“Oh!” he said. “Is Suzanne here?”
“Where would you have her go? She has no one left. Who knows when Jorancé will be out of prison? And, besides, will he ever forgive her?”
He stood wrapped in thought and asked:
“Has Marthe met her?”
“There was a terrible scene between them. I found Suzanne with her face streaming with blood, all over scratches.”
“Oh, the poor things!” he murmured. “The poor things!...”
His head fell; and, presently, she saw that he was weeping.
As she had no word of consolation to offer him, she turned round and walked to the drawing-room, where she shifted the furniture so as to have the satisfaction of putting it back in its place. She tried to find a pretext to utter her resentment. When Philippe sat down at the table, she showed him the newspapers:
“Have you seen them?”
“Yes, the news is bad.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that the cabinet has fallen on the publication of the under-secretary’s report. The whole Chamber rose up in protest.”
“Well?”
“Well, that report is the one based upon the last enquiry ... of two days ago ... at the Butte-aux-Loups.... So you see ...”
Philippe felt a need to justify himself:
“You forget, mother, that there was an unexpected factor in the case. Before the sitting of the Chamber, a telegram had been published reporting the words spoken by the emperor after hearing the Statthalter’s explanation.”
He pointed to one of the papers:
“Here, mother, read this. These are the emperor’s own words: ‘Our conscience is now at ease. We had the might; we have the right. God decide the issue! I am ready.’ And the Chamber, when condemning and overthrowing a ministry that was prepared for conciliation, intended to reply to words which it looked upon as provocative.”
“Very well,” said the old lady. “But, all the same, the report made no difference.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Then what was the good of all your fuss and bothering? It was no use doing so much harm, considering that it served no purpose.”
Philippe shook his head:
“It had to be. Certain actions must be performed and they should not be judged by the consequences which accident thrusts upon them, but by those which we expected of them, in all human logic and in all good faith.”
“Empty phrases!” she said, obstinately. “You ought not to have done it.... It was a very useless piece of heroism....”
“Don’t think that, mother. There was no need to be a hero to act as I did. It was enough to be an honest man. No one with the same clear vision as myself of what might happen would have hesitated any more than I did.”
“So you regret nothing?”
He took her hand and, sadly:
“Oh, mother, how can you talk like that, you who know me? How can I be indifferent to all this break-up around me?”
He spoke the words with such despondency that she received an insight into his distress. But her anger with him was too great and especially their natures were too different for her to be touched by it. She concluded:
“No matter, my boy, it’s all your fault. If you had not listened to Suzanne....”
He did not reply. The accusation cut into the most sensitive part of a wound which nothing could allay; and he was not the man to seek excuses.
“Come,” said his mother.
She took him to another room on the second floor, further than the first from that which Marthe occupied:
“Victor will bring you your bag and serve your meals in here; that will be best. And I will let your wife know.”
“Give her this letter, which I got ready for her,” he said. “It is only asking for an interview, an explanation. She can’t refuse.”
* * *
In this way, in the course of that Tuesday, the Morestal family were once more gathered under the same roof; but in what heart-rending conditions! And how great was the hatred that now divided those beings once united by so warm an affection!
Philippe felt the disaster in a way that was, so to speak, visible and palpable, during these hours in which each of his victims remained locked up, as though in a torture-chamber. Nothing could have distracted his mind from its obsession, and even the fear of that accursed war which he had not been able to avert.
And yet news reached him at every moment, threatening news, like the news of a plague that comes nearer and nearer, despite the distance, despite the intervening waters.
At lunch-time, it was Victor, who had hardly entered the room with Philippe’s tray before he exclaimed:
“Have you heard of the telegram from England, sir? The British premier has declared in parliament that, if war came, he would land a hundred thousand men at Brest and Cherbourg. That means an open alliance.”
Later on, he heard the gardener’s son, Henriot, returning on his bicycle from Saint-Élophe, shouting to his father and Victor:
“There’s a mutiny at Strasburg! They’re barricading the streets! They’ve blown up one of the barracks!”
And Victor at once telephoned to the Éclaireur des Vosges, pretending that he was doing so on behalf of M. Morestal, and came running up to Philippe’s room:
“M. Philippe, Strasburg is in a state of insurrection.... All the peasants of the country around have taken up arms.”
And Philippe reflected that there was no hope, that the governments would have their hands forced. And he reflected upon it almost calmly. His part was played. Nothing interested him now but his personal sorrow, the health of his father, the sufferings of Marthe and Suzanne, those first victims of the hateful scourge.
At five o’clock, he heard that one of the countries had issued an ultimatum against the other. Which of the two countries? And what was the purport of the ultimatum? He was unable to learn.
At nine o’clock, the telegrams announced that the new cabinet, chosen for the greater part from among the members of the opposition, had moved the immediate creation of “a Committee of National Safety, charged to take all the necessary measures for the defence of the country in case of war.” The Chamber had passed the motion through its various stages in one sitting and had appointed the Governor of Paris head of the Committee of National Safety, with discretionary powers. This implied an eventual dictatorship.
