Kitabı oku: «The Frontier», sayfa 6

CHAPTER II
PHILIPPE TELLS A LIE

The three women met in the drawing-room. Mme. Morestal walked up and down in dismay, hardly knowing what she was saying:

"Not in!.. Philippe neither!.. Victor, you must run … but where to?.. Where is he to look?.. Oh, it's really too terrible!.."

She suddenly stepped in front of Marthe and stammered:

"The … the shots … last night…"

Marthe, pale with anxiety, did not reply. She had had the same awful thought from the first moment.

But Suzanne exclaimed:

"In any case, Marthe, you need not be alarmed. Philippe did not take the road by the frontier."

"Are you sure?"

"We separated at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne. M. Morestal and papa went on by themselves. Philippe came straight back."

"No, he can't have come straight back, or he would be here now," said Marthe. "What can he have been doing all night? He has not even set foot in his room!"

But Mme. Morestal was terrified by what Suzanne had said. She could now no longer doubt that her husband had taken the frontier-road; and the shots had come from the frontier!

"Yes, that's true," said Suzanne, "but it was only ten o'clock when we started from Saint-Élophe and the shots which you heard were fired at one or two o'clock in the morning… You said so yourself."

"How can I tell?" cried the old lady, who was beginning to lose her head entirely. "It may have been much earlier."

"But your father must know," said Marthe to Suzanne. "Did he tell you nothing?"

"I have not seen my father this morning," said Suzanne. "He was not awake…"

She had not time to finish her sentence before an idea burst in upon her, an idea so natural that the two other women were struck by it also and none of them dared put it into words.

Suzanne flew to the door, but Marthe held her back. Why not telephone to Saint-Élophe, to the special commissary's house?

A minute later, M. Jorancé's servant replied that she had just noticed that her master was not in. His bed had not been touched either.

"Oh!" said Suzanne, trembling all over. "My poor father!.. Can anything have happened to him?.. My poor father! I ought to have…"

They stood for a moment as though paralyzed, all three, and incapable of taking a resolution. The man-servant went out saying that he would saddle the horse and gallop to the Col du Diable.

Marthe, who was nearest to the telephone, rang up the mayor's office at Saint-Élophe, on the off-chance, and asked for news. They knew nothing there. But two gendarmes, it seemed, had just crossed the square at a great pace. Thereupon, at the suggestion of Mme. Morestal, who had taken up the second receiver, she asked to be put on to the gendarmery. As soon as she was connected, she explained her reason for telephoning and was informed that the sergeant was on his way to the frontier with a peasant who declared that he had found the body of a man in the woods between the Butte-aux-Loups and the Col du Diable. That was all they were able to tell her…

Mme. Morestal let go the receiver and fell in a dead faint. Marthe and Suzanne tried to attend to her. But their hands trembled and, when Catherine, the maid-servant, appeared upon the scene, they both ran out of the room, roused by a sudden energy and an immense need of doing something, of walking, of laying eyes upon that dead body whose blood-stained image obsessed their minds.

They went down the stairs of the terrace and scurried in the direction of the Étang-des-Moines. They had not gone fifty yards, when they were passed by Victor, who galloped by on horseback and shouted:

"Go in, go in! What's the use? I shall be back again!"

They went on nevertheless. But two roads offered: Suzanne wanted to take the one leading to the pass, on the left; Marthe, the one on the right, through the woods. They exchanged sharp words, blocking each other's way.

Suddenly, Suzanne, without knowing what she was saying, flung herself into her friend's arms, blurting out:

"I must tell you… It is my duty… Besides, it is all my fault…"

Marthe, enraged and not understanding the words, which she was to remember so clearly later, spoke to her roughly:

"You're quite mad to-day," she said. "Leave me alone, do."

She darted into the woods and, in a few minutes, came to an abandoned quarry. The path went no further. She had a fit of fury, was on the verge of throwing herself on the ground and bursting into tears and then retraced her steps, for she thought she heard some one call. It was Suzanne, who had seen a man coming from the frontier on horseback and who had vainly tried to make herself heard. He was no doubt bringing news…

Panting and exhausted, they went back again. But there was no one at the Old Mill, no one but Mme. Morestal and Catherine, who were praying on the terrace. All the servants had gone off, without plan or purpose, in search of information; and the man on the horse, a peasant, had passed without looking up.

