The Frontier Part 28

"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 the _Borsweilener Zeitung_ sticking 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 b.u.t.te, 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 Jorance 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-elophe 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 the _eclaireur_.

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 emba.s.sy. 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 the _Ma.r.s.eillaise_, which was 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 att.i.tude; 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, the _Borsweilener Zeitung_ announced 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 amba.s.sador had also gone to meet him.

Thenceforward, throughout that Friday and the following Sat.u.r.day, 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 amba.s.sador. The affair, hitherto purely administrative, was becoming diplomatic. And the government was demanding the release of the special commissary of Saint-elophe, 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 Sat.u.r.day morning, the _Borsweilener Zeitung_ printed 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 amba.s.sador. The case of Commissary Jorance, 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 b.u.t.te-aux-Loups step by step, examining each winding turn, noting a big root here and a long branch there, he reconst.i.tuted 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 s.p.a.ce? 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 looked at 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 a.s.sert 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 ma.s.s 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?"