... Each word that you spoke burnt

into me like fire.... But, all the same, Philippe, I understood.... You

had to sacrifice us to the cause of peace. It was your right, it was

your duty to victimize us all in order that you might save a whole

nation.... But what you now propose to do.... Oh, the shame of it!...

Listen, if you did that ... I should think of you as one thinks of ... I

don't know what ... as one thinks of the most contemptible, the most

revolting ..."

Shrugging his shoulders impatiently, he interrupted her:

"I can't help it if you do not understand. It is my right ... and my

duty also...."

"Your duty is to join your regiment, now that war is declared, and to

fight, yes, to fight for France, like every other Frenchman ... like the

first peasant that comes along, who may tremble with all his poor human

flesh, it is true, and whose heart sinks within him and whose stomach

turns cold, but who believes that his duty lies in being there ... and

who goes ahead, come what may! March on, as he does, Philippe! I have

accepted all your opinions, I have shared them and backed them.... If

there is to be an end of our union, at least let me address this last

entreaty to you: join your regiment!... Your place is over there...."

"My place is anywhere except where men commit the odious act of

killing," exclaimed Philippe, who had listened to her in spite of

himself and who now suddenly collected himself. "My place is with my

friends. They trust me and I trust them. They are the men whom I must

join."

"Where? In Paris?"

"No. We swore, at the first signal, to meet at Zurich. From there, we

shall issue a manifesto calling upon all the thinkers and all the men of

independent views in Germany and France."

"But no one will answer your appeal!"

"Never mind! The appeal will have gone forth. The world will have heard

the protest of a few free men, professors like myself, tutors, writers,

men who reflect, men who act in accordance with their convictions, and

not like animals led to the slaughter."

"You must defend your country," said Marthe, seeking to gain time, in

the hope that something would come to her assistance.

"I must defend my ideas!" declared Philippe. "If my country chooses to

commit an act of folly, that is no reason why I should follow her. What

nonsense it is, these two great nations, the most civilized in the

world, going to war because they can't agree about the arrest of a petty

official, or because one of them wants to eat up Morocco and the other

is incensed at not being invited to the banquet! And, for that, they are

going to fly at each other's throats, like wild beasts! To scatter

mourning and misery on every side! No, I refuse to take part in it!

These hands, Marthe, these hands shall not kill! I have brothers in

Germany as well as France. I have no enmity against them. I will not

kill them."

She pretended to listen to his arguments with attention, knowing that,

in this way, she would detain him a little longer. And she said:

"Ah, your German brothers, whether they feel enmity or not, you may be

sure that they will march against France! Is not your love for her the

greater?"

"Yes, yes, I love her, but just for the very reason that she is the most

generous and noble of countries, that in her alone the idea of revolt

against the law of blood and war can take root and sprout and blossom."

"You will be treated as a coward."

"To-day, perhaps ... but, in ten years, in twenty years, we shall be

treated as heroes. Our names will be quoted as the names of the

benefactors of humanity. And it will be France again that shall have had

that honour ... through us! Through me!"

"But your name will be reviled during your lifetime."

"Reviled by those whom I despise, by those who have the cast of mind of

that captain--though he's one of the best of them--who laughs and jokes

when he is sent to certain death, he and his company."

Marthe answered indignantly:

"It's the laughter of a Frenchman, Philippe, of a Frenchman hiding his

anguish under a little light chaff. A glorious laughter, which forms the

pride of our race!"

"One does not laugh in the presence of the death of others."

"Yes, Philippe, when it is to hide the danger from them and to keep all

the horror and all the terror for one's self alone.... Listen,

Philippe!..."

The sound of firing came from the distance, on the other side of the

house. For some seconds, there was an uninterrupted crackle of musketry;

then it came at rarer intervals; and, presently, there was no sound at

all.

Marthe whispered:

"The first shot fired in the war, Philippe.... They are fighting on the

frontier.... It's your country they are defending.... France is in

danger.... Oh, doesn't your heart quiver like the heart of a son? Don't

you feel the wounds they are giving her ... the wounds they intend to

give her?..."

