Kitabı oku: «The Frontier», sayfa 2
"No one shall ever see my bare arms again… No one, Philippe, I swear to you… No one shall ever stroke them…"
CHAPTER III
THE VIOLET PAMPHLET
Jorancé was a heavy and rather unwieldy, pleasant-faced man. Twenty-five years before, when secretary to the commissary at Noirmont, he had married a girl of entrancing beauty, who used to teach the piano in a boarding-school. One evening, after four years of marriage, four years of torture, during which the unhappy man suffered every sort of humiliation, Jorancé came home to find the house empty. His wife had gone without a word of explanation, taking their little girl, Suzanne, with her.
The only thing that kept him from suicide was the hope of recovering the child and saving her from the life which her mother's example would have forced upon her in the future.
He did not have to look for her long. A month later, his wife sent back the child, who was no doubt in her way. But the wound had cut deep and lingered; and neither time nor the love which he bore his daughter could wipe out the memory of that cruel story.
He buckled to his work, accepted the most burdensome tasks so as to increase his income and give Suzanne a good education, was transferred to the commissary's office at Lunéville and, somewhat late in life, was promoted to be special commissary at the frontier. The position involved the delicate functions of a sentry on outpost duty whose business it is to see as much as possible of what goes on in the neighbour's country; and Jorancé filled it so conscientiously, tactfully and skilfully that the neighbour aforesaid, while dreading his shrewdness and insight, respected his character and his professional qualities.
At Saint-Élophe, he renewed his intimacy with old Morestal, who was his grand-uncle by marriage and who was very much attached to him.
The two men saw each other almost every day. Jorancé and Suzanne used to dine at the Old Mill on Thursdays and Sundays. Suzanne would also often come alone and accompany the old man on his daily walk. He took a great fancy to her; and it was upon his advice and at the urgent request of Philippe and Marthe Morestal that Jorancé had taken Suzanne to Paris the previous winter.
***
His first words on entering the room were to thank Philippe:
"You can't think, my dear Philippe, how glad I was to leave her with you. Suzanne is young. And I approve of a little distraction."
He looked at Suzanne with the fervent glance of a father who has brought up his daughter himself and whose love for her is mingled with a touch of feminine affection.
And he said to Philippe:
"Have you heard the news? I am marrying her."
"Really?" said Philippe.
"Yes, to one of my cousins at Nancy, a man rather well-on in years, perhaps, but a serious, active and intelligent fellow. Suzanne likes him very much. You do like him very much, don't you, Suzanne?"
The girl seemed not to hear the question and asked:
"Is Marthe in her room, Philippe?"
"Yes, on the second floor."
"I know, the blue room. I was here yesterday, helping Mme. Morestal. I must run up and give her a kiss."
She turned round in the doorway and kissed her hand to the three men, keeping her eyes fixed on Philippe.
"How pretty and charming your daughter is!" said Morestal to Jorancé.
But they could see that he was thinking of something else and that he was eager to change the conversation. He shut the door quickly and, returning to the special commissary, said:
"Did you come by the frontier-road?"
"No."
"And you haven't been told yet?"
"What?"
"The German post … at the Butte-aux-Loups…"
"Knocked down?"
"Yes."
"Oh, by Jove!"
Morestal stopped to enjoy the effect which he had produced and then continued:
"What do you say to it?"
"I say … I say that it's most annoying… They're in a very bad temper as it is, on the other side. This means trouble for me."
"Why?"
"Well, of course. Haven't you heard that they're beginning to accuse me of encouraging the German deserters?"
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you, they are. It seems that there's a secret desertion-office in these parts. I'm supposed to be at the head of it. And you, you are the heart and soul of it."
"Oh, they can't stand me at any price!"
"Nor me either. Weisslicht, the German commissary at Börsweilen, has sworn a mortal hatred against me. We cut each other now when we meet. There's not a doubt but that he is responsible for the calumnies."
"But what proofs do they put forward?"
"Any number … all equally bad… Among others, this: pieces of French gold which are said to have been found on their soldiers. So you see … with the post tumbling down once more, the explanations that are certain to begin all over again, the enquiries that are certain to be opened…"
Philippe went up to him:
"Come, come, I don't suppose it's so serious as all that."
"You think not, my boy? Then you haven't seen the stop-press telegrams in this morning's papers?"
"No," said Philippe and his father. "What's the news?"
"An incident in Asia Minor. A quarrel between the French and German officials. One of the consuls has been killed."
