Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  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. “A letter 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.

  CHAPTER V

  THE THUNDERCLAP

  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 the Börsweilener 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 — the Zeitung made 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 in accordance 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 a valuable 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 the Börsweilener 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 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 the Éclaireur.

  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 the Marseillaise, 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; al
l 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, the Börsweilener 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 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, the Börsweilener 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 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 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 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 emancipated from the past and free to act in accordance with a new conception of duty.

  * * *

  In the afternoon, they heard at the offices of the Éclaireur that 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 your father. 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 the Éclaireur des Vosges told 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 by express 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?”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE BUTTE-AUX-LOUPS

  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, that solves 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!”