"Do you think so?" said Philippe, who seemed relieved by this assertion.
"Certainly! But on one condition, that we establish our right firmly. There has been a violation of the frontier. That is beyond dispute. Let us prove it; and every chance of a conflict is removed."
"But, if we don't succeed in proving it?" asked Philippe.
"Ah, in that case, it can't be helped!... Of course, they will dispute it. But have no fear, my boy: the proofs exist; and we can safely go ahead....Come along, they're waiting for us downstairs...."
He grasped the door-handle.
"Father!"
"Look here, what's the matter with you to-day? Aren't you coming?"
"No, not yet," said Philippe, who saw a way out and who was making a last effort to escape. "Presently.... I must absolutely tell you.... You and I start from a different point of view.... I have rather different ideas from yours ... and, as the occasion happens to present itself ..."
"Impossible, my boy! They are waiting for us...."
"You must hear me," cried Philippe, blocking the way. "I refuse to accept with a light heart a responsibility that is not in accordance with my present opinions; and that is why an explanation between us has become inevitable."
Morestal looked at him with an air of amazement:
"Your present opinions! Ideas different from mine! What's all this nonsense?"
Philippe felt, even more clearly than on the day before, the violence of a conflict which a confession would provoke. But, this time, his resolve was taken. There were too many reasons urging him towards a breach which he considerednecessary. With his mind and his whole frame palpitating with his tense will, he was about to utter the irrevocable words, when Marthe hurried into the room:
"Don't keep your father, Philippe; the examining-magistrate is asking for him."
"Ah!" said Morestal. "I am not sorry that you have come to release me, my dear Marthe. Your husband's crazy. He's been talking a string of nonsense these past ten minutes. What you want, my boy, is rest."
Philippe made a slight movement. Marthe whispered:
"Be quiet."
And she said it in so imperious a tone that he was taken aback.
Before leaving the room, Morestal walked to the window. Bugle-notes sounded in the distance and he leant out to hear them better.
Marthe at once said to Philippe:
"I came in on chance. I felt that you were seeking an explanation with your father."
"Yes, I had to."
"About your ideas, I suppose?"
"Yes, I must."
"Your father is ill.... It's his heart.... A fit of anger might prove fatal ... especially after last night. Not a word, Philippe."
At that moment, Morestal closed the window.He passed in front of them and then, turning and placing his hand on his son's shoulder, he murmured, in accents of restrained ardour:
"Do you hear the enemy's bugle, over there? Ah, Philippe, I don't want it to become a war-song!... But, all the same, if it should ... if it should!..."
***
At one o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday the 2nd of September, Philippe, sitting opposite his father, before the pensive eyes of Marthe, before the anxious eyes of Suzanne, Philippe, after relating most minutely his conversation with the dying soldier, declared that he had heard at a distance the cries of protest uttered by Jorancé, the special commissary.
Having made the declaration, he signed it.
The tragedy enacted that night and morning was so harsh, so virulent and so swift that it left the inmates of the Old Mill as though stunned. Instead of uniting them in a common emotion, it scattered them, giving each of them an impression of discomfort and uneasiness.
In Philippe, this took the form of a state of torpor that kept him asleep until the next morning. He awoke, however, in excellent condition, but with an immense longing for solitude. In reality, he shrank from finding himself in the presence of his father and his wife.
He went out, therefore, very early, across the woods and fields, stopped at an inn, climbed the Ballon de Vergix and did not come home until lunch-time. He was very calm by then and quite master of himself.
To men like Philippe, men endowed with upright natures and generous minds, but not prone to waste time in reflecting upon the minor cases of conscience that arise in daily life, the sense of dutyperformed becomes, at critical periods, a sort of standard by which they judge their actions. This sense Philippe experienced in all its fulness. Placed by a series of abnormal circumstances between the necessity of betraying Suzanne or the necessity of swearing upon oath to a thing which he did not know, he felt that he was certainly entitled to lie. The lie seemed just and natural. He did not deny the fault which he had committed in succumbing to the young girl's fascinations and wiles: but, having committed the fault, he owed it to Suzanne to keep it secret, whatever the consequences of his discretion might be. There was no excuse that permitted him to break silence.
He found, on the drawing-room table, the three newspapers which were taken at the Old Mill: theÉclaireur des Vosges; a Paris evening-paper; and theBörsweilener Zeitung, a morning-paper printed in German, but French in tone and inspiration. A glance at these completely reassured him. Amid the confusion of the first reports devoted to the Jorancé case, his own part passed almost unnoticed. TheÉclaireur des Vosgessummoned up his evidence in a couple of lines. When all was said, he was and would be no more than a supernumerary.
"A walking gentleman, at the outside," he murmured, with satisfaction.
"Yes, at the outside. It's your father and M. Jorancé who play the star parts."
Marthe had entered and caught his last words, which he had spoken aloud, and was answering him with a laugh.
She put her arm around his neck with the fond gesture usual to her and said:
"Yes, Philippe, you need not worry yourself. Your evidence is of no importance and cannot influence events in any way. You can be very sure of that."
Their faces were quite close together and Philippe read nothing but gaiety and affection in Marthe's eyes.
He understood that she had ascribed his behaviour of the previous day, his first, false version, his reticence and his confusion to scruples of conscience and vague apprehensions. Anxious about the consequences of the business and dreading lest his testimony might complicate it, he had tried to avoid the annoyance of giving evidence.
"I believe you're right," he said, with a view to confirming her in her mistake. "Besides, is the business so very serious?"
