“Have you discovered anything?”
“Oh, no! And I am sure that there is nothing to discover. But it’s the future I’m afraid of. One day or another, she may know temptation ... some one may make love to her ... turn her head with fair words. When that time comes, will she know how to resist? Oh, Morestal, the thought of it drives me mad! I couldn’t bear it.... Just think, the daughter, following after the mother.... Oh, I believe ... I believe I should kill her!...”
Morestal jested:
“What a fuss about nothing! A good little girl like Suzanne!...”
“Yes, you are right, it’s absurd. But I can’t help it, I can’t forget.... And I don’t want to, either. My duty is to think of everything and to give her a guide, a master who will advise her.... I know Suzanne: she will make a perfect wife....”
“And she will have lots of children; and they will be very happy,” Morestal wound up. “Come, you’re boring me and boring yourself with your fancies.... Let’s talk of something else. By the way ...”
He waited for Jorancé to come up with him. The two walked on abreast. And Morestal, who was interested in no subject outside his personal prejudice, resumed:
“By the way, can you tell me — if it’s not a professional secret, of course — can you tell me who that man Dourlowski is exactly?”
“Six months ago,” replied Jorancé, “I should not have been able to answer your question. But now ...”
“But now?...”
“He is no longer in our service.”
“Do you think he has gone over to the other side?”
“I expect so, but I haven’t the least proof of it. In any case, there’s not much to be said in the fellow’s favour. Why do you ask? Have you anything to do with him?”
“No, no,” said Morestal, remaining thoughtful.
They went on in silence. The wind, which blew more strongly on the ridge, played among the trees. The pine-needles crackled under the soles of their boots. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was white with light.
“The Pierre-Branlante.... The Cheminée-des-Fées,” said Morestal, pointing to the vaguely-seen shapes of two huge boulders known by those names of the Rocking Stone and the Fairies’ Chimney.
They walked for another moment:
“Eh? What is it?” said Jorancé, feeling his companion catch him by the arm.
“Did you hear?”
“No.”
“Listen!”
“Well, what?”
“Didn’t you hear a sort of a hoot?”
“Yes, the hoot of an owl.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t sound natural to me.”
“What do you say it is, then? A signal?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Jorancé reflected:
“After all, it’s quite possible ... some smuggler perhaps.... But it’s a bad moment to have chosen.”
“Why?”
“Well, now that the German post has been cut down, it’s likely that all this part of the frontier is being more closely watched than usual.”
“Yes, of course,” said Morestal. “Still, that owl’s hoot ...”
There was a short slope and then they emerged upon a higher upland, surrounded by enormous fir-trees, which formed a sort of rampart. This was the Butte-aux-Loups. The road cut it in two; and the posts of each country stood facing each other.
Jorancé noticed that the German post had been put up again, but in a makeshift fashion, with the aid of a number of large stones which kept it in position.
“A gust of wind and down it comes again,” he said, shaking it.
“I say, mind what you’re about!” said Morestal, with a chuckle. “Don’t you see yourself toppling it over and having the police down upon you?... You’d better make a strategic movement to the rear, my friend!...”
But he had not finished speaking when another cry reached his ears.
“Ah, this time,” said Morestal, “you’ll admit....”
“Yes ... yes ...” Jorancé agreed. “An owl gives a duller, slower hoot.... It really is like a signal, a hundred yards or so ahead of us.... Smugglers, of course, French or German.”
“Suppose we turned back?” said Morestal. “Aren’t you afraid of being mixed up in an affair?...”
“Why? It’s the custom-house people’s business; it doesn’t concern you and me. They can settle it among themselves....”
They listened for a moment and then went on, thoughtfully, with watchful ears.
After the Butte-aux-Loups, the ridge becomes flatter, the forest spreads out and the road, now freer, winds among the trees, runs from one slope to the other, avoids the big roots, passes round the inequalities of the ground and, at times, disappears from sight under a bed of dead leaves.
But the moon had come out again and Morestal walked straight in front of him, without hesitation. He knew the frontier so well! He could have followed it with his eyes closed, in the dusk of the darkest night! At one place, there was a branch that blocked the way; at another, there was the trunk of an old oak which sounded hollow when he hit it with his stick. And he announced the branch before he came to it; and he struck at the old oak.
His uneasiness, which began to seem unreasonable, was dispelled. Consulting his watch again, he hurried his steps, so as to reach home by the time which he had said.
But suddenly he stopped. He thought he saw a shadow hiding, thirty or forty yards away from him:
“Did you see?” he whispered.
“Yes ... I saw....”
And, all at once, there came a shrill, strident whistle, apparently from the very place where the shadow had vanished.
“Don’t move,” said Jorancé.
They waited, their hearts tense with the anguish of what was coming.
A minute passed and more minutes; and then there was a sound of footsteps, below them, on the German side, the sound of a man hurrying....
Morestal thought of the precipitous hill which he had described to Dourlowski as the way up to the frontier from the Albern Woods, by the Cold Spring, the Fontaine-Froide. In all certainty, somebody was scaling the upper portion of that precipice, clinging on to the branches and dragging himself along the pebbles.
