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

by Maurice Leblanc

  She kissed him on the forehead, a quick, cold kiss that revealed her lingering bitterness.

  But, as she was opening the door, she stopped, reflected and said:

  “You are going back to Paris, are you not? To your own place?”

  “Why do you ask, mother?”

  “An idea that came to me, that’s all. My head is in such a state, because of your father, that I did not think of it before....”

  “What idea? Can you tell me?”

  “About this war.... But, no, as a professor, you’re exempt, aren’t you?”

  He understood her fears and, as he was unable to reassure her by confessing his secret intentions, he did not enlighten her further:

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m exempt.”

  “Still, you spent some time in the reserve?”

  “Only at the government offices. And that’s where we serve in time of war.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s all right, that’s all right!... Else I should have been very anxious.... You see, the mere thought that you might be fighting ... that you might be wounded ... oh, it would be horrible!”

  She drew him to her with a sort of violence that delighted Philippe and kissed him as he had longed to be kissed. He was nearly saying:

  “Do you understand, mother darling?... Do you understand what I was trying to do, the other day? Thousands and thousands of mothers will be made to shed tears.... Great as our private troubles are, they will pass. Those which begin to-morrow will never pass. Death is irreparable.”

  But why waste words? Did not his mother’s emotion prove him absolutely right?

  They remained for a few moments locked in each other’s embrace and the old lady’s tears fell upon Philippe’s cheeks.

  At last, she said:

  “You are not going at once, are you?”

  “As soon as I have packed my bag.”

  “What a hurry you are in! Besides, there’s no train yet. No, I want to kiss you once more and to make sure that you have all you want. And then it’s impossible for you and Marthe to part like this. I will speak to her presently. But I must go to your father first: he may want me....”

  He went with her as far as the sick man’s room and, as she had taken from a cupboard a pile of towels that filled her arms, she said:

  “Open the door for me, will you?”

  Then he saw his father at the other end of the room, lying lifeless, very pale in the face, and Suzanne sitting at the foot of the bed. He clearly distinguished the red scratches on her cheeks and chin.

  “Shut the door, Suzanne,” said Mme. Morestal, when she was inside.

  Suzanne did so. As she approached, she saw Philippe in the dusk of the passage. She did not make a movement nor give a start; and she closed the door upon him as though he had not been there.

  “She too,” thought Philippe, “she too will never forgive me, any more than my father or Marthe.”

  And he resolved to go away at once, now that his mother’s affection had given him a little comfort.

  He found Victor at the foot of the garden-steps, indulging in lamentations in the midst of the other servants and recommending immediate flight:

  “We can pack up the plate, the clocks, the valuables in an hour and be off.... When the enemy arrive, they will find no one here....”

  Philippe called him and asked if it was possible to get a carriage at Saint-Élophe:

  “Oh, are you going, sir? You are quite right. But not just yet, are you? Presently, I suppose, with Mme. Philippe? I’ve orders to drive Mme. Philippe to Saint-Élophe. From there, there’s the diligence that goes to Noirmont.”

  “No, I am not going in that direction.”

  “How do you mean, sir? There’s only one line to Paris.”

  “I sha’n’t go straight to Paris. I want to take the train at Langoux.”

  “The new line to Switzerland? But that’s an endless journey, sir! It goes all the way down to Belfort.”

  “Yes, that’s it. How far is it from Saint-Élophe to Langoux?”

  “Three miles and a bit.”

  “In that case, I shall walk,” said Philippe. “Thank you.”

  He was in a hurry to leave the Old Mill, for he felt that events were hastening to a crisis and that, at any moment, he might be prevented from carrying out his plan.

  As a matter of fact, when he turned back, he was passed by Henriot, the gardener’s son, who was clapping his hands:

  “There they are! The soldiers of the manœuvring company!... They are going to the Col du Diable, at the quick step. We shall see them from the terrace.”

  He was followed by the other servants, by his mother, by his little brother, who, like himself, was waving his hands; and they all crossed the drawing-room.

  Philippe went to the edge of the terrace. The troops were already debouching in good order. They were young soldiers, beardless boys for the most part, and looked almost like children amusing themselves by marching in file. But he saw an unaccustomed expression of anxiety and doubt on their faces. They marched in silence, hanging their heads and as though bent by the fatigue of the recent manœuvres.

  A word of command sounded in the rear and was repeated in a sharp voice by two non-commissioned officers. There was a momentary undulating movement. Then the column proceeded at the double down the slope that led to the Étang-des-Moines.

  And, when the last ranks had filed off below the terrace, two officers appeared, followed by a bugler. One of the two sprang briskly from his horse, flung the reins to the bugler and ran up the staircase, shouting:

  “I’ll be with you presently, Fabrègues.... Meet me in the Col du Diable.... Take up your position at Saboureux’s Farm.”

  On reaching the terrace, he raised his hand to his cap:

  “Can I see M. Morestal, please?”

  Philippe stepped forward:

  “My father is laid up, captain.”