They talked together for a few minutes and, gradually, while watching her, he changed the subject to the Jorancés:
"Has Suzanne been this morning?"
Marthe appeared astonished:
"Suzanne?" she said. "Don't you know?... Oh, of course, you were asleep last evening. Suzanne spent the night here."
He turned aside his head, to hide the flush that spread over his features, and he said:
"Oh, she slept here, did she?"
"Yes. M. Morestal wishes her to stay with us until M. Jorancé's return."
"But ... but where is she now?..."
"She is at Börsweilen ... she has gone to ask for leave to see her father."
"Alone?"
"No, Victor went with her."
With an air of indifference, Philippe asked:
"How is she? Depressed?"
"Very much depressed.... I don't know why, but she imagines that it was her fault that her father was kidnapped.... She says she urged him to go for that walk!... Poor Suzanne, what interest could she have in remaining alone?..."
He plainly perceived, from his wife's voice and attitude, that, although certain coincidences had surprised her, her mind had not been touched by the shadow of a suspicion. On that side, everything was over. The danger was averted.
Happily released from his fears, Philippe had the further satisfaction of learning that his father hadspent a very good night and that he had gone to the town-hall at Saint-Élophe. He questioned his mother. Mme. Morestal, yielding like Philippe to that desire for assuagement and security which comes over us after any great shock, reassured him on the subject of the old man's health. Certainly, there was something the matter with the heart: Dr. Borel insisted upon his leading the most regular and monotonous life. But Dr. Borel always looked at the dark side of things; and, all considered, Morestal had borne the fatigue attendant on his capture and escape, hard though it was, very well indeed.
"Besides, you have only to look at him," she concluded. "Here he comes, back from Saint-Élophe."
They saw him alight from the carriage with the brisk and springy step of a young man. He joined them in the drawing-room and at once cried:
"Oh, what an uproar! I've telephoned to town.... They're talking of nothing else.... And who do you think swooped down upon me at Saint-Élophe? Quite half-a-dozen reporters! I sent them away with a flea in their ears! A set of fellows who make mischief wherever they go and who arrange everything as it suits them!... They're the scourge of our time!... I shall give Catherine formal orders that no one is to be admittedto the Old Mill.... Why, did you see how they report my escape? I'm supposed to have strangled the sentry and to have made a couple of Uhlans who pursued me bite the dust!..."
He could not succeed in concealing his satisfaction and drew himself to his full height, like a man who sees nothing astonishing in an exploit of that kind.
Philippe asked.
"And what is the general feeling?"
"Just what the papers say. Jorancé's release is imminent. I told you as much. The more we assert ourselves, as we have every right to do, the sooner the thing will be over. You must understand that friend Jorancé is being examined at this moment and that he is giving exactly the same replies that I did. So you see!... No, once more, Germany will give way. It is only a question of a day or two. So don't upset yourself, my boy, since you're so afraid of war ... and the responsibilities attaching to it!..."
This, when all was said and done, was the motive to which he, like Marthe, ascribed the incoherent words which Philippe had uttered previous to his appearance before the magistrates; and, without going deeper into the matter, it gave him, on his side, a certain sense of anger, mingled with a mild contempt. Philippe Morestal, old Morestal's son,afraid of war! He was one more corrupted by the Paris poison!...
Lunch was very lively. The old man never ceased talking. His good-humour, his optimism, his steady belief in a favourable and immediate solution overcame every resistance; and Philippe himself was glad to share a conviction that delighted him.
***
The afternoon was continued under equally propitious auspices. Morestal and Philippe were sent for to the frontier, where, in the presence of the public prosecutor, the sub-prefect, the sergeant of gendarmes and a number of journalists whom they tried in vain to send away, the examining-magistrate carefully completed the investigations which he had begun the day before. Morestal had to repeat the story of the aggression on the spot where it occurred, to point definitely to the road followed before the attack and during the flight, to fix the place where Private Baufeld had crossed the frontier-line and the place where the commissary and himself were arrested.
He did so without hesitation, walking to and fro, talking and making his statements so positively, so logically and so sincerely that the scene, as pictured by him, lived again before the spectators'eyes. His demonstration was lucid and commanding. Here, the first shot was fired. There, a sharp divergence to the right, on German territory. Here, back in France and, further on, at that exact spot, fifteen yards on this side of the frontier, the scene of the fight, the place of the arrest. Indications, undeniable indications, abounded. It was the truth, with no possible fear of a mistake.
Philippe was carried away and categorically confirmed his original declaration. He had heard the special commissary shouting, as he approached the Butte-aux-Loups. The words, "We are in France!... There is the frontier!" had reached him distinctly. And he described his search, his conversation with Private Baufeld and the wounded man's evidence concerning the encroachment on French territory.
The enquiry ended with a piece of good news. On Monday, a few hours before the attack, Farmer Saboureux was said to have seen Weisslicht, the chief of the German detectives, and a certain Dourlowski, a hawker, walking in the woods and trying to keep hidden. Now Morestal, without confessing the relations that existed between him and that individual, had nevertheless spoken of the visit of this Dourlowski and of his proposal that the witness should act as an accomplice. An understanding between Dourlowski and Weisslicht was a proofthat an ambush had been laid and that the passing of Private Baufeld across the frontier, arranged for half-past ten, was only a pretext to catch the special commissary and his friend in a trap.
The magistrates made no secret of their satisfaction. The Jorancé case, a plot hatched by subordinate officials of police, whom the imperial government would not hesitate to disown was becoming rapidly reduced to the proportions of an incident which would lead to nothing and be forgotten on the morrow.