He wore his attitude of suffering, keeping his arms crossed stiffly over

his chest and half-closing his eyes. He answered, sorrowfully:

"Yes, yes, I feel those wounds.... But why is she fighting? For what mad

love of glory? Is she not intoxicated with successes and conquests?

Remember our journey through Europe.... Wherever we went, we found

traces of her passage: cemeteries and charnel-houses to bear witness

that she was the great victress. Isn't that enough of conquests and

triumphs?"

"But, fool that you are," cried Marthe, "she is not trying to conquer!

She is defending herself! Picture this vision, for a moment: France

invaded once more ... France dismembered ... France wiped from the face

of the earth...."

"But no, no," he said, with a gesture of protest, "there is no question

of that!"

"Yes, there is, there is a question of that: it's a question of life or

death to her.... And you, you are deserting!"

Philippe did not stir. Marthe felt that he was, if not shaken, at least

anxious, uneasy. But, suddenly, he uncrossed his arms and, striking the

table with his fist:

"I must! I must! I promised to!... And I was right to promise! And I

will keep my oath! What you call deserting is fighting, but fighting the

real fight! I too am going to wage war, but it will be the war of

independence and brains; and my comrades in heroism are waiting for me.

There, Marthe, I won't listen to you any longer!"

She glued her back to the door, with her arms outstretched:

"And the children! The children whom you are abandoning!"

"You will send them to me later."

She raised her hand:

"Never, I swear it on their heads, never shall you set eyes on them

again! The sons of a deserter!... They will disown you!"

"They will love me, if they understand."

"I will teach them not to understand you."

"If they do not understand me, it is I who will disown them. So much the

worse for them!"

He took her by the shoulders and tried to push her away. And, when

Marthe resisted, he jostled her, exasperated by the fear of the

unforeseen obstacle that might spring up, the arrival of his mother,

perhaps the apparition of old Morestal himself.

Marthe weakened. He at once seized her wrist and pulled at the door.

But, with one last effort, she thrust back her husband and, panting, in

despair:

"One word! One word more!" she implored. "Listen, Philippe, don't do

this thing.... And, if you do not do it, well, I think I could.... Oh,

it is horrible to coerce me like this!... Still, I won't have you go....

Listen, Philippe. You know my pride, the bitterness of my feelings and

all that I have suffered, all that I am suffering because of Suzanne.

Well, I will forget everything. I offer not only to forgive, but to

forget. Never a single word shall remind you of the past ... never an

allusion ... I swear it! But don't desert, Philippe, I entreat you,

don't do that!"

She hung on to his clothes and pressed herself against him, stammering:

"No, don't do that.... Do not inflict that disgrace upon your children!

The sons of a deserter!... Oh, I entreat you, Philippe, stay! We will go

away together ... and we will begin life again as it was before...."

She dragged herself at his feet, humble and supplicating, and she

received the terrible impression that her words were of no avail. She

was encountering a rival idea, against which all her strength was

shattered. Philippe did not hear her. No feeling of pity even turned him

towards her.

Calmly, with an irresistible movement, he clasped Marthe's wrists,

gathered them in one of his hands, opened the door with the other and,

flinging his wife from him, fled.

Marthe was seized with a feeling akin to despair. However, the bag was

still there and she believed that he would come back to fetch it. Then,

realizing her mistake, she suddenly rose and started to run:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried.

Like him, she was thinking of some outside interference, of old

Morestal, whom the outcries might attract and whom Philippe would find

on his path.

"Philippe! Philippe!"

She became scared, not knowing where to look for him. There was nobody

in the garden. She returned to the drawing-room, for she seemed to hear

a sound of voices. And in fact she saw a sergeant and a private soldier

hurriedly crossing the terrace, with the gardener's son leading the way.

"Follow me!" the brat commanded. "We'll go up to the roof.... You can

see the whole valley from there.... Ah, the telescope!..."

He caught up the instrument as he passed.

Marthe rushed at them:

"What's happening?"

"Impossible to hold out over there," said the sergeant. "There are too

many of them.... We're falling back...."

"But, in that case, _they_ will be coming?"

"Yes, yes, they're coming, right enough!..."

Marthe went out on the terrace. A swarm of soldiers came running up the

staircase.

She saw Philippe in a corner. He was speaking to the men:

"Are they coming?"