“A deserter!” whispered Jorancé. “No nonsense now!”
But Morestal pushed him away and began to run to where the two roads crossed. At the very moment when he reached the spot, a man appeared, all frenzied and out of breath, and stammered, in French:
“Save me!... I’ve been given away!... I’m frightened!...”
Morestal seized hold of him and flung him off the road:
“Run!... Look sharp!... Straight ahead of you!”
There was the report of a rifle. The man staggered, with a moan; but he was evidently only wounded, for, after a few seconds, he drew himself up and made off through the woods.
A chase ensued forthwith. Four or five Germans crossed the frontier and set off in pursuit of the fugitive, swearing as they went, while their comrades, forming the greater number, turned towards Morestal.
Jorancé took him round the waist and compelled him to recoil:
“This way,” he said, “over there.... They won’t dare ...”
They returned in the direction of the Butte-aux-Loups, but were at once caught up:
“Halt!” commanded a rough voice. “I arrest you.... You are accomplices.... I arrest you.”
“We are in France,” retorted Jorancé, facing his aggressors.
A hand fell on his shoulder:
“We’ll see about that.... We’ll see about that.... You’re coming with us.”
The men surrounded them; but, vigorous both and exasperated, they succeeded in fighting their way through with their fists:
“To the Butte-aux-Loups,” said Jorancé, “and keep to the left of the road.”
“We’re not on the left,” said Morestal, who saw, after a moment, that they had branched off to the right.
They re-entered French territory;
but the police who were pursuing the deserter, having lost his tracks, now fell back in their direction.
Thereupon they made a bend to the right, hesitated for a moment, careful not to cross the road, and then set off again; and, still tracked by the men, whom they felt close upon their heels, they reached the acclivity of the Butte-aux-Loups. At that moment, surrounded on all hands and utterly blown, they had to stop to take breath.
“Arrest them!” said the leader of the men, in whom they recognized the German commissary, Weisslicht. “Arrest them! We are in Germany.”
“You lie!” roared Morestal, fighting with wild energy. “You have not the right.... It’s a dirty trap!”
It was a violent struggle, but did not last long. He received a blow on the chin with the butt of a rifle, reeled, but continued to defend himself, hitting and biting his adversaries. At last, they succeeded in throwing him and, to stifle his shouting, they gagged him.
Jorancé, who had taken a leap to the rear and was standing with his back to a tree, resisted, protesting:
“I am M. Jorancé, special commissary at Saint-Élophe. I am on my own ground here. We are in France. There’s the frontier.”
The men flung themselves upon him and dragged him away, while he shouted at the top of his voice:
“Help! Help! They’re arresting the French commissary on French soil!”
A report was heard, followed by another. Morestal, with a superhuman effort, had knocked down the policeman who held him and once more took to flight, with a cord cutting into one of his wrists and with a gag in his mouth.
But, two hundred yards further, as he was turning towards the Col du Diable, his foot knocked against the root of a tree and he fell.
He was at once overtaken and firmly bound.
* * *
A few moments later, the two prisoners were carried by the police to the road leading through the Albern Woods and hoisted on the backs of a couple of horses. They were taken to the Col du Diable and, from there, past the Wildermann factory and the hamlet of Torins, sent on to the German town of Börsweilen.
PART II
CHAPTER I
THE TWO WOMEN
SUZANNE JORANCÉ PUSHED the swing-gate and entered the grounds of the Old Mill.
She was dressed in white and her face looked fresh and cool under a large hat of Leghorn straw, with its black-velvet strings hanging loose upon her shoulders. Her short skirt showed her dainty ankles. She walked with a brisk step, using a tall, iron-shod stick, while her disengaged hand crumpled some flowers which she had gathered on the way and which she dropped heedlessly as she went.
The Morestals’ peaceful house was waking in the morning sun. Several of the windows were open; and Suzanne saw Marthe writing at the table in her bedroom.
She called out:
“Can I come up?”
But Mme. Morestal appeared at one of the windows of the drawing-room and made an imperious sign to her:
“Hush! Don’t speak!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Suzanne, when she joined the old lady.
“They’re asleep.”
“Who?”
“Why, the father and son.”
“Oh!” said Suzanne. “Philippe too?...”
“Yes, they must have come in late and they are resting. Neither of them has rung his bell yet. But tell me, Suzanne, aren’t you going away?”
“To-morrow ... or the next day.... I confess, I’m in no hurry to go.”
Mme. Morestal took her to her daughter-in-law’s room and asked:
“Philippe’s still asleep, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Marthe. “I haven’t heard him move....”
“Nor I Morestal.... And yet he’s an early riser, as a rule.... And Philippe, who wanted to go tramping at daybreak!... However, so much the better, sleep suits both of my men.... By the way, Marthe, didn’t the shooting wake you in the night?”
“The shooting!”
“Oh, of course, your room is on the other side. The sound came from the frontier.... Some poacher, I suppose....”
“Were M. Morestal and Philippe in?”