"That's all right," said Morestal, walking away with his son, while the magistrates went on to Saboureux's Farm. "It will be an even simpler matter than I hoped. The French government will know the results of the enquiry this evening. There will be an exchange of views with the German embassy; and to-morrow ..."
"Do you think so?..."
"I go further. I believe that Germany will make the first advance."
As they came to the Col du Diable, they passed a small company of men headed by one in a gold-laced cap.
Morestal took off his hat with a flourish and grinned:
"Good-afternoon!... I hope I see you well!"
The man passed without speaking.
"Who is that?" asked Philippe.
"Weisslicht, the chief of the detectives."
"And the others?"
"The others?... It's the Germans making their investigation."
It was then four o'clock in the afternoon.
***
The remainder of that day passed peacefully at the Old Mill. Suzanne arrived from Börsweilen at nightfall, looking radiant. They had given her a letter from her father and she would be authorized to see him on Saturday.
"You will not even have to go back to Börsweilen," said Morestal. "Your father will come to fetch you here, won't he, Philippe?"
Dinner brought them all five together under the family lamp; and they experienced a feeling of relaxation, comfort and repose. They drank to the special commissary's health. And it seemed to them as if his place were not even empty, so great was the certainty with which they expected his return.
Philippe was the only one who did not share in the general gaiety. Sitting beside Marthe and opposite Suzanne, he was bound, with his upright nature and his sane judgment, to suffer at finding himself situated in such a false position. Sincethe night before last, since the moment when he had left Suzanne while the dawning light of day stole into her room at Saint-Élophe, this was the first instant that he had had any sort of time to conjure up the memory of those unnerving hours. Alarmed by the course of events, obsessed by his anxiety about the way in which he was to act, his one and only thought of Suzanne had been how not to compromise her.
Now, he saw her before him. He heard her laugh and talk. She lived in his presence, not as he had known her in Paris and found her at Saint-Élophe, but adorned with a different charm, of which he knew the mysterious secret. True, he remained master of himself and he clearly felt that no temptation would induce him to succumb a second time. But could he help it that she had fair hair, the colour of which bewitched him, and quivering lips and a voice melodious as a song? And could he help it that all this filled him with an emotion which every minute that passed made more profound?
Their eyes met. Suzanne trembled under Philippe's gaze. A sort of bashfulness decked her as with a veil that gives added beauty to its wearer. She was as desirable as a wife and as winsome as a bride.
At that moment, Marthe smiled to Philippe. He turned red and thought:
"I shall go away to-morrow."
His decision was taken then and there. He would not remain a day longer between the two women. The mere sight of their intimacy was hateful to him. He would go away without a word. He knew the danger of leave-takings between people who love, knew how they soften us and disarm us. He wanted none of those compromises and evasions. Temptation, even if we resist it, is a fault in itself.
When dinner was over, he stood up and went to his bedroom, where Marthe joined him. He learnt from her that Suzanne's room was on the same floor. Later, he heard the young girl come upstairs. But he knew that nothing would make him fall again.
As soon as he was alone, he opened his window, sat a long time staring at the vague outlines of the trees, then undressed and went to bed.
***
In the morning, Marthe brought him his letters. He at once recognized the writing of a friend on one of the envelopes:
"Good!" he said, jumping at the pretext. "Aletter from Pierre Belum. I hope it's not to tell me to come back!"
He opened the letter and, after reading it, said:
"It's as I feared! I shall have to go."
"Not before this evening, my boy."
It was old Morestal, who had entered the room with an open letter in his hand.
"What's the matter, father?"
"We are specially summoned to appear before the Prefect of the Vosges in the town-hall at Saint-Élophe."
"I too?"
"You too. They want to verify certain points in your deposition."
"So they are beginning all over again?"
"Yes, it's a fresh enquiry. It appears that things are becoming complicated."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying what this morning's papers say. According to the latest telegrams, Germany has no intention of releasing Jorancé. Moreover, there have been manifestations in Paris. Berlin also is stirring. The yellow press are adopting an arrogant tone. In short ..."
"What?"
"Well, the matter is taking a very nasty turn."
Philippe gave a start. He walked up to his father and, yielding to a sudden fit of anger:
"There! Which of us was right? You see, you see what's happening now! If you had listened to me ..."
"If I had listened to you?..." echoed Morestal, emphasizing each word and at once preparing for a quarrel.
But Philippe restrained himself. Marthe made a remark or two at random. And then all three were silent.
Besides, of what use was speech? The thunderstorm had passed over their heads and was rumbling over France. Henceforward powerless, they must undergo its consequences and hear its distant echoes without being able to influence the formidable elements that had been let loose during that Monday night.
The German argument was simple enough: the arrest had taken place in Germany. At least, that was what the newspapers stated in the extracts which Philippe and his father read in theBörsweilener Zeitung. Was it not to be expected that this would be the argument eventually adopted—if it was not adopted already—by the imperial government?
At Börsweilen—theZeitungmade no mystery about it—people were very positive. After twenty-four hours' silence, the authorities took their stand upon the explanation given the day before by Weisslicht, in the course of an enquiry attended by several functionaries, who were mentioned by name; and they declared aloud that everything had taken place in due form and that it was impossible to go back upon accomplished facts. Special Commissary Jorancé and Councillor Morestal, caught in the act of assisting a deserter, would be brought before the German courts and their case tried inaccordance with German law. Besides, it was added, there were other charges against them.