Then they dropped on a bench near the balustrade and sat stupefied, worn out by the effort which they had just made; and horrible minutes followed. Each of the three women thought of her own special sorrow and each, besides, suffered the anguish of the unknown disaster that threatened all three of them. They dared not look at one another. They dared not speak, although the silence tortured them. The least sound represented a source of foolish hope or horrid dread; and, with their eyes fixed on the line of dark woods, they waited.

Suddenly, they rose with a start. Catherine, who was keeping a look-out on the steps of the staircase, had sprung to her feet:

"There's Henriot!" she cried.

"Henriot?" echoed Mme. Morestal.

"Yes, the gardener's boy: I can make him out from here."

"Where? We haven't seen him come."

"He must have taken a short cut… He is coming up the stairs… Quick, Henriot!.. Hurry!.. Do you know anything?"

She pulled open the gate and a lad of fifteen or so, his face bathed in perspiration, appeared.

He at once said:

"There's a deserter been killed … a German deserter."

And the three women were forthwith overcome with a great sense of peace. After the rush of events that had come upon them like a tempest, it seemed to them as though nothing could touch them now. The phantom of death vanished from their minds. A man had been shot, no doubt, but that didn't matter, because the man was not one of theirs. And the gladness that revived them was such that they could almost have laughed.

And, once again, Catherine appeared. She announced that Victor was returning. And the three women saw a man spurring his horse at the mouth of the pass, at the imminent risk of breaking his neck on the steep slope of the road. It was soon apparent, when the man reached the Étang-des-Moines, that some one was following him with swift strides; and Marthe uttered cries of joy at recognizing the tall figure of her husband.

She waved her handkerchief. Philippe answered the signal.

"It's he!" she said, almost swooning. "It's he, mamma… I am sure that he'll be able to tell us everything … and that M. Morestal is not far off…"

"Let us go and meet them," Suzanne suggested.

"Yes, I'll go," said Marthe, quickly. "You stay here, Suzanne … stay with mamma."

She darted away, eager to be the first to welcome Philippe and recovering enough strength to run to the bottom of the slope:

"Philippe! Philippe!" she cried. "You are back at last…"

He lifted her off the ground and pressed her to him:

"My darling, I hear that you have been uneasy… You need not have been… I will tell you all about it…"

"Yes, you will tell us… But come … come quick and kiss your mother and reassure her…"

She dragged him along. They climbed the staircase and, on reaching the terrace, he suddenly found himself in the presence of Suzanne, who was waiting, convulsed with jealousy and hatred. Philippe's emotion was so great that he did not even offer her his hand. Besides, at that moment, Mme. Morestal ran up to him:

"Your father?"

"Alive."

And Suzanne, in her turn:

"Papa?"

"Alive also… They have both been carried off by the German police, near the frontier."

"What? Prisoners?"

"Yes."

"They haven't hurt them?"

The three women all stood round him and pressed him with questions. He replied, laughing:

"A little calmness, first… I confess I feel rather dazed… This makes two exciting nights… Also, I am simply starving."

His shoes and clothes were grey with dust. There was blood on one of his shirt-cuffs.

"You are wounded!" cried Marthe.

"No … not I… I'll explain to you…"

Catherine brought him a cup of coffee, which he swallowed greedily, and he began:

"It was about five o'clock in the morning when I got up; and I certainly had no idea, when I left my room …"

Marthe was stupefied. Why did Philippe say that he had slept there? Did he not know that his absence had been discovered? But then why tell that lie?

She instinctively placed herself in front of Suzanne and in front of her mother; and, as Philippe had broken off, himself embarrassed by the obvious commotion which he had caused, she asked him:

"So, last evening, you left your father and M. Jorancé?.."

"At the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne."

"Yes, so Suzanne told us. And you came back straight?"

"Straight."

"But you heard the shots fired?.."

"Shots?"

"Yes, on the frontier."

"No. I must have gone to sleep at once… I was tired… Otherwise, if I had heard them …"

He had an intuition of the danger which he was running, especially as Suzanne was trying to make signs to him. But he had prepared the opening of his story so carefully that, being unaccustomed to lying, he would have been unable to alter a single word of it without losing the little coolness that remained to him. Moreover, himself worn out and incapable of resisting the atmosphere of anxiety and nervousness that surrounded him, how could he have perceived the trap which Marthe unconsciously had laid for him? He, therefore, repeated:

"Once more, when I left my room, I had no idea of what had happened. It was an accident that put me in the way of it. I had reached the Col du Diable and was walking along the frontier-road when, half-way from the Butte-aux-Loups, I heard moans and groans on my left. I went to the spot where they came from and discovered, among the bracken, a wounded man, covered in blood…"

"The deserter," said Mme. Morestal.

