His gaiety sounded a little forced and found no echo in his hearers. Philippe remained silent, with his forehead streaked with a wrinkle which Marthe knew well. From his appearance, from the tired look of his eyelids, she felt certain that he had sat up all night, examining the position from every point of view and seeking the best road to follow. Had he taken a resolution? And, if so, which? He seemed so hard, so stern, so close and reticent that she dared not ask him.
After a hastily-served meal, Morestal, on the receipt of a second telephonic communication, hurried off to Saint-Élophe, where M. Le Corbier, the under-secretary of state, was waiting for him.
Philippe, the time of whose summons had been postponed, went to his room and locked himself in.
When he came down again, he found Marthe and Suzanne, who had decided to go with him. Mme. Morestal took him aside and, for the last time, urged him to look after his father.
The three of them walked away to the Col du Diable. A lowering sky, heavy with clouds, hung over the mountain-tops; but the weather was mild and the swards, studded with trees, still wore a look of summer.
Marthe, to break the silence, said:
“There is something soft and peaceful about the air to-day. That’s a good sign. It will influence the people who are conducting the enquiry. For everything depends upon their humour, their impression, the state of their nerves, does it not, Philippe?”
“Yes,” he said, “everything depends on them.”
She continued:
“I don’t think that they will ask you any questions. Your evidence is of such little importance. You see, the papers hardly mention it.... Except, of course, in so far as Dourlowski is concerned.... As for him, they haven’t found him yet....”
Philippe did not reply. Had he as much as heard? With short movements of his stick, he was striking the heads off the flowers that lined the road: harebells, wild thyme, gentians, angelica. Marthe remembered that this was a trick which he used to condemn in his sons.
Before coming to the pass, the road narrowed into a path that wound through the woods, clinging to the roots of the fir-trees. They climbed it one behind the other. Marthe was in front of Philippe and Suzanne. Half-way up, the path made a sudden bend. When Marthe was out of sight, Philippe felt Suzanne’s hand squeeze his and hold him back.
He stopped. She nimbly pulled herself up to him:
“Philippe, you are sad.... It’s not about me, is it?”
“No,” he confessed, frankly.
“I knew it,” she said, without bitterness. “So much has happened these last three days!... I no longer count with you.”
He made no attempt at protest, for it was true. He thought of her sometimes, but in a casual way, as of a woman whom one loves, whom one covets, but whom one has no time to think about. He did not even analyze his feelings. They were mixed up with all the other troubles that overwhelmed him.
“I shall never forget you, Suzanne,” he said.
“I know, Philippe. And I neither, I shall never forget you.... Only, I wanted to tell you this, which will give you a little happiness: Philippe, I give you my promise that I will face the life before me ... that I will make a fresh start.... What I told you is happening within me.... I have more courage now that I ... now that I have that memory to support me.... You have given me happiness enough to last me all my life.... I shall be what I should not have been ... an honest woman.... I swear it, Philippe ... and a good wife....”
He understood that she meant to be married and he suffered at the thought. But he said to her, gently, after looking at her lips, her bare neck, her whole charming, fragrant and tantalizing person:
“Thank you, Suzanne.... It is the best proof of your love.... I thank you.”
She went on to say to him:
“And then, Philippe, you see, I don’t want to give my father pain.... Any one can feel that he has been very unhappy.... And the reason why I was afraid, the other morning, that Marthe might discover the truth ... was because of him.”
“You need not fear, Suzanne.”
“I need not, need I?” she said. “There is no danger of it.... And yet, this enquiry.... If you were compelled to confess?...”
“Oh, Suzanne, how can you think it?”
Their eyes mingled fondly, their hands had not parted. Philippe would have liked to speak affectionate words and especially to say how much he hoped that she would be happy. But no words rose to his lips save words of love; and he would not....
She gave a smile. A tear shone at the tip of her lashes. She stammered:
“I love you.... I shall always love you.”
Then she released her hand.
Marthe, who had turned back, saw them standing together, motionless.
* * *
When they emerged at the corner of the Albern Path, they saw a group of journalists and sightseers gathered behind half-a-dozen gendarmes. The whole road was thus guarded, as far as the Saint-Élophe rise. And, on the right, German gendarmes stood posted at intervals.
They reached the Butte. The Butte is a large round clearing, on almost level ground, surrounded by a circle of ancestral trees arranged like the colonnade of a temple. The road, a neutral zone, seven feet wide, runs through the middle.
On the west, the French frontier-post, in plain black cast-iron and bearing a slab with directions, like a sign-post.
On the east, the German post, in wood painted with a black and white spiral and surmounted by an escutcheon with the words, “Deutsches Reich.”
Two military tents had been pitched for the double enquiry and were separated by a space of fifty or sixty yards. Above each waved the flag of its respective country. A soldier was on guard outside either tent: a Prussian infantryman, helmet on head, shin-strap buckled; an Alpine rifleman, bonneted and gaitered. Each stood with his rifle at the order.