Of Dourlowski, there was no mention. He was ignored.
"But the whole case depends upon him!" exclaimed Morestal, after receiving the Prefect of the Vosges at the Saint-Élophe town-hall and discussing the German argument with him and the examining-magistrate. "The whole case depends upon him, monsieur le préfet. Even supposing their argument to be correct, what is it worth, if we prove that we were drawn into an ambush by Weisslicht and that Baufeld's desertion was a got-up job contrived by subordinate officials of police? And the proof of this rests upon Dourlowski!"
He was indignant at the hawker's disappearance. But he added:
"Fortunately, we have Farmer Saboureux's evidence."
"We had it yesterday," said the examining-magistrate, "but we haven't it to-day."
"How so?"
"Yesterday, Wednesday, when I was questioning him, Farmer Saboureux declared that he had seen Weisslicht and Dourlowski together. He even used certain words which made me suspect that he had noticed the preparations for the attack and that he was an unseen witness of it ... and avaluable witness, as you will agree. This morning, Thursday, he retracts, he is not sure that it was Weisslicht he saw and, at night, he was asleep ... he heard nothing ... not even the shooting.... And he lives at five hundred yards from the spot!"
"I never heard of such a thing! What does he mean by backing out like that?"
"I can't say," replied the magistrate. "Still, I saw a copy of theBörsweilener Zeitungsticking out of his pocket ... things have altered since yesterday ... and Saboureux has been reflecting...."
"Do you think so? Is he afraid of war?"
"Yes, afraid of reprisals. He told me an old story about Uhlans, about a farm that was burnt down. So that's what it is: he's afraid!..."
***
The day began badly. Morestal and his son walked silently by the old road to the frontier, where the enquiry was resumed in detail. But, at the Butte, they saw three men in gold-laced caps smoking their pipes by the German frontier-post.
And, further on, at the foot of the slope, in a sort of clearing on the left, they perceived two more, lying flat on their stomachs, who were also smoking.
And, around these two, there were a number of freshly-painted black-and-yellow stakes, driven into the ground in a circle and roped together.
In reply to a question put to them, the men said that that was the place where Commissary Jorancé had been arrested.
Now this place, adopted by the hostile enquiry, was on German territory and at twenty yards beyond the road that marked the dividing-line between the two countries!
Philippe had to drag his father away. Old Morestal was choking with rage:
"They are lying! They are lying! It's scandalous.... And they know it! Is it likely I should be mistaken? Why, I belong here! Whereas they ... a pack of police-spies!..."
When he had grown calmer, he began his explanations over again. Philippe next repeated his, in less definite terms, this time, and with a hesitation which old Morestal, absorbed in his grievances, did not observe, but which could not well escape the others.
The father and son returned to the Old Mill together, as on the day before. Morestal was no longer so triumphant and Philippe thought of Farmer Saboureux, who, warned by his peasant shrewdness, varied his evidence according to the threat of possible events.
As soon as he reached home, he took refuge in his room. Marthe went up to him and found him lying on the bed, with his head between his hands. He would not even answer when she spoke to him. But, at four o'clock, hearing that his father, eager for news, had ordered the carriage, he went downstairs.
They drove to Saint-Élophe and then, growing more and more anxious, to Noirmont, twelve miles beyond it, where Morestal had many friends. One of these took them to the offices of theÉclaireur.
Here, nothing was known as yet: the telegraph-and telephone-wires were blocked. But, at eight o'clock, a first telegram got through: groups of people had raised manifestations outside the German embassy. On the Place de la Concorde, the statue of the city of Strasburg was covered with flags and flowers.
Then the telegrams flowed in.
Questioned in the Chamber, the prime minister had replied, amid the applause of the whole house:
"We ask, we claim your absolute confidence, your blind confidence. If some of you refuse it to the minister, at least grant it to the Frenchman. For it is a Frenchman who speaks in your name. And it is a Frenchman who will act."
In the lobby outside the house, a member of the opposition had begun to sing theMarseillaise, whichwas taken up by all the rest of the members in chorus.
And then there was the other side of the question: telegrams from Germany; the yellow press rabid; all the evening-papers adopting an uncompromising, aggressive attitude; Berlin in uproar....
***
They drove back at midnight; and, although they were both seized with a like emotion, it aroused in them ideas so different that they did not exchange a word. Morestal himself, who was not aware of the divorce that had taken place between their minds, dared not indulge in his usual speeches.
The next morning, theBörsweilener Zeitungannounced movements of troops towards the frontier. The emperor, who was cruising in the North Sea, had landed at Ostende. The chancellor was waiting for him at Cologne. And it was thought that the French ambassador had also gone to meet him.
Thenceforward, throughout that Friday and the following Saturday, the inmates of the Old Mill lived in a horrible nightmare. The storm was now shaking the whole of France and Germany, the whole of quivering Europe. They heard it roar. The earth cracked under its fury. What terrible catastrophe would it produce?
And they, who had let it loose—the actors of no account, relegated to the background, the supernumeraries whose parts were played—they could see nothing of the spectacle but distant, blood-red gleams.
Philippe took refuge in a fierce silence that distressed his wife. Morestal was nervous, excited and in an execrable temper. He went out for no reason, came in again at once, could not keep still:
"Ah," he cried, in a moment of despondency in which his thoughts stood plainly revealed, "why did we come home by the frontier? Why did I help that deserter? For there's no denying it: if I hadn't helped him, nothing would have happened."