"Yes."

"Have they crossed the frontier?"

"No, not yet."

He turned to his wife and said to her, as a piece of good news:

"They have not crossed the frontier yet."

And he went to meet another group of soldiers.

Then Marthe believed that fate had sent her the aid for which she was

praying. She could now do nothing more but trust to events.

CHAPTER IV

THE SACRED SOIL

"Bugler!... Sound the rally ... at the double ... and quietly."

It was Captain Daspry who now arrived, with a brisk gait, but with the

grave and resolute face of a leader who is commanding at a solemn

moment.

He said to Philippe:

"Is M. Morestal still unwell?"

Mme. Morestal ran out from the house:

"My husband is asleep.... He is very tired.... The morphia.... But, if

there is anything you want, I can take his place. I know his intentions,

his preparations."

"We shall attempt the impossible," said the officer. And, addressing his

lieutenant, he added, "It would have been madness to stay over there,

wouldn't it, Fabrègues? It's not a question of demolishing a few Uhlans,

as we did, but of standing our ground against a whole brigade who were

climbing the other slope.... Oh, it was all planned long ago!... And M.

Morestal is a jolly clever man!..."

The bugle sounded a low call and the Alpine Rifles emerged from every

side, through the terrace, the garden and the back entrances.

"That will do!" said the officer to the bugler. "They have heard ... and

I don't want the enemy to hear as well."

He took out his watch:

"Twelve o'clock.... Two hours more, at least.... Oh, if I only had

twenty-five minutes or half an hour in which to prepare my

resistance.... But nothing will stop them.... The passage is free...."

He called:

"Fabrègues!"

"Yes, captain."

"All the men in front of the coach-house, on the left of the garden. At

the back of the coach-house is a hay-loft. Break down the door...."

"Victor, show the gentleman the way," said Mme. Morestal to the servant.

"Here is the key."

"In the loft," continued the captain, "you will find two hundred bags of

plaster.... Use them to block up the parapet of this terrace.... Quick

as you can!... Every minute is worth an hour."

He himself went to the parapet, measured it and counted the balusters.

In the distance, within rifle-range, the Col du Diable formed a deep

gash between the great rocks. Saboureux's Farm guarded the entrance. As

yet, not a single figure of the enemy showed.

"Ah, twenty minutes!... If I only had twenty minutes!" repeated the

officer. "The position of the Old Mill is hard to beat. One would stand

a chance or two ..."

An adjutant and a couple more soldiers appeared at the top of the

staircase.

"Well?" asked Captain Daspry. "Are they coming?"

"The vanguard was turning the corner of the factory, at five hundred

yards from the pass," replied the adjutant.

"Are there any more of our men behind you?"

"Yes, captain, there's Duvauchel. He's wounded. They've laid him on a

stretcher...."

"Duvauchel!" cried the officer, anxiously. "It's not a serious wound, I

hope?"

"Upon my word ... I shouldn't like to say."

"Dash it all! But then one saw nothing but that devil in the front

line.... There was no holding him...."

"Yes," chuckled the adjutant, "he has a way of his own of deserting in

the face of the enemy!... He charges straight at them, the beggar!"

But Mme. Morestal grew frightened:

"A man wounded! I will go and prepare some bandages, get out the

medicine-chest.... We have all that's wanted.... Will you come, Marthe?"

"Yes, mother," replied Marthe, without budging.

She did not remove her eyes from her husband and tried to read on

Philippe's face the feelings that stirred him. She had first of all seen

him go back to the drawing-room and cross the entrance-hall, as though

he were thinking of the way out through the garden, which was still

free. The sudden arrival of the riflemen pushed him back; and he talked

to several of them in a low voice and gave them some bread and a flask

of brandy. Then he returned to the terrace. His inaction, in the midst

of the constant traffic to and fro, was obviously irksome to him. Twice

he consulted the drawing-room clock; and Marthe guessed that he was

thinking of the hour of the train and the time which he would need to

reach Langoux Station. But she did not alarm herself. Every second was

weaving bonds around him that tied him down without his knowing it; and

it seemed to Marthe as though events had no other object than to make

her husband's departure impossible.