Not far from them, on either side of the clearing, were two little camps pitched among the trees: French soldiers, German soldiers. And the officers formed two groups.
French and German horizons showed in the mist between the branches.
“You see, Marthe, you see,” whispered Philippe, whose heart was gripped with emotion. “Isn’t it terrible?”
“Yes, yes,” she said.
But a young man came towards them, carrying under his arm a portfolio bulging with papers:
“M. Philippe Morestal, I believe? I am M. de Trébons, attached to the department of the under-secretary of state. M. Le Corbier is talking to M. Morestal your father and begs that you will be good enough to wait.”
He took him, with Marthe and Suzanne, to the French camp, where they found, seated on a bench, Farmer Saboureux and Old Poussière, who had likewise been summoned as witnesses. From there, they commanded the whole circus of the Butte.
“How pale you look, Philippe!” said Marthe. “Are you ill?”
“No,” he said. “Please don’t worry me.”
Half an hour passed. Then the canvas fly that closed the German tent was lifted and a number of persons came out.
Suzanne gave a stifled cry:
“Papa!... Look ... Oh, my poor father!... I must go and kiss him....”
Philippe held her back and she obeyed, feebly. Jorancé, besides, had disappeared, had been led by two gendarmes to the other camp; and Weisslicht the detective and his men were now being shown into the tent.
But the French tent opened, an instant after, to let old Morestal out. M. de Trébons was with him and went back with Saboureux and Old Poussière. All this coming and going seemed to take place by rule and was effected in great silence, interrupted only by the sound of the footsteps.
Morestal also was very pale. As Philippe put no question to him, Marthe asked:
“Are you satisfied, father?”
“Yes, we began all over again from the start. I gave all my explanations on the spot. My proofs and arguments have made an impression on him. He is a serious man and he acts with great prudence.”
In a few minutes,
M. de Trébons returned with Saboureux and Old Poussière. Farmer Saboureux continued disputing, in a state of great excitement:
“Hope they’ve finished this time! That makes three of them enquiring into me!... What do they want with me, after all? When I keep on telling everybody that I was fast asleep.... And Poussière too.... Isn’t it so, Poussière, you and I saw none of it?”
And, suddenly seizing M. de Trébons by the arm, he said, in a choking voice:
“I say, there’s not going to be a war, is there? Ah, no, we can’t do with that! You can tell your gentry in Paris that we don’t want it.... Oh, no, I’ve toiled enough as it is! War indeed! Uhlans burning everything!...”
He seemed terrified. His bony old hands clutched M. de Trébons’ arm and his little eyes glittered with rage.
Old Poussière jerked his head and stammered:
“Oh, no!... The Uhlans!... The Uhlans!...”
M. de Trébons released himself gently and made them sit down. Then, going up to Marthe:
“M. Le Corbier would be glad to see you, madame, at the same time as M. Philippe Morestal. And he also asks M. Morestal to be good enough to come back.”
The two Morestals and Marthe walked away, leaving Suzanne Jorancé behind.
But, at that moment, a strange thing happened, which, no doubt, had its effect on the march of events. From the German tent issued Weisslicht and his men, followed by an officer in full uniform, who crossed the open space, went up to M. de Trébons and told him that his excellency the Statthalter, having completed his enquiries, would feel greatly honoured if he could have a short conversation with the under-secretary of state.
M. de Trébons at once informed M. Le Corbier, who, escorted by the German officer, walked towards the road, while M. de Trébons showed the Morestal family in.
The tent, which was a fairly large one, was furnished with a few chairs and a table, on which lay the papers dealing with the case. A page lay open bearing Saboureux’s clumsy signature and the mark made by Old Poussière.
The Morestals were sitting down, when a sound of voices struck their ears and, through the opening in the fly of the tent, they caught sight of a person in a general’s uniform, very tall, very thin, looking like a bird of prey, but presenting a fine appearance in a long black tunic. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he was striding along the road in the company of the under-secretary.
Morestal whispered:
“The Statthalter.... They have already had one meeting, an hour ago.”
The two men disappeared at the end of the Butte, then returned and, this time, doubtless embarrassed by the propinquity of the German officers, penetrated a few paces into French territory.
A word, here and there, of the conversation reached the tent. Then the two speakers stood still and the Morestals distinctly heard the Statthalter’s voice:
“Monsieur le ministre, my conclusion is necessarily different from yours, because all the police-officers who took part in the arrest are unanimous in declaring that it was effected on German soil.”
“Commissary Jorancé and M. Morestal,” objected M. Le Corbier, “state the contrary.”
“They are alone in saying so.”
“M. Philippe Morestal took the evidence of Private Baufeld.”
“Private Baufeld was a deserter,” retorted the Statthalter. “His evidence does not count.”
There was a pause. Then the German resumed, in terms which he picked slowly and carefully:
“Therefore, monsieur le ministre, as there is no outside evidence in support of either of the two contradictory versions, I can find no argument that would tend to destroy the conclusions to which all the German enquiries have led. That is what I shall tell the emperor this evening.”