On Friday evening, it became known that the chancellor, who already had the German reports in his hands, now possessed the French papers, which had been communicated by our ambassador. The affair, hitherto purely administrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government was demanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-Élophe, who had been arrested on French territory.
"If they consent, all will be well," said Morestal. "There is no humiliation for Germany in disowning the action of a pack of minor officials. But, if they refuse, if they believe the policemen's lies, what will happen then? France cannot give way."
On Saturday morning, theBörsweilener Zeitungprinted the following short paragraph in a special edition:
"After making a careful examination of the French papers, the chancellor has returned them to the French ambassador. The case of Commissary Jorancé, accused of the crime of high treason and arrested on German territory, will be tried in the German courts."
"After making a careful examination of the French papers, the chancellor has returned them to the French ambassador. The case of Commissary Jorancé, accused of the crime of high treason and arrested on German territory, will be tried in the German courts."
It was a refusal.
That morning, Morestal took his son to the Col du Diable and, bent in two, following the road to the Butte-aux-Loups step by step, examining each winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, he reconstituted the plan of the attack. And he showed Philippe the trees against which he had brushed in his flight and the trees at the foot of which he and his friend had stood and defended themselves:
"It was there, Philippe, and nowhere else.... Do you see that little open space? That's where it was.... I have often come and smoked my pipe here, because of this little mound to sit upon.... That's the place!"
He sat down on the same mound and said no more, staring before him, while Philippe lookedat him. Several times, he repeated, between his teeth:
"Yes, this is certainly the place.... How could I be mistaken?"
And, suddenly, he pressed his two fists to his temples and blurted out:
"Still, suppose I were mistaken! Suppose I had branched off more to the right ... and ..."
He interrupted himself, cast his eyes around him, rising to his feet:
"It's impossible! One can't make as big a blunder as that, short of being mad! How could I have? I was thinking of one thing only; I kept saying to myself, 'I must remain in France, I must keep to the left of the line.' And I did keep to it, hang it all! It is absolutely certain.... What then? Am I to deny the truth in order to please them?"
And Philippe, who had never ceased watching him, replied, within himself:
"Why not, father? What would that little falsehood signify, compared with the magnificent result that would be obtained? If you would tell a lie, father, or if only you would assert so fatal a truth less forcibly, France could give way without the least disgrace, since it is your evidence alone that compels her to make her demand! And, in this way, you would have saved your country...."
But he did not speak. His father was guided by a conception of duty which Philippe knew to be as lofty and as legitimate as his own. What right had he to expect his father to act according to his, Philippe's, conscience? What to one of them would be only a fib would be to the other, to old Morestal, a criminal betrayal of his own side. Morestal, when giving his evidence, was speaking in the name of France. And France does not tell lies.
"If there is a possible solution," Philippe said to himself, "my father is not the man to be asked to provide it. My father represents a mass of intangible ideas, principles and traditions. But I, I, I ... what can I do? What is my particular duty? What is the object for which I ought to make in spite of every obstacle?"
Twenty times over, he was on the point of exclaiming:
"My evidence was false, father. I was not there. I was with Suzanne!"
What was the use? It meant dishonouring Suzanne; and the implacable march of events would continue just the same. Now that was the only thing that mattered. Every individual suffering, every attack of conscience, every theory, all vanished before the tremendous catastrophe with which humanity was threatened and before the task that devolved upon men like himself, men emancipatedfrom the past and free to act in accordance with a new conception of duty.
***
In the afternoon, they heard at the offices of theÉclaireurthat a bomb had burst behind the German ambassador's motor-car in Paris. In the Latin Quarter, the ferment was at its height. Two Germans had been roughly handled and a Russian, accused of spying, had been knocked down. There had been free fights at Lyons, Toulouse and Bordeaux.
Similar disorders had taken place in Berlin and in the other big towns of the German Empire. The military party was directing the movement.
Lastly, at six o'clock, it was announced as certain that Germany was mobilizing three army-corps.
A tragic evening was spent at the Old Mill. Suzanne arrived from Börsweilen without having been allowed to see her father and added to the general distress by her sobs and lamentations. Morestal and Philippe, silent and fever-eyed, seemed to avoid each other. Marthe, who suspected her husband's anguish, kept her eyes fixed upon him, as though she feared some inconsiderate act on his part. And the same dread seemed to trouble Mme. Morestal, for she warned Philippe, time after time:
"Whatever you do, no arguments with yourfather. He is not well. All this business upsets him quite enough as it is. A quarrel between the two of you would be terrible."
And this also, the idea of this illness of which he did not know the exact nature, but to which his heated imagination lent an added importance, this also tortured Philippe.
***
They all rose on the Sunday morning with the certainty that the news of war would reach them in the course of the day; and old Morestal was on the point of leaving for Saint-Élophe, to make the necessary arrangements in case of an alarm, when a ring of the telephone stopped him. It was the sub-prefect at Noirmont, who conveyed a fresh order to him from the prefecture. The two Morestals were to be at the Butte-aux-Loups at twelve o'clock.
A moment later, a telegram that appeared at the top of the front page of theÉclaireur des Vosgestold them the meaning of this third summons:
"The German ambassador called on the prime minister at ten o'clock yesterday, Saturday, evening. After a long conversation, when on the point of concluding an interview that seemed unable to lead to any result, the ambassador received byexpress a personal note from the emperor, which he at once handed to the prime minister. In this note, the emperor proposed a renewed examination of the affair, for which purpose he would delegate the Governor of Alsace-Lorraine, with instructions to check the report of the police. An understanding was at once arrived at on this basis; and the French government has appointed a member of the cabinet, M. Le Corbier, under-secretary of state for home affairs, to act as its representative. It is possible that an interview may take place between these two prominent personages."