"Yes, a German private, Johann Baufeld," replied Philippe.

He was now coming to the true portion of his story, for his interview with the deserter had really taken place when he was returning from Saint-Élophe, at break of day; and he continued, with an easier mind:

"Johann Baufeld had only a few minutes to live. He had the death-rattle in his throat. Nevertheless, he had strength enough left to tell me his name and to speak a few words; and he died in my arms, not, however, before I learnt from him that M. Jorancé and my father had tried to protect him on French territory and that the police had turned upon them. I therefore went in search of them. The track was easy to follow. It took me through the Col du Diable to the hamlet of Torins. There, the inn-keeper made no difficulty about telling me that a squad of police, several of whom were mounted, had passed his house on their way to Börsweilen, where they were conveying two French prisoners. One of these was wounded. I could not find out if it was your father, Suzanne, or mine. In any case, the wounds must have been slight, for both prisoners were sitting their horses without assistance. I felt reassured and turned back. At the Col du Diable, I met Victor… You know the rest."

He seemed quite happy at finishing his story and poured himself out a second cup of coffee, with the satisfied air of a man who has got off cheaply.

The three women were silent. Suzanne lowered her head, lest she should betray her emotion. At last, Marthe, who had no suspicions, but who was worrying her head about Philippe's falsehood, resumed:

"At what time did you come in last night?"

"At a quarter to eleven."

"And you went to bed at once?"

"At once."

"Then how is it that your bed has not been touched?"

Philippe gave a start. The question took his breath away. Instead of inventing some pretext or other, he stammered, guilelessly:

"Oh, so you went in … you saw …"

He had not thought of this detail, nor, for that matter, of any of those which might make his story appear to clash with the facts; and he no longer knew what to say.

Suzanne suggested:

"Perhaps Philippe spent the night in a chair…"

Marthe shrugged her shoulders; and Philippe, utterly at a loss, trying to make up another version, did not even answer. He remained dumb, like a child caught at fault.

"Come, Philippe," asked Marthe, "what's underneath this? Didn't you come straight back?"

"No," he admitted.

"You came back by the frontier?"

"Yes."

"Then why conceal it? I couldn't very well be anxious now, seeing that you are here."

"That's just it!" cried Philippe, plunging at a venture along this path. "That's just it! I did not want to tell you that I had spent the night looking for my father."

"The night! Then you knew before this morning that he had been carried off?"

"Yes, last evening."

"Last evening? But how? Who told you? You can only have known it by witnessing the arrest."

He hesitated for a second. He could have dated his interview with the deserter Baufeld to that particular moment. But he did not think of this; and he declared, in a firm tone:

"Well, yes, I was there … or, at least, not far off…"

"And you heard the shots?"

"Yes, I heard the shots and also some cries of pain… When I arrived on the scene of the fighting, there was no one there. Then I hunted about… You understand, I was afraid that my father or M. Jorancé had been hit by the bullets… I hunted all night, following their track in the dark: a wrong track, first of all, which led me towards the Albern Woods. And then, this morning, I found Private Baufeld, who told me which way the attacking party had gone, and I pushed on to the factory and to the inn at Torins. But if I had told you all that, oh, by Jove, how you would have fretted about my fatigue! Why, I can picture you doing so, my poor Marthe!"

He pretended to be gay and careless. Marthe watched him in astonishment. She nodded her head with a thoughtful air:

"Yes … you are right…"

"Don't you think so? It was much simpler to tell you that I had just left my room, feeling fit and well, after a good night's rest… Don't you agree with me, mother?.. Besides, you yourself …"

But, at that moment, a sound of voices rose under the windows on the garden-side and Catherine burst into the room, yelling:

"The master! The master!"

And Victor also bounded in:

"Here's the master coming! There he is!"

"Who? Who?" asked Mme. Morestal, hastening forward.

"M. Morestal! There he is! We saw him at the end of the garden… Look, over there, near the water-fall…"

The old lady ran to one of the windows:

"Yes! He has seen us! O God, is it possible?"

Staggering with excitement, she leant heavily on Marthe's arm and dragged her to the staircase that led to the front hall and the steps.

They had hardly disappeared when Suzanne flung herself upon Philippe:

"Oh, please, Philippe … please!" she implored.