“Surely! It must have been one or two o’clock ... perhaps later ... I don’t quite know.”
She put the tea-pot and the jar of honey, which Marthe had had for breakfast, on the tray; and, with her mania for tidying, obeying some mysterious principle of symmetry, settled her daughter-in-law’s things and any piece of furniture in the room that had been moved from its place. This done, with her hands hanging before her, she looked round for an excuse to discontinue this irksome activity. Then, discovering none, she left the room.
“How early you are,” said Marthe to Suzanne.
“I wanted air ... and movement.... Besides, I told Philippe that I would come and fetch him. I want to go and see the ruins of the Petite-Chartreuse with him ... It’s a bore that he’s not up yet.”
She seemed disappointed at this accident which deprived her of a pleasure.
“Do you mind if I finish my letters?” asked Marthe, taking up her pen.
Suzanne strolled round the room, looking out of the window, leant to see if Philippe’s was open, then sat down opposite Marthe and examined her long and carefully. She noted the eye-lids, which were a little rumpled; the uneven colouring; the tiny wrinkles on the temples; a few white hairs mingling with the dark tresses; all that proclaims time’s little victories over waning youth. And, raising her eyes, she saw herself in a glass.
Marthe surprised her glance and cried, with an admiration free from all envy:
“You are splendid, Suzanne! You look like a triumphant goddess. What triumph have you achieved?”
Suzanne flushed and, in her confusion, said, at random:
“But you, Marthe, you look worried....”
“Well, yes ... perhaps I am.”
And Marthe told how, on the previous evening, finding herself alone with her mother-in-law, she had spoken to her of Philippe’s new ideas, the spirit of his work, his plan of resigning his position and his firm intention to have an explanation with M. Morestal.
“Well?”
“Well,” said Marthe, “my mother-in-law flew out. She absolutely objects to any explanation whatever.”
“Why?”
“M. Morestal is suffering from heart-trouble. Dr. Borel, who has attended him for the last twenty years, says that he must be spared any annoyance, any excessive excitement. And an interview with Philippe might have fatal results.... What can one reply to that?”
“You will have to tell Philippe.”
“Certainly. And he, he must either keep silent and continue to lead an intolerable existence, or else, at the cost of the most terrible anguish, face M. Morestal’s anger.”
She was silent for a moment and then, striking the table with her clenched fists:
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “if I could only take all those worries upon myself and save Philippe’s peace of mind!”
Suzanne felt all the force of her vehemence and energy. No pain would have frightened Marthe, no sacrifice would have been beyond her strength.
“Do you love Philippe very much?” she asked.
Marthe smiled:
“With all my heart.... He deserves it.”
The younger woman felt a certain bitterness and could not help saying:
“Does he love you as much as you love him?”
“Why, yes, I think so.... I deserve it too.”
“And do you trust him?”
“Oh, fully! Philippe is the most loyal creature I know.”
“Still ...”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, say what you were going to.... Oh, you need not be afraid of asking me questions!”
“Well, I was thinking ... suppose Philippe loved another woman....”
Marthe burst out laughing:
“If you knew how little importance Philippe attaches to all that business of love!”
“However, supposing ...�
��
“Very well, supposing,” she said, pretending to be serious. “Philippe loves another woman. He is madly in love with her. What then?”
“In that case, what would you do?”
“Upon my word ... I’ve never thought about it.”
“Wouldn’t you go for a divorce?”
“And my children?”
“But, if he wanted to be divorced?”
“Then it would be, ‘Good-bye, M. Philippe!’”
Suzanne reflected, without taking her eyes from Marthe, as though she were spying for a sign of uneasiness on her features or seeking to fathom the depths of her most secret thoughts.
She murmured:
“And, if he deceived you?”
This time, the thrust went home. Marthe shivered, stung to the quick. Her face altered. And she said, in a voice which she made an effort to contain:
“Oh, that, no! If Philippe fell in love with another woman, if he wanted to begin his life again, without me, and if he confessed it frankly, I should consent to everything ... yes, to everything, even to a divorce, however great my despair.... But treachery, lying ...”
“You would not forgive him?”
“Never! Philippe is not a man whom one can forgive. He is a conscious man, who knows what he is doing, incapable of a weakness; and no forgiveness would absolve him. Besides, I myself could not ... no ... I could not indeed.” And she added, “I have too much pride.”
The phrase was gravely and simply uttered and revealed a haughtiness of soul which Suzanne had not suspected. She felt a sort of confusion in the presence of the rival whom she was attacking and who held her at bay with such disdain.
A long silence divided the two women; and Marthe said:
“You’re in one of your wicked moods to-day, Suzanne, aren’t you?”
“I am too happy to be wicked,” chuckled the girl. “Only it’s such a strange happiness! I am afraid it won’t last.”
“Your marriage ...”
“I won’t get married!” declared Suzanne, excitedly. “I won’t get married at any price! I hate that man.... He’s not the only man in the world, is he? There are others ... others who will love me.... I too am worthy of being loved ... worthy of being lived for!...”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 333
