The Frontier

"Face the possibility of defeat?" echoed the old man, who seemed thunderstruck. "Are you suggesting that the fear of that ought to influence France in her conduct?"

A diversion relieved Philippe of his difficulty. Some one had appeared from the staircase at the end of the terrace and in so noisy a fashion that Morestal did not wait for his son to reply:

"Is that you, Saboureux? What a row you're making!"

It was Farmer Saboureux, whose house could be seen on the Col du Diable. He was accompanied by an old, ragged tramp.

Saboureux had come to complain. Some soldiers taking part in the manœuvres had helped themselves to two of his chickens and a duck. He seemed beside himself, furious at the catastrophe:

"Only, I've a witness in old Poussière here. And I want an indemnity, not to speak of damages and punishment. I call it a calamity, I do: soldiers of our own country!.. I'm a good Frenchman, but, all the same …"

Morestal was too much absorbed in the discussion of his favourite ideas to take the least interest in the man's troubles; and the farmer's presence, on the contrary, seemed to him an excellent reason for returning to the subject in hand. They had other things to talk about than chickens and ducks! What about the chances of war? And the alarming rumours that were current?

"What do you say, Saboureux?"

The farmer presented the typical appearance of those peasants whom we sometimes find in the eastern provinces and who, with their stern, clean-shaven faces, like the faces on ancient medals, remind us of our Roman ancestors rather than of the Gauls or Francs. He had marched to battle in 1870 with the others, perishing with hunger and wretchedness, risking his skin. And, on his return, he had found his shanty reduced to ashes. Some passing Uhlans… Since that time, he had laboured hard to repair the harm done.

"And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning and sacking?.. Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be as I am!"

He was filled with the small land-owner's hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious foot on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed his arms, with a serious air.

"And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?" asked Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, breaking a crust.

The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carved out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every three or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off again.

"What country do you belong to, to begin with?"

He grunted:

"Don't know much about it … it's so long ago…"

"Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?"

The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps without understanding. Saboureux grinned:

"He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if he belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies where the grub lies … eh, Poussière?"

Thereupon, seized with sudden ill-humour, Morestal lost his temper and let fly at the lukewarm, at the indifferent – working-men, townsmen or farmers – who think only of their comfort, without caring whether the country is humiliated or victorious. But what else could one expect, with the detestable ideas spread by some of the newspapers and carried to the furthermost ends of the country in the books and pamphlets hawked about by travelling agents?

"Yes," he cried, "the new ideas: those are the evil that is destroying us. The school-masters are poisoning the minds of the young. The very army is smitten with the canker. Whole regiments are on the verge of mutiny…"

He turned a questioning glance upon Philippe, who, from time to time, nodded his head without replying, with a movement which his father might take for one of approval.

"Isn't it so, Philippe? You see the thing close at hand, where you are: all those poltroons who weaken our energies with their fine dreams of peace at any price! You hear them, all the wind-bags at the public meetings, who preach their loathsome crusade against the army and the country with open doors and are backed up by our rulers… And that's only speaking of the capital!.. Why, the very provinces haven't escaped the contagion!.. Here, have you read this abomination?"

He took a little volume in a violet wrapper from among the papers heaped up on his table and held it before his son's eyes. And he continued:

"Peace before All! No author's name. A book that's all the more dangerous because it's very well written, not by one of those wind-bags to whom I was referring just now, but by a scholar, a provincial and, what's more, a Frenchman from the frontier. He seems even to bear our name … some distant cousin, no doubt: the Morestals are a large family."

"Are you sure?" blurted Philippe, who had turned pale at the sight of the pamphlet. "How do you know?"

"Oh, by accident… A letter which was addressed to me and which said, 'All good wishes for the success of your pamphlet, my dear Morestal.'"

Philippe remembered. He was to have gone to the Old Mill last year; and the letter must have been sent to him by one of his friends.

"And haven't you tried to find out?"

"What for? Because I have a scoundrel in my family, that's no reason why I should be in a hurry to make his acquaintance! Besides, he himself has had the decency not to put his name to his scurrilous nonsense… No matter: if ever I lay my hands on him!.. But don't let's talk of it…"

He continued to talk of it, nevertheless, and at great length, as well as of all the questions of war and peace, history and politics that came to his mind. It was not until he had "got his budget off his chest," as he said, that he exclaimed, suddenly:

"Enough of this palavering, my friends! Why, it's four o'clock! Saboureux, I'm your man… So they've been making free with your poultry, have they? Are you coming, Jorancé? We'll see some fine soldier-chaps making their soup. There's nothing jollier and livelier than a French camp!"

CHAPTER IV

PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE

Marthe and Suzanne were very intimate, in spite of the difference in their ages. Marthe was full of indulgent kindness for her friend, whom she had known as quite a child, motherless and left to herself; whereas Suzanne was less even-tempered with Marthe, now gushing and coaxing, now aggressive and satirical, but always full of charm.

When Marthe had finished unfastening the trunks, Suzanne herself insisted on emptying the travelling-bag and arranging on the table all the little things with which one tries, when away, to give one's room a look of home: portraits of the children, writing-cases, favourite books…

"You'll be very snug here, Marthe," she said. "It's a nice, light room … and there's only a dressing-room between you and Philippe… But how did you come to want two bedrooms?"

"It was Philippe. He was afraid of disturbing me in the mornings…"

"Oh," repeated the girl. "It was Philippe's suggestion…"

Then she took up one of the photographs and examined it:

"How like his father your son Jacques is!.. Much more so than Paul … don't you think?"

Marthe came to the table and, bending over her friend, looked at the picture with those mother's eyes which seem to see in the inanimate image the life, the smile and the beauty of the absent one.

"Which do you like best, Jacques or Paul?" asked Suzanne.

"What a question! If you were a mother…"

"If I were a mother, I should like that one best who reminded me most of my husband. The other would make me suspect that my husband had ceased to love me…"

"You put down everything to love, my poor Suzanne! Do you imagine that there is nothing in the world but love?"

"There are heaps of other things. But you yourself, Marthe: wouldn't you like love to fill a greater place in your life?"

This was said with a certain sarcasm, of which Marthe felt the sting. But, before she had time to retort, Philippe appeared in the doorway.

Suzanne at once cried:

"We were talking about you, Philippe."