He did not understand at first:

"What is it, Suzanne?"

"Please, please be careful. Don't let Marthe suspect…"

"Do you think …?"

"I thought so, for a second… She gave me such a queer look… Oh, it would be terrible!.. Please, please …"

She left him quickly, but her words and the scared look in her eyes gave Philippe a real fright. Hitherto, he had felt towards Marthe only the embarrassment provoked by the annoyance of having to tell a lie. He now suddenly perceived the full gravity of the situation, the peril which threatened Suzanne and which might shatter the happiness of his own household. One blunder … and everything was discovered. And this thought, instead of clearing his brain forthwith, merely increased his confusion.

"I must save Suzanne," he repeated. "Above all, I must save Suzanne."

But he felt that he had no more power over the events at hand than a man has over the approaching storm. And a dull fear arose within his breast.

CHAPTER III
FATHER AND SON

Bare-headed, tangle-haired, his clothes torn, no collar, blood on his shirt, on his hands, on his face, blood everywhere, a wound in his neck, another on his lip, unrecognizable, horrible to look at, but magnificent in energy, heroic and triumphant: such was the appearance presented by old Morestal.

He chortled:

"Here!" he shouted.

An enormous laugh rolled from under his moustache:

"Morestal? Here!.. Morestal, for the second time, a prisoner of the Teuton … and, for the second time, free!"

Philippe stared at him in dismay, as though at an apparition.

"Well, sonny? Is that the way you welcome me home?"

He caught hold of a napkin and wiped his face with a great, wide gesture. Then he drew his wife to him:

"Kiss me, mother!.. And you, Philippe! And you, Marthe!.. And you too, my pretty Suzanne: once for myself and once for your father!.. Don't cry, my child… Daddy's all right… They're coddling him like an emperor, over there … until they let him go. And that's not far off. By Heaven, no! I hope the French government …"

He was talking like a drunken man, too fast and in an unsteady voice. His wife tried to make him sit down. He protested:

"Rest? Quite unnecessary, mother. A Morestal never rests. My wounds? Scratches! What? The doctor? If he sets foot in this house, I'll chuck him out of the window!"

"Still, you ought to take something…"

"Take something? A glass of wine, if you like … a glass of good French wine… That's it, uncork a bottle… We'll have a glass all round… Your health, Weisslicht!.. Oh, what a joke!.. When I think of the face of Weisslicht, the special commissary of the imperial government!.. The prisoner's gone! The bird's flown!"

He laughed loudly and, after drinking two glasses of wine, one on top of the other, he kissed the three women once more, kissed Philippe, called in Victor, Catherine, the gardener, shook hands with them, sent them away again and began to walk up and down the room, saying:

"No time to be lost, children! I met the sergeant of gendarmes on the Saint-Élophe road. The authorities have been informed… They can be here within half an hour. I want to present a report. Take a pen, Philippe."

"What's much more important," protested his wife, "is that you should not excite yourself like this. Here, tell us all about it instead, quite calmly."

Old Morestal was never known to refuse to talk. He therefore began his story, in short, slow sentences, as she wished, describing all the details of attack and all the incidents of the journey to Börsweilen. But, carried away once more, he raised his voice, grew indignant, worked himself into a rage, burst into sarcasm:

"Oh, they showed no lack of civility!.. It was, 'Monsieur le commissaire spécial!.. Monsieur le conseiller d'arrondissement!'… Weisslicht had his mouth crammed with our titles!.. All the same, at one o'clock in the morning, we were safely locked up in two nice little rooms in the town-hall at Börsweilen… In quod, what!.. With a probable indictment for complicity, espionage, high treason and the devil knows what hanging over our heads!.. Only, in that case, gentlemen, you should not carry politeness so far as to release your captives from their handcuffs; and the windows of your cells ought not to be closed with bars too slight to be of any use; and you ought not to let one of your prisoners keep his pocket-knife. If you do, as long as that prisoner has any grit in him – and a file to his knife, by Jove! – he will try what he can do. And I did try, by Jingo! At four o'clock in the morning, after cutting the window-pane and filing or loosening four of the bars, old Morestal let himself down by a waste-pipe and took to his heels. Kind friends, farewell!.. It was now only a question of getting home… The Col du Diable? The Albern Woods? The Butte-aux-Loups? No such fool! The vermin were bound to be swarming on that side… And, in fact, I heard the drums beating and the trumpets sounding the alarm and the horses galloping. They were hunting for me, of course!.. But how could they have thought of hunting for me six miles away, in the Val de Sainte-Marie, right in the middle of the Forest of Arzance? And I trotted … I trotted until I was simply done… I crossed the border at eight o'clock, unseen and unknown. Morestal's foot was on his native heath! At ten o'clock, I saw the steeple of Saint-Élophe from the Côte-Blanche and I cut straight across, so as to get home quicker. And here I am! A bit tired, I admit, but quite presentable… Well, what do you say to old Morestal now, eh?"