"Oh, oh!" said Morestal. "This time …"
And Jorancé went into details:
"Yes, the position is exceedingly strained. The Morocco question has been opened again. Then there's the espionage business and the story of the French air-men flying over the fortresses in Alsace and dropping tricolour flags in the Strasburg streets… For six months, it has been one long series of complications and shocks. The newspapers are becoming aggressive in their language. Both countries are arming, strengthening their defences. In short, in spite of the good intentions of the two governments, we are at the mercy of an accident. A spark … and the thing's done."
A heavy silence weighed upon the three men. Each of them conjured up the sinister vision according to his own temperament and instincts.
Jorancé repeated:
"A spark … and the thing's done."
"Well, let it be done!" said Morestal, with an angry gesture.
Philippe gave a start:
"What are you saying, father?"
"Well, what! There must be an end to all this."
"But the end need not be in blood."
"Nonsense … nonsense… There are injuries that can only be wiped out in blood. And, when a great country like ours has received a slap in the face like that of 1870, it can wait forty years, fifty years, but a day comes when it returns the slap in the face … and with both hands!"
"And suppose we are beaten?" said Philippe.
"Can't be helped! Honour comes first! Besides, we sha'n't be beaten. Let every man do his duty and we shall see! In 1870, as a prisoner of war, I gave my word not to serve in the French army again. I escaped, I collected the young rapscallions of Saint-Élophe and round about, the old men, the cripples, the women even… We took to the woods. Three rags served as a rallying-signal: a bit of white linen, a strip of red flannel and a piece out of a blue apron … the flag of the band! There it hangs… It shall see the light of day again, if necessary."
Jorancé could not help laughing:
"Do you think that will stop the Prussians?"
"Don't laugh, my friend… You know the view I take of my duty and what I am doing. But it is just as well that Philippe should know, too. Sit down, my boy."
He himself sat down, put aside the pipe which he was smoking and began, with the obvious satisfaction of a man who is at last able to speak of what he has most at heart:
"You know the frontier, Philippe, or rather the German side of the frontier?.. A craggy cliff, a series of peaks and ravines which make this part of the Vosges an insuperable rampart…"
"Yes, absolutely insuperable," said Philippe.
"That's a mistake!" exclaimed Morestal. "A fatal mistake! From the first moment when I began to think of these matters, I believed that a day would come when the enemy would attack that rampart."
"Impossible!"
"That day has come, Philippe. For the last six months, not a week has passed without my meeting some suspicious figure over there or knocking up against men walking about in smocks that were hardly enough to conceal their uniform… It is a constant, progressive underhand work. Everybody is helping in it. The electric factory which the Wildermann firm has run up in that ridiculous fashion on the edge of the precipice is only a make-believe. The road that leads to it is a military road. From the factory to the Col du Diable is less than half a mile. One effort and the frontier's crossed."
"By a company," objected Jorancé.
"Where a company passes, a regiment can pass and a brigade can follow… At Börsweilen, five miles from the Vosges, there are three thousand German soldiers: on a war-footing, mark you. At Gernach, twelve miles further, there are twelve thousand; and four thousand horses; and eight hundred waggons. By the evening of the day on which war is declared, perhaps even earlier, those fifteen thousand men will have crossed the Col du Diable. It's not a surprise which they mean to attempt: that wouldn't be worth their while. It is the absolute crossing of the frontier, the taking possession of our ridges, the occupation of Saint-Élophe. When our troops arrive, it will be too late! They will find Noirmont cut off, Belfort threatened, the south of the Vosges invaded… You can picture the moral effect: we shall be done for! That is what is being prepared in the dark. That is what you have been unable to see, Jorancé, in spite of all your watchfulness … and in spite of my warnings."
"I wrote to the prefect last week."
"You should have written last year! All this time, the other has been coming on, the other has been advancing… He hardly takes the trouble to conceal himself… There … listen to him … listen to him…"
In the far distance, like the sound of an echo, deadened by the mass of trees, a bugle-call had rung out, somewhere, through the air. It was an indistinct call, but Morestal was not mistaken and he hissed:
"Ah, it's he!.. It's he… I know the voice of Germany… I know it when I hear it … the hoarse, the odious voice!.."
Presently, Philippe, who had not taken his eyes off his father, said:
"And then, father?"
"And then, my son, it was in anticipation of that day that I built my house on this hill, that I surrounded my gardens with a wall, that, unknown to anybody, I stocked the out-houses with means of defence: ammunition, bags of sand, gun-powder … that, in short, I prepared for an alarm by setting up this unsuspected little fortress at twenty minutes from the Col du Diable … on the very threshold of the frontier!"