All that Tuesday night, the Old Mill, silent and gloomy within doors, was filled with noise and excitement from without, a prey to the fever that precedes great catastrophes. Victor, the gardener and the gardener’s son by turns bicycled at full speed to Saint-Élophe, where other people were bringing news from the sub-prefecture. The women moaned and wailed. At three o’clock in the morning, Philippe distinguished the angry voice of Farmer Saboureux.
At daybreak, there was a lull. Philippe, exhausted by so many sleepless nights, ended by dozing off and, while still asleep, heard the sound of footsteps coming and going over the pebbles in the garden. Then, suddenly, pretty late in the morning, he was awakened by a clamour outside.
He sprang out of bed. In front of the steps, Victor leapt from his horse, shouting:
“The ultimatum is rejected. It’s war. It’s war!”
CHAPTER II
THEY WHO GO TO THEIR DEATH
PHILIPPE WENT DOWNSTAIRS as soon as he was dressed. He found all the servants gathered in the hall, discussing the news. Victor confirmed it: he had come straight from Noirmont.
Moreover, the postman had heard from a gendarme that the railway-station at the sub-prefecture was occupied by soldiers. He himself, when he left Saint-Élophe, had seen army telegraphists on duty in the post-office.
These hasty measures fitted in with the rejection of the ultimatum and went to prove the imminence of the dreaded catastrophe.
Philippe could not help saying:
“That means war.”
“It’s what I’ve been shouting from the house-tops for the last two days!” proclaimed
Victor, who seemed greatly excited. “Oughtn’t we to make preparations, here? At two steps from the frontier?”
But a bell rang. Catherine ran to the drawing-room, where Mme. Morestal appeared:
“Where were you? I have been looking for you. Hasn’t the doctor been? Oh, there you are, Philippe! Quick, telephone to the doctor....”
“Is my father ...?”
“Your father is better; but, all the same, he’s sleeping longer than he ought.... It may be the morphia.... You had better telephone.”
She left the room. Philippe was taking down the receiver, when some one tapped him on the shoulder. It was Victor, whose excitement was increasing every moment and who asked him with a perplexed air:
“What are we to do, M. Philippe? Are we going to stay here? Or go away and shut up the house? The mistress does not realize ...”
And, without waiting for the answer, he turned round:
“Isn’t it so, Catherine, the mistress does not realize.... The master’s quite well again.... Well, then, they should make up their minds!...”
“Of course, one must be prepared for everything,” said the maid-servant. “Suppose the enemy invade us?”
They both of them walked up and down the drawing-room, opening the doors, shutting them again, making gestures through the window.
An old woman entered, an old woman who was employed at the Old Mill as a charwoman. She waved her arms about:
“Is it true? Is it true? Are we going to war? And my son, the youngest, who is with his regiment?... And the other, who is in the reserve?... Is it true? No, tell me it’s not true! It’s all nonsense they’re talking!”
“Nonsense, indeed!” said the gardener’s wife, appearing on the scene. “You’ll soon see if it’s nonsense!... They’ll all have to go ... my husband too, who’s in the reserve of veterans.”
She was accompanied by a child of three or four years old and in her arms carried another, in swaddling-clothes, who was whimpering.
“Of course they’ll have to go,” said Victor. “And what about me? You’ll see, they’ll call me to the colours, though I’m past the age!... You’ll see!...”
“You as well as the rest,” grinned the gardener, who now entered in his turn. “As long as one can hold a rifle.... But our eldest, Henriot, who’s sixteen: do you think they’ll forget him?”
“Oh, as for him,” scolded the mother, “I shall hide him if they try to take him from me!”
“And what about the gendarmes?”
All were gesticulating and talking together. And Victor repeated:
“Meantime, we had better be off. Shut up the house and go. That’s the wisest. We can’t remain here like this, at two steps from the frontier.”
In his eyes, war represented the disordered flight of the old men and the women, running away in herds and pushing before them carts loaded with furniture and bedding. And he stamped his foot, resolved upon making an immediate move.
But a great hullabaloo arose on the terrace. A little farm-labourer came rushing into the drawing-room:
“He’s seen some! He’s seen some!”
He was running in front of his employer, Farmer Saboureux, who arrived like a whirlwind, with his eyes starting out of his head:
“I’ve seen some! I’ve seen some! There were five of them! I’ve seen some!”
“Seen what? Seen what?” said Victor, shaking him. “What have you seen?”
“Uhlans!”
“Uhlans! Are you sure?”
“As I see you now! There were five of them on horseback! Oh, I knew them again ... it wasn’t the first time!... Uhlans, I tell you!... They’ll burn everything down!”
Mme. Morestal came running up at the noise which he made:
“Do be quiet! What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve seen some!” yelled Saboureux. “Uhlans! They’ve gone off to fetch the others.”
“Uhlans!” she gasped in dismay.
“Yes, like last time!”
“Oh, heaven! Is it possible?”