He had stood up and, forgetting all about the fatigue of the night, was enlivening his discourse with a savage display of gesture which alarmed his wife.

"And my poor father was not able to escape?" asked Suzanne.

"No, they had taken care to search him," replied Morestal. "Besides, they watched him more closely than they did me … so he could not do as I did…" And he added. "And a good job too! For I should have been left to languish in their prisons until the end of an interminable trial; whereas he, in forty-eight hours … But this is all talk. The authorities can't be far away. I want to have my report ready. There are certain things which I suspect … the business was a plot from start to finish…"

He interrupted himself, as though startled by an unexpected thought, and sat for a long time motionless, with his head in his hands. Then, suddenly, he struck the table with his fist:

"That's it! I understand the whole thing now! Upon my word, it's taken me long enough!"

"What?" asked his wife.

"Dourlowski, of course!"

"Dourlowski?"

"Why, yes! From the first minute, I guessed that it was a trap, a trap contrived by inferior police-agents. But how was it laid? I see it now. Dourlowski came here yesterday, on some pretext or other. He knew that Jorancé and I would take the frontier-road in the evening; and the passing of the deserter was contrived to take place at that moment, in connivance with the German detectives! One of them whistles as soon as we come up; and the soldier, who has been told, of course, that this whistle is a signal from the French accomplices, the soldier, whom Dourlowski or his confederates hold in a leash, like a dog, the soldier is let go. That's the whole mystery! It was not he, the poor wretch, whom they were after, but Jorancé and Morestal. Morestal, right enough, flies to the rescue of the fugitive. They collar him, they lay hold of Jorancé; and there we are, accomplices both. Bravo, gentlemen! Well played!"

Mme. Morestal murmured:

"But, I say, it might be a serious thing …"

"For Jorancé," he replied, "yes, because he is in custody; only – there is an 'only' – the pursuit of the deserter took place on French soil. We also were arrested on French soil. It was a flagrant violation of the frontier. So there's nothing to be afraid of."

"You think so?" asked Suzanne. "You think that my father …?"

"Nothing to be afraid of," repeated Morestal. And he declared, positively, "I look upon Jorancé as free."

"Tut, tut!" mumbled the old lady. "Things won't go so fast as that."

"Once more, I look upon Jorancé as free and for this good reason, that the frontier has been violated."

"Who will prove the violation?"

"Who? Why, I, of course!.. And Jorancé!.. Do you think they'll doubt the word of honest men like us? Besides, there are other proofs. They will find the traces of the pursuit, the traces of the attack, the traces of the stand which we made. And who can tell? There may have been witnesses…"

Marthe turned her eyes on Philippe. He was listening to his father, with a face so pale that she was astounded. She waited for a few seconds and then, seeing that he did not speak, she said:

"There was a witness."

Morestal started:

"What's that, Marthe?"

"Philippe was there."

"Nonsense! We left Philippe at the Carrefour du Grand-Chêne, at the bottom of the hill, didn't we, Suzanne? You remained behind together."

Philippe intervened, quickly:

"Suzanne went off at once! and so did I … but I had not gone two hundred yards when I turned back."

"So that was why you did not answer when I called to you, half-way up the hill?"

"I expect so. I went back to the Grand-Chêne."

"What for?"

"To join you… I was sorry I had left you."

"Then you were behind us at the time of the attack?"

"Yes."

"In that case, of course, you heard the shots fired!.. Let me see, you must have been on the Butte-aux-Loups…"

"Somewhere near there…"

"And perhaps you saw us… From above!.. With the moonlight!.."

"Oh, no!" protested Philippe. "No, I saw nothing!"

"But, if you heard the firing, you must certainly have heard Jorancé shouting… They stuffed a gag into my mouth… But Jorancé kept on roaring, 'We are in France! We are on French territory!' You heard Jorancé shouting, didn't you, now?"