He bowed. M. Le Corbier took off his hat, hesitated a second and then, making up his mind:
“One word more, your excellency. Before finally going back to Paris, I determined to call the Morestal family for the last time. I will ask your excellency if it would be possible for Commissary Jorancé to be present at the interview. I will answer for him on my honour.”
The Statthalter appeared embarrassed. The proposal evidently went beyond his powers. Nevertheless, he said, decisively:
“You shall have your wish, monsieur le ministre. Commissary Jorancé is here, at your disposal.”
He clapped his heels together, raised his hand to his helmet and gave the military salute. The interview was ended.
The German crossed the frontier. M. Le Corbier watched him walk away, stood for a moment in thought and then returned to the French tent.
He was surprised to find the Morestals there. But he gave a gesture as though, after all, he was rather pleased than otherwise at this accident and he asked M. de Trébons:
“Did you hear?”
“Yes, monsieur le ministre.”
“Then do not lose a moment, my dear Trébons. You will find my car at the bottom of the hill. Go to Saint-Élophe, telephone to the prime minister and communicate the German reply to him officially. It is urgent. There may be immediate measures to be taken ... with regard to the frontier.”
He said these last words in a low voice, with his eyes fixed on the two Morestals, went out with M. de Trébons and accompanied him as far as the French camp.
A long silence followed upon his disappearance. Philippe, clenching his fists, blurted out:
“It’s terrible ... it’s terrible....”
And turning to his father:
“You are quite sure, I suppose, of what you are swearing?... Of the exact place?...”
Morestal shrugged his shoulders.
Philippe insisted:
“It was at night.... You may have made a mistake....”
“No, no, I tell you, no,” growled Morestal, angrily. “I know what I am talking about. You’ll end by annoying me.”
Marthe tried to interfere:
“Come, Philippe.... Your father is accustomed to ...”
But Philippe caught her by the arm and, roughly:
“Hold your tongue ... I won’t allow it.... What do you know?... What are you meddling for?”
He broke off suddenly, as though ashamed of his anger, and, in a fit of weakness and uncertainty, murmured an apology:
“I beg your pardon, Marthe.... You too, father, forgive me.... Please forgive me.... There are situations in which we are bound to pardon one another for all the pain that we can give one another.”
Judging by the contraction of his features, one would have thought that he was on the verge of crying, like a child trying to restrain its tears and failing in the effort.
Morestal stared at him in amazement. His wife looked at him aslant and felt fear rising within her, as at the approach of a great calamity.
But the tent opened once more. M. Le Corbier entered. Special Commissary Jorancé, who had been brought to the French camp by the German gendarmes, was with him.
Jorancé simply nodded to the Morestals and asked:
“Suzanne?”
“She is well,” said Marthe.
Meanwhile, Le Corbier had sat down and was turning over the papers.
With his three-cornered face, ending in a short, peaked beard, his clean-shaven upper-lip, his sallow complexion and his black clothes, he wore the solemn mien of a Protestant divine. People said of him that, in the days of the Revolution, he would have been Robespierre or Saint-Just. His eyes, which expressed sympathy and almost affection, belied the suggestion. In reality, he was a conscientious man, who owed the gravity of his appearance to an excessive sense of duty.
He closed the bundles of papers and sat thinking for some time. His lips formed silent syllables. He was obviously composing his speech. And he spoke as follows, in a confidential and friendly tone which was infinitely perturbing:
“I am going back in an hour. In the train, I shall draw up a report, based on these notes and on the respective depositions which you have made or which you will make to me. At nine o’clock this evening, I s
hall be with the prime minister. At half-past nine, the prime minister will speak in the chamber; and he will speak according to the substance of my report. This is what I wish you to understand above all things. Next, I want you to know the German reply, I want you to realize the great, the irretrievable importance of every word which you utter. As for me, feeling as I do the full weight of my responsibilities, I wish to seek behind those words, beyond yourselves, whether there is not some detail unperceived by yourselves which will destroy the appalling truth established by your evidence. What I am seeking is — I tell you so frankly — a doubt on your part, a contradiction. I am seeking it ...”
He hesitated and, sinking his voice, concluded:
“I am almost hoping for it.”
A great sense of peace filled the Morestals. Each of them, subduing his excitement, suddenly raised himself to the level of the task assigned to him and each of them was ready to fulfil it courageously, blindly, in the face of every obstacle.
And Le Corbier resumed:
“M. Morestal, here is your deposition. I ask you for the last time to affirm the exact, complete truth.”
“I affirm it, monsieur le ministre.”
“Still, Weisslicht and his men declare that the arrest took place on German soil.”
“The upland widens out at this part,” said Morestal, “and the road which marks the boundary winds.... It is possible for foreigners to make a mistake. It is not possible for us, for me. We were arrested on French soil.”
“You certify this on your honour?”
“I swear it on the heads of my wife and son. I swear it to God.”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 338