"The German ambassador called on the prime minister at ten o'clock yesterday, Saturday, evening. After a long conversation, when on the point of concluding an interview that seemed unable to lead to any result, the ambassador received byexpress a personal note from the emperor, which he at once handed to the prime minister. In this note, the emperor proposed a renewed examination of the affair, for which purpose he would delegate the Governor of Alsace-Lorraine, with instructions to check the report of the police. An understanding was at once arrived at on this basis; and the French government has appointed a member of the cabinet, M. Le Corbier, under-secretary of state for home affairs, to act as its representative. It is possible that an interview may take place between these two prominent personages."
And the newspaper added:
"This intervention on the part of the emperor is a proof of his peaceful intentions, but it can hardly be said to alter the situation. If France be in the wrong—and it were almost to be hoped that she may be—then France will yield. But, if it be once more proved on our side that the arrest took place on French soil and if Germany refuse to yield, what will happen then?"
"This intervention on the part of the emperor is a proof of his peaceful intentions, but it can hardly be said to alter the situation. If France be in the wrong—and it were almost to be hoped that she may be—then France will yield. But, if it be once more proved on our side that the arrest took place on French soil and if Germany refuse to yield, what will happen then?"
Whatever might be the eventual outcome of this last effort, it was a respite granted to the two nations. It gave a gleam of hope, it left a loop-hole, a chance of an arrangement.
And old Morestal, seized with fresh confidence and already triumphant, rejoiced, as he could not fail to do:
"Why, of course," he concluded, "it will all be settled! Didn't I tell you so from the beginning, Philippe? It only wanted a little firmness.... We have spoken clearly; and, at once, under a show of conciliation which will deceive no one, the enemy forms a plan of retreat. For, mark you, that's all that it means...."
And, as he continued to read the paper, he exclaimed:
"Ah, just so!... I understand!... Listen, Philippe, to this little telegram, which sounds like nothing at all: 'England has recalled her squadrons from foreign waters and is concentrating them in the Channel and in the North Sea.' Aha, thatsolves the mystery! They have reflected ... and reflection is the mother of wisdom.... And here, Philippe, this other telegram, which is worth noting: 'Three hundred French aviators, from every part of France, have responded to the rousing appeal issued by Captain Lériot of the territorials, the hero of the Channel crossing. They will all be at Châlons camp on Tuesday, with their aeroplanes!'... Ha, what do you say to that, my boy? On the one side, the British fleet.... On the other side, our air fleet.... Wipe your pretty eyes, my sweet Suzanne, and get supper ready this evening for Papa Jorancé! Ah, this time, mother, we'll drink champagne!"
His gaiety sounded a little forced and found no echo in his hearers. Philippe remained silent, with his forehead streaked with a wrinkle which Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of his eyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining the position from every point of view and seeking the best road to follow. Had he taken a resolution? And, if so, which? He seemed so hard, so stern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him.
After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a second telephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Élophe, where M. Le Corbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him.
Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to his room and locked himself in.
When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided to go with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urged him to look after his father.
The three of them walked away to the Col du Diable. A lowering sky, heavy with clouds, hung over the mountain-tops; but the weather was mild and the swards, studded with trees, still wore a look of summer.
Marthe, to break the silence, said:
"There is something soft and peaceful about the air to-day. That's a good sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry. For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state of their nerves, does it not, Philippe?"
"Yes," he said, "everything depends on them."
She continued:
"I don't think that they will ask you any questions. Your evidence is of such little importance. You see, the papers hardly mention it.... Except, of course, in so far as Dourlowski is concerned.... As for him, they haven't found him yet...."
Philippe did not reply. Had he as much as heard? With short movements of his stick, he wasstriking the heads off the flowers that lined the road: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered that this was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons.
Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that wound through the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbed it one behind the other. Marthe was in front of Philippe and Suzanne. Half-way up, the path made a sudden bend. When Marthe was out of sight, Philippe felt Suzanne's hand squeeze his and hold him back.
He stopped. She nimbly pulled herself up to him:
"Philippe, you are sad.... It's not about me, is it?"
"No," he confessed, frankly.
"I knew it," she said, without bitterness. "So much has happened these last three days!... I no longer count with you."
He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of her sometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom one covets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyze his feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles that overwhelmed him.
"I shall never forget you, Suzanne," he said.
"I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you.... Only, I wanted to tell you this, which will give you a little happiness: Philippe, I give you my promise that I will face the life before me ... that I will make a fresh start.... What I told you is happening within me.... I have more courage now that I ... now that I have that memory to support me.... You have given me happiness enough to last me all my life.... I shall be what I should not have been ... an honest woman.... I swear it, Philippe ... and a good wife...."
He understood that she meant to be married and he suffered at the thought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bare neck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person:
"Thank you, Suzanne.... It is the best proof of your love.... I thank you."
She went on to say to him:
"And then, Philippe, you see, I don't want to give my father pain.... Any one can feel that he has been very unhappy.... And the reason why I was afraid, the other morning, that Marthe might discover the truth ... was because of him."
"You need not fear, Suzanne."
"I need not, need I?" she said. "There is nodanger of it.... And yet, this enquiry.... If you were compelled to confess?..."