He had planted himself with his face to the east, with his face to the enemy; and, clutching his hips with his clenched hands, in an attitude of defiance, he seemed to be awaiting the inevitable assault.
The special commissary, who still feared that his zeal had been caught napping in this business, growled:
"Your shanty won't hold out for an hour."
"And who tells you," shouted Morestal, "who tells you that that hour is not exactly the one hour which we shall want to gain?.. An hour! You never spoke a truer word: an hour of resistance to the first attack! An hour of delay!.. That's what I wanted, that's what I offer to my country. Let every one be doing as I am, to the best of his power, let every one be haunted to fever-point by the obsession of the personal service which it is his duty to render to the country; and, if war breaks out, you shall see how a great nation can take its revenge!"
"And suppose we are beaten, in spite of all?" Philippe asked again.
"What's that?"
Old Morestal turned to his son as though he had received a blow; and a rush of blood inflamed his features. He looked Philippe in the face:
"What do you say?"
Philippe had an inkling of the conflict that would hurl them one against the other if he dared to state his objections more minutely. And he uttered words at random:
"Of course, the supposition is not one of those which we can entertain… But, all the same … don't you think we ought to face the possibility?.."
"Face the possibility of defeat?" echoed the old man, who seemed thunderstruck. "Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought to influence France in her conduct?"
A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appeared from the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashion that Morestal did not wait for his son to reply:
"Is that you, Saboureux? What a row you're making!"
It was Farmer Saboureux, whose house could be seen on the Col du Diable. He was accompanied by an old, ragged tramp.
Saboureux had come to complain. Some soldiers taking part in the manœuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. He seemed beside himself, furious at the catastrophe:
"Only, I've a witness in old Poussière here. And I want an indemnity, not to speak of damages and punishment. I call it a calamity, I do: soldiers of our own country!.. I'm a good Frenchman, but, all the same …"
Morestal was too much absorbed in the discussion of his favourite ideas to take the least interest in the man's troubles; and the farmer's presence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason for returning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk about than chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarming rumours that were current?
"What do you say, Saboureux?"
The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom we sometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern, clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of our Roman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched to battle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness, risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced to ashes. Some passing Uhlans… Since that time, he had laboured hard to repair the harm done.
"And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning and sacking?.. Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be as I am!"
He was filled with the small land-owner's hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious foot on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed his arms, with a serious air.
"And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?" asked Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, breaking a crust.
The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carved out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every three or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off again.
"What country do you belong to, to begin with?"
He grunted:
"Don't know much about it … it's so long ago…"
"Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?"
The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps without understanding. Saboureux grinned:
"He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if he belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies where the grub lies … eh, Poussière?"
Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper and let fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent – working-men, townsmen or farmers – who think only of their comfort, without caring whether the country is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect, with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carried to the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawked about by travelling agents?
"Yes," he cried, "the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroying us. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The very army is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge of mutiny…"
He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time, nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father might take for one of approval.
"Isn't it so, Philippe? You see the thing close at hand, where you are: all those poltroons who weaken our energies with their fine dreams of peace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the public meetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and the country with open doors and are backed up by our rulers… And that's only speaking of the capital!.. Why, the very provinces haven't escaped the contagion!.. Here, have you read this abomination?"
He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heaped up on his table and held it before his son's eyes. And he continued:
"Peace before All! No author's name. A book that's all the more dangerous because it's very well written, not by one of those wind-bags to whom I was referring just now, but by a scholar, a provincial and, what's more, a Frenchman from the frontier. He seems even to bear our name … some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a large family."
"Are you sure?" blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight of the pamphlet. "How do you know?"
"Oh, by accident… A letter which was addressed to me and which said, 'All good wishes for the success of your pamphlet, my dear Morestal.'"
Philippe remembered. He was to have gone to the Old Mill last year; and the letter must have been sent to him by one of his friends.
"And haven't you tried to find out?"
"What for? Because I have a scoundrel in my family, that's no reason why I should be in a hurry to make his acquaintance! Besides, he himself has had the decency not to put his name to his scurrilous nonsense… No matter: if ever I lay my hands on him!.. But don't let's talk of it…"
He continued to talk of it, nevertheless, and at great length, as well as of all the questions of war and peace, history and politics that came to his mind. It was not until he had "got his budget off his chest," as he said, that he exclaimed, suddenly:
"Enough of this palavering, my friends! Why, it's four o'clock! Saboureux, I'm your man… So they've been making free with your poultry, have they? Are you coming, Jorancé? We'll see some fine soldier-chaps making their soup. There's nothing jollier and livelier than a French camp!"