“I saw them, I say.... Go and tell monsieur le maire.”
She lost her temper:
“Tell him? But he’s ill!... And be quiet, you, I’ve had enough of it.... Philippe, is the doctor coming?”
Philippe put down the telephone:
“The line is engaged by the military, it’s not available for private communications.”
“Oh, but this is terrible!” said the old lady. “What’s to become of us?”
She thought only of Morestal, confined to his room, and of the inconvenience which he would suffer through this state of things.
A bicycle-bell was heard outside.
“Ah!” cried the gardener, leaning out of the window on the garden side. “There’s my boy coming.... How the rascal is growing! And you think, mother, that they’ll leave him at home to pluck the geese? A sharp lad like that?...”
A few seconds later, the boy was in the drawing-room. Breathless, staggering, he reeled back against the table and blurted out, in a hollow voice:
“It’s ... war!...”
Philippe, who retained some hope in spite of everything, flew at him:
“War?”
“Yes ... it’s declared....”
“By whom?”
“They didn’t say.”
And Saboureux, seized with fresh anger, stuttered:
“Of course!... I said so!... I saw the Uhlans ... there were five of them.”
There was a stir among the servants. All rushed to meet a new arrival, Gridoux, the official game-keeper, who came prancing along the terrace, brandishing a stick. He pushed them aside:
“Don’t bother me!... I’ve a message to give! Where’s monsieur le maire? He must come at once! They’re waiting for him!”
He seemed furious at not finding the Mayor of Saint-Élophe there, ready to go back with him.
“Not so loud, not so loud, Gridoux,” Mme. Morestal ordered. “You’ll wake him up.”
“He’s got to be woke up. I’ve been sent from the town-hall.... He’s got to come at once.”
Philippe laid hold of him:
“Stop that noise, I tell you, hang it all! My father is ill.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ve got the butcher’s cart.... I’ll take him with me straight away, as he is.”
“But it’s impossible,” moaned Mme. Morestal. “He’s in bed.”
“That doesn’t matter.... There’s orders to be given.... There’s a whole company of soldiers ... soldiers from the manœuvres.... The town-hall is upside down.... He’s the only one to put things right.”
“Nonsense! Where are his deputies? Arnauld? Walter?”
“They’ve lost their heads.”
“Who’s at the town-hall?”
“Everybody.”
“The parish-priest?”
“A milksop!”
“The parson?”
“An ass! There’s only one man who isn’t crying like the others.... But M. Morestal would never consent.... They’re not friends.”
“Who is that?”
“The school-master.”
“Let them obey him, then!... The school-master will do!... Let him give orders in my husband’s name.”
The wish to save Morestal any annoyance gave her a sudden authority. And she pushed everybody out, to the stairs, to the hall:
“There, go away, all of you.... Gridoux, go back to the town-hall....”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Saboureux, gripping the gamekeeper’s arm, “go back to Saint-Élophe, Gridoux, and send the soldiers to me, eh? Let them defend me, hang it all! The Uhlans will burn down everything, my house, my barn!”
They all went out in high excitement. Philippe was able for a long time to distinguish Farmer Saboureux’s exclamations through the garden window. And the picture of all those anxious, noisy people, drunk with talk and action, rushing from side to side in obedience to unreasoning impulses, that picture suggested to him a vision of the great mad crowds whic
h the war was about to let loose like the waves of a sea.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s time to act.”
He took a railway-guide from the table and turned up the station at Langoux. The new strategic line passed through Langoux, the line which follows the Vosges and runs down to Belfort and Switzerland. He found that he could reach Bâle and sleep at Zurich that same evening.
He stood up and looked around him, with his heart wrung at the thought of going away like that, without bidding good-bye to any one. Marthe had not answered his letter and remained invisible. His father had turned him out and would never forgive him. He must go away by stealth, like a malefactor. “Well,” he murmured, thinking of the act which he was on the point of accomplishing, “it’s better so. In any case and in spite of everything, I was bound, now that war has been declared, to appear a miscreant and a renegade in my father’s eyes. Have I the right to rob him of the least affectionate word?”
Mme. Morestal came up from the garden and he heard her moaning:
“War! Oh, heaven, war, like last time! And your poor father forced to keep his bed! Ah, Philippe, it’s the end of all things!”
She shifted a few chairs in their places, wiped the table-cover with her apron and, when the drawing-room seemed tidy to her eyes, went to the door:
“Perhaps he is awake.... What will he want to do, when he hears?... If only he keeps quiet! A man of his age ...”
Philippe went up to her, in an instinctive burst of confidence:
“You know I’m going, mother?”
She replied:
“You’re going? Well, yes, you are right. I dare say I shall persuade Marthe to come back to you....”
He shook his head:
“I’m afraid not....”
“Yes, yes,” she declared, “Marthe loves you very much. And then there are the children to bring you together. Leave it to me.... The same with your father: don’t be alarmed.... Everything will smooth down in time between the two of you. Go, my boy.... Write to me often....”
“Won’t you kiss me, mother?”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 342