"Oh, Suzanne, how can you think it?"
Their eyes mingled fondly, their hands had not parted. Philippe would have liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much he hoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save words of love; and he would not....
She gave a smile. A tear shone at the tip of her lashes. She stammered:
"I love you.... I shall always love you."
Then she released her hand.
Marthe, who had turned back, saw them standing together, motionless.
***
When they emerged at the corner of the Albern Path, they saw a group of journalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. The whole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Élophe rise. And, on the right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals.
They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almost level ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged like the colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide, runs through the middle.
On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron and bearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post.
On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and white spiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, "Deutsches Reich."
Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and were separated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flag of its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: a Prussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpine rifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order.
Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little camps pitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And the officers formed two groups.
French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches.
"You see, Marthe, you see," whispered Philippe, whose heart was gripped with emotion. "Isn't it terrible?"
"Yes, yes," she said.
But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfolio bulging with papers:
"M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. de Trébons, attached to the department of theunder-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking to M. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait."
He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where they found, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussière, who had likewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded the whole circus of the Butte.
"How pale you look, Philippe!" said Marthe. "Are you ill?"
"No," he said. "Please don't worry me."
Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent was lifted and a number of persons came out.
Suzanne gave a stifled cry:
"Papa!... Look ... Oh, my poor father!... I must go and kiss him...."
Philippe held her back and she obeyed, feebly. Jorancé, besides, had disappeared, had been led by two gendarmes to the other camp; and Weisslicht the detective and his men were now being shown into the tent.
But the French tent opened, an instant after, to let old Morestal out. M. de Trébons was with him and went back with Saboureux and Old Poussière. All this coming and going seemed to take place by rule and was effected in great silence, interrupted only by the sound of the footsteps.
Morestal also was very pale. As Philippe put no question to him, Marthe asked:
"Are you satisfied, father?"
"Yes, we began all over again from the start. I gave all my explanations on the spot. My proofs and arguments have made an impression on him. He is a serious man and he acts with great prudence."
In a few minutes, M. de Trébons returned with Saboureux and Old Poussière. Farmer Saboureux continued disputing, in a state of great excitement:
"Hope they've finished this time! That makes three of them enquiring into me!... What do they want with me, after all? When I keep on telling everybody that I was fast asleep.... And Poussière too.... Isn't it so, Poussière, you and I saw none of it?"
And, suddenly seizing M. de Trébons by the arm, he said, in a choking voice:
"I say, there's not going to be a war, is there? Ah, no, we can't do with that! You can tell your gentry in Paris that we don't want it.... Oh, no, I've toiled enough as it is! War indeed! Uhlans burning everything!..."
He seemed terrified. His bony old hands clutched M. de Trébons' arm and his little eyes glittered with rage.
Old Poussière jerked his head and stammered:
"Oh, no!... The Uhlans!... The Uhlans!..."
M. de Trébons released himself gently and made them sit down. Then, going up to Marthe:
"M. Le Corbier would be glad to see you, madame, at the same time as M. Philippe Morestal. And he also asks M. Morestal to be good enough to come back."
The two Morestals and Marthe walked away, leaving Suzanne Jorancé behind.
But, at that moment, a strange thing happened, which, no doubt, had its effect on the march of events. From the German tent issued Weisslicht and his men, followed by an officer in full uniform, who crossed the open space, went up to M. de Trébons and told him that his excellency the Statthalter, having completed his enquiries, would feel greatly honoured if he could have a short conversation with the under-secretary of state.
M. de Trébons at once informed M. Le Corbier, who, escorted by the German officer, walked towards the road, while M. de Trébons showed the Morestal family in.
The tent, which was a fairly large one, was furnished with a few chairs and a table, on which lay the papers dealing with the case. A page lay open bearing Saboureux's clumsy signature and the mark made by Old Poussière.
The Morestals were sitting down, when a sound of voices struck their ears and, through the opening in the fly of the tent, they caught sight of a person in a general's uniform, very tall, very thin, looking like a bird of prey, but presenting a fine appearance in a long black tunic. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he was striding along the road in the company of the under-secretary.
Morestal whispered:
"The Statthalter.... They have already had one meeting, an hour ago."
The two men disappeared at the end of the Butte, then returned and, this time, doubtless embarrassed by the propinquity of the German officers, penetrated a few paces into French territory.
A word, here and there, of the conversation reached the tent. Then the two speakers stood still and the Morestals distinctly heard the Statthalter's voice:
"Monsieur le ministre, my conclusion is necessarily different from yours, because all the police-officers who took part in the arrest are unanimous in declaring that it was effected on German soil."
"Commissary Jorancé and M. Morestal," objected M. Le Corbier, "state the contrary."
"They are alone in saying so."
"M. Philippe Morestal took the evidence of Private Baufeld."
"Private Baufeld was a deserter," retorted the Statthalter. "His evidence does not count."
There was a pause. Then the German resumed, in terms which he picked slowly and carefully:
"Therefore, monsieur le ministre, as there is no outside evidence in support of either of the two contradictory versions, I can find no argument that would tend to destroy the conclusions to which all the German enquiries have led. That is what I shall tell the emperor this evening."
He bowed. M. Le Corbier took off his hat, hesitated a second and then, making up his mind:
"One word more, your excellency. Before finally going back to Paris, I determined to call the Morestal family for the last time. I will ask your excellency if it would be possible for Commissary Jorancé to be present at the interview. I will answer for him on my honour."