CHAPTER IV
PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE
Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.
When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room a look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite books…
"You'll be very snug here, Marthe," she said. "It's a nice, light room … and there's only a dressing-room between you and Philippe… But how did you come to want two bedrooms?"
"It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings…"
"Oh," repeated the girl. "It was Philippe's suggestion…"
Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:
"How like his father your son Jacques is!.. Much more so than Paul … don't you think?"
Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at the picture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimate image the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one.
"Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?" asked Suzanne.
"What a question! If you were a mother…"
"If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most of my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased to love me…"
"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that there is nothing in the world but love?"
"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't you like love to fill a greater place in your life?"
This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway.
Suzanne at once cried:
"We were talking about you, Philippe."
He made no reply. He went to the window, closed it and then came back to the two young women. Suzanne pointed to a chair beside her, but he sat down by Marthe; and Marthe saw by his look that something had happened:
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No."
"Still …"
He told her, in a few sentences, of the conversation, with the incident of the pamphlet and the words which his father had spoken against the author of that work. He repeated the words, a second time, with increasing bitterness. Then he stopped, reflected and, pressing his clenched fists to his temples, said, slowly, as though he were explaining matters to himself:
"It's three years now that this has lasted … ever since his letter on my appointment, in which he wrote about my second book on the idea of country. Perhaps I ought to have written to him then and there and told him of the evolution of my mind and the tremendous change which the study of history and of vanished civilizations had wrought in me."
"Perhaps it would have been better," said Marthe.
"I was afraid to. I was afraid of hurting him… It would have hurt him so terribly!.. And my love for him is so great!.. And then, Marthe, you see, the ideas which he defends and of which, in my eyes, he is the living and splendid incarnation are so beautiful in themselves that, after one has ceased to share them, one continues, for a long time, for always, to retain a sort of involuntary affection for them, deep down in one's inner self. They constituted the greatness of our country for centuries. They are vigorous, like everything that is religious and pure. One feels a renegade at losing them; and any word spoken against them sounds like blasphemy. How could I say to my father, 'Those ideas, which you gave me and which were the life of my youth, I have ceased to hold. Yes, I have ceased to think as you do. My love of humanity does not stop at the boundaries of the country in which I was born; and I do not hate those who are on the other side of the frontier. I am one of those men who will not have war, who will not have it at any price and who would give their life-blood to save the world the horror of that scourge.' How could I say such things as that to my father?"
He rose and, pacing the room, continued:
"I did not say them. I concealed the true state of my mind, as though I were hiding a shameful sore. At the meetings, in the newspapers to which I contribute by stealth, to my adversaries and to the majority of the men on my own side I was M. Philippe, denying my name and my personality, setting a bad example to those who are silent for prudence' sake and for fear of compromising themselves. I do not sign the pamphlets which I write; and the book in which I give the conclusion of my work has been ready for more than a year, without my daring to publish it. Well, that's over now. I can't go on as I have been doing. Silence is choking me. By humbling myself, I lower my ideals. I must speak aloud, in the hearing of all men. I will speak."
He had gradually become animated, excited by his own words. His voice had increased in volume. His face expressed the glowing, irresistible, often blind enthusiasm of those who devote themselves to generous causes. And, yielding to a need to speak out which was anything but frequent with him, he went on:
"You don't know, you don't know what it means to a man to be fired with a great idea … whether it be love of humanity, hatred of war or any other beautiful illusion. It lights us and leads us. It is our pride and our faith. We seem to have a second life, the real life, that belongs to it, and an unknown heart that beats for it alone. And we are prepared to suffer any sacrifice, any pain, any wretchedness, any insult … provided that it gain the day."
Suzanne listened to him with obvious admiration. Marthe appeared uneasy. Knowing Philippe's nature thoroughly, she was well aware that, in thus letting himself go, he was not only being carried away by a flood of eloquent words.
He opened the window and drew a deep breath of the pure air which he loved. Then he returned and added:
"We are even prepared to sacrifice those around us."
Marthe felt all the importance which he attached to this little sentence; and, after a moment, she said:
"Are you referring to me?"
"Yes," said Philippe.
"But you know, Philippe, that, when I agreed to marry you, I agreed to share your life, whatever it might be."
"My life as it looked like being, but not as I shall be compelled to make it."