The resistance, meanwhile, was being organized. Swiftly, the riflemen

brought the bags of plaster, which the captain at once ordered to be

placed between every pair of balusters. Each of the bags was of the

height and width corresponding with the dimensions of the intervals and

left an empty space, a loop-hole, on either side. And old Morestal had

even had the forethought to match the colour of the sacking with that of

the parapet, so that it might not be suspected in the distance that

there was a defence behind which sharpshooters lay hidden.

On either side of the terrace, the wall surrounding the garden was the

object of similar cares. The captain ordered the soldiers to set out

bags at the foot of the wall so as to make the top accessible from the

inside.

But a sound of shouting recalled the captain to the drawing-room. The

gardener's son came tumbling down from his observatory, yelling:

"Saboureux's Farm is on fire! You can see the smoke! You can see the

flames!"

The captain leapt out on the terrace.

The smoke was whirling above the barn. Gleams kindled, faint as yet and

hesitating. And, suddenly, as though set free, the flames shot up in

angry spirals. The wind at once beat them down again. The roof of the

house took fire. And, in a few minutes, it was a violent flare,

accompanied by the quick blaze of the rotten beams, the dry thatch, the

trusses of hay and straw heaped up by the hundred in the barn and in the

sheds.

"To work!" shouted the captain, gleefully. "The Col du Diable is blocked

by the flames.... They'll last for quite fifteen or twenty minutes ...

and the enemy have no other road...."

His excitement communicated itself to the men. Not one of them broke

down beneath the weight of the bags, heavy though these were. The

captain posted the non-commissioned officers at regular intervals, so

that his orders could be passed on from the terrace to every end of the

property.

Lieutenant Fabrègues came up. The materials were beginning to fall short

and the lofty wall remained inaccessible to the marksmen in several

places.

Mme. Morestal behaved like a heroine:

"Take the furniture, captain, the chairs, the tables. Break them up, if

necessary.... Burn them even.... Do just as if my husband were here."

"M. Morestal said something about a stock of cartridges," asked the

captain.

"In the boxes in the harness-room. Here are the keys."

The men redoubled their activity. The Old Mill was ransacked; and the

soldiers passed laden with mattresses, sofas, old oak chests, hangings

also and carpets, with which they stopped up the holes and the windows.

"The flames are spreading," said the captain, going to the top of the

staircase. "There's nothing left of Farmer Saboureux's buildings.... But

by what miracle ...? Who set the place on fire?..."

"I did."

A peasant stood at the top of the steps, in a scorched blouse, with his

face all blackened.

"You, Saboureux?"

"Yes, I," growled Saboureux, fiercely. "I had to.... I heard you over

there: 'If we could only stop them,' says you. 'If I had half an hour to

spare!'... Well, there's your half an hour for you.... I set fire to

the shanty."

"And very nearly roasted me inside it," grinned Old Poussière, who was

with the farmer. "I was asleep in the straw...."

The captain nodded his head:

"By Jove, Farmer Saboureux, but that's a damned sportsmanlike thing

you've done! I formed a wrong opinion of you. I apologize. May I shake

you by the hand?"

The peasant put out his hand and then walked away, with his back bent in

two. He sat down in a corner of the drawing-room. Poussière also huddled

into a chair, took a piece of bread from his pocket, broke it and gave

half to Saboureux, as though he thought it only natural to share what he

had with the man who had nothing left.

"Here's Duvauchel, sir!" announced a rifleman. "Here's Duvauchel!"

The staircase was too narrow and they had to bring the stretcher round

by the garden. The captain ran to meet the wounded man, who made an

effort to stand on his legs:

"What's up, Duvauchel? Are you hit?"

"Not I, sir, not I," said the man, whose face was livid and his eyes

burning with fever. "A cherry-stone tickled my shoulder, by way of a

lark. It's nothing...."

"But the blood's flowing...."

"It's nothing, I tell you, sir.... I know all about it.... Saw plenty of

it as a greaser!... It won't show in five minutes ... and then I'm

off...."

"Oh, of course, I forgot, you're deserting!..."

"Rather! The comrades are waiting for me...."

"Then begin by getting your wound dressed...."

"My wound dressed? Oh, that's a good one! I tell you, sir, it's nothing

... less than nothing ... a kiss ... a puff of wind...."