  The officer was obviously affected by the news:

  “Oh!” he said. “I was relying on M. Morestal. I have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance and he spoke to me of the Old Mill.... I now see what he meant. The position is really excellent. But, for the moment, monsieur, would you mind?... I know you are on the telephone here and I have an urgent message.... Excuse me ... it is such a serious time....”

  Philippe took him to the telephone. The officer pressed the button impatiently and, as he did not receive a reply at once, turned round:

  “Meanwhile, allow me to introduce myself ... Captain Daspry.... I met your father in connection with a rather funny incident, the slaughter of Farmer Saboureux’s fowls.... Hullo! Hullo! Gad, how difficult it is to get put on!... Hullo! Hullo!... I even shocked M. Morestal by refusing to punish the culprit, one Duvauchel, an incorrigible anti-militarist.... An excuse like that would just have served the beggar’s turn....”

  He had a rather vulgar type of face and a complexion that was too red; but his frank eyes and his gaiety of manner made him exceedingly attractive. He began to laugh:

  “To show his gratitude, Duvauchel promised me, this morning, to turn his back on the enemy, at the first shot, and to desert.... He has a chauffeur’s place reserved for him in Switzerland.... And, as Duvauchel says, ‘There’s nothing like a French greaser.’... Hullo!... Ah, at last!... Hullo! Captain Daspry speaking.... I want the military post at Noirmont.... Yes, at once, please.... Hullo!... Is that Noirmont? The military post? I want Major Dutreuil.... Switch me on to him.... It’s urgent.”

  Captain Daspry ceased. Instinctively, Philippe took up the other receiver:

  “May I?”

  “Oh, certainly!...”

  And Philippe heard the following dialogue, with its swift and anxious questions and answers:

  “Is that you, Daspry?”

  “Yes, major.”

  “Did the cyclists catch you up?”

  “Which cyclists?”

  “I sent three after you.”

  “I’ve seen nothing of them so far. I
’m at Morestal’s.”

  “The Old Mill?”

  “Yes, major ... I wrote to you about it.”

  “Well, what is it, Daspry?”

  “Uhlans have been seen in the Col du Diable.”

  “Yes, I know. The Börsweiler cavalry are on the march.”

  “What!”

  “They will cross the frontier in an hour from now, supported by two regiments of infantry.”

  “What!”

  “That’s what I sent my cyclists to tell you. Get to the Col du Diable as fast as you can.”

  “My men are there, major. As soon as the enemy arrives, we will fall back, keeping in touch with them as we do so.”

  “No.”

  “Eh? But I can’t do otherwise, I have only my company.”

  “You must stand your ground, Daspry. You must stand your ground for two hours and a half or three hours. My battalion has just left barracks. The 28th are following us by forced marches. We shall be at the frontier by two o’clock in the afternoon. You must stand your ground.”

  “But I say, major!”

  “You must stand your ground, Daspry.”

  With a mechanical movement, the officer drew himself up, brought his heels together and replied:

  “We shall stand our ground, major.”

  He replaced the receiver and thought for a few minutes. Then he said, with a smile:

  “By Jove, that’s a nice beginning! Two hundred men against some thousands ... for three hours! If one of the 4th company remains alive, he’ll be a lucky man....”

  “But it’s madness!” Philippe protested.

  “Monsieur, the Alpine Rifles and the 28th of the line are on their way; and Dornat’s division is certainly behind them. If they arrive too late, if the ridges of the Vosges are taken, if the frontier is crossed, if the Saint-Élophe valley is occupied and all this on the very day on which war is declared, you can imagine the consternation which this first check will produce all over France. If, on the other hand, a handful of men sacrifice themselves ... and succeed, the moral effect will be incalculable. I shall stand my ground for three hours, monsieur.”

  The words were spoken simply, with the profound conviction of a man who realizes the full importance of his act. He was already on his way down the stone steps. Saluting Philippe, he added:

  “You can congratulate M. Morestal, monsieur. He is a far-seeing Frenchman. He foresaw everything that is happening. Let us hope that it is not too late.”

  He leapt into the saddle, spurred his horse and set off at a gallop.

  Philippe followed him with his eyes as far as the Étang-des-Moines. When the officer had disappeared behind a dip in the ground, he gave way to an angry movement and muttered:

  “Play-acting!”

  However, he turned the telescope on the Col du Diable and saw soldiers all around Saboureux’s Farm, running, scrambling up the rocks on every side with the agility of young goats. He reflected that they had forgotten their weariness and seemed to be diverting themselves with an exercise to which each contributed his own effort, his individual tactics and his qualities of self-reliance and initiative.

  He stood pensive for a few minutes. But time was pressing. He called Victor and went up to his room:

  “Quick, my bag.”

  They stuffed the papers and manuscripts into it promiscuously, together with a little linen and the toilet-articles. The bag was strapped up. Philippe seized it:

  “Good-bye, Victor. Tell my mother I sent her my love.”

  He crossed the landing. But some one darted out of an adjacent room. It was Marthe. She barred his way:

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  CHAPTER III

  IDEAS AND FACTS

  MARTHE, WHO HAD kept her room since the day before, but remained attentive to all that was happening at the Old Mill, had, through her open door and window, heard and seen the hubbub, the fuss made by the servants, all the mad fluster of a house that feels itself threatened by an approaching cyclone.