Philippe hesitated before making a reply of which he vaguely felt the tremendous importance. But, opposite him, he saw Marthe watching him with increasing surprise and, near Marthe, he saw Suzanne's drawn features. He said:

"Yes, I heard him … I heard him at a distance…"

Old Morestal could not contain himself for joy. And, when he learnt besides that Philippe had received the last words of Baufeld the deserter, he burst out:

"You saw him? He was alive? He told you that they had set a trap for us, didn't he?"

"He mentioned the name of Dourlowski."

"Capital! But our meeting with the soldier, the pursuit … he must have told you that all this took place in France?"

"Yes, I seemed to understand …"

"We've got them!" shouted Morestal. "We've got them! Of course, I was quite easy in my mind… But all the same, Philippe's evidence, the declaration of the dying private… Ah, the brigands, they'll have to let go their prey!.. We were in France, kind friends! There has been a violation of the frontier!"

Philippe saw that he had gone too far; and he objected:

"My evidence is not evidence in the proper sense of the word… As for the soldier, I could hardly make out …"

"We've got them, I tell you. The little that you were able to see, the little that you were able to hear all agrees with my own evidence, that is to say, with the truth. We've got them! And here come the gentlemen from the public prosecutor's office, who will be of my opinion, I bet you what you like! And it won't take long either! Jorancé will be free to-morrow."

He dropped the pen, which he had taken up in order to write his report himself, and went quickly to the window, attracted by the sound of a motor-car sweeping round the garden-lawn:

"The sub-prefect," he said. "By Jove, so the government know about it! The examining-magistrate and the prosecutor… Ha, ha, they are not wasting any time, I see!.. Quick, mother, have them shown in here… I'll be back in a minute: I must just put on a collar and change my jacket…"

"Father!"

Morestal stopped in the doorway:

"What is it, my boy?" he asked.

"I have something to say to you," said Philippe, resolutely.

"All right. But it'll keep until presently, won't it?"

"I have something to say to you now."

"Oh! In that case, come along with me. Yes, you can give me a hand, instead of Victor, who is out."

And, laughing, he went to his room.

Marthe involuntarily took a few steps, as though she proposed to be present at the conversation. Philippe experienced a momentary embarrassment. Then he quickly made up his mind:

"No, Marthe, you had better stay."

"But …"

"No, once more, no. Excuse me. I will explain later…"

And he followed his father.

***

As soon as they were alone, Morestal, who was thinking much more about his evidence than about Philippe's words, asked, casually:

"Is it private?"

"Yes … and very serious," Philippe declared.

"Nonsense!"

"Very serious, as you will see in a moment, father… It's about a position in which I find myself placed, a horrible position which I don't know how to get out of, unless …"

He went no further. Acting under an instinctive impulse, thrown off his balance by the arrival of the examining-magistrate and by a sudden vision of the events to come, he had appealed to his father. He wanted to speak, to say the words that would deliver him. What words? He did not quite know. But anything, anything rather than give false evidence and affix his signature to a lying deposition!

He stammered at first, while his brain refused to act, seeking in vain for an acceptable solution. How was he to stop on the downward course along which he was being dragged by a combination of hostile forces, accidents, coincidences and implacable, trifling facts? How was he to break through the circle which a cruel fate was doing its utmost to trace around him?

It suddenly burst in upon him that the only possible way out lay in proclaiming the immediate truth, in bluntly revealing his conduct.

He shuddered with disgust. What! Accuse Suzanne! Was that the half-formed idea that inspired him, unknown to himself? Had he really thought of ruining her in order that he might be saved? It was now that he first realized the full nature of his predicament, for he would a thousand times rather have died than dishonour the girl, even in his father's eyes alone.

Morestal, who had finished dressing, chaffed him:

"Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Yes… I made a mistake," replied Philippe. "I thought …"

He was leaning on the window-rail and looked out inertly at the large sort of park formed by the clustering trees and the undulating meadows of the Vosges. He was now obsessed by other thoughts, which mingled with his own anxiety. He went back to old Morestal:

"Are you quite sure that the arrest took place on French soil?"

"Upon my word, you must be mad!"

"It's possible that, without noticing it, you crossed the frontier-line…"

"Yes … exactly … so we did. But, at the moment of the first attack and again at the moment of the arrest, we were in France. There is no doubt about that."

"Just think, father, if there were the slightest doubt!.."

"Well, what then? What do you mean?"

"I mean that this incident will have further consequences. The affair will create a noise."