He stood up for an instant, but his eyelids flickered, his hands sought

for support and he fell back upon the litter.

Mme. Morestal and Marthe hastened to his side:

"Let me, mamma, please," said Marthe, "I'm used to it.... But you've

forgotten the absorbent wool ... and the peroxide of hydrogen.... Quick,

mamma ... and more bandages, lots of bandages...."

Mme. Morestal went out. Marthe bent over the wounded man and felt his

pulse without delay:

"Quite right, it's nothing," she said. "The artery is uninjured."

She uncovered the wound and, very tenderly, staunched the blood that

trickled from it:

"The peroxide, quick, mamma."

She took the bottle which some one held out to her and, raising her

head, saw Suzanne stooping like herself over the wounded man.

"M. Morestal is waking up," said the girl. "Mme. Morestal sent me in her

stead...."

Marthe did not so much as start. She did not even feel as though an

unpleasant memory had flitted through her mind, compelling her to make

an effort to suppress her hatred:

"Unroll the bandages," she said.

And Suzanne also was calm in the face of her enemy. No sense of shame or

embarrassment troubled her. Their mingled breath caressed the soldier's

face.

Nor did it seem that any memory of love existed between Philippe and

Suzanne or that a carnal bond united them. They looked at each other

unmoved. Marthe herself told Philippe to uncork a bottle of boracic. He

did so. His hand touched Suzanne's. Neither he nor Suzanne felt a

thrill.

Around them continued the uninterrupted work of the men, each of whom

obeyed orders and executed them according to his own initiative, without

fuss or confusion. The servants were all in the drawing-room. The women

aided in the work. Amid the great anguish that oppressed every heart at

the first formidable breath of war, no one thought of anything but his

individual task, that contribution of heroism which fate was claiming

from one and all. What mattered the petty wounds of pride, the petty

griefs to which the subtleties of love give rise! What signified the

petty treacheries of daily life!

"He's better," said Marthe. "Here, Suzanne, let him sniff at the

smelling-salts."

Duvauchel opened his eyes. He saw Marthe and Suzanne, smiled and

murmured:

"By Jingo!... It was worth while!... Duvauchel's a lucky dog!..."

But an unexpected silence fell upon the great drawing-room, like a

spontaneous cessation of all the organs at work. And, suddenly, a voice

was heard on the threshold:

"_They_ have crossed the frontier! Two of them have crossed the

frontier!"

And Victor exclaimed:

"And there are more coming! You can see their helmets.... They are

coming! They are in France!"

The women fell on their knees. One of them moaned:

"O God, have pity on us!"

Marthe had joined Philippe at the terrace-door and they heard Captain

Daspry repeating in a low voice, with an accent of despair:

"Yes, they are in France ... they have crossed the frontier."

"They are in France, Philippe," said Marthe, taking her husband's hand.

And she felt his hand tremble.

Drawing himself up quickly, the captain commanded:

"Not a shot!... Let no one show himself!"

The order flew from mouth to mouth and silence and immobility reigned in

the Old Mill, from one end to the other of the house and grounds. Each

one stood at his post. All along the wall, the soldiers kept themselves

hidden, perched upright on their improvised talus.

At that moment, one of the drawing-room doors opened and old Morestal

appeared on his wife's arm. Dressed in a pair of trousers and a

waistcoat, bare-headed, tangle-haired, with a handkerchief fastened

round his neck, he staggered on his wavering legs. Nevertheless, a sort

of gladness, like an inward smile, lighted his features.

"Let me be," he said to his wife, who was endeavouring to support him.

He steadied his gait and walked to the gun-rack, where the twelve rifles

stood in a row.

He took out one with feverish haste, felt it, with the touch of a

sportsman recognizing his favourite weapon, passed in front of Philippe,

without appearing to see him, and went out on the terrace.

"You, M. Morestal!" said Captain Daspry.

Pointing to the frontier, the old man asked:

"Are they there?"

"Yes."

"Are you making a resistance?"

"Yes."

"Are there many of them?"

"There are twenty to one."

"If so ...?"

"We've got to."

"But ..."

"We've got to, M. Morestal; and be easy, we shall stand our ground....