  She had overcome her fit of anger and hatred, was now mistress of herself and was no longer frightened of a possible meeting between Philippe and Suzanne. Another torment obsessed her. What did her husband mean to do? Brought face to face with an eventuality which he had often contemplated, what line of conduct would he pursue?

  And it was he that she was watching. Before she went away, she wished to know. She overheard his first conversation with Victor. She saw his meeting with Captain Daspry from a distance. She saw him go to his room. She saw him come out again. And, in spite of herself, although urged by a very definite feeling, she stood up before him like an obstacle:

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Philippe did not lose countenance. He replied:

  “What interest can that have for you?”

  “Come,” she said, “we have to speak to each other.... Come in here.”

  She took him into her room, shut the door and repeated, in a masterful tone:

  “Where are you going, Philippe?”

  He replied, with the same decision:

  “I am going away.”

  “There is no carriage.”

  “I shall walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “To Noirmont.”

  “To take which train?”

  “The train to Paris.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, vehemently. “You are not going to Paris. You are going to Langoux, to take the train to Belfort.”

  “Just so, but I shall be in Paris to-morrow morning.”

  “That’s not true! You do not mean to stop at Belfort. You will go on to Bâle, to Switzerland. And, if you go to Switzerland, it will not be for a day, it will be for months ... for your life!”

  “And what then?”

  “You intend to desert, Philippe.”

  He did not speak. And his silence dumbfoundered her. Violent as was the certainty that filled and angered her, Marthe was stupefied when he made no protest.

  She stammered:

  “Is it possible? You really intend to desert?”

  Philippe grew irritable:

  “Well, what has it to do with you? You had a letter from me yesterday, offering you an explanation. You have not even troubled to reply! Very well! I have done you an irreparable wrong. Our whole married life is shattered by my fault. Your attitude up to the present shows me that you never mean to forgive me.... Then what right have you to call me to account for what I do?”

  She repeated, in a low voice, with fixed eyes:

  “You intend to desert....”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it really credible? I knew your ideas against war ... all the ideas in your books ... which agree with my own.... But I never thought of this.... You never spoke to me of it.... And then, no ... I could never have believed it....”

  “You will have to believe it, for all that, Marthe.”

  He turned to the door. Once again she stood up in front of him.

  “Let me pass,” he said.

  “No.”

  “You are mad!”

  “Listen to me ... Philippe....”

  “I refuse to listen. This is not the time for quarrelling. I have made up my mind to go. I will go. It is not a rash impulse. It is a decision taken silently and calmly. Let me pass.”

  He tried to clear the door. She pushed him back, suddenly seized with an energy which became all the fiercer as she felt her husband to be more inflexible. She had only a few minutes; and that was what frightened her. In those few minutes, by means of phrases, poor phrases flung out at random, she had to win the battle and to win it against a foe with whose mettle and obstinacy she was well acquainted.

  “Let me pass,” he repeated.

  “Well, then, no, no, no!” she cried. “You shall not desert! No, you shall not do that infamous thing! There are things that one can’t do.... This thing, Philippe, is monstrous!... Listen, Philippe, listen while I tell you....”

  She went up to him a
nd, under her breath:

  “Listen, Philippe ... listen to this confession.... Philippe, you know what you did on Sunday, your cruelty to your father, to Suzanne, to all of us: well, yes, I understood it.... I suffered the pangs of death, I suffered more than any of the others.... Each word that you spoke burnt into me like fire.... But, all the same, Philippe, I understood.... You had to sacrifice us to the cause of peace. It was your right, it was your duty to victimize us all in order that you might save a whole nation.... But what you now propose to do.... Oh, the shame of it!... Listen, if you did that ... I should think of you as one thinks of ... I don’t know what ... as one thinks of the most contemptible, the most revolting ...”

  Shrugging his shoulders impatiently, he interrupted her:

  “I can’t help it if you do not understand. It is my right ... and my duty also....”

  “Your duty is to join your regiment, now that war is declared, and to fight, yes, to fight for France, like every other Frenchman ... like the first peasant that comes along, who may tremble with all his poor human flesh, it is true, and whose heart sinks within him and whose stomach turns cold, but who believes that his duty lies in being there ... and who goes ahead, come what may! March on, as he does, Philippe! I have accepted all your opinions, I have shared them and backed them.... If there is to be an end of our union, at least let me address this last entreaty to you: join your regiment!... Your place is over there....”

  “My place is anywhere except where men commit the odious act of killing,” exclaimed Philippe, who had listened to her in spite of himself and who now suddenly collected himself. “My place is with my friends. They trust me and I trust them. They are the men whom I must join.”

  “Where? In Paris?”

  “No. We swore, at the first signal, to meet at Zurich. From there, we shall issue a manifesto calling upon all the thinkers and all the men of independent views in Germany and France.”

  “But no one will answer your appeal!”

  “Never mind! The appeal will have gone forth. The world will have heard the protest of a few free men, professors like myself, tutors, writers, men who reflect, men who act in accordance with their convictions, and not like animals led to the slaughter.”