She looked at him with a glimmer of apprehension. For some time now, she had noticed that he was even less communicative than usual, that he hardly ever spoke of his plans and that he no longer told her what he was working at.
"How do you mean, Philippe?" she asked.
He took a sealed letter from his pocket and showed her the address:
"To the Minister of Public Instruction."
"What is in that letter?" asked Marthe.
"My resignation."
"Your resignation! The resignation of your professorship?"
"Yes. I shall send this letter the moment I have confessed everything to my father. I did not like to tell you before, for fear of your objections… But I was wrong… It is necessary that you should know…"
"I don't understand," she stammered. "I don't understand…"
"Yes, you do, Marthe: you understand. The ideas which have taken possession of me little by little and to which I want to devote myself without reserve are dangerous for young brains to listen to. They form the belief of an age for which I call with might and main, but it is not the belief of to-day; and I have no right to teach it to the children entrusted to my care."
She was on the verge – thinking of her own children, whose well-being and whose future were about to suffer through this decision – she was on the verge of exclaiming:
"Why need you shout it from the house-tops? Stifle your vain scruples and go on teaching what you find in the manuals and school-books."
But she knew that he was like those priests who prefer to incur poverty and opprobrium rather than preach a religion which they no longer believe.
And she simply said:
"I do not share all your opinions, Philippe. There are even some that terrify me … especially those which I do not know, but which I half suspect. But, whatever the goal to which you are leading us, I will walk to it with my eyes closed."
"And … so far … you approve?"
"Entirely. You must act according to your conscience, send that letter and, first of all, tell your father everything. Who knows? Perhaps he will admit …"
"Never!" exclaimed Philippe. "Men who look into the future can still understand the beliefs of former days, because those were their own beliefs when they were young. But men who cling to the past cannot accept ideas which they do not understand and which clash with their feelings and with their instincts."
"So …?"
"So we shall quarrel and cause each other pain; and the thought of it distresses me infinitely."
He sat down, with a movement of weariness. She leant over him:
"Do not lose courage. I am sure that things will turn out better than you think. Wait a few days… There is no hurry; and you will have time to see … to prepare…"
"Everything turns out well when you speak," he said, smiling and allowing himself to be caressed.
"Unfortunately …"
He did not finish his sentence. He saw Suzanne opposite him, glaring at the pair of them. She was ghastly pale; and her mouth was wrung with a terrible expression of pain and hatred. He felt that she was ready to fling herself upon them and proclaim her rage aloud.
He released himself quickly and, making an effort to jest:
"Tush!" he said. "Time will show… Enough of these jeremiads: what say you, Suzanne?.. Suppose you saw to putting away my things?.. Is everything done?"
Marthe was surprised at the abrupt change in his manner. However, she replied:
"There are only your papers; and I always prefer you to arrange them yourself."
"Come on, then," he said, gaily.
Marthe walked through the dressing-room to her husband's bedroom. Philippe was about to follow her and his foot touched the door-sill when Suzanne darted in front of him and barred the way with her outstretched arms.
It happened so suddenly that he uttered a slight exclamation. Marthe asked, from the further room:
"What is it?"
"Nothing," said Suzanne. "We're coming."
Philippe tried to pass. She pushed him back violently and with such a look of her eyes that he yielded at once.
They watched each other for a few seconds, like two enemies. Philippe fumed:
"Well? What does all this mean? Do you propose to keep me here indefinitely?.."
She came nearer to him and, in a voice that shook with restraint and implacable energy:
"I shall expect you this evening… It's quite easy… You can get out… I shall be outside my door at eleven."
He was petrified:
"You are mad!.."
"No… But I want to see you … to speak to you … I must … I am suffering more than I can bear… It's enough to kill me."
Her eyes were full of tears, her chin seemed convulsed with spasms, her lips trembled.
Philippe's anger was mingled with a little pity; and, above all, he felt the need of putting an end to the scene as quickly as possible:
"Look here, baby, look here!" he said, employing an expression which he often used to her.
"You will come … you must come … that is why I stayed… One hour, one hour of your presence!.. If you don't, I shall come here, I shall indeed… I don't care what happens!"
He had retreated to the window. Instinctively, he looked to see if it was possible to climb over the balcony and jump. It would have been absurd.
But, as he bent forward, he saw his wife, two windows further, lean out and catch sight of him. He had to smile, to conceal his perturbation; and nothing could be more hateful to him than this comedy which a child's whims were compelling him to play.
"You're quite pale," said Marthe.
"Do you think so? I'm a little tired, I suppose. You too, you are looking …"