I'm certain of it."

Morestal said, in a low voice:

"Remember what I told you, captain.... The road is undermined at two

hundred yards from the terrace.... A match and ..."

"Oh," protested the officer, "I hope it won't come to that! I am

expecting relief."

"Very well!" said Morestal. "But anything rather than let them come up

to the Old Mill!"

"They won't come up. It's out of the question that they should come up

before the arrival of the French troops."

"Good! As long as the Old Mill remains in our hands, they won't be able

to man the heights and threaten Saint-Élophe."

They could plainly see columns of infantry winding along the Col du

Diable. There, they divided and one part of the men turned towards the

Butte-aux-Loups, while the others--consisting of the greater number, for

this was evidently the enemy's object--went down towards the Étang-des

Moines, to seize the high-road.

These disappeared for a moment, hidden by the bend of the ground.

The captain said to Morestal:

"Once the road is held and the assault begins, it will be impossible to

get away.... It would be better, therefore, for the ladies ... and for

you yourself ..."

Morestal gave him such a look that the officer did not insist:

"Come, come," he said, smiling, "don't be angry.... Rather help me to

make these good people understand...."

He turned to the servants, to Victor, who was taking down a rifle, to

the gardener, to Henriot, and warned them that none but combatants must

stay at the Old Mill, as any man captured with arms in his hands exposed

himself to reprisals.

They let him talk; and Victor, without thinking of retiring, answered:

"That's as may be, captain. But it's one of the things one doesn't think

about. I'm staying."

"And you, Farmer Saboureux? You're running a big risk, if they prove

that you set fire to your farm."

"I'm staying," growled the peasant, laconically.

"And you, tramp?"

Old Poussière had not finished eating the piece of bread which he had

taken from his wallet. He was listening and observing, with eyes wide

open and an evident effort to attend. He examined the captain, his

uniform, the braid upon his sleeve, seemed to reflect on mysterious

things, stood up and seized a rifle.

"That's right, Poussière," grinned Morestal. "You know your country

right enough, once it needs defending."

A man had made the same movement as the tramp, almost at the same time.

One more division in the gun-rack was empty.

It was Duvauchel, still rather unsteady on his pins, but wearing an

undaunted look.

"What, Duvauchel!" asked Captain Daspry. "Aren't we deserting?"

"You're getting at me, captain! Let the beggars clear out of France

first! I'll desert afterwards."

"But you've only one arm that's any good."

"A greaser's arm, captain ... and a French greaser's at that ... is

worth two, any day."

"Pass me one of them rifles," said the gardener's son. "I know my way

about with 'em."

Duvauchel began to laugh:

"You too, sonnie? You want one? You'll see, the babes at the breast will

be rising up next, like the others. Lord, but it makes my blood boil to

think that they're in France!"

All followed the captain, who allotted them a post along the parapet.

The women busied themselves in placing ammunition within reach of the

marksmen.

Marthe was left alone with her husband. She saw that the scene had

stirred him. In the way in which those decent folk realized their duty

and performed it without being compelled to, simply and spontaneously,

there was that sort of greatness which touches a man to the very depths

of his soul.

She said to him:

"Well, Philippe?"

His face was drawn; he did not reply.

She continued:

"Well, go.... What are you waiting for? No one will notice your

flight.... Be quick.... Take the opportunity while it's here...."

They heard the captain addressing his lieutenant:

"Keep down your head, Fabrègues, can't you? They'll see you, if you're

not careful...."

Marthe seized Philippe's arm and, bending towards him:

"Now confess that you can't go ... that all this upsets your notions ...

and that your duty is here ... that you feel it."

"There they are! There they are!" said a voice.

"Yes," said Captain Daspry, searching the road through the orifice of a

loop-hole, "yes, there they are!... At six hundred yards, at most ...

It's the vanguard.... They are skirting the pool and they haven't a

notion that ..."

A sergeant came to tell him that the enemy had hoisted a gun on the

slope of the pass. The officer was alarmed, but old Morestal began to

laugh:

"Let them bring up as many guns as they please!... They can only take up

positions which we command and which I have noted. A few good marksmen

are enough to keep them from placing a battery."