The Statthalter appeared embarrassed. The proposal evidently went beyond his powers. Nevertheless, he said, decisively:
"You shall have your wish, monsieur le ministre. Commissary Jorancé is here, at your disposal."
He clapped his heels together, raised his hand to his helmet and gave the military salute. The interview was ended.
The German crossed the frontier. M. Le Corbier watched him walk away, stood for a moment in thought and then returned to the French tent.
He was surprised to find the Morestals there. But he gave a gesture as though, after all, he was rather pleased than otherwise at this accident and he asked M. de Trébons:
"Did you hear?"
"Yes, monsieur le ministre."
"Then do not lose a moment, my dear Trébons. You will find my car at the bottom of the hill. Go to Saint-Élophe, telephone to the prime minister and communicate the German reply to him officially. It is urgent. There may be immediate measures to be taken ... with regard to the frontier."
He said these last words in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the two Morestals, went out with M. de Trébons and accompanied him as far as the French camp.
A long silence followed upon his disappearance. Philippe, clenching his fists, blurted out:
"It's terrible ... it's terrible...."
And turning to his father:
"You are quite sure, I suppose, of what you are swearing?... Of the exact place?..."
Morestal shrugged his shoulders.
Philippe insisted:
"It was at night.... You may have made a mistake...."
"No, no, I tell you, no," growled Morestal, angrily. "I know what I am talking about. You'll end by annoying me."
Marthe tried to interfere:
"Come, Philippe.... Your father is accustomed to ..."
But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly:
"Hold your tongue ... I won't allow it.... What do you know?... What are you meddling for?"
He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit of weakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology:
"I beg your pardon, Marthe.... You too, father, forgive me.... Please forgive me.... There are situations in which we are bound to pardon one another for all the pain that we can give one another."
Judging by the contraction of his features, one would have thought that he was on the verge of crying, like a child trying to restrain its tears and failing in the effort.
Morestal stared at him in amazement. His wife looked at him aslant and felt fear rising within her, as at the approach of a great calamity.
But the tent opened once more. M. Le Corbier entered. Special Commissary Jorancé, who had been brought to the French camp by the German gendarmes, was with him.
Jorancé simply nodded to the Morestals and asked:
"Suzanne?"
"She is well," said Marthe.
Meanwhile, Le Corbier had sat down and was turning over the papers.
With his three-cornered face, ending in a short, peaked beard, his clean-shaven upper-lip, his sallow complexion and his black clothes, he wore the solemn mien of a Protestant divine. People said of him that, in the days of the Revolution, he would have been Robespierre or Saint-Just. His eyes, which expressed sympathy and almost affection, belied the suggestion. In reality, he was a conscientious man, who owed the gravity of his appearance to an excessive sense of duty.
He closed the bundles of papers and sat thinking for some time. His lips formed silent syllables. He was obviously composing his speech. And he spoke as follows, in a confidential and friendly tone which was infinitely perturbing:
"I am going back in an hour. In the train, I shall draw up a report, based on these notes and on the respective depositions which you have madeor which you will make to me. At nine o'clock this evening, I shall be with the prime minister. At half-past nine, the prime minister will speak in the chamber; and he will speak according to the substance of my report. This is what I wish you to understand above all things. Next, I want you to know the German reply, I want you to realize the great, the irretrievable importance of every word which you utter. As for me, feeling as I do the full weight of my responsibilities, I wish to seek behind those words, beyond yourselves, whether there is not some detail unperceived by yourselves which will destroy the appalling truth established by your evidence. What I am seeking is—I tell you so frankly—a doubt on your part, a contradiction. I am seeking it ..."
He hesitated and, sinking his voice, concluded:
"I am almost hoping for it."
A great sense of peace filled the Morestals. Each of them, subduing his excitement, suddenly raised himself to the level of the task assigned to him and each of them was ready to fulfil it courageously, blindly, in the face of every obstacle.
And Le Corbier resumed:
"M. Morestal, here is your deposition. I ask you for the last time to affirm the exact, complete truth."
"I affirm it, monsieur le ministre."
"Still, Weisslicht and his men declare that the arrest took place on German soil."
"The upland widens out at this part," said Morestal, "and the road which marks the boundary winds.... It is possible for foreigners to make a mistake. It is not possible for us, for me. We were arrested on French soil."
"You certify this on your honour?"
"I swear it on the heads of my wife and son. I swear it to God."
Le Corbier turned to the special commissary:
"M. Jorancé, do you confirm this deposition?"
"I confirm each of my friend Morestal's words in every respect," said the commissary. "They express the truth. I swear it on the head of my daughter."
"The policemen have taken just as solemn oaths," observed Le Corbier.
"The German policemen's evidence is interested. It helps them to shield the fault which they have committed. We have committed no fault. If chance had caused us to be arrested on German territory, no power on earth would have prevented Morestal and myself from admitting the fact. Morestal is free and fears nothing. Well, I, who am a prisoner, fear nothing either."
"That is the view which the French government has adopted," said the under-secretary."Moreover, we have additional evidence: yours, M. Philippe Morestal. That evidence the government, through an excessive feeling of scruple, has not wished to recognize officially. As a matter of fact, it appeared to us less firm, more undecided, at the second hearing than at the first. But, such as it is, it assumes a peculiar value in my eyes, because it corroborates that of the two other witnesses. M. Philippe Morestal, do you maintain the terms of your deposition, word for word?"
Philippe rose, looked at his father, pushed back Marthe, who came running up to him, and replied, in a low voice:
"No, monsieur le ministre."