And, turning to his son, he said to him, quite naturally, as though

nothing had ever parted them:

"Are you coming, Philippe? We'll demolish them between us."

Captain Daspry interfered:

"Don't fire! We are not discovered yet. Wait till I give the order....

There'll be time enough later...."

Old Morestal had moved away.

Philippe walked resolutely towards the gate that led to the garden, to

the open country. But he had not taken ten steps, when he stopped. He

seemed to be vaguely suffering; and Marthe, who had not left his side,

Marthe, anxious, full of mingled hope and apprehension, watched every

phase of the tragic struggle:

"All the past is calling on you, Philippe; all the love for France that

the past has bequeathed to you. Listen to its voice."

And, replying to every possible objection:

"Yes, I know, your intelligence rebels against it. But is one's

intelligence everything?... Obey your instinct, Philippe.... It's your

instinct that is right."

"No, no," he stammered, "one's instinct is never right...."

"It is right. But for that, you would be far away by now. But you can't

go. Your whole being refuses to go. Your legs have not the strength for

flight."

The Col du Diable was pouring forth troops and more troops, whose

swarming masses showed along the slope. Others must be coming by the

Albern Road; and, on every side, along every path and through every gap,

the men of Germany were invading the soil of France.

The vanguard reached the high-road, at the end of the Étang-des-Moines.

There was a dull roll of the drum; and, suddenly, in the near silence, a

hoarse voice barked out a German word of command.

Philippe started as though he had been struck.

And Marthe clung to him, pitilessly:

"Do you hear, Philippe? Do you understand? The German speech on French

soil! Their language forced upon us!"

"Oh, no!" he said. "That can't be.... That will never be!"

"Why should it never be? Invasion comes first ... and then conquest ...

and subjection...."

Near them, the captain ordered:

"Let no one stir!"

Bullets spluttered against the walls, while the sounds of firing

reverberated. A window-pane was smashed on the floor above. And more

bullets broke fragments of stone from the coping of the parapet. The

enemy, surprised at the disappearance of the French troops, were feeling

their way before passing below that house, whose gloomy aspect must

needs strike them as suspicious.

"Ah!" said a soldier, spinning on his heels and falling on the threshold

of the drawing-room, his face covered with blood.

The women ran to his assistance.

Philippe gazed haggard-eyed at that man who was about to die, at that

man who belonged to the same race, who lived under the same sky as

himself, who breathed the same air, ate the same bread and drank the

same wine.

Marthe had taken down a rifle and handed it to Philippe. He grasped it

with a sort of despair:

"Who would ever have told me ...?" he stammered.

"I, Philippe ... I was sure of you. We have not to do with theories, but

with implacable facts. These are realities, to-day.... The enemy is

treading the bit of earth where you were born, where you played as a

child. The enemy is forcing his way into France. Defend her,

Philippe...."

He clenched his fists around his rifle and she saw that his eyes were

full of tears.

He murmured, quivering with inward rebellion:

"Our sons will refuse ... I shall teach them to refuse.... What I cannot

do, what I have not the courage to do they shall do."

"Perhaps, but what does the future matter!" she said, eagerly. "What

does to-morrow's duty matter! Our duty, yours and mine, is the duty of

to-day."

A voice whispered:

"They're coming near, captain.... They're coming near...."

Another voice, beside Philippe, the voice of one of the women tending

the wounded man, moaned:

"He's dead.... Poor fellow!... He's dead...."

The guns roared on the frontier.

"Are you coming, Philippe?" asked old Morestal.

"I'm coming, father," he said.

Very quickly, he walked out on the terrace and knelt beside his father,

against the balusters. Marthe knelt down behind him and wept at the

thought of what he must be suffering. Nevertheless, she did not doubt

but that, notwithstanding his despair, he was acting in all conscience.

The captain said, clearly, and the order was repeated to the end of the

garden:

"Fire as you please.... Sight at three hundred yards...."

There were a few seconds of solemn waiting ... then the terrible word:

"Fire!"

Yonder, along the barrel of his rifle, near an old oak in whose branches

he once used to climb, Philippe saw a great lubber in uniform throw up

his hands, bend his legs one after the other and stretch himself along

the ground, slowly, as though to sleep....